He lunged towards me, trying to gum my arm. I stood back, then gave him a quick tap on his chest to say, Get back.
He hesitated. Ah, I thought, someone has trained you well. This was good to know. I tapped him again. ‘Koosh,’ I said again, giving him the order to lie down.
He ignored me. But at least he didn’t try to bite me again.
‘Koosh, koosh,’ I said, over and over.
At last he seemed to give in and settled down.
I had made him obey. Now I had to make him my friend.
‘Koosh, koosh, big boy,’ I said softly. I patted his back, firmly, so he knew I meant no harm, then offered him the bread I had brought from the fire. It was fresh baked that day—one of the guards had bought it from a village woman. I could smell its sweetness in the soft night air.
‘Grgghhmpph,’ said Bell Sing. He gently took the bread in his mouth, without trying to gum my arm too, and began to chew it.
I sat down on the rocky ground next to him, and patted his neck while he chewed. Rajah moved off—I had shown him who was boss here, too. It was comforting, sitting here with a camel by my side.
Bell Sing was quiet now. I’ll have to warn Mr Landells to keep him apart from Rajah tomorrow, I thought.
Tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that…We would walk a thousand miles to Karachi, then sail who knew how many miles across the sea. And then the greatest expedition in the world would set out across Australia, carrying me along with it.
An unknown land. An unknown desert. Deserts had swallowed men before, and not even bothered to spit out their bones.
Yes, this was the greatest adventure a young man could ever have. But here in the darkness I admitted I was a little scared too.
CHAPTER 10
The Camel’s Story
October 1859
It was strange at first to be in a new caravan, with new camels about me and new handlers too. But it was not so different from the life I’d known before. We walked, we stopped to graze and doze, then the men would load us up again and we would walk and walk and walk.
There were no women to cook the food in this caravan, and no children either. But there were women in the villages we passed, and children who came running after us with their manure bags to pick up our droppings.
Every morning the cameleers took our hobbles off and roped us in a line. This was an insult, as though we camels did not know how to follow the one in front.
But what could I do? My lead rope was tied to my nose peg. Sometimes small things can control big ones—a small wooden peg can control a magnificent animal like me.
I was the biggest and the strongest camel. I should have led them all, as I had led my old caravan. But no, in this caravan Mr Landells led the way on a big camel called Rajah. My groan was twice as loud as Rajah’s. I could spit much further too. Rajah could hardly give a proper spit at all, just a Phht! that landed only a few feet away.
Mostly the young man who had admired me in the market fed me. His name was Dost Mahomet. He was wise. He realised Rajah was a troublemaker. He made sure that we were at opposite sides of the camp when we were hobbled, so it was too far for Rajah to get in my way. And during the day Dost Mahomet saw that I wasn’t tied right behind Rajah either, where I would have had the insult of walking in his dust. Ah, yes, Dost Mahomet had sense, for a human.
And so we walked, carrying the tents and bags of grain and other things, and the humans rode, with Mr Landells sipping from his flask in front, and the cameleers on their riding camels trotting back and forth to check on us pack camels.
At first I could still smell the lands I knew, the soft scents that rose to us on the wind. But slowly those smells faded and everything was new.
I missed my mother and Bilhari. I missed our caravan. I even missed our head man, that stupid man who had sold me for a horse. But most of all I missed the land that I hadn’t known I loved till it was gone. I missed the sharp scent of the snow, the spread of sand beneath my feet.
We walked on hard roads now, the dirt packed like rock by many feet and wheels. At night we ate hay, which I disliked at first. But slowly I got used to it. There was no choice, you see. I either ate it or I starved.
And finally we came to A Big City.
You do not know what A Big City is, young camel? I hope you never do.
A Big City is just like a market only bigger—and full of humans, all yelling or chattering away. There are so many houses there is no room for grass. Many vibrations confuse your feet. Horses and cows leave their droppings in the street. Sometimes there are stalls with good things to eat. But as soon as a camel puts his nose into the food someone smacks him on the rump or on the nose.
Our humans got down from their camels and walked through the streets by our sides, to stop the townsfolk from crowding us too much and stop the small boys throwing stones. Why were we here? I wondered. And where were we going, so far from good bushes to chew?
Suddenly I could smell something I had never smelt before.
And then I saw it.
It was a green land but it moved as well—no, do not doubt me, young camel, for all I say is true. It went up and down, and some things sank beneath its surface and others floated on the top.
This strange land was called The Sea and it was made of water like a pool or lake, but so much bigger that it was a different thing, just like a grain of dirt is not a sandhill…No, do not snicker! All this is strange, but true! You will listen politely, young camel, or not at all!
We camels stood, all in our line, while men bustled past, looking at us admiringly or warily. At last Dost Mahomet brought us water, and then hay.
The sun was hot. My nose ached from the pressure of the peg.
But worse was to come.
Mr Landells clapped his hands. Dost Mahomet reached for Rajah’s lead rope, and pulled him forward, which meant the rest of us, tied together, had to walk as well. He led us over planks of wood, onto a big house called a boat, which bobbed upon the sea and smelt of men and salt and rats.
And, oh, the shame of it, the horror. The world went up and down under our legs…and even more was to befall us. Now our lead ropes were untied, and we were led down, one by one, into a place that stank of water, rot and horses, with damp hay about our legs.
It was dark down there. Soon it grew darker still for once we were all aboard we heard something overhead slammed shut.
And it was as dark as night, although it still smelt like day.
CHAPTER 11
John King’s Story
SS Chinsurah, Karachi, India, May 1860
It was good to be on the ship at last. I leant on the rail on deck and let the fresh wind wash across my face. It smelt of salt and seabirds—not the hot scent of spices and the betel nut the natives chewed.
It was as though I’d been given a new life.
I’d always wanted to be a soldier. No, that isn’t true. I’d been destined to be a soldier, and had spent six years at the Royal Hibernian Military School in Dublin. That school made us tough, we guardians of the Empire. We had to be. The Queen’s Empire stretched across the world.
‘The sun never sets on the British Empire,’ Mr Pomfret told us as our pen nibs scratched on the paper on our desks. And, as I sat there, like countless schoolboys before me, I dreamt of the day I would go out there and help rule the Empire too.
Tough, that was what we had to be. But I wasn’t. Not tough enough.
I had been for a time. I went to India when I was fourteen, then joined the 70th Regiment. I was only sixteen when I saw my first battle in the Mutiny of 1857, too. Women and children murdered by the natives…
I’ll never forget that station up in Peshawar. Vultures sat on the grass, among the flowers, I thought at first. Red and blue flowers on the grass. Till I saw that the red was blood, and the blue was a woman’s stained torn dress…
I learnt more in those few months than I ever had in all my years at school. Learnt to keep going, even when I was sick to my stomach. Lea
rnt to keep what I felt from showing on my face. Learnt never to trust a native, too, by George. They’ll smile at you and seem to do your bidding. Then one night the knives will come out.
No, never trust a native.
At sixteen I was a soldier. At seventeen a hero. At eighteen I was useless. No use to the army. No use to anyone.
It was the fever that did it. The Indian climate, the heat, the water. I went up into the hills where the climate was milder. For over a year I rested and tried to recuperate. Go home, they said, when it looked like I would live. The cold of home will buck you up. Go back to England or Ireland…
To what? A clerk’s job in an office? Sitting all day, making marks on paper?
But what choice did I have?
And then I met the man who changed my life. It was in the Club up in Rawalpindi. He wasn’t an officer, or even a gentleman. He was stumpy, with a broad face, and a beard that needed trimming, and a look about him that said he could sell your own horse back to you and you’d never notice. A bit of a rotter, really.
It was my colonel who introduced us.
‘This is Landells,’ he said. ‘Good judge of horses. Sold me that hunter you saw last year. Landells, I’d like you to meet John King. King’s up here to get over the fever. Used to be in the army.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Landells,’ I said politely. I had no interest in the colonel’s guests, nor in his horses—it was unlikely I’d ever be able to afford a hunting horse in my life. But it explained why the colonel had brought a man like this to the club. A man who can get you a good horse is invaluable. ‘What brings you to Rawalpindi, sir? The horse trade again?’
Landells grinned. It was a lazy grin. It seemed to say, I know you don’t think much of me. ‘Adventure,’ he said softly.
I blinked. ‘What sort of adventure?’
He laughed, and swallowed his drink in one great draught, then signalled a servant to get him another. ‘The greatest adventure in the world, boy,’ he said. ‘I’ve been here for a year buying camels, and finding sepoys to look after them. I’m taking them back to Australia for the greatest expedition the world has seen.’
I knew where Australia was, of course. One of the boys I was at school with in Dublin was posted there. Only second raters, they said, went to Australia. Not the place for a man who wanted a glorious career.
Like mine might have been…
Landells gulped down his drink, then wiped his hand across his mouth. Yes, I thought, definitely not a gentleman. ‘You’ve heard of Captain Cook? Richard Burton? Lewis and Clark?’
‘Of course.’ Who hadn’t heard of those famous explorers?
‘Well, the whole world will be talking about us next. The Great Victorian Exploring Expedition. We’re going to cross the continent of Australia from south to north. The Victorian Royal Society is putting up the money, and a heap of private investors too. Melbourne is one of the richest cities in the world, thanks to the Gold Rush. And they’re spending some of that gold on us. No expense spared. Whatever we ask for we get! We’re going to make a track though the wilderness. See things no white man ever has before.’
‘You’re in command?’ Surely, I thought, no one—not even colonials in Melbourne—would put a man like this in charge of a big expedition.
‘Second in command. I’m in charge of the camels. We’re going to need camels in the places we’re going. Too hot for horses. Too rough for wagons, too…’
The servant brought him yet another drink. The colonel, I thought, is going to have a large bar bill tonight. Landells grinned again. ‘Want to come with us?’
I gaped at him. ‘Me, sir?’
He grinned. ‘Why not? The colonel gave a good report of you. Also says you have some experience with camels.’
‘A bit, sir. But, sir…’ Surely he’d seen the hollows under my eyes, the way my hand trembled as I held my drink.
He broke into laughter—so loud that people looked at us. ‘The sea air will see you right. And we’ll spend time in Melbourne before we set out. You’ll be well enough by the time we’re ready.’
And here I was, I thought, as I stared out at the sea, and tried to ignore the clatter of the dock behind us. A few hours more and we’d be under sail. A new country, a new life. And maybe a chance to be a hero once again…
CHAPTER 12
The Camel’s Story
At sea, May to June 1860
We sailed. Sailing is not fun for camels.
Sailing is where you rock and sway, and when you lie down your skin chafes in the wet and rotting hay.
Sailing is where you’re hurled into a heap, with bruises and swellings on your legs.
Sailing is where you get hay once every few days, the only time you see the light. Your water tastes of salt and rats, and you only get half a bucketful a day, and none when the sea is rough.
And they tethered me next to Rajah!
I would have kicked him, if the rope attached to my nose peg had been long enough to let me move. But I didn’t even have any cud to vomit up so I could spit.
All I could do was ignore him.
It was always Dost Mahomet who fed me. The first few days I tried to kick him or gum his arm, to show I still had my self-respect. But as we kept on sailing I grew weaker. Many times I felt too ill to eat.
Why? I do not know. The sea does strange things to your stomach, for I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t eat. Even Dost Mahomet smelt weak and ill sometimes. But still he struggled to bring us water, and the hay we couldn’t eat.
At times I dozed, though it was hard to do even that. As I slept the ship pitched and the rope tugged on my nose peg.
At last there was only blankness. Perhaps I’d grown so weak I was no longer able to tell what was going on.
And then I felt a nose, pushing at my side. A big and mushy nose. It pushed me from my daze and confusion.
Whose nose was it? Why was it pushing? Suddenly I felt the glare of the light from the open hatch above us, smelt Dost Mahomet there in front of me, holding a bucket of water.
I didn’t want to drink. I didn’t want to live. But the big nose pushed me again. All at once I realised the water smelt good, that my mouth was dry, that my body craved moisture.
I gulped some down. Then I drank some more. Dost Mahomet stroked my nose. I was too weak to even think of gumming him.
Who was it who’d nudged me, who’d brought me back from that awful place where the storm had sent me? It was Rajah, of course.
Rajah…It is rare, you know, for two big camels to like each other. You can’t have two boss camels in a herd.
But from then on Rajah and I were friends.
CHAPTER 13
The Camel’s Story
Melbourne, Australia, 13 June 1860
We only knew we had arrived when the hatch was opened and daylight flooded in and smells of a strange new land, too. Oh, the pain as the light hit my eyes!
Dost Mahomet and the others led us up onto the deck one by one. When it was my turn, my legs trembled so much I thought I had forgotten how to walk. But then I felt his hands fasten something around me and ahhhhheee! You will not believe it! I flew into the sky!
Up over the deck I flew, with a big flat rope about my tummy, then over the ship’s side and onto the dock. ‘Nggghhhaaaa!’ I bawled.
My feet touched firm ground at last. But oh, how I tottered and groaned. You wouldn’t think a superb big camel like me could ever be weak, would you, young camel? Phut! Phooey! I thought not. But I was. I was so thin my hump was gone entirely.
I could feel the empty pouch of skin flapping to one side.
All around me men exclaimed—and laughed at us too. I would have spat at them if I’d been stronger. Dimly I heard Dost Mahomet argue with the other men, saying we camels must rest till we could see and walk safely.
‘Grrnnnnnfttt!’ I moaned. Rajah groaned beside me. It was comforting to hear him next to me now, to smell his special camel stink.
Suddenly Dost Mahomet’s ha
nd guided me to sit down, so I could rest upon my pedestal on the wood thing they called a wharf.
Oh, the shame of it, the horror—to be so helpless in front of humans—to sit there unable to even spit or chew my cud!
Then I felt Dost Mahomet’s hand again. I was about to try to gum him when I smelt water—fresh water, not the sour old stuff we had been forced to drink on the ship. It was in a bucket, and did not taste of earth and sky, just wood. But it was still better than any I had tasted for a long time.
Slowly my eyes grew used to the light again. I could see!
And what a sight! The big water, and more ships too, and strangely dressed humans, all staring at us, like they had never seen camels before. The other camels looked even thinner than I felt, and more confused and shocked.
How dare the humans poke at us, and laugh at us, as though we were sheep or hens, not camels to be gazed at and admired! I forced my legs to straighten, and even though the world seemed to spin I managed to stay upright. I bellowed a challenge to the others.
Rajah was the next to rise. He even kicked at a man who peered at us too closely. Oh, yes, an admirable camel in all ways, was Rajah.
One by one the other camels stood as well. The humans cheered. They even smelt different here, I realised—not of spices, but of fatty meat. And they kept standing there and staring.
When Dost Mahomet and the other cameleers knelt down to pray on the wooden wharf the other, pale-skinned humans stared at them as well.
Then the camel handlers tied us to each other again. Oh, the shame and the indignity!
Once more we began to walk. No one rode us now. We were too weak. I think my legs would have failed me if I had had even a single sheepskin on my back.
The streets were hard on my feet, and full of dogs, who do not respect a camel’s dignity. There were no good salty bushes to nibble. The air felt cold and damp.
Even worse, I could not see the far horizon, or even smell it, for all the buildings in the way. What use is a place when you cannot smell what is happening far off?
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