It was not until they had scrambled up the beach to safety that the
absconders became fully aware of the loss of another of their
companions. As they stood on the break of the beach, wringing the water
from their clothes, Gabbett's small eye, counting their number, missed
the stroke oar.
"Where's Cox?"
"The fool fell overboard," said Jemmy Vetch, shortly. "He never had as
much sense in that skull of his as would keep it sound on his
shoulders."
Gabbett scowled. "That's three of us gone," he said, in the tones of a
man suffering some personal injury.
They summed up their means of defense against attack. Sanders and
Greenhill had knives. Gabbett still retained the axe in his belt. Vetch
had dropped his musket at the Neck; and Bodenham and Cornelius were
unarmed.
"Let's have a look at the tucker," said Vetch.
There was but one bag of provisions. It contained a piece of salt pork,
two loaves, and some uncooked potatoes. Signal Hill station was not rich
in edibles.
"That ain't much," said the Crow, with rueful face. "Is it, Gabbett?"
"It must do, anyway," returned the giant, carelessly.
The inspection over, the six proceeded up the shore, and encamped under
the lee of a rock. Bodenham was for lighting a fire; but Vetch, who by
tacit consent had been chosen leader of the expedition, forbade it,
saying that the light might betray them. "They'll think we're drowned,
and won't pursue us," he said. So all that night the miserable wretches
crouched fireless together.
* * * * *
Morning breaks clear and bright, and--free for the first time in ten
years--they comprehend that their terrible journey has begun. "Where are
we to go? How are we to live?" asks Bodenham, scanning the barren bush
that stretches to the barren sea. "Gabbett, you've been out
before--how's it done?"
"We'll make the shepherds' huts, and live on their tucker till we get a
change o'clothes," said Gabbett, evading the main question. "We can
follow the coast-line."
"Steady, lads," said prudent Vetch; "we must sneak round yon sandhills,
and so creep into the scrub. If they've a good glass at the Neck, they
can see us."
"It does seem close," said Bodenham, "I could pitch a stone on to the
guard-house. Good-by, you bloody spot!" he adds, with sudden rage,
shaking his fist vindictively at the penitentiary, "I don't want to see
you no more till the Day o' Judgment."
Vetch divides the provisions, and they travel all that day until dark
night. The scrub is prickly and dense. Their clothes are torn, their
hands and feet bleeding. Already they feel out-wearied. No one pursuing,
they light a fire, and sleep. The second day they come to a sandy spit
that runs out into the sea, and find that they have got too far to the
eastward, and must follow the shore-line to East Bay Neck. Back through
the scrub they drag their heavy feet. That night they eat the last crumb
of the loaf. The third day at high noon, after some toilsome walking,
they reach a big hill, now called Collins's Mount, and see the upper
link of the ear-ring, the isthmus of East Bay Neck, at their feet. A
few rocks are on their right hand, and blue in the lovely distance lies
hated Maria Island. "We must keep well to the eastward," said Greenhill,
"or we shall fall in with the settlers and get taken." So, passing the
isthmus, they strike into the bush along the shore, and tightening their
belts over their gnawing bellies, camp under some low-lying hills.
The fourth day is notable for the indisposition of Bodenham, who is a
bad walker, and falling behind, delays the party by frequent cooeys.
Gabbett threatens him with a worse fate than sore feet if he lingers.
Luckily, that evening Greenhill espies a hut; but not trusting to the
friendship of the occupant, they wait until he quits it in the morning,
and then send Vetch to forage. Vetch, secretly congratulating himself on
having by his counsel prevented violence, returns bending under half a
bag of flour. "You'd better carry the flour," said he to Gabbett, "and
give me the axe." Gabbett eyes him for a while, as if struck by his puny
form, but finally gives the axe to his mate Sanders. That day they creep
along cautiously between the sea and the hills, camping at a creek.
Vetch, after much search, finds a handful of berries, and adds them to
the main stock. Half of this handful is eaten at once, the other half
reserved for "to-morrow." The next day they come to an arm of the sea,
and as they struggle northward Maria Island disappears, and with it all
danger from telescopes. That evening they reach the camping-ground by
twos and threes; and each wonders--between the paroxysms of hunger--if
his face is as haggard and his eyes as blood-shot as those of his
neighbor.
On the seventh day Bodenham says his feet are so bad he can't walk, and
Greenhill, with a greedy look at the berries, bids him stay behind.
Being in a very weak condition, he takes his companion at his word, and
drops off about noon the next day. Gabbett, discovering this defection,
however, goes back, and in an hour or so appears, driving the wretched
creature before him with blows, as a sheep is driven to the shambles.
Greenhill remonstrates at another mouth being thus forced upon the
party, but the giant silences him with a hideous glance. Jemmy Vetch
remembers that Greenhill accompanied Gabbett once before, and feels
uncomfortable. He gives hint of his suspicions to Sanders, but Sanders
only laughs. It is horribly evident that there is an understanding among
the three.
The ninth sun of their freedom, rising upon sandy and barren hillocks,
bristling thick with cruel scrub, sees the six famine-stricken wretches
cursing their God, and yet afraid to die. All round is the fruitless,
shadeless, shelterless bush. Above, the pitiless heaven. In the distance
the remorseless sea. Something terrible must happen. That gray
wilderness, arched by gray heaven stooping to gray sea, is a fitting
keeper of hideous secrets. Vetch suggests that Oyster Bay cannot be far
to the eastward,--the line of ocean is deceitfully close,--and though
such a proceeding will take them out of their course, they resolve to
make for it. After hobbling five miles they seem no nearer than before,
and nigh dead with fatigue and starvation, sink despairingly upon the
ground. Vetch thinks Gabbett's eyes have a wolfish glare in them, and
instinctively draws off from him. Said Greenhill, in the course of a
dismal conversation, "I am so weak that I could eat a piece of a man."
On the tenth day Bodenham refuses to stir, and the others, being
scarcely able to drag along their limbs, sit on the ground about him.
Greenhill, eyeing the prostrate man, said slowly, "I have seen the same
done before, boys, and it tasted like pork."
Vetch, hearing his savage comrade give utterance to a thought all had
secretly cherished, speaks out, crying, "It would be murder to do it;
and then perhaps we couldn't eat it."
"Oh," said Gabbett, with a grin, "I'll warrant you that; but you must
all have a hand in it."
Gabbett, Sanders, and Greenhill then go aside, and presently Sanders,
coming to the Crow, said, "He consented to act as flogger. He deserves
it."
"So did Gabbett, for that matter," shudders Vetch.
"Ay, but Bodenham's feet are sore," said Sanders, "and 'tis a pity to
leave him."
Having no fire, they made a little break-wind; and Vetch, half dozing
behind this, at about three in the morning hears some one cry out
"Christ!" and awakes, sweating ice.
No one but Gabbett and Greenhill would eat that night. That savage pair,
however, make a fire, fling ghastly fragments on the embers, and eat the
broil before it is right warm. In the morning the frightful carcass is
divided.
That day's march takes place in silence, and at the mid-day halt
Cornelius volunteers to carry the billy, affecting great restoration
from the food. Vetch gives it him, and in half an hour afterward
Cornelius is missing. Gabbett and Greenhill pursue him in vain, and
return with curses. "He'll die like a dog," said Greenhill, "alone in
the bush." Jemmy Vetch, with his intellect acute as ever, thinks that
Cornelius prefers such a death to the one in store for him, but says
nothing.
The twelfth morning dawns wet and misty, but Vetch, seeing the provision
running short, strives to be cheerful, telling stories of men who have
escaped greater peril. Vetch feels with dismay that he is the weakest of
the party, but has some sort of ludicro-horrible consolation in
remembering that he is also the leanest. They come to a creek that
afternoon, and look until nightfall in vain for a crossing-place. The
next day Gabbett and Vetch swim across, and Vetch directs Gabbett to cut
a long sapling, which being stretched across the water, is seized by
Greenhill and the Moocher, who are dragged over.
"What would you do without me?" said the Crow, with a ghastly grin.
They cannot kindle a fire, for Greenhill, who carries the tinder, has
allowed it to get wet. The giant swings his axe in savage anger at
enforced cold, and Vetch takes an opportunity to remark privately to him
what a _big_ man Greenhill is.
On the fourteenth day they can scarcely crawl, and their limbs pain
them. Greenhill, who is the weakest, sees Gabbett and the Moocher go
aside to consult, and crawling to the Crow, whimpers, "For God's sake,
Jemmy, don't let 'em murder me!"
"I can't help you," says Vetch, looking about in terror. "Think of poor
Tom Bodenham."
"But he was no murderer. If they kill me, I shall go to hell with Tom's
blood on my soul."
He writhes on the ground in sickening terror, and Gabbett, arriving,
bids Vetch bring wood for the fire. Vetch going, sees Greenhill clinging
to wolfish Gabbett's knees, and Sanders calls after him, "You will hear
it presently, Jem."
The nervous Crow puts his hands to his ears, but is conscious,
nevertheless, of a dull crash and a groan. When he comes back, Gabbett
is putting on the dead man's shoes, which are better than his own.
"We'll stop here a day or so and rest," said he, "now we've got
provisions."
Two more days pass, and the three, eying each other suspiciously, resume
their march. The third day--the sixteenth of their awful journey--such
portions of the carcass as they have with them prove unfit to eat. They
look into each other's famine-sharpened faces, and wonder "Who next?"
"We must all die together," said Sanders, quickly, "before anything else
must happen."
Vetch marks the terror concealed in the words, and when the dreaded
giant is out of ear-shot, says, "For God's sake, let's go on alone,
Alick. You see what sort of a cove that Gabbett is,--he'd kill his
father before he'd fast one day."
They made for the bush, but the giant turned and strode toward them.
Vetch skipped nimbly on one side, but Gabbett struck the Moocher on the
forehead with the axe. "Help! Jem, help!" cried the victim, cut but not
fatally, and in the strength of his desperation tore the axe from the
monster who bore it, and flung it to Vetch. "Keep it. Jemmy," he cried;
"let's have no more murder done!"
They fare again through the horrible bush until nightfall, when Vetch,
in a strange voice, called the giant to him.
"He must die."
"Either you or he," laughs Gabbett. "Give me the axe."
"No, no," said the Crow, his thin malignant face distorted by a horrible
resolution. "I'll keep the axe. Stand back! You shall hold him, and I'll
do the job."
Sanders, seeing them approach, knew his end had come, and submitted,
crying, "Give me half an hour to pray for myself." They consent, and the
bewildered wretch knelt down and folded his hands like a child. His big
stupid face worked with emotion. His great cracked lips moved in
desperate agony. He wagged his head from side to side, in pitiful
confusion of his brutalized senses. "I can't think o' the words, Jem!"
"Pah," snarled the cripple, swinging the axe, "we can't starve here all
night."
Four days had passed, and the two survivors of this awful journey sat
watching each other. The gaunt giant, his eyes gleaming with hate and
hunger, sat sentinel over the dwarf. The dwarf, chuckling at his
superior sagacity, clutched the fatal axe. For two days they had not
spoken to each other. For two days each had promised himself that on the
next his companion must _sleep_--and die. Vetch comprehended the
devilish scheme of the monster who had entrapped five of his
fellow-beings to aid him by their deaths to his own safety, and held
aloof. Gabbett watched to snatch the weapon from his companion, and
make the odds even for once and forever. In the daytime they traveled
on, seeking each a pretext to creep behind the other. In the night-time
when they feigned slumber, each stealthily raising a head caught the
wakeful glance of his companion. Vetch felt his strength deserting him,
and his brain overpowered by fatigue. Surely the giant, muttering,
gesticulating, and slavering at the mouth, was on the road to madness.
Would the monster find opportunity to rush at him, and braving the
blood-stained axe, kill him by main force? or would he sleep, and be
himself a victim? Unhappy Vetch! It is the terrible privilege of
insanity to be sleepless.
On the fifth day, Vetch, creeping behind a tree, takes off his belt, and
makes a noose. He will hang himself. He gets one end of the belt over a
bough, and then his cowardice bids him pause. Gabbett approaches; he
tries to evade him, and steal away into the bush. In vain. The
insatiable giant, ravenous with famine and sustained by madness, is not
to be shaken off. Vetch tries to run, but his legs bend under him. The
axe that has tried to drink so much blood feels heavy as lead. He will
fling it away. No--he dares not. Night falls again. He must rest, or go
mad. His limbs are powerless. His eyelids are glued together. He sleeps
as he stands. This horrible thing must be a dream. He is at Port Arthur,
or will wake on his pallet in the penny lodging-house he slept at when a
boy. Is that the deputy come to wake him to the torment of living? It is
not time--surely not time yet. He sleeps--and the giant, grinning with
ferocious joy, approaches on clumsy tiptoe and seizes the coveted axe.
On the northeast coast of Van Diemen's Land is a place called St.
Helen's Point, and a certain skipper, being in want of fresh water,
landing there with a boat's crew, found on the banks of the creek a
gaunt and blood-stained man, clad in tattered yellow, who carried on his
back an axe and a bundle. When the sailors came within sight of him he
made signs to them to approach, and opening his bundle with much
ceremony, offered them some of its contents. Filled with horror at what
the maniac displayed, they seized and bound him. At Hobart Town he was
recognized as the only survivor of the nine desperadoes who had escaped
from Colonel Arthur's "natural penitentiary."