The Continuation of Stuart's Journal--The Slaughter Chamber.
I am now alone, and I know not whether my comrade is living or dead.
It was a year after Kelly's death--by my reckoning, which I have kept
by notches on a rock in the cave--that I went with three natives to a
scrub about ten miles from here to get a peculiar kind of wood I was
looking for to make bows of. For now that I had made up my mind I
would never be rescued, I thought I would try to teach the natives
the use of the bow and arrow, and we would lead them against this
tribe whom they dreaded so and who killed Kelly, and perhaps obtain
peace. There was no wood suitable near the camp, but from the
description given by the blacks I thought I could obtain what I
wanted in the scrub indicated by them. There was water there, and we
stopped two days, cutting and dressing the saplings so as to make
them lighter to carry in, for as we only had stone tomahawks it took
a long time. On the evening of the second day we heard a gin wailing
and crying in the distance, coming towards us. The blacks stopped
their work and ran to meet her, crying out in the same tone. I knew
something was wrong and followed them. It was sad news, awful news!
The Warlattas, as the hostile tribe was called, had attacked the camp
at night, had killed and wounded many, and carried off a number of
prisoners--amongst them Murphy, who was a heavy sleeper and had no
chance to defend himself. I knew that these Warlattas were
cannibals, and that the prisoners they took away were probably eaten.
"We got back to camp in the middle of the night, and the next morning
I tried to get the men who were left to follow me after the
cannibals, but they were all so cowed they wouldn't, although I
showed them the pistol and fired it off. I tried to track the enemy
by myself, and if I could I would have followed them, but I lost the
tracks and nearly died of thirst. The Warlattas had taken nearly all
the few things we had saved, including my pocket-book; these few
sheets I am writing on were picked up about the camp.
"1853.--That is my reckoning. All this time I have written nothing,
as I wanted to husband my paper, and I had little heart after Murphy
was taken away. I made the blacks build a place with stones--a sort
of barricade to sleep in at night,--and it was lucky I did, for the
Warlattas came again; but, thanks to the barricade and my pistol, we
beat them off without losing a man, and now the natives have great
confidence, and I think will beat them again.
"I often tried to get them to follow me to where these people lived,
as I thought Murphy might be alive and I could rescue him, but they
seemed to be horribly frightened at the thought and refused always.
On examining the bodies of those that had fallen, I found them all
marked the same way with some sort of pigment, a red smear on the
forehead and a white triangle on the breast. This, and something in
their appearance, led me to consider if there was not some connection
between the figures in the cave and this strange people. Thinking
long over this, I explored the cave thoroughly, both it and any in
the neighbourhood, and finally it led me to the strange discovery
that has caused me to write my journal once more, in the faint hope
that some day it will be found and read by civilized man.
"Searching around the cave containing the painted figure, I found an
aperture which apparently ran for some distance. It was on the
ground, the rock coming to within about two feet of the sandy floor,
and on stooping down it seemed to me that I could feel a current of
fresh air passing through. On inquiry I found that none of the
blacks had been into the opening, as they had a superstitious
dislike--scarcely, however, amounting to dread--of the cave. The
aperture was too low to easily admit me, so I got a slim young fellow
to explore it. He soon crawled back, saying there was another big
cave beyond, but too dark to see anything. I got some more boys up
and set them to scoop the sand away until the opening was big enough
for me to pass in. We took fire and bark and wood with us, and when
we emerged in the gloomy cavern beyond we immediately kindled a fire.
As the blaze arose and illuminated the recesses of the cave a shriek
of terror burst from my juvenile companions, a wild cry of "Warlatta!
Warlatta!" and in an instant they disappeared like a bevy of black
rats underneath the rock where we had entered. I looked around in
surprise, but soon divined the cause; on the opposite side appeared,
drawn in white on the wall, a large triangle, the sign ever
associated in their minds with murder and rapine.
"Heaping more wood on the fire, I advanced and examined the
surroundings. Underneath the triangle was a huge block of
yellowish-white sandstone, but its purity was marred by a horrible
reddish stain which marked one of its sloping sides. Its purpose
flashed on me at once--in some old time it had been used as a
sacrificial stone. The fire now blazed up merrily, and I had ample
light for my researches. The smoke disappeared through crevices in
the roof, and the ventilation seemed excellent. Marks of old fires
were visible all over the floor, which was of white sandstone with
the same reddish stains visible in places. Searching more minutely I
found in one corner a knife or dagger, made of steel (since then I
have found it to be tempered so skilfully that the edge can scarcely
be turned by the hardest rock). The handle, if it ever had one, had
disappeared through age. In addition, there was a broken ring of the
same metal, seemingly part of a chain, and on the walls were
characters in red, but of no written language that I could remember.
This was all that I saw on my first visit.
"Voices at the opening told me that the natives had recovered from
their fright, and were in search of me. I called to them, and
emboldened by my voice and the firelight some of them crept in and
joined me. I found out that they had no knowledge of this chamber,
and in hopes of finding another I set them hunting round for any more
openings that might exist, but none could be discovered. Whilst so
engaged one of them brushed against the stone altar, and immediately
it commenced rocking, whilst a squeaking, piercing scream, like a
human being in intense agony, thrilled us all with horror. The
blacks threw themselves on the ground, and it was a few moments
before I could summon up courage to approach the stone and examine
it. The rocking was gradually ceasing, and the shrieks grew fainter
as the motion ceased. The stone I found to be most beautifully
poised, so that the slightest touch started the oscillation. As to
the machinery that produced the screaming noise, that I could not
investigate without capsizing the stone, which evidently weighed some
tons. For a moment I shut my eyes, and seemed to see once more the
hideous drama that must have been many times enacted in this chamber
of death--the savage priests, the manacled victim, the streaming
blood, the trembling captives, and the harsh shrieking of the rocking
stone adding its awful voice to the groans of the dying man and
fading away into silence with his last cries. What horrible
ingenuity had devised such added terrors to the scene? By degrees I
got the blacks out of their fright, but it was amusing to see the
celerity with which they disappeared as soon as I gave the signal.
"1862.--I have made a great effort to escape, but am forced to come
back here to die. The blacks had told me on two occasions that
rather to the west of south there was water within reach of a long
day's journey; but as this was only leading me further into this
uninhabited wilderness, I had never had the curiosity to go there.
It now struck me that from there I could possibly get round the end
of the great sandy desert, and perhaps find an easy road back to the
settlement, which must have pushed out towards me since I have been
buried here. I had succeeded in teaching the blacks the use of the
bow and arrow, and to build tolerably safe huts to sleep in. The
Warlattas had attacked us twice since the first time we defeated
them, and on both occasions had suffered great loss, whilst we had
not a man wounded. For years now they have not dared to come, and I
think the bows and arrows have frightened them. Moreover, my natives
have no longer the terror of them they had formerly, and feel
confident in repulsing them. Under these circumstances I felt that I
could venture to leave them, for I did not like the idea of their
becoming once more a prey to this horrible Warlatta tribe. One of
the old men who had been to the water before, and a fine young fellow
named Onkimyong, accompanied me. I fully explained to the blacks
what to do if the Warlattas turned up again, and promised them soon
to return; for if I succeeded in getting away, I meant to come back
with a party to thoroughly examine the caves and root out the
Warlattas for good. Strange, the blacks have no repugnance to going
anywhere west or due south, but to the eastward they will not go.
"Our journey during the first day was over treeless country well
grassed, although at times we came across patches of the prickly
grass, proving that we were not very far from the edge of the sandy
desert. We did not reach the water that night, but as we had brought
a couple of coolamen[1] full, we did not trouble to press on. Next
morning we arrived there early in the morning and found it a long
narrow lagoon, the water being of a milky colour. Around this lagoon
were many camping-places of the natives. I asked the old man if he
knew this tribe, and I found that he had met some members of it once;
they were friendly, not like the Warlattas."
[1] Vessels chopped out of the soft wood of the coral-tree by the
natives; and used for carrying water in the dry country.