That was the day the first horse died. As you know, I do not admire horses. But even I could find no joy at the sight of that pitiful creature, its ribs protruding out of its coat as it lay panting on the hot bare ground, staring at its master with wide eyes, as though pleading for the water and the grass it had been so long without.
Beer died that night. She had been screaming with the pain from the itch. Then she no longer screamed. I was far away, hunting out the few last tussocks of dry grass, but as dawn became a grey light in the sky and Dost Mahomet slowly rounded us up, I saw her, lying on the sand, as still as a sandhill and almost the same colour, her belly already swollen with death.
The dreams of freedom came back to me. If I had had the strength I would have run right then, or stumbled, away from this horrible caravan and the crazy men that ruled it. I would have followed the faint smell of grass and water on the wind. Dost Mahomet and Belooch were the only ones who might have caught me, and these days they were so weak that they saw the world through a haze of pain.
But I was too feeble to escape when I was hobbled, or to break away when I was led. It took all my strength just to find a mouthful of tussock, and to plod on…and on…
Barra screamed with itch pain. Two more horses and four more men died too.
One human was too weak to walk much. Mochrani carried him. He was one of the camels Belooch had brought up from Menindie. He was the biggest camel now, apart from me. But he too was sagging skin. His big feet looked like clumps on sticks.
Dost Mahomet’s skin sagged on his bones. My friend’s eyes seemed too big for his head.
Friend? Yes, young camel, Dost Mahomet was my friend by now. You ask how I could have a man as a friend? Well, he did his best, even if he was no camel. What better can one say?
That morning his hands trembled as he reached down to untie my hobbles. Suddenly he gave a cry. He stopped, and put his hand to his mouth. He spat something out upon the ground.
It was another tooth.
It lay in a little froth of blood on the hot dust. He stared at it for a moment.
‘We die here,’ he whispered to me. ‘Men, horses, camels…all of us will die.’
Dost Mahomet reached for my hobbles again. I stood still and allowed him to take my lead rope. I didn’t kick at him. I didn’t spit.
Where was my dignity, you ask? Where was my pride, my urge to show I was no man’s servant?
You do not understand. But Dost Mahomet did. He took my lead rope and then he smiled at me. His teeth looked brown and bloody in his swollen face. His eyes were sunken into brown shadows. He stroked my neck for just a moment. Then he led me to the caravan again.
CHAPTER 50
The Camel’s Story
Heading towards Menindie, May 1861
The days went by. There was no water and no grass, only scattered tussocks baking on the ground. We didn’t walk. We staggered.
I was docile with Dost Mahomet now. I was as gentle as I knew how. I watched as he grew even thinner, his arms like the twigs on the drooping trees.
The dingoes howled. They would feast when we were dead. The land under our feet cracked with dryness, so it hurt our feet to tread on it. Even the ground was crying out for moisture now.
And still we plodded on, into dryness.
CHAPTER 51
Dost Mahomet’s Story
Returning to Menindie, May 1861
We were dead men, who had been waiting for dead men, men swallowed by the desert, just as we would be.
I had only two comforts. The first was Belooch. At least we could pray together, he and I, though there was no water to cleanse ourselves as it is written. Instead, each prayer time we laid down our mats and built a cone of sand, the cleanest we could find. We prayed that it might be cleansed for our use, then we rubbed the sand across our skin as though it were water.
If only I could drink sand like water too, I thought. If only I could eat it.
At times it was impossible to pray five times a day, for the other men in the party would not stop. But every day we prayed at sunrise, at noon when the sun stood blazing up above and the shadows shrank to nothing on the ground, and then again at sunset, that blessed time when we knew we would have some hours of relief from that thief the sun, sipping at our moisture, drying out the world, our lives…
But on Fridays we prayed five times, as it is required. It was hard, out there, to keep track of days. At times the world swam as if we were under the water we craved. At those times it was hard even to remember where we were, to walk and keep walking, to bring the camels in and take them out…
Yes, it was hard. But we remembered, no matter what the sun might suck away, or the sand erode.
My second comfort was the camels. At times, as they plodded across the sand, I could almost imagine I was part of my father’s caravan at home. Bell Sing would snicker, just as my father’s favourite camel had done. The smell of dung and camel hide, the sweet sour breath as they chewed their cud…I could almost believe that my mother was waiting for us in the courtyard far ahead, her flatbread steaming as she pulled it from the dusty oven. Then I would realise it was only the hot sand that smelt of baking bread.
No, I thought, if my father led this caravan he’d let the camels have their heads. They’d smell out water, if there was any in this wretched land. He’d let the camels go free, and we would follow them.
That way we would live.
No man here would follow a camel. None would listen to a man like me, a man who wore a turban, whose skin was dark, who did not speak much of their language or know their ways.
Nero tried to gum me one night, as I put his hobble on. Once I would have rapped him on the chest, to remind him who was boss. But I had no heart for it now. The beast was half mad with mange, the bald patches on his skin red and shiny.
Bell Sing gave me no trouble now. Always before I’d had to keep an eye on him, in case he tested my authority again. But now we walked in friendship, he and I.
Friendship with a camel? But it was true. Every camel driver has a favourite camel. Bell Sing was mine. He looked at men as though to say ‘You may lead me, but you do not own me. My soul is mine.’ Bell Sing came from my homeland, like Belooch. Now he and I walked together. Perhaps we’d die together too.
CHAPTER 52
The Camel’s Story
Returning to Menindie, 16 May 1861
It was still light when we stopped that day. No one had the strength to go further. My whole body screamed for water.
Perhaps, I thought, there will be dew tonight. If I could find some grass—any grass—there would be moisture. Not enough to soothe the craving. But enough to live another day.
Perhaps.
As soon as our packs were removed and our hobbles on I staggered out to find some food. Simla and the other females followed me. They knew I was the best at sniffing out a bush or two. The horses were too weak to come.
But there was nothing I could find. Not a tussock, not a thin dry bush. The world was nothing but rock and dirt.
I wandered further than the others that night. I hoped I could find food, could bellow to them to follow me, even though my nose told me I’d find nothing.
I was still out of sight of the camp when Dost Mahomet found me the next morning. He staggered across the cracked ground on his swollen legs, the lead rope in his hand. He undid my hobble chain, and signalled to me to sit. I did. He bent to fix my lead.
I was afraid for him. He smelt sick, a sour smell. Men should not smell like that.
A delicious breeze fluttered through the hot dry stillness. Dost Mahomet stopped.
He dropped onto the hot ground. He sat there next to me and looked out at the horizon. ‘Do you know where there is water, Bell Sing?’ he whispered. ‘Can you smell grass on the far wind? Could you lead us there…? It doesn’t matter. None of these men will follow a camel. None of them will change the way they see the world, even if it means we’ll all die.’
He gently stroked my n
eck. And then he said to me, ‘Go with Allah, my friend.’
He walked away towards the dirty cluster of small tents. He didn’t look back.
I stared at his dusty turban as it moved further and further away. What was he doing, leaving me alone? I took a step to follow him.
And then I realised.
My legs weren’t in the hobbles. Nor was a rope tied to the peg in my nose. For the first time since I ran by my mother’s side, nothing held me to the world of men at all!
I took a step. And then another.
I’m not sure what I thought at first. I was dull with thirst and hunger. I needed to find a tussock of dry grass and a tongue-moistening of dew. That was what my world was reduced to now.
And then I smelt it. Smelt the wind. Smelt a far-off hint of moisture, the scent of grass, just as Dost Mahomet had known I would.
I took one more free step, then another two. One step at a time I plodded towards the horizon.
CHAPTER 53
The Camel’s Story
Central Australia, 16 May 1861
Night fell. The cool air cleared my brain. I walked faster now. No man would hunt for me at night. And by the morning I had to be far away.
Would Dost Mahomet look for me? Had he really meant me to be free?
I didn’t know. I only knew that I must keep on going or they might find me. Might hobble my legs again or tie the rope back onto my peg.
I missed Dost Mahomet, though he had humbled me, like other men. Even if I die, I thought, I am free of men.
Step after step after step…My feet ached as they slapped against the hard cracked ground. I had to shut my nostrils as the wind blew grains of sand in my face, as sharp as tiny thorns.
I was so weak. Would I last another day, another night?
I saw a tussock in the distance, then some bushes too. Perhaps I should stop and eat, feel the moisture of the dew.
Stop and eat? Be captured, die?
Or walk without stopping, and die that way instead?
The desert breeze smelt of something else as well.
Freedom.
I kept walking.
CHAPTER 54
The Camel’s Story
Central Australia, 17 May 1861
The sun rose the next morning, bright red against the redder dirt. The night wind dropped. The heat began to ripple across the ground.
But I knew where I was going now. I’d smelt water in the night.
The sun tore at my skin. It baked my flesh.
The world was wide on either side, red and bare.
But still I kept walking.
CHAPTER 55
Dost Mahomet’s Story
Returning to Menindie, May 1861
We plodded on.
At times I heard the crows above us, screaming to each other, waiting for us to die. The dingoes will eat us first, I thought. The flies would feast, and finally crows would pick our bones.
One more man died. We buried him, though we were almost too weak to lift the shovels. Barra died. We cut off the shreds of meat left on her body, and dried them in the sun. There wasn’t much. The bones were left where they lay.
I thought of Bell Sing. Was he still alive? Had he found grass out there, or water? Or had his bones turned white against the harsh red dirt as well?
I could hardly walk. Belooch helped me along. He was the one now who reminded me of the times to pray, who helped me kneel and rise. The sun was eating our flesh now. Would we dry to dust first, or would we die…
I shut my eyes. Belooch guided me as I stumbled. I dreamt even though I was awake. I saw Bell Sing, his big nose reach for leaves and munch them down.
I saw a well, my mother’s face as she lowered the bucket, then drew it up again, filled with cool clean water.
‘Dost Mahomet!’
It was Belooch’s voice. I shook my head. I didn’t want to stop my dream. Soon I would taste that water, sit with my father and my uncles on the carpet in the cool dark room. Soon…
‘Dost Mahomet! Look!’
I opened my eyes.
At first I thought it was still my dream. A green fuzz on the horizon, like the mould on our stale bread. Trees. Trees meant the river, and Menindie. Beside us the camels’ steps quickened as they smelt the water.
We had survived.
CHAPTER 56
The Camel’s Story
Central Australia, 17 to 19 May 1861
I heard voices the second night, saw flames far off in the distance. It was the fires of the dark-skinned people. I left them alone, in case they speared me like a kangaroo. I hoped they wouldn’t hunt me down.
I heard dingoes howl into the night. I saw a mob of ’roos bound across the sand dunes.
I did stop to eat that second night. Not much, but just enough. It kept me going the third day, and the third night too.
And by dawn on the fourth day I had found it.
It was a waterhole, a trickle between rocks into the sand. It smelt of birds and dingoes and every animal in this land that creeps or bounds. They had all drunk there this night. Now I drank too.
There was hardly any grass—the tussocks had been nibbled short by other teeth. But there were bushes and low branches that I could reach. I ate and kept on eating, and then I drank again. I stayed until I smelt rain upon the wind. I knew now which way I should walk to find it, and the fresh green grass that follows.
This was my land now.
CHAPTER 57
John King’s Story
Cooper’s Creek, August 1861
I never thought that black hands could be so kind…
I was too weak to eat today, but the old woman fed me gruel, scooping it up with a bark spoon and holding it to my lips as I sipped it. It was the nardoo gruel we tried to make ourselves. But we must have done something wrong, for what nourishes me now only made us weaker still.
It is hard to remember now what happened after we reached the deserted camp. It is like a dream gone sour. I can’t even check my diary, as I buried it beside the tree, so the natives wouldn’t find it. Strange to think now how afraid of them I was back then. Strange to think that savages can thrive here, while white men starve and die.
I felt better the day after Burke and Wills and I got back to the camp at Cooper’s Creek. I wanted to press on after Brahe.
But Burke said no. The committee in Melbourne had told him there was a police station no more than one hundred and fifty miles away, at Mount Hopeless. It would take us a week at most to get there, said Burke. That was where we should go.
Wills agreed with me. He was our surveyor. Of the three of us he knew which way would be best. ‘We need to follow Brahe,’ he said. ‘It won’t be easy finding the way to Mount Hopeless through this maze of channels…’
But Burke glared at him, and Wills fell silent.
It was five days before we had the strength to leave the camp at Cooper’s Creek. A group of natives arrived the day before we left. Burke yelled when he saw them appear like black ghosts through the trees. But when Burke went to relieve himself away from the camp they slipped through the trees and came towards us again.
I lifted my revolver to scare them off. But Wills ran to me, and pushed down my hand. ‘They don’t mean any harm,’ he said. ‘Look at their eyes, old chap.’
He smiled at the natives and gestured for them to come closer. They were carrying something. I gazed suspiciously. But it was just a big platter of cooked fish. Wills took it, just as we heard Burke returning. One of the natives gave a nervous laugh and they vanished into the black shadows of the trees.
Burke was still fastening up his trousers. He stared at the fish, and then at Wills and me. He must have known where the fish came from. But he said nothing. He ate his share as well.
The next day we began to walk, trudging along the creek bed. But Wills had been right. Cooper’s Creek wasn’t one creek but a hundred—a maze of channels, impossible to find our way through.
Landa soon got bogged in the wet sand. We s
pent two days trying to dig him out, using our hands and bits of wood. Rajah stared at us as we dug, and Landa struggled in the sand. For the first time I wondered if camels felt things like humans do. But we were too weak to shift a camel, and the poor beast too weak to struggle out. Finally we shot him where he lay, and dried what meat we could.
Rajah stood motionless in the thin shade of the trees while we dried the meat of his companion. Now and then he hauled down some leaves, or nosed at a tussock of grass. But there was little enough for even a camel to eat.
We set off again. Time after time we thought we had found the main channel, but it would take us out into dryness again. Time after time we were forced to retrace our steps and try again.
Rajah kept pace with us, even weighed down with all our food and water. It seemed nothing could stop the big beast, thin as he was, his skin rubbed bare in patches, sore and shiny.
It’s silly, I know. But watching him plod across the sand, with our burdens on his back, I thought: There goes one of the heroes of the Empire.
Perhaps none of us was thinking straight by then.
Creek after creek, each one leading to the dry and earthy plains…
I had always thought of hell as flames. But this was another kind of hell, hot by day and freezing cold at night, and a maze of creeks that there was no escaping.
Rajah panted on, forcing himself forward with every step. At last even Burke had not the heart to drive him further.
We camped to let poor Rajah rest.
‘Without help we’re done for.’ Wills spoke quietly as we sat around the fire.
Burke’s chin rose with a little of his old spirit. ‘Another few days and we’ll be at Mount Hopeless. It can’t be far now.’
The Animal Stars Collection Page 40
