by Judy Nunn
After serving with Elder, Smith & Co for six years, Mustafa made the decision they must leave and form their own business and for four years now the brothers have been contracted by the South Australian Government. They and their string of eight camels transport supplies to the Overland Telegraph Line’s repeater stations that are dotted across the lands of the central desert.
Their modest team of eight is a vastly different affair from the mighty camel trains of a hundred or more beasts to which they were accustomed when working with Elder, Smith & Co. But they are happy. Mustafa very much enjoys being his own master and Abdullah is content alone in the desert with his brother and the animals, who are family to him. It is true he misses his recently acquired young wife, an Aboriginal girl of the Arunta people called Nardji, but the long months of their separation only serve to make their reunions all the more sweet. He awaits his next return to camp with particular eagerness for by then Nardji will have given birth to their child. Abdullah looks forward to his new role as father and prays to Allah that his wife will bear him a son in order to maintain the proud family tradition, a son who will become a cameleer like his father, and his father’s father before him. But should the child prove a daughter Abdullah will still love her. There will be sons to follow. Nardji is young and strong.
The brothers’ permanent camp is at Hookey’s Waterhole, roughly three hundred miles south of the Central Mount Stuart Repeater Station. This is the place they call home, where they have built their shelters and erected the corrals for their camels. They are rarely without company, as other cameleers from time to time set up camp at Hookey’s and Aboriginal people travel great distances from their tribal lands to gather at the waterhole for ceremonial occasions or simply to socialise and conduct trade. This is how Abdullah had met Nardji. Those of the Arunta people call this place, where in the midst of the most arid of lands there exists a reliable source of water, ‘Utnadata’, which in their tongue means ‘mulga blossom’.
Mustafa and Abdullah have set out on their latest journey and are already some way from home, having just the previous day made their delivery to the telegraph station at Stuart. But distance and time mean little to the brothers. They have been travelling for barely more than a fortnight and there will be months to go yet as they follow the telegraph line across the desert. The long trek has only just begun.
The operator at Stuart had given them a keen welcome upon their arrival, as most telegraphists do in these remote outposts they have discovered. Such receptions differ from those they receive when negotiating with government representatives, who always patronise, and are at even greater variance from those they had encountered while working for Elder Smith & Co. During their days with the mighty camel trains when they had transported building equipment and furnishings, at one time even a piano, to the properties of wealthy pastoralists, the response they had met with had been redolent with hostility and fear. They and their fellow Afghan and Pakistani cameleers had clearly been considered not only inferior, but barely human.
As a result Mustafa remains, even now, cynical about the welcome offered by the telegraphists. ‘It is the loneliness of these telegraph men,’ he remarks dismissively, ‘they long for the sight of another human creature, even a human creature such as us.’ He smiles as he says it, but his smile lacks any trace of humour. ‘There is no true pleasure for them in our meeting.’
Abdullah does not agree with his brother. He feels genuine pleasure in the greetings from the telegraphists, but as always he does not voice his opinion.
In this particular instance, however, Abdullah is right. Mustafa’s observation of the racial bias that exists is certainly correct, the white settlers are suspicious and fearful of races alien to them, but Mustafa underestimates the personal effect he and Abdullah have upon the telegraph operators who have come to know them.
Living lonely lives in remote huts with no human contact but the occasional company of a linesman, these men do indeed embrace the arrival of the camels, which are affectionately known as ‘the ships of the desert’. These beasts of burden whose pack saddles bear the long-awaited supplies that will ease the harshness of their existence, including mail from loved ones, are always a welcome sight. But so too are the brothers. Tall and lean, bearded and turbaned, the brothers, too have become a welcome sight. Stern-faced Mustafa with his excellent command of English is a fine conversationalist and Abdullah with his ready smile is good-natured and likeable. The two prove a pleasurable distraction from the loneliness and monotony of a telegraph operator’s life. The distraction, however, is all too rare in occurrence and when it does take place all too fleeting.
The telegraphist at Stuart the previous day had been plainly loath to say goodbye to the brothers even after they’d sat drinking tea with him for over two hours. In fact he’d all but begged them to stay longer. But they had prised themselves from him and left in the late afternoon, allowing time to make camp before dusk, travelling only several miles from the station and then settling down for the night.
The next day they are up at dawn to continue their trek north. Mustafa is at the head of the team, riding Aqela as always. She is the lead camel and most aptly named for Aqela means ‘wise and of ripe years’.
Aqela was a personal gift from Sir Thomas Elder, supposedly in recognition of Mustafa’s six years of impeccable and loyal service as a chief cameleer and to assist him and his brother in their new enterprise. It is possible however that Sir Thomas might have been informed no-one else would be able to work with Aqela. She had always proved stubborn and ill-tempered with her previous handlers, but after barely a year under Mustafa’s care the two had bonded to such a degree that, docile and obedient, Aqela would do anything he bid her. Separated from him, the animal would be bound to pine and revert to her ways of old.
Aqela is of immense value to the brothers. As her name denotes, she is wise and, although of ‘ripe years’, at thirty-eight has much life left in her yet. Under the tender care of Mustafa it is most likely she will live to fifty years, perhaps even longer. An assertive animal and born leader, the other camels respect Aqela and willingly follow her example. Aqela herself, having recognised from the outset similar qualities of leadership and authority in her new master, had accepted unquestioningly Mustafa’s command. The relationship the two have come to share over the years is one of mutual trust and respect mingled with the deepest affection.
The other camels of the team recognise the special bond between Mustafa and Aqela and happily accept the show of favouritism she is accorded, for their bond is with Abdullah. Abdullah has no favourite among the camels, who are all his family. At least if he does he never allows any show of preference. Abdullah is an excellent cameleer: it is his true vocation. He knows every idiosyncrasy each animal possesses and there are many, for each of the seven has a distinctive personality. He soothes and caresses them equally, even those given to occasional displays of irritability, and each responds with a love that matches his. He is as much family to his camels as they are to him.
After their dawn start, the brothers continue northwards, following the Line towards their next port of call, the repeater station at Barrow Creek. The team maintains a steady speed, but Mustafa does not push the beasts. They are making good time and there is no hurry.
It is late afternoon when they reach the site where they intend to make camp. Mustafa has been deliberately heading the team in this specific direction for he knows the place well; they have camped here a number of times in the past. The clearing with the two hillocks has a creek nearby that at this time of year usually holds water. The site is obviously known to the local Aboriginal people as is often evidenced by the remnants of their cooking fires. It is true the camels do not need water at this stage, but Mustafa nonetheless likes to make camp near a water source whenever possible, and the clearing is sandy and comfortable.
But as they approach the site they are met by a grisly spectacle. Up ahead they can see bodies strewn about the clearing, eyes starin
g blindly skywards, flies gathered in clusters upon pools of congealed blood. Death in its most violent form is the spectacle that greets them.
Mustafa gives the order to Aqela, who halts, the other camels following suit. A further order and Aqela kneels on her forelegs then lowers herself to the ground. Abdullah gives a similar order to the rest of the team.
The brothers dismount and walk towards the clearing to examine the fearful scene. They are experienced travellers and read the situation with ease. A family has made camp here. They have shared an evening meal. Several parcels of meat are tied to the limbs of an acacia tree to be preserved for the following day. The family was never to see that day. They were taken by surprise and systematically slaughtered. Two men, one older, one of middle years, are slumped back on the ground where they had been resting not far from the cooking fire. Nearby is a woman who had apparently been digging potatoes and yams from the coals – the vegetables are still resting in the sand next to her. And there is another woman, younger, also by the fire’s remnants, her arm encircling the dead body of her child. To complete the grim picture, in the midst of the slaughter lies a woman older in years and twenty yards away a young man, spear still in hand: the only person it appears who had time or the presence of mind to attempt any form of defence.
Mustafa and Abdullah are silent as they wander to and fro examining the bodies: there are seven in all. The story is so gruesomely vivid that words fail them, but they are both thinking the same thing. White men did this. Police or settlers, who could tell, but what difference did it make? White men have slaughtered an entire family who were innocently going about their business; white men who consider those with black skin little more than vermin.
Mustafa finally breaks the silence and he does so without comment upon the horror itself, merely stating the facts that are obvious.
‘There is no decomposition or mutilation,’ he says, ‘the mild spring weather and the cold nights have preserved them and the animals have not yet ravaged the bodies.’
Abdullah simply nods.
‘This happened only two, or possibly three, days ago,’ Mustafa concludes.
But now the silence has been broken Abdullah has no wish to dwell upon the facts to hand, he wants action. They cannot avoid the responsibilities inherent with their discovery.
‘We must report this massacre,’ he says, ‘these people must be buried with respect –’
‘And to whom do we report murders such as this, little brother?’ Mustafa interrupts, his response scathing. ‘To the white men?’
Abdullah is once again silenced: he has no reply.
‘We both know it is white men who have done this.’ Mustafa gazes about at the carnage surrounding them. ‘Just as we both know that in the eyes of the white men we are no better than these poor black heathens, we are nothing but scum, the lot of us. If we were to report this massacre we would be made to suffer, you can rest assured of that.’
Abdullah nods. As usual his brother has all the correct answers.
‘But you are right nonetheless.’ Mustafa’s further response takes Abdullah by surprise. ‘These people must be buried. And they must be buried with respect. It is our duty as men of faith.’
Fetching their axes and picks and shovels, standard equipment for use when weather conditions demand the construction of a sturdy camp, they set about their grim task with deliberation.
They carry the bodies to the edge of the clearing, respectfully, even tenderly, placing them there with care. Then they mark out a rectangular area they believe will be sufficient for a mass burial site, an area roughly six yards in width by two yards in length.
For some unknown reason Mustafa consults his Qibla compass while marking out the direction and dimensions of the grave. He carries this modified compass with him at all times, for it points specifically to the direction of Kaaba in Mecca and ensures he and Abdullah always face the way of Qibla during the performance of their ritual prayers. Now he uses it to ensure the bodies, too, will be facing Mecca. He does not know why he does this, as those they are burying are not Muslim, but it seems somehow an added gesture of respect on his part.
They start to dig, Mustafa on one side of the rectangle and Abdullah on the other, working their way towards each other as they go. A mass grave in the centre of the clearing, a grave that will accommodate seven bodies: this is a task that will take time.
It is Abdullah who makes the discovery. As he digs he comes upon loosened soil – others have been digging here. Then he finds her. There is another body already buried in this place. It is that of a young white woman. They dig around the corpse with care, disinterring her and laying her beside the others at the edge of the clearing. The girl too has been brutally murdered, shot through the chest. This is a matter demanding of discussion.
They agree that the girl has been part of the same massacre, for her body, like the others, as yet displays no signs of decomposition, she has been dead for only two or three days. They are at first shocked by her nakedness, but they deduce from this and from the pubic covering she wears that she was living with the Aboriginal family as one of them.
‘The killers must have buried her for fear of reprisals,’ Mustafa says. ‘Perhaps they killed her by mistake. Perhaps when they slaughtered the blacks for sport they did not know there was a white girl among them. They then buried her out of fear and left the others to rot.’
Abdullah is in agreement: the scenario does seem a likely one. Then he comes up with a deduction of his own.
‘The white baby at Stuart,’ he says. ‘The telegraph man told us she had been there two days, that he had discovered her on his doorstep at dawn, remember?’
‘Of course.’ Mustafa is surprised that Abdullah has made the connection before he did himself, he is normally the quicker of the two, but he always gives credit where credit is due. ‘You are right, little brother,’ he says, ‘the child is linked with these murders, there can be no doubt.’
They recall both of them only too vividly the dilemma of the telegraphist. The man had talked of little else throughout their entire time with him
‘She was on my doorstep two days ago at dawn,’ he had said, ‘wrapped in emu feathers, calling out to be fed like I was her mother. Just as well I had powdered milk, and just as well you’ve arrived with a fresh supply.’ The man had appeared quite frantic with worry. ‘I’ve been telegraphing south for two days now. Someone has to come and get her, she can’t stay here, I can’t look after her.’
Abdullah had sat on the floor playing with the child, delighting in her antics as she gurgled and wobbled unsteadily on her little baby legs, while Mustafa and the telegraph operator had discussed the strange turn of events. Where had the child come from? Who had left her here and why? It was likely she had black blood in her, they agreed, but she looked so completely white.
‘Perhaps she was left here by Aborigines,’ Mustafa suggests. ‘Perhaps one of their women slept with a white man …’ He deliberately avoids saying ‘was defiled by a white man’ given the fact that it is a white man to whom he is speaking, but he firmly believes the latter would have been the case. ‘And perhaps they wished to rid themselves of the evidence, which they would see as shameful.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ The telegraphist is quick to agree. This is what I like about Mustafa, he thinks, the man is so damn clever! ‘No “perhaps” about it, my friend, that’s what happened, I’d put my last penny on it.’
Two hours later when the brothers had taken their leave, the telegraph operator had still been bemoaning the situation. ‘I’ll just have to wait until they send someone up from Adelaide to collect her,’ he’d said, ‘and God only knows when that will happen.’
‘She will be good company for you until then,’ Abdullah had suggested brightly. He does not speak much as a rule. Although comfortable enough with the English language, he is not the conversationalist his brother is. ‘She is a very nice baby.’
The telegraph operator had appeared highly du
bious.
‘They will come for her in time.’ Mustafa had offered the man reassurance. ‘She is so white that someone will wish to adopt her.’
‘Yes, there is that.’ The telegraphist had eagerly grabbed at the notion. ‘I shall let them know she is white and someone is bound to adopt her.’
Now, as the brothers contemplate the dead bodies before them, Mustafa makes his fresh deductions. Clearly it was not the Aborigines who had delivered the child to the station.
‘The killers buried the young white woman to cover their crime then left her baby to be discovered at the telegraph station,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘I am surprised, I admit, that they did not kill the child along with the others.’
‘They did not kill her because she did not look black,’ Abdullah is quick to counter. ‘They would suffer great guilt killing a white child, and she did look white, Mustafa. That baby did not look black at all.’
‘No, once again you are right, little brother. She did not look black, and that fact would certainly have played upon their consciences.’
Abdullah, pleased to be acknowledged as right, and several times in a row furthermore, studies the bodies in order to make his next deduction. Which of the three men fathered the white girl’s child, he is wondering.
‘The young man who died with the spear in his hand,’ he says.
‘What is this you are saying?’ The comment puzzles Mustafa.
‘He,’ Abdullah points at the corpse of the young man, ‘he was the father of the child.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He is young. They are both young. They had a child together and they would have loved each other. We must bury them side by side.’
Even in the grimness of their surrounds, Mustafa cannot help but smile. His brother is such a romantic. He does not remind Abdullah that Aboriginal men take wives many years their junior. For all they knew the white girl might have been the wife of the elderly man. But Abdullah is fully aware of these facts anyway, Mustafa thinks, so there is nothing to be gained in pointing them out. Abdullah, as always, chooses to view life from his own rosy perspective.
