ESCAPE.
When we saw the light settle down before the door it was about eight
o’clock, a little more than two hours after sunset. It was very cloudy
but not absolutely dark. We turned our steps at once toward the stair.
We had no expectation of any difficulty just yet. The watch which was
kept upon us during the night was effectually neutralised; for the
watchers, no doubt, supposed that we were safely housed, and that we
could not stir without betraying our movements to them. Nevertheless,
we walked very softly and spoke almost nothing until we reached the
summit of the stair. Then we stopped and held a very brief conference.
There were various points of detail as to which it was needful that we
should understand one another more perfectly. But after glancing at
them it seemed better that we should make a start first, and then we
could converse without losing time.
So we hurried along the platform to the car. It was on the very spot
where we saw it first, on the evening when we made our first voyage in
it. Everything was ready. One battery was in position, and another lay
by it ready to take its place. There was a pocket on one side of the
car filled with the lozenge-like articles of diet on which we had
lived since we came here. There were two glasses like that with which
I had observed the seed-beds, and Jack, after examination, pronounced
that there was an abundant store of the matters required for the
production of the gas which was needed for the inflation of the
balloons. The light by which we saw all this stood in the fore part of
the car just over a little binnacle where a compass was fixed. Leäfar
had more than fulfilled his promise.
I had noticed before in the cars a framework like this in which the
compass was housed, but it never struck me what it was for. The
compass card was very like ours. It had sixteen points only instead of
thirty-two, and these were distinguished by colours and combinations
of colours. The light was no doubt electric, for it was to all
appearance produced by a battery acting on a system of wires. The
wire did not seem to consume very rapidly, and it was supplied by
automatic machinery from a large coil fixed under the binnacle. I have
said “no doubt electric.” I ought to add that the machinery which
produced the light had no perceptible effect on the car’s compasses
nor yet on mine.
As soon as we got into the car Jack proceeded to raise it, as Niccolo
Davelli had done, by inflating the balloons. This cannot be quickly
done by any but a practised hand. If one who has had no practice tries
it, the balloons are apt to get unequally inflated, and so the
operator in bringing them every now and then to a state of equal
inflation works the car from side to side with a rolling motion.
Signor Davelli raised it quickly, without any rolling motion at all.
This was only the second day of practice for Jack, but he managed by
raising the car slowly to produce very little of the rolling motion.
As soon as he had attained what he judged a sufficient height he
connected the batteries with the paddles, and as the wind was, as the
sailors say, “dead aft,” we soon began to make very great speed.
I noticed now a point in the machinery which I had not observed
before. There was a valve to each balloon, and both valves were
worked by a sort of movable tap, one tap for both. The effect of these
valves appeared to be the maintenance of the cars at a uniform height,
or higher or lower as the driver wished. The tap was worked by the
same machinery that drove the paddles. And if the driver for any
reason wished to make the balloon act independently of the paddles he
could disconnect the tap which worked the valves from the machinery
which worked the paddles. The connection and disconnection was made by
a handle within easy reach of the driver.
After we had got well under way Jack began to speak.
“Now, Bob,” he said, “do you think that you can steer while I speak? I
have something to say. Here is the handle that you steer by: you see
it is fixed so that you pull the way you want to go. That bright blue
mark on the compass is East. Never mind the balloons, I will attend to
them if there is need. You will have nothing to do but just keep the
head of the car due east.”
I found but little difficulty in managing the car as he directed, and
after about twenty minutes’ practice I was able to steer and listen at
the same time.
Then Jack began, in a business-like manner, “You have seen the
battery that we are driving by now; very well, here is the spare
battery which, according to Leäfar’s promise, I find.” He pointed to
the spare battery, which was placed on a sort of bracket within my
sight. He took it off, or rather out of, the bracket with his two
hands and put it back again.
“I see,” said I, “that it is larger; it seems heavier than the other,
and in some details different: what of that?”
“Thereby hangs a tale,” he said. “I have not been able to learn
anything about the way of making these batteries. Indeed, I did not
try; there was no time to spare from the more urgent matters. What I
have learned is that they have two kinds of battery, one much more
easily made and which wastes very much more quickly, but which drives
the cars faster while it lasts. That is the sort that we are using
now. The other sort is more difficult of production and wastes very
much more slowly, and drives the cars more slowly. On long voyages, as
I understand, they use the latter sort mainly, reserving the former
sort for short voyages and for spurts. Now the spare battery is of the
sort that wastes more slowly and drives the car more slowly; whereas
it is a battery of the other sort that has been put into operation,
what does that mean? I don’t know how Leäfar got the batteries, and I
don’t know what he knows about their use. I think it would not be safe
to assume that he is beyond the risk of making mistakes. They have to
learn things just as we have.”
“He got the battery for us,” I replied, “and it seems the safer thing
to conclude that he knows more about it than we do. But what does it
matter any way?”
“I’ll tell you as near as I can. Don’t mind a bit of rigmarole or what
seems to be such. Trust me for coming to the point all the time.”
“Go ahead,” said I.
“Very well,” he said, “I want to know, or to make as near a guess as
possible, at two or three things.
“(1.) How fast are we going now, and how far are we from the wire? or
how far were we when we started? That means, how soon shall we reach
the wire?
“(2.) What are we to do if we overshoot the wire? We have no way of
telling the longitude; my watch indeed is a capital chronometer, but I
have altered it by the sun two or three times as near as I could.
Besides, we cannot get the sun’s place near enough. Now, if we
overshoot the wire, we shall either have to cross the continent or
else to make southward and look out for the Darling or for the
Murray; or, failing either, for the sea.
“I do not think that we can have made much more than three hundred
miles of westing from the Daly Waters, and suppose that we are now
travelling at the rate of thirty miles an hour, which is not unlikely,
we ought, if we keep up the rate, to make the wire at seven or eight
o’clock in the morning. If I have overrated the distance or underrated
our speed only a little, we may cross the wire before sunrise.
“So far, then, it seems clear to me that we ought to be travelling at
the slow rate instead of the quick rate. I thought of this before, but
I saw no means of securing one of the larger batteries, and I knew
that I could slow the speed of the smaller one.
“Why don’t I slow it now? you will say. Well, because I found the
smaller and quicker battery put on, although the other was there: why
was it put on unless to use all possible speed? I cannot but think
that Leäfar considers the prospect of pursuit so great that speed is
in his view the first necessity. I may be wrong, but, somehow, this
view of the case makes me unwilling to slow the machinery.”
“I think you are right,” I said; “still it is quite possible that
there may be nothing in it. The workers whom Leäfar employs may have
been simply bidden to secure the batteries, and to put one of them on;
the difference between the batteries may have been altogether
overlooked.”
“It may be so,” he said, “and one must not overlook the possibility,
but I don’t think it likely.”
“Then you see something in the presence of the larger battery?”
“That’s it,” he said. “If only the voyage to the wire were in view a
second one of the smaller batteries would have given us an ample
margin for contingencies. I think that the chance of our overshooting
the wire has been reckoned upon, and for that reason the other battery
has been provided. The smaller battery wastes in less than twenty-four
hours, the other lasts, I believe, about four weeks. But the speed of
the larger is not much more than half the speed of the smaller. Now,
if we do overshoot the wire, a spare battery of the smaller kind would
fail us in the midst of the bush, while the larger one would enable us
to reach some settlement.
“Just one word more. We are now at full speed, and I found the
machinery fixed for full speed when we came on board. Besides, the
wind has not in any way changed since the middle of the day, and it is
full in our favour now. Our speed is at the very highest, and
whosoever put in the battery must have known that it would be so; even
if the wind were to fall the difference would not be very great. Now,
what do you say?”
_Easterley._ I think we must go as we are going until dawn of day
anyway. If we are not pursued before then, we shall not be pursued at
all.
_Wilbraham._ Why do you think that?
_Easterley._ It seems to be the way of these fellows to keep as clear
of civilised men as is consistent with the pursuit of their malevolent
purposes.
_Wilbraham._ What do you suppose to be their motive?
_Easterley._ Well, it doesn’t seem very far to seek. Among civilised
men there is very little belief in the existence of such beings; what
little there is is usually not active, and so far as it is active it
attributes to them, just as the belief of savage men does, powers
greatly in excess of those which they really possess. Either state of
mind is highly favourable to their ends, and anything substituted for
either; a state of mind like neither would of course be avoided by
them. They might almost live among savages without in any way
detracting from a highly exaggerated view of their powers; but any
decisive appearance of them among civilised men; any experience such
as we have had, if established and accepted, would cause their powers
to be examined and understood.
_Wilbraham._ I see; we should take their measure and know how to
manage them.
_Easterley._ That’s it; as Mr. Morley says of the clergy, we should
explain them.
_Wilbraham._ And that would be worse for them than a sheer denial of
their existence?
_Easterley._ Very much worse. Their motives and purposes would be
known and canvassed like other matters of fact, and much that holds up
its head in the world now would be discredited in consequence.
_Wilbraham._ In short, we may put our confidence in Leäfar’s opinion,
and we may conclude that they will not pursue us into the civilised
settlements.
_Easterley._ I think so, and therefore my opinion is that when
daylight comes if we find no trace of pursuit we may slack speed, and
lower the car and look for the wire.
_Wilbraham._ Agreed. And now what do you think? Shall we be followed?
_Easterley._ On the whole I think we shall, but it depends on
circumstances that we can only guess at.
_Wilbraham._ Why do you think we shall be followed?
_Easterley._ Well, it seems to me likely that patrols of some kind are
kept, and in that case the absence of the car will be discovered,
perhaps is now discovered.
_Wilbraham._ And what then?
_Easterley._ Then our quarters will be searched, and our escape will
immediately become known.
_Wilbraham._ How can they tell in which direction to follow us?
_Easterley._ They cannot tell, but they may very well conclude that we
shall make either for the west coast or for the wire, and they may
send after us both ways. I wonder if Leäfar knows which course we have
taken?
_Wilbraham._ Yes, he knows. I thought you were not attending when I
said it, but I spoke plainly enough. I said, “If we escape shall we go
eastward or westward? My purpose is to make for the wire.” And he said
in reply “Yes, that is the better course.” It was near the end of his
talk.
“Well, now,” said I, “suppose we get through safely, what shall we do
with the car?”
“I have thought that over, Bob,” he said, “and I have come to rather
an odd conclusion.”
_Easterley._ Do you mind telling a fellow what it is?
_Wilbraham._ Not at all. Suppose now that we should steer this car to
Melbourne or to Sydney and exhibit it. We should make a great noise,
no doubt, and perhaps a pot of money, but we should ruin ourselves for
all that. Even if we go to work like gentlemen, even if we make no
attempt to make money out of it, but simply hand over the car to some
public body with any statement we like to make, we shall be ruined all
the same.
_Easterley._ I dare say you are right.
_Wilbraham._ Yes, I am right. For in the first place suppose we make a
true statement, and neither of us would consent to do else, what will
follow? Either we shall be set down as impostors without any more ado,
or else an expedition will be organized to examine the country we have
been in. But if Leäfar is right, as no doubt he is, nothing will be
found to justify our story. Suppose we warn them beforehand that they
will find nothing, that will be accepted as only one proof more that
we are lying.
Suppose, now, for the sake of argument, that we do lie, and say that
we ourselves invented and constructed the car, then we shall be
expected and invited to make another. But we know next to nothing
about the manner of producing the gas which inflates the balloons or
about the constitution of the batteries. If we should attempt to
substitute larger balloons filled with hydrogen, and batteries of such
construction as we understand, the almost certain result would be that
our car would be added to the long list of discredited flying
machines, and ourselves to the much longer list of exposed impostors.
How do you like the prospect?
_Easterley._ Not at all; and I believe you are right. But what do you
propose to do?
_Wilbraham._ If we discover the wire I propose to go back two or three
miles and abandon the car. I should like to break it up but we have no
tools. I can dismantle it, however, so that nobody will be able to
make anything of it if it is found.
_Easterley._ But if we escape we must give some account of our escape;
we are not going to tell lies.
_Wilbraham._ Not lies; we shall tell the whole truth about the blacks,
and for the rest we shall confine ourselves to generalities which will
be true as far as they go. They may think us a little bit off our
heads, “a shingle short,” as Tim Blundell would say, but that won’t
matter, it will be set down to our wanderings in the bush. For the
present at least we had better keep the whole matter as quiet as we
can. If we ever see a chance of doing any good by speaking out we
shall speak out. But now to more immediate business. Can we try to
estimate the rate at which we are travelling?
By this time it was much brighter, the clouds were quite cleared away,
and the moon, which was only two or three days past the full, was
fairly well up in the sky.
So I said to Jack, “Lower the car a little, then take the steering
gear in hand and let me try to estimate our speed.” He let the car
descend slowly until he could distinguish the trees and other
prominent features of the landscape. Then he took the steering gear
into his own hand and I looked over the side of the car. The forest
was thick in parts, but there were wide spaces of treeless plain; and
we were just passing over a range of hills which I think I am right in
identifying with a range that we had observed at a distance of several
miles when we were among the blacks.
I took particular notice of the larger trees, trying to guess their
distance each from the other and referring to my watch every few
seconds.
“What do you make of it?” said Jack at last, when he had raised the
car to its former height.
“It is hard to fix it,” said I, “but I cannot think that we are
travelling less than twenty-five miles an hour and I should say much
more probably thirty.”
_Wilbraham._ Ah! and how far do you suppose that we have to travel
from the start?
_Easterley._ Say fifteen days passed from our parting with
Mr. Fetherston until we reached the valley, and I am pretty sure we
made an average of thirty miles a day. But of course that was nearly
all westing. I don’t think that our furthest point could be quite as
much as three hundred miles from the wire. I don’t think that your own
estimate can be much out of the way, but we are perhaps a little under
the mark.
_Wilbraham._ Ah! if the figures are right the sum is easy; we ought to
cross the wire about six o’clock.
_Easterley._ Yes, but look here; thirty miles an hour is possibly an
overestimate of our speed; and three hundred miles is possibly an
underestimate of our distance. Besides, we shall not be able to keep
up our present speed. The wind is already falling, and may be against
us in an hour or two. That would knock, say, ten miles an hour off the
rate of speed at which we are now travelling.
_Wilbraham._ It might, but that is another overestimate; we may fairly
reckon on travelling all night at within five miles of our present
rate of speed.
_Easterley._ I suppose so. Nevertheless, the chances are that if we
stop the car about sunrise we shall still be west of the wire. Then
we can lower the car, move north, and watch for the wire, then go
slowly, still eastward, keeping a sharp look-out as we go.
We were now both very tired, and as there were still some hours to
pass before we could expect to get sight of the wire, we agreed to
divide the time till dawn into half-hour watches. Each of us wished
the other to take the first rest, and so we had to settle the dispute
by lot. I told Jack to hide some lozenges, and to let me guess odd or
even. Jack won, but our mode of settling the question was not without
important effects. For Jack said, when he was putting back the
lozenges into his pocket, “By-the-way, I may as well put these with
the others in the car pocket,” and he did so.
When my turn came I lay down on the floor of the car, as Jack had
done, with my hat for a pillow. The lozenges in my pocket were a
little in my way; not much, but just enough to remind me of what Jack
had done. Still, I didn’t rise, only turned over. Then some of the
lozenges rolled out of my pocket. Then I jumped up, and said, “I may
as well put mine with yours.” I did so, and lay down again and slept.
So now we had all our eggs in one basket, and it never occurred to us
that we were incurring any risk at all.
It was eleven o’clock when Jack lay down for his first sleep, and we
took regular half-hour turns until five o’clock, when my sixth
half-hour was up. It was now dawn, and the light was increasing
rapidly. We had had enough rest, and it was getting near sunrise. It
was time to think of lowering the car and reconnoitring. The morning
was very fine, but there was rather a heavy bank of clouds in the east
where the sun was rising. We lowered the car a little, and slackened
our speed. Presently we disconnected the battery, and so stopped the
car. Then we rested at about four to five hundred feet from the
ground. I swept the whole field of sight with the car’s glasses in
search of the wire, but could find no trace of it. Then I looked
westward long and anxiously, but could see nothing specially worthy of
notice. At last I fell to admiring the beauty of the clouds; they were
beginning to reflect the glory of the sun which was now risen, but
still hidden by them. There was in the air that sort of shimmering
which portends a dry, hot day. I picked out a small bank of clouds to
the west, on the near side of which the shimmering which I have
mentioned appeared to be greater than elsewhere. I was quietly
speculating on the cause of this when the sun extricated himself from
the clouds to the eastward, and his rays fell straight and full upon
the clouds to westward. Then I saw strike upon the cloud upon which I
had been gazing two shadows which I recognised with horror. I cried
out to Jack to look, and I lifted the glasses which were in my hand
and turned them to the shadows on the cloud, and I saw that he did the
same with his glasses. You will remember that we were now at rest,
excepting for the motion caused by the breeze which had almost ceased
to blow.
The sun was now shining brightly, and we could make out two dark
masses moving towards us. I suppose we ought to have got in motion
again as quickly as possible, although I doubt if it would have made
any difference at all. At any rate, we did not make the slightest
attempt to move, but watched in dead silence the shadows of the
contending cars. For that they were somehow contending there could be
no doubt at all. The one was trying to block the way of the other, and
the other was trying to dodge it. The former was pursuing, and the
latter was pursued. The two shadows passed right over us, and as they
did, the cars, considering the position of the sun, must have been a
little way to the eastward of us; and now it seemed as if the
pursuing car was underneath the other, and so nearer to us, and as if
the pursued car was being forced upward. Just then, however, the
pursued car made a very quick turn westward. The movement was followed
by the other car, but it seemed, as it followed, to lose just a little
ground. Mind, we could see nothing but shadows, but the shadows were
wonderfully distinct. Then the shadows passed over us again, and they
were now much nearer, and they quite darkened our car. And now it
seemed as if the pursued car had given the other the slip, for it was
now the nearer of the two; and then both were straight over our heads.
It seemed as if something clashed against us, and we perceived
immediately that a missile of some sort had been driven right through
the side and floor of our car. It had passed between us, and if it
were intended to kill either of us, it had certainly missed its aim.
We saw that our car remained steady, and we were too much absorbed in
the strife going on above us to notice anything else. Then the same
manœuvre seemed to be repeated, for the shadows passed over us again,
but this time they were much higher, and the pursuing car was again
underneath.
A fourth time the shadows fell across us, but they were still higher
this time, and the pursuing car still held its place nearer to us. And
now the pursued car seemed to give up the contest, for it held its way
westward until we lost all trace of it, and the pursuing car stopped
and turned, and came towards us until the shadow was all but over us,
and then out of the shadow, as it seemed, there fell a long white
streamer. It waved one moment backward and forward, and then
disappeared. We swung off our hats together, and gave a lusty cheer.
Then the shadow of the car passed away westward and was lost to sight.
So we had been pursued, and the pursuit was over and our lives were
saved. So it seemed, and our joy was great; but it was very soon
changed for something very like despair. The car in which we rode had
canted over to one side, so that it was becoming difficult either to
sit or stand straight in it. We soon saw why.
One of the balloons was slowly collapsing, and on examination we found
that it had been slightly grazed by the missile which had passed
through the car. It was clear that we must lower the car to the ground
as quickly as possible, and it was very doubtful if we could raise it
again. A closer examination revealed a far worse loss. The missile in
question had been driven straight through the wall-bag which held our
provisions, and nearly all of them had fallen through the hole which
had been pierced through the floor of the car. It was surely no chance
which had given the missile its precise direction. It was almost
incredible skill and altogether diabolical malignity. We thought that
our enemy had aimed at our bodies and had missed his aim: he knew
better: the purpose of his missile was to cause our miserable death in
the wilderness.
Jack put in action the machinery by which the balloons were filled,
and endeavoured to trim them so as to act together. But it proved
quite impossible to do so. The rent in the injured balloon was
increasing slowly under the pressure of the gas, and it was evident
that it would very soon be quite useless. Jack sang out to me to
connect the batteries and to set the paddles in motion. I did so at
once and I soon perceived why I was told to do so. The injured balloon
was now collapsing so rapidly that we were in great danger of being
upset by the one-sided buoyancy of the car. It was necessary to empty
the other balloon as quickly as possible in order to keep the car in
such a position that we could keep our seats. And the rapid emptying
of the balloons would have dashed us to the ground but for the motion
of the paddles. As it was we were half turned over before we reached
the ground, and we fell with rather a severe crash but without any
serious injury. I managed to gather up a few of the lozenges which
were left on the floor of the car, as they were rolling off the car
when we were fifty or sixty feet from the ground.
Here we were now in a condition almost as bad as when the blacks left
us; quite as bad, indeed, or worse, for although we were now probably
much nearer to help than then, we did not know where to look for it,
and we had no time to spend in finding it. When we were left alone
before, we had plenty of water and the means of procuring food for at
least some weeks. Now the doubt was if we could survive the second day
unless help should reach us before its close.
Besides we were not now as ready to stand hardships as then. We were
then in splendid condition. But the nervous excitement consequent upon
the startling experiences of the few days which had intervened since
then had heavily told on both of us; and anxiety and broken rest had
also had their effect. I was myself much worn, but I saw now, or
thought I saw, that Jack was on the very verge of collapsing. He was
brave enough and ready enough, and very much more hopeful than I was,
but there was a look about his eyes and mouth which alarmed me.
“What do you think now, Jack?” I said.
“Well, it’s rather a bad business about the lozenges,” he replied,
“but as for the car, he has only done what I should have liked to do
myself; we are well rid of it.”
_Easterley._ But where’s the wire?
_Wilbraham._ Well, old man, the wire is not five miles off, you may be
sure of that: most likely not half so far.
_Easterley._ Why do you think so?
_Wilbraham._ Leäfar would never have left unless he knew that we were
near enough. Besides, all our calculations look the same way.
_Easterley._ I wish I could see the situation in the same light. Our
calculations are based on guesses, and may easily be fifty or a
hundred miles astray. And Leäfar most likely did not know that our car
was badly damaged and our food lost. Besides, the other one seemed to
be quite satisfied with what he had done; for he sailed straight away.
But he has not done much after all if he has only dropped us without
hurt within a few miles of the wire.
_Wilbraham._ Well, not much as it has happened, but he was very near
smashing us to pieces, and the spilling of the food was a clever
extra touch. He had got to do something, and he had about a minute to
do it in, and he did his best, or his worst: and as for sailing away,
I take it he was beaten away.
_Easterley._ I hope you may be right. We must never say die, anyway.
But you don’t look well, Jack, though you speak so cheerfully.
_Wilbraham._ I am a bit seedy, I am sure I don’t know why, but I
daresay it will pass off soon.
_Easterley._ I suppose we had better push on, we have most of the day
before us yet, and we had better take some of the food that is left.
But look! what’s that?
_Wilbraham._ A horse, by George! didn’t I tell you?
And a horse it was, but its presence proved after all not to be such a
very good sign as we supposed. We thought at first that it must belong
to some of the telegraph people, but as we drew nearer we saw that it
was Jack’s own horse which had been abandoned in the bush on account
of lameness. Still it was a good sign. Its presence made it much more
likely that we were still west of the wire, and we might possibly make
use of it for travelling, but above all it seemed as if there must be
water near, and that if we stuck to the horse we should find it.
It was quite an easy matter to catch the horse; he had been well
broken in, and his ten or twelve days in the bush had not made him at
all forget his training. He seemed to recognise us, and we thought at
first that his lameness was quite gone.
Then we reckoned up our store of food. We had saved just nine of the
lozenges. We resolved now to take three each, reserving three for the
evening.
If Jack was right we should hardly have need of them. And yet we
might, for the telegraph stations were far apart, and it might be
quite beyond our power to walk to the nearest, and we would not know
in which direction to travel in order to reach the nearest. But then,
as Jack said, if all came to all we should cut the wire, and that
would soon bring us help.
The food quite restored me, but I did not think that it had the same
good effect on Jack. He was quite cheerful, brave, and hopeful, but
still there was undoubtedly something amiss. So I proposed that Jack
should have the horse and that I should walk beside him. “I don’t
mind,” he said, “if I have the first ride.” And so it was arranged.
But riding even a very tame horse without either saddle or bridle is
neither a pleasant nor a quick way of travelling, and besides the
horse’s lameness came on again as soon as he had weight to carry, and
it became clear before long that we could get no good of him that
way. I had improvised a sort of halter out of slips cut from our
coats, and so when Jack dismounted, we tried to lead the horse; he
showed a decided tendency, both when ridden and led, to go north. “Let
him have his way,” Jack said, “provided he doesn’t make any westing. I
will not go away from the wire.” The end of it was that we led the
horse, or let him lead us, for several hours. We travelled very
slowly, indeed, but still we must have got over twelve or thirteen
miles, going mainly northward, and making perhaps a mile of easting
all the time.
The country that we travelled over consisted of a series of plains
which were separated by thin belts of timber. There was little or no
scrub. At last we came, as it seemed, to a small dried-up watercourse;
but it proved to be not quite dried up, for the horse trotted over to
one of the sand-beds where the ponds had been, and found a little hole
of water which he drank very greedily. The hole was so small that we
did not care to drink after him if it could be helped; but by digging
with our hands in the sand a little higher up we got a sufficient
supply of water that was fairly good.
We had now got all out of the horse that we were likely to get. This
water meant life for a day or two longer. It seemed now to be the best
course for us to start from this point due east. If the wire were even
within twenty miles of us we might escape. If not, our death seemed
certain.
But Jack’s increasing debility, which was beginning to make me very
anxious, made it out of the question to go farther to-night. Indeed,
it was already getting on for sundown. So we took each, one of our
three remaining lozenges, and made our camp as best we could. The
trees near the watercourse were shadier than elsewhere, and the
weather was mild. We had no tobacco. By some mischance we had left it
behind us in our escape from the valley. Indeed, such was our
excitement and anxiety that we had never smoked once all the time we
were there. But now we missed our pipes very much.
Before going to sleep, however, I made a discovery that cheered us up
a little. I found two more lozenges in the corner of my pocket. These
would give us a shadow of breakfast.
I slept rather well, but Jack was troubled with restlessness and with
dreams. And in the morning he was no better.
Things were looking very black indeed. After making our shadow of
breakfast we had but one lozenge left, and then nothing but a little
water to live upon. Jack was beginning to show signs of collapse. “I
know, old fellow,” he said, “that I could not persuade you to abandon
me, but I’ll die very soon, and after I am dead you will still have
time to look for the wire.”
“Jack,” said I, “look here, shall I go and look for the wire now? I’ll
come back in two hours whether I find it or not, and then we shall
stay together while we live. I daresay we have both of us pretty well
done with this world, but while there’s life there’s hope. What do you
say?”
“Well,” he said, “I think I can live for more than two hours with the
help of this water; yes, old fellow, go and look for it; that’s the
best chance.”
I made him as comfortable as I could near the water under the shade,
and then I started with but little hope. I was already getting weak
with hunger, although otherwise I was well enough. I crossed the plain
eastward to one of the belts of timber I told you of. The distance was
about a quarter or a third of a mile. Then I marked a tree, and on
passing through the belt of timber, which was only a few yards across,
I marked another. I was now in a second plain just like the first. I
crossed it slowly to the eastward, came to another belt of timber,
and marked another tree.
Then I began to think it was of no use to make any further exertion.
Half an hour was already gone; I must in any case turn back in half an
hour more. “Oh Leäfar, Leäfar,” I said, and I wrung my hand, “how
could you leave us in such misery?” And then I remembered how little
Leäfar seemed to think of death in comparison with the doom I had
escaped, and I was ashamed of myself, and I said—
“The will of God be done.”
I had crossed the second belt of timber, and I was marking another
tree on the east side of it. I was acting quite mechanically and
without conscious purpose, for I had made up my mind to return at
once, and so I should not need another marked tree. All in a moment I
became conscious of this, and I thought that perhaps my mind was
going. Then I turned round to look at the plain which I had just
entered, and was just about to leave, and, good heavens! there was the
wire! This plain was of about the same dimensions as the other two,
and right across it ran the telegraph poles.
I just said, “Thank God,” and I ran back as fast as my legs could
carry me.
Jack was taking a drink of water, and I thought looking a little
brighter. I was quite out of breath, and before I could speak he had
time to say—
“Why, Bob, you’ve hardly been away an hour.”
“I have found it!” I cried, “I have found it!”
“Take it easy, man,” he said; “take a drink of water. Didn’t I tell
you we were near it?”
We took near two hours to reach it, for we were both weak for want of
food, and Jack was ill. Then we sat down under one of the posts and
consulted.
“Jack,” said I, “we may die of starvation yet, unless you can cut that
wire. I couldn’t climb the pole, poor devil that I am, not to save
your life and my own.”
(You will remember, no doubt, that I have already told you that Jack
was a very clever athlete.)
He replied after a silence of a minute or so, letting his words drop
slowly: “I should have thought but little of it yesterday morning. I
am sure I don’t know if I can do it now. I’ll try.”
“I have one lozenge left,” I said; “take it before you try;” and I
handed him the lozenge.
“I’ll take my share of it,” he answered, “but not yours too.”
“Now be reasonable, Jack,” said I; “my life as well as yours depends
on your cutting that wire. If the lozenge helps you to cut it, don’t
you see that it is best for us both that you should have it.”
“Very well,” he replied; “I believe you are right; give it me,” and he
ate it without more ado. And then after feeling for his knife he began
to climb.
Presently it became clear that he could not get up the pole without
some protection to his knees. I cut off the sleeves of my coat and we
slipped them up over his legs; they fitted him so tightly that no
fastening was needed.
Then he began to climb again with more success, but such was his
weakness that it seemed several times as if he would have to give over
the attempt. At last he reached the top, and after hanging for a while
to rest he began to cut at the wire.
I watched the process with great anxiety. He gave over several times,
and once I thought he was going to faint, and I ran up to the post to
try and break his fall. But he began hacking at the wire again, and in
a few seconds more it fell apart, and one end of it lay on the ground.
Then he began to slide down the post, and before he was down his arms
relaxed their hold, and he almost fell into my arms as I stood
underneath.
We both fell to the ground, but without any severe shock, and we were
quite unhurt. I staggered to my feet and dragged him to some thick
shrubs near at hand, where I propped him up as well as I could manage.
He did not quite lose his senses, and I whispered, “We are all right
now, Jack; we shall have help soon.” Then I lay down beside him.
I do not think that I was more than half an hour lying there when I
heard the noise of horses, and in about fifteen minutes more a party
of horsemen rode up.
We might have lain there for several hours, however, if it had not
been for a combination of favourable circumstances. We were only three
miles from a telegraph station to the north, and a sharp look-out had
been kept for us. It had been kept indeed since the third or fourth
day after our departure, and it had been quickened a few days ago by a
lying rumour which proved to be unintentionally true. Some blacks had
come into the camp who knew both Gioro and Bomero, and they told
Mr. Fetherston that Gioro had been killed some days before. Now, as
far as I could make out, Gioro had been killed a day or two after they
told the story. So they were certainly lying. But it seemed as if
every one who knew anything about the matter expected that Gioro would
be killed if Bomero’s protection were withdrawn. And so it happened
as you have heard, and thus their lie came true.
So there was a bright look-out kept for about fifty miles on each side
of the Daly Waters, and a party had gone westward into the bush in
search of us a few days before, and the moment the communication by
wire was broken a party of horsemen started for the point where the
break was made. We were now nearly thirty miles north of the Daly
Waters.
We were speedily taken to the nearest station and treated with all the
attention that we needed. I needed only food and clothes, but Jack
proved to be sickening for colonial fever, and was in rather a
critical state for some time. He did not seem to me to be dangerously
ill. Much languor and a little wandering and extreme prostration were
his principal symptoms. I was not very anxious about him, but
Mr. Fetherston thought more of the illness than he chose to say. I did
not know the nature of the complaint; I have learnt better since then.
Mr. Fetherston asked me several questions, and I told him all about
the blacks, dwelling especially on Bomero’s panic and Gioro’s death.
Then I said that after that we had got among some people that had
given us food and clothes. He looked very carefully at the coats and
hats, and he said, “Why, these must have come from Java, or perhaps
from the Philippines. I had no idea that there was any communication.”
I said that I was inclined to believe that the people I had met were
not of the same race as the blacks, their colour was much lighter, I
said, and they had some curious knowledge.
Mr. Fetherston looked at me with some anxiety and suspicion, and the
same evening I heard him say to Tim Blundell that people who wandered
among the blacks often got off their heads for a while.
After that I held my peace.
In about six weeks Jack was able to travel, and Mr. Fetherston gave us
an escort to Port Darwin.
After about ten days there, we were so fortunate as to get a passage
to King George’s Sound in a Government steamer. We reached Adelaide
about the first week in September.
CONCLUSION.
My story is told now, and there is no occasion to detain you much
longer. Our life ever since we came back to Adelaide, until the visit
to Gippsland which led to the writing of this book, was all of a
piece. It was all spent in Australia and Tasmania. We did some
squatting, and we just glanced at agricultural and mining life. In
every year we spent some weeks in town, and we made some acquaintance
everywhere. But we settled down to nothing. We became very little
richer, but no poorer. We seldom talked about our adventures to each
other, and never to anyone else. But I think they were always more or
less in our minds and kept us unsettled.
Sometimes when we seemed to be forgetting them, or when their effect
upon us appeared to be passing away, something or other would happen
to revive their memory and unsettle us again.
Once, for instance, I was in Sydney with Jack making arrangements for
the purchase of a share in a small station. I was dining out one
evening on the North Shore and as it chanced Jack was not with me.
There was a physician of the company who was a clever talker, and
after the ladies had gone away we got him to tell us some of his
Australian experiences, which were curious and varied. He told us
among other things that he was employed by Government to make a report
on some cases in Tarban Creek Lunatic Asylum. After he had examined
these cases the superintendent of the asylum said,
“By the bye, doctor, I have a queer fellow here that I sometimes think
ought not to be here at all. He is an interesting fellow, too, and I
should be much obliged if you would have a look at him.”
“I did have a look at him,” said the physician, “and I found him just
a steady old bush hand, with an uncommon degree of intelligence and
good sense, and a lot of information about the country and the
aborigines. I was just wondering what on earth they could have sent
him here for when he told me with the gravest face the following
story:—He had been more than a year among the blacks and he did not
know how he was to get back to his own people. It was away in the
north-west somewhere, the far north-west. Well, one day, he said,
there was a sort of panic among the blacks, he didn’t know the cause
of it, and he wandered away a mile or two from the camp. He said that
when these panics take them they are jealous of the presence of
strangers. He had a loaded revolver with him.
“There was no sun and he began to think he might lose his way, and so
he made up his mind to return to the blacks’ camp. Just then he heard
a sort of rustle in the air above him, and presently a man, so he
said, jumped out of the clouds and caught him by the collar of his
coat. He said that this man never touched the ground himself, but
tried to lift him off the ground. He drew his revolver and fired.
“Then he said—‘Look here, doctor, I’m blest if the fellow didn’t turn
into bilin’ water and then into steam and then into nothin’ at all,
and while I was wonderin’ what in the mischief war the matter with me
back he comes again, fust steam, and then bilin’ water, and then an
ugly tawny-looking beggar, neither nigger nor white man, and makes
another grab at me. So I said, Man or devil, have at you again, and I
gave him the contents of another barrel, and I’m blest if he didn’t go
of in a bile again and I took to my heels and ran as I never ran
before until I got back to the darkies’ camp.’ That was his story,”
said the physician, “and it appears that he was picked up some months
later on the headwaters of the Oakover River by some explorers, and so
he got round to Adelaide, and thence to Sydney, and so found his way
to the asylum.”
In answer to further questions the physician said, “I told the
superintendent of the asylum that the man was quite sane, or at least
sane enough for the purposes of life; that he was no doubt under some
strange delusion, but that I had observed that people who had been
much among the blacks were liable to such delusions, and that in my
opinion he was quite harmless and that it was cruel to keep him shut
up in an asylum, and I made a memorandum in the visitors’ book to that
effect.”
I told this story to Jack that night and we went off the very next day
to Tarban Creek to look for the man. He had been discharged and was
now working as a clerk on a station on the Murrumbidgee. So the
superintendent of the asylum told us.
We hurried off to the Murrumbidgee and found the station where he had
been employed. It was somewhere near Balranald. But he had gone away
to America about six months before, and we could find no means of
tracing him. This affair unsettled us again and was indirectly the
cause of our letting the negotiation in which we were engaged drift
away from us.
But it is now quite a year since we have made a clean breast of it
and committed our story to paper, although we have not at the moment
of writing made up our minds about its publication. And the effect
upon us both has been decidedly good. Jack says we have done better
than the Ancient Mariner, for he had to tell his tale over and over
again whenever he met a man whose doom it was to hear him; but we have
just told our tale once for all and let the doomed ones read it. And
now we have actually settled down to business and have become part
owners of a station in Queensland and have our homes within ten miles
of each other; that is to say we are quite next door neighbours, and I
may as well finish by giving you the details of a conversation which
passed between myself and Jack only a few months ago.
We were both staying with some friends at a pleasant little place very
near a station on the Southern Railway, about thirty miles from
Sydney. I say a little place, for it looked so; but when you came to
know it well it turned out to be a very big place. There were as many
bedrooms as its hospitable owner could fill with guests; and not to
speak of dining and drawing-rooms, which were large and airy and very
pretty, there were bath-rooms, billiard-rooms, and smoking-rooms
without stint.
It was a quiet, unpretending place to look at, but it was really a
most luxurious place. There were pictures and books and musical
instruments everywhere; and most delightful contrivances, part couch,
part hammock, part swing; and hothouse fruits and flowers; and horses
of easiest pace if you wanted them, but somehow you seldom did want
them. And whenever there were guests there, and that was three parts
of the year, there was the best company in all Australia, and as good
as there is anywhere in the world.
Just now the broad verandah, which ran along the main front, was
covered with banksia roses, jessamine, and woodbine, and between this
and the neat wicket-gate, which was the main entrance to this little
paradise, were all sorts of spring and early summer flowers.
At the gate Jack and I were standing; he had come up from Sydney about
an hour before. And this was what we said:—
_Wilbraham._ Well, Bob, can you tell me when you are going to be
married?
_Easterley._ I cannot quite say, but it will be soon. Bessie and I
have talked it over and she has listened to reason. She promised me
that her friend, Violet Fanshawe, shall fix the day, and Violet is
coming here to-morrow.
_Wilbraham._ And you can trust Violet?
_Easterley._ I think I can.
_Wilbraham._ Do you know, Bob, I saw Miss Fanshawe yesterday, and we
were talking about you. But she didn’t seem to know that she was to
decide so momentous a question.
_Easterley._ Perhaps she didn’t know.
_Wilbraham._ Perhaps not; but, Bob, I think I should like, if it could
be so arranged, to be married on the same day as you and Bessie.
_Easterley._ Jack, I am very glad indeed, but I never guessed it,
though I did wonder what was taking you to Sydney so often.
_Wilbraham._ It was not that; it was, in the first place, to leave you
and Bessie together; but sure enough it led to that.
_Easterley._ But who is she? Oh, Jack, I hope we shall not be worse
friends after we are married.
_Wilbraham_ (with a knowing smile). Somehow, Bob, I don’t think we
will.
_Easterley._ Surely it is not Violet?
_Wilbraham._ Yes, it’s Violet; so she and Bessie may as well settle
both days in one.
_Easterley._ Well, I am very glad; but how is it that Bessie never
told me, for surely Violet must have told her.
_Wilbraham._ No, she didn’t. It was only settled yesterday. But there
is Bessie on the verandah, and she has just got a letter.
We both went up to her; indeed we had parted from her scarce half an
hour ago. I saw that the letter was Violet’s writing. “I’ll tell you,”
I said, “what’s in that letter, Bessie. Violet is going to marry
Jack.”
It was very sudden, and she turned pale and red and then opened the
letter. Then, after a few seconds, she cried, “Oh, Bob, I’m so glad!”
and she kissed me, and I think she was very near kissing Jack.
So Violet came the next day and the conclave was held and the day was
fixed, and just four weeks later Jack and Violet, Bessie and I, were
married at All Saints, St. Kilda, for Bessie and Violet were Victorian
girls and lived near Melbourne.
And now, as I have already told you, we are living in Queensland, in
homes only ten miles apart.
I thought you might like just a little bit of human interest after so
much of the other thing.
So now—Farewell!
THE END.
PRINTED BY J. S. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, CITY ROAD, LONDON.
Transcriber’s Note
Inconsistent hyphenation (bee-line/bee line, half-turn/half turn,
half-way/half way, head-waters/headwaters, seed-beds/seed beds,
small-pox/smallpox, well-defined/well defined) has been left as
printed in the original.
A few misspellings have been corrected and a handful of quotation
marks adjusted for clarity.