Nemarluk Read online

  Away up river at the tiny Timber Creek outpost Constable Fitzer was thinking deeply. Nemarluk had proved himself one of the cleverest and most determined aboriginals ever to fall foul of the law. To catch him by ordinary patrol means was impossible. It would need a much deeper scheme than that. And the scheme came to Fitzer.

  The Maroubra was due. The Maroubra is a small sea-going launch that every three or four months brings supplies from Darwin to the lonely river stations. Fitzer grinned to himself, thinking deeply as he kept busily on with preparations for his patrol. Mustering the horses and mules, picking out the twenty fittest, strongest animals. Overhauling the gear and packsaddles, packing the spare horseshoes, the neck chains, the bells, locks, handcuffs, horseshoe nails, shoeing kit, hobbles. Packing the foodstuffs and equipment, the swags, tomahawk, tent, camp-sheet, campoven, billycans, pannikins, quart pots, knives, ammunition; the bags of flour, cases of jam, the bullybeef and dried salt beef, soda, cream of tartar, salt, pepper, tinned butter, etc. All the necessary things needed on a long patrol, being very careful that no little thing was forgotten; for those little things can be so urgently wanted when unprocurable. A pack for every horse and mule, every pack arranged so that the articles needed from time to time could be got at quickly and easily without disturbing the rest of the pack. Numerous were the details that must first be attended to. Fitzer well knew the organization and efficiency needed to keep in smoothly running order a long and difficult patrol.

  And the natives watching around the little police station kept Deven informed of every movement.

  The Maroubra steamed up river and tied up to the little jetty at the depot. She commenced unloading her stores just as the patrol was ready to move off. The patrol rode away to the crossing.

  The Maroubra unloaded within the next two or three days. Skipper Hales waved cheery farewell to Mrs Shadforth and the half-dozen station men gathered there, then moved away on the return journey downstream.

  And hidden in the Maroubra were Bul-bul and tracker Splinter.

  CHAPTER XII

  NEMARLUK WALKS INTO THE TRAP

  “They come!” grunted Deven, and his fierce eyes stared out into the night. Nemarluk and he were seated upon Deven’s look out. Away below them the broad river mysterious under starlight stretched in a back line to right and left, the cliffs vanishing into blackness. Many miles away up river a red star twinkled. A signal fire upon a cliff.

  “It is the signal,” nodded Deven. “The patrol has crossed the river and is heading this way. It will be three days before they arrive here. You have no need to cross the river until the evening of the third day.”

  Nemarluk grunted. With a sliver of sandstone he was slowly sharpening his favourite spear blade.

  “You will send word to Tiger to come?”

  “To-morrow. When you lead the police away Tiger and I will follow in their tracks one day afterwards. Tiger can send word to Chugulla to bring along his men.”

  Even as they watched far back up there in the darkness the little Maroubra was chugging away down river with the tide, for the open sea and Darwin. She passed the black camps in the dead of night and felt the rise of the waves in Blunder Bay. Among the treacherous waters she felt her way along like a grey ghost in the night. Presently, her engines quietened as she neared a black shore. A dinghy was quietly lowered overside; unseen, it disappeared towards shore. Presently the dinghy returned, was hauled aboard, and the Maroubra proceeded on her way towards Queen’s Channel and the open sea.

  On the black shore two tall aboriginals stood, silent as shadows.

  The whites of Bul-bul’s eyes glared at the gleam in Splinter’s eyes. Bul-bul laughed silently. Splinter grinned reply. Invisible among the shadows of the trees they cautiously began walking up river.

  A magnificent type of a man, this Bul-bul; strong as a lion, daring and quick in action, cunning as the serpent. Splinter was a strong man, too, but wiry, with the wonderful endurance of the aboriginal. Noiseless as black panthers they vanished upstream.

  Next night life went on as usual at the native camp. The stockboys came in as usual to meet the wild bush visitors, who constantly come and go. Women were roasting bandicoot, possum, tortoise, and yam. Young girls were pounding tamarind pods, to make the fruit into a bitter jelly. A young tribesman with set face was monotonously blowing the didjeridoo; its hoarse blast swept out over the flat country and across the river. An owl hooted from the river trees and was echoed by its distant mate. Somewhere out in the night a wild goose trumpeted, the call mellow with distance.

  A shaggy man glanced up inquiringly. His eyes gleamed in the firelight as he bent to the coals, listening. Again there came that faint trumpet of the wild goose calling to her mate. The man was gnawing a bone but his ears were tensed. He felt a deathly chill at his heart, the premonition of the aboriginal. That trumpet call was to mean his death.

  The life and laughter of the camp went serenely on. No one had noticed the wild goose call; there were plenty such calls from the mysterious night. The shaggy man was gnawing thoughtfully, enjoying his bone.

  Deven squatted by a fire with Nemarluk. Around them squatted Deven’s men, savage warrior every man, quick of eye and quick with spear. They were listening to Deven’s low talk, their brows frowning, their eyes suspicious as they glanced around from beneath lowering brows. Pity help any one whom they detected listening-in.

  But the groups around the dull fires were very discreet. All intent on their own business of gossiping, or corroboree singing, or spear-making. Or, like the shaggy man, quietly gnawing a bone.

  Then the trumpet call came again. After a while the man threw the bone to his dog; spat thoughtfully; scratched his head; grasped his spears; stood up, and walked quietly out into the night. No tribesman walks out into the night without his spears, even for a few yards away. Who can tell that a painted enemy, agent of a vendetta, may not be waiting out there in the dark.

  Once well away from the camp, the shaggy man hurried to the river stepped into a canoe and started softly paddling towards the opposite shore. It was a long way across but there was none to see that canoe steadily gliding over the water. The man sighed as he grounded the canoe and noiselessly stepped ashore. Bul-bul stood before him.

  “So my totem brother answers,” said Bul-bul softly.

  “Yes. I heard the wild goose call.”

  “It is well.”

  They stared at one another, Splinter standing silently by.

  “Where does Nemarluk land when he crosses the river to escape from the white police?” demanded Bulbul.

  The shaggy one stared in sudden fear.

  “Where does he land?” demanded Bul-bul.

  “It means death if I tell,” whispered the man.

  “We will protect you.”

  “No one can protect me from the vengeance of Deven’s men.”

  “They will never know.”

  “They know everything.”

  “Where does Nemarluk land?” insisted Bul-bul harshly. “I demand in the name of our totem.”

  “I will show you,” mumbled the shaggy one at last. And the life had gone out of his voice.

  He took them farther up river and pointed out the sheltered little cove to which Nemarluk usually guided his log with the tide.

  “That is well,” growled Bul-bul. “You have been true to the totem law. Return now, before they miss you.” And the shaggy one stepped back into the canoe without answer. They stood there until long after he had vanished upon the river. Then Bul-bul chuckled softly.

  “We have got our man,” he hissed, his eyes gleaming with delight. “Come, we will hide.” And they crept away.

  Next morning Nemarluk crossed the river. He strode on into the bush with a smile upon his face, a song upon his lips. He took his time; he had plenty.

  Two hours later Bul-bul was upon his tracks.

  They fell upon him while he slept. He writhed up with steel upon his wrist, with Bul-bul’s arm around his throat, with Splinter c
linging to his waist, with the totem brother snatching at his ankles. They rolled over and over with Nemarluk roaring like a bull, clawing, biting. He upended Bul-bul and kicked the totem brother flat and gouged his thumb in Splinter’s eye. But Bul-bul clung to the handcuffs, again they threw themselves upon him but he hurled them to earth except Bul-bul still clinging to the handcuffs. Panting like the savages they were they threw him down again while he snapped at Splinter’s throat. They bore him to earth yet again and snarling as they fought, rolled over and over like a pack of dogs. Bulbul suddenly jammed Nemarluk’s head under a leaning root, then levered up his arm and snapped on the other cuff . They sprawled across him then, spitting blood from their crushed lips, panting their triumph. Bul-bul and Splinter took him all the way back to Timber Creek. The totem brother disappeared, he had a long, long trip before him. He had greased and painted himself so that in the darkness he felt certain his own mother could never have recognized him. The job over, he fled in the darkness, fled as a man flees who knows that doom is on his tracks.

  On the way up river they cut the tracks of a hunting party going out on to the plains. Bul-bul stared down, and grinned. He recognized every track, and one track there was of a man he wanted.

  “Good hunting,” he laughed to Splinter and Nemarluk. “It’s a fine day; we’ll do a little hunting too.”

  And he cast about for a hiding place. They lay in wait then for the return of the hunting party. They quite effectually gagged Nemarluk, Nemarluk with his hands manacled. Bul-bul left Splinter with a spear ready to hurl into Nemarluk’s belly, while he walked away looking for something. He grinned as he measured it carefully, it was a round stick of hardwood and Bul-bul made certain it was small enough to fit in Nemarluk’s jaws but large enough to defy his strong teeth. Nemarluk could accept the gag or not, just as he liked. Bul-bul would hold his nostrils until he decided. Hence, the furious Nemarluk could not warn the hunting party.

  The hunting party returned, singing their way back to the river. The trackers sprang out upon the astonished Pundek, rolled him to the ground, and slipped the steel upon his wrists. Open-mouthed he gazed up at the grinning face of Bul-bul. Splinter grinned too, Splinter never did say much.

  “A good hunt,” grinned Bul-bul. “I see you’ve caught big game”—and he nodded to a kangaroo dropped by the startled men who had run on recognizing the trackers.

  Pundek snarled.

  “I’ll go hunting big game one day,” he hissed, “hunting a big, dingo-livered tracker!”

  Bul-bul laughed as at a great joke. “Watch out it’s not the hunter hunted,” he roared, “as happened today.”

  “It will mean a spear in Bul-bul’s kidneys,” snarled Pundek. “You’ll never catch me again.”

  “Bah!” sneered Bul-bul, “you couldn’t hit a sleeping man on the head with a tomahawk!”

  And Pundek writhed to break the handcuffs. For he was the one who had attempted to chop Constable Kennett to pieces.

  But Pundek could not break the handcuffs. Panting, he glared into their interested, grinning faces, then relapsed into sullenness.

  “Come!” ordered Bul-bul sharply, “it’s over. All we’ve got to do now is to cage the bold, bad men.”

  And then Pundek saw the fierce eyes of Nemarluk. Nemarluk with steel upon his wrists. Pundek stared as Nemarluk spat out chips from the wood he had gnawed, spitting and chewing as if he were chewing the bones of Bul-bul.

  “When you’ve finished your meal,” grinned Bul-bul, “we’ll get a move on.”

  Nemarluk cursed him as only an aboriginal can curse. Then they moved on swiftly; Bul-bul was taking no chances at an attempted rescue. He pressed them urgently forward to get as near Timber Creek as possible before Deven heard the news.

  Fearfully, yet curiously, Nemarluk stared amongst the timber as they drew near Timber Creek. Soon he would be in the power of a white man policeman. He drew a long breath. Never had he dreamed that such a fate could befall him. Big, heavily timbered hills were all around them now. Soon they saw the dense timber of a river, the Shaw; the little iron police station peeping out from the timber; horses browsing near by. Then they heard the bark of a dog, and saw a tall young constable waiting. He stared at Nemarluk. Nemarluk stared back.

  Bul-bul told his story. The policeman questioned him and Pundek. Then ordered food for the prisoners, with clothes and a blanket. By and by a tracker gave them each a pipe and tobacco. Both prisoners grinned hugely. This was not too bad at all.

  Several days later Nemarluk drew a great breath. For here came Tiger, walking beside Bul-bul. Tiger, in white man’s clothes. Tiger the cunning, watching this outpost of the whites. Tiger, whose savage face showed no sign.

  Tiger was accused of killing the two white men, Cook and Stephens, who had left the Victoria River so many months ago. Tiger denied it. And they could not move him.

  Hoping to draw him out, they then accused Nemarluk. Nemarluk laughed.

  They could do nothing with Tiger. All the same they were very suspicious. It was the secret service at Bul-bul’s command that at last had whispered of the killings.

  “There will be a bit of tongue cutting for Deven in this!” thought Nemarluk. He gritted his teeth, glaring around. Pundek glared too, then struggled with expressionless eyes. For the time being at least, there could be no escape.

  Another young policeman arrived, Constable Langdon from Brook’s Creek, away inland behind Darwin. He was returning to Darwin in a few days and the prisoners would go with him. Nemarluk whispered of escape.

  “If we can,” whispered Pundek. “Watch out for any chance.”

  But there came no chance. The constable was too alert; he took no chances.

  Nemarluk and his low-browed fellow prisoners walked all the way beside the police horses through bush to Darwin. Some hundreds of miles and into strange country, the country away behind the ranges which was foreign to Nemarluk. As day followed day his spirits sank. As mile followed mile every step became misery, a misery that took him farther and farther away from his own beloved country that he knew so well. Wildly he glanced around at the unfamiliar hills, the unknown flats, the strange timber, the creeks and gullies leading—where? He lay awake night after night quietly working at the steel chain. It was unbreakable.

  Every night the policeman carefully examined the prisoners, to see they had picked up no stones with their feet during the day, and had neither wire nor iron nor similar aid to escape in their shaggy hair and beards; to make sure they had nothing with which, by patient labour night after night they might by “tap-tap-tapping” wear away a link in the chain.

  Nearer the returning patrol drew to civilization, nearer, nearer.

  Meanwhile, at Timber Creek Tiger had vanished—to meet Deven away up on the eyrie. There they whispered by the fire at night, and their eyes glowed fiercely as the eyes of a tigress who has lost her cubs. Then, with all due regard to symbolic meaning, they oiled their bodies; painted them in the age-old custom with the terrifying marks of the killer, he who is on vengeance bent. A witch doctor came and crooned with them in a deep gorge, hour after hour going through the ceremonies.

  At last, one night they crossed the Victoria. No one saw them go. No one whispered. Silently they vanished into the Wild Lands, seeking the tracks of the totem brother.

  Far across plains and range and swamp, past Nemarluk’s country even, on inland to the Daly. There, where he had sought shelter under the very noses of the whites, they caught him—and cut him to pieces.

  Meanwhile, the returning patrol reached the little railway line which runs inland from Darwin. The constable breathed a sigh of relief. His dangerous prisoner, the man who had given the north so much trouble, was nearly caged.

  And now Nemarluk rode on the little railway. When the tiny engine whistled he nearly jumped from his skin. The trackers grinned, then roared with laughter. The train puffed on. Nemarluk, squatted there holding on tight, was filled with a voiceless wonder. He stared at the hills running past, star
ed at the telegraph poles running past. He was as excited as a child when he saw a motor truck. Then there came this town of the white men set upon the harbour. Nemarluk just gazed—gazed at the town, the few streets, the people, at a steamer coming into the harbour. They took him from the train, through the town. At the sight of a big wall before him, a sudden premonition sent a chill to his heart. As they marched towards a gate in that wall he glared wildly around. The big gate swung open. Nemarluk and his fellow prisoners shuffled in. The gate shut. Strong bolts shot into place.

  Nemarluk was caged.

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE ESCAPE

  When put in a cell, the heart went out of Nemarluk; he was a trapped animal. But it was not for very long. One morning he was taken out and introduced to the exercise yard.

  A huge yard with brilliant sunlight above, a towering wall all around. He stood there gazing. But soon his lined face took on the old boyish grin. His Red Band, Minmara and Marragin, Mankee and Mangul and Lin, were there grinning. He laughed as they crowded around him. Outlaws from the Brinken were grinning from across the yard, a Mulluk-Mulluk cattle spearer he knew was grinning from the woodyard, quite a number of renegades he knew well were grinning towards him. Suddenly he felt almost at home. Strangers from unknown tribes grinned towards him as they worked, drawn together in the comradeship of captivity. Many came towards him.

  He was a hero.

  At first, he dreaded the white jailers. But they were good to him, keenly interested in this big native outlaw of whom the patrol men spoke so often.

  They gave him wonderful food, warm blankets, even tobacco. It was not long before he was strolling around the yard as though he owned the place.

  In Fanny Bay Jail Nemarluk met many a warrior famous in aboriginal story. Powerful men from the wilds of Arnhem Land, wiry little men from the desert lands far back in the interior, broad-chested men from the coastal islands, bushmen from the forest land. He had never dreamed his country was such a big place, nor that it held so many tribes. He had not even heard of the majority of the tribes represented here.