Nemarluk Read online

  These men were the killers of white men, of aboriginal, of Japanese, of Malay. Among them were cattle spearers and camp raiders who had led the police many a long chase. Fascinating stories were told as these men swapped experiences, each boasting of the way he had deceived police and trackers, or cattlemen, pearlers, or miners,

  Nemarluk loved listening to these stories; he would laugh loud and long. Sometimes, though, the laugh died on his face as a bird flew swiftly by overhead. At such times he could smell the leaves from the jungle just outside the jail yard. Above, was the open sky.

  Four months went by. Then, one night Nemarluk heard faintly, the trumpet call of a wild goose. It was speeding far up in the night, on free wings sailing swiftly for the Wild Lands far away. Nemarluk could not sleep.

  Breathlessly, he lay awake, his eyes staring at the blackness of prison walls. He listened, listened, for hours. Faintly, very faintly he believed he heard the deep, droning note of the didjeridoo. He moaned; he was sure he heard that didjeridoo two hundred miles away. The darkness was making tiny hissing noises like the whispering of spirits. It seemed to him he could smell the gum blossoms, the tide coming in over the mud flats. Were the spirits whispering to him? Or could he really hear the bats chattering in the blossom laden branches? A possum screeching in a fig-tree? He tossed over and again lay still, his eyes staring into the darkness. A rat was with him, its teeth plainly chewing something in the corner. He hardly heard it; his ears were straining to catch sounds far, far away, he felt he could have sacrificed his liberty to hear the hoot of a boobook owl. Ah! from now the white gums would shed their bark; the bamboo thickets along the Daly would soon sprout in Juicy green; the crocodiles would nest and lay in cool lagoons.

  Next morning he was allowed out to do his easy work in the exercise yard. But his smile held a hidden meaning; his eyes were furtive; he had never worked so willingly; he sang as he worked each time a white jailer went by. There came spell-oh time. The prisoners drifted away from their tasks to spell in little squatting groups around the yard, joking and yarning as usual. But now they were—plotting!

  Escape!

  “The gate!” whispered Longlegs. Longlegs the cunning, he and Kalomy were here now charged with the killing of James Nichols. Minmara glanced towards the gate, they all glanced towards the gate. Then gazed at one another then quickly went on yarning, to laugh uproariously as Lin cracked a joke. Nemarluk felt his spear hand trembling. Oh, if only he had a weapon.

  At the back of the jail exercise yard there was a gate, and this was opened every morning while men carried out the garbage tins to a waiting truck outside. Only one jailer stood guard by this gate.

  “We will rush him!” whispered Nemarluk. “All together, to-morrow morning. Will you follow me?”

  They nodded, and went on with their work.

  All that long day Nemarluk could plainly smell the scent of trees, of sea water not far away. There seemed to be a humming in his ears; there was a thumping at his heart; his eyes could hardly leave the sky.

  That night, his face changed. His eyes glared, he breathed deeply into the darkness, his ears listened for sounds impossible to hear within caged walls. He listened, listened, listened. The fierce expression of the animal man crept into his face. Nemarluk was not laughing now.

  Next morning they were marched as usual into the exercise yard, the jail routine went on. When the time came the gate creaked open, sunlight streamed in, Nemarluk heard the call of birds from the jungle-scrub just beyond the walls. His lips were parted, his eyes glaring madly. The garbage tins were now being carried out. The prisoners engaged on their different tasks began to edge nearer the gate. The jailer supervising the removal of the garbage did not notice, all was as usual.

  Suddenly Nemarluk hurled himself at the jailer and both men crashed. Nemarluk was up and away as the jailer rose to his knees whipped out his revolver and fired, then sprang up and faced the excited crowd surging upon him.

  “Back! Back!” he cried. “Back or I fire!”

  They hesitated at that revolver now within inches of them, glared at the determined face of the shouting man behind the gun. Other jailers came running. Sullenly the prisoners were forced back into the yard. Nemarluk leaped a fence, was in the jungle-scrub and away. He took to the water. Instead of making straight back for the wilds he travelled the mangrove country half way around Darwin harbour, eighty miles of nightmare. Weaponless, he would have tackled any one who attempted to stop him. He snarled; he felt he could tear a man to pieces with hands and teeth. But in that eighty-mile labyrinth of mangrove and mud and water he met no one. He emerged among the sand-dunes and scrubs at Talc Head, straight across the harbour, right opposite Darwin.

  His sleek body scratched and torn and covered with mud, his eyes staring from his head as a wild man again as he glared towards the camp fires of the local native camp. He sneered contemptuously. Tame natives these, used to working occasionally for white men, to canoeing across the harbor to sneak into the white man town at night. He sprang into the camp and seized the nearest bundle of spears. In an instant he was threatening them.

  The people squatted there, cowed. “Nemarluk!” cried a woman.

  At that dreaded name they never moved. He laughed harshly, snatched a fish from the coals and wolfed it. He seized another, then another, he ate as a famished man. Then he went around the camp and examined every weapon. He selected the best wommera, the best knife, and the best six spears. Then snarled at them:

  “He who betrays Nemarluk I will kill.” He glared at them, then vanished.

  But not out of earshot of the camp. Should it be raided, he wanted to hear. Working his way among clumps of bamboo and thickets of vine scrub, he came to a steep, scrub-lined embankment. He gazed up, and slowly grinned. A man could sleep safely away up there. He who sought him must climb up and get him. The next day Nemarluk pointed out a bamboo thicket to the local tribe:

  “In there I sleep,” he grunted, “and if any man enter there while I sleep he will feel my spear.”

  But from his real sleeping place he could see by day across the harbour the white roof of the police station and government buildings on Darwin headlands. Could see the pearling luggers at anchor, could see any movement upon the harbour. No police boat appeared upon the harbour. Nemarluk was waiting for his men—and Marboo. She was captive in the women’s compound. He thought surely some of the men must have escaped, he had fled on the wings of the wind when the jailer fired at him and did not know what had happened behind. But surely some must have followed him to scatter and hide in the surrounding bush. Surely he would hear gossip of such from these local people. If only some men had escaped and could all join up together he had a hazy idea of attempting to rescue Marboo. And then ...

  But the police had guessed. They set a trap for him, but Nemarluk never came.

  No aboriginal warrior worthy of the name will fly away and leave his woman-if he can possibly help it.

  It was a fortnight before the local tribe quietly sent word across the water.

  A black night came. It was after midnight.

  A tiny boat sailing quietly across the harbour, sailing towards Talc Head. Constable Don, and trackers Smiler and Gilly. A quiet, determined man this tracker Smiler. A tall man, thin and a fighter.

  Silently they beached their boat, and vanished into the scrub.

  Steel grey of dawn. Very cold, Nemarluk in uneasy sleep coiled up beside his spears. He dared not light a fire.

  Suddenly Nemarluk awoke as a startled animal awakes. Spears in hand he peered through the bushes then crept out. Up over the rim of the embankment appeared a head, a tracker’s head, a thin face from which stared piercing eyes. Then the tall body of tracker Smiler leaped up on top. Both men glared, then each came at the other.

  “Stand! Stand!” called Smiler and fired as Nemarluk threw. The revolver barrel just flicked the spear and it grazed Smiler’s singlet on the left side. Again he parried and the second spear grazed his right side.


  They were at one another’s throats then, Smiler desperately gripping Nemarluk’s spear arm while Nemarluk was wrenching at the revolver. Panting and gasping they swayed there while Nemarluk’s greater weight slowly forced Smiler back, back, back. Nemarluk’s eyes were glaring their triumph into Smiler’s face, who felt his back was breaking, when he wrenched away his arm and crashed his revolver butt on Nemarluk’s head. To a gasping grunt Nemarluk heaved forward and both men went crashing down the embankment.

  Nemarluk was up in an instant and running for his own country, far away.

  Calling on his great reserve of strength Nemarluk hurried on through bush day and night, making for the Daly River. Once across the river he would speed on into the safety of the Wild Lands.

  When nearing the Daly, he was almost dead-beat. In all these many miles he had not seen a soul, nor track of black man or white. Fiercely he pushed on, into a wild night. Hungry for sight of camp fires, for corroboree song, for his own people. The thought of Ande-mallee camp, of In-dar-roo, filled him with renewed strength. He pressed on. He would get news of his people from the tribesmen at the Daly, the men of the Mulluk-Mulluk and Brinken would surely know. He could hide along the Daly, eat and rest and sleep, then push on into his own beloved country. Collect his tribal people around him and travel on into the Moyle and the Fitzmaurice. Join up with Tiger and Chugulla and the warriors of Tiger’s Mob. Send word for Deven’s men to join them. And then—Nemarluk gritted his teeth and pushed on—and then—he would get Bul-bul.

  There came the cool loneliness of the night. Stars peeped out, black shadows lay upon the hills; shadows too in gully and ravine and among clumps of trees. Cautiously now Nemarluk pushed on, listening for the distant yelp of a dog, for the drone of the didgeridoo. They could not be far away now. But only the silence of the night came to him.

  With eyes, ears, nostrils—every sense—alert, Nemarluk struggled on. He could hardly push the leaden feeling out of his legs now; he felt weak from strain and loss of sleep and hunger, lonely and savage as a hunted wolf.

  He did not know that only that very morning word had arrived from distant Darwin of Nemarluk’s escape. The constable in charge of the little Daly River outpost immediately made ready to raid the native camp. He felt sure Nemarluk would make straight back for his own country and would call at the camp. Silently constable and trackers stepped out into the night.

  It was almost dawn when Nemarluk drew near the camp. He crouched, then knelt, listening. Not a sound. After a while he crouched forward again, kneeling now as he came closer and closer. He listened ... Not a murmur. The people would be soundly asleep for these were the heavy hours when the aboriginal sleeps soundest ... Nemarluk could wait no longer. He stepped towards the camp.

  A shadow rose from just ahead and glided towards the camp. Nemarluk crouched with wildly beating heart. His staring eyes saw another shadow rise and crouch forward towards the camp.

  Nemarluk waited, his heart thumping wildly. Suddenly there was a rush from all sides upon the camp. Alarmed scream of a woman, yelp of dogs, men jumping up to startled yells.

  Nemarluk turned and ran back then doubled around the camp and ran, ran, ran.

  He ran until long after sunup. Ran until he fell exhausted. He crept into a bamboo thicket; his head fell upon his arms and he slept.

  A week later Nemarluk reached An-de-mallee camp. With his people around him he ate and slept, just ate and slept. He lazed away the days, resting and making new spears; telling the people of the dangers he had been through, of the wonders of Darwin town, of the big jail and the great men he had met there. He spread their names around; boasted of their deeds, the deeds of the cattle spearers and the killers. Eagerly they listened. They could not hear enough; many of these deeds would be sung in corroboree at the next ceremonies. Eagerly Mangul’s people and they of Mankee and Lin and Minmara and Marragin, all the people of the Red Band, asked for news of their boys, for more news and still more news.

  People from other tribes began drifting in to learn news of their men now held in the white man’s jail. Nemarluk by day and around the fires at night had an audience he could not satisfy.

  He felt wonderfully happy; sometimes the camp would even echo to his old boyish laugh. Away back here in the Wild Lands among friends again he felt safe. He swore to be avenged for his Red Band prisoners in faraway Darwin jail. Fiercely he swore he would never be taken again.

  They received a smoke signal with news from away towards the Victoria River. The news warned of police patrols, seeking Tiger’s Mob.

  “They will never catch Tiger!” said Nemarluk savagely.

  But one evening a runner came panting into camp. “They’ve caught Chugulla!”

  “Chugulla!” exclaimed Nemarluk.

  “Yes. And Uninyah, too.”

  “Who caught him?” demanded Nemarluk. And he knew the answer.

  “Bul-bul caught him.”

  Nemarluk gripped his favourite spear.

  “They have put iron on Chugulla,” went on the messenger. “They force him to take them to Tiger’s hideout.”

  Nemarluk frowned. But the messenger roared laughing.

  “Chugulla is taking them a walk. They will walk until they drop. But—they won’t find Tiger.”

  He seized the leg of a half-roasted wallaby on the fire, wrenched the leg from the body, and ate ravenously.

  CHAPTER XIV

  BUL-BUL

  Nemarluk with his people started out for the Moyle country where now the game was plentiful. Here they would hunt while practising for the Big Corroborees soon due, when all the tribes would gather for the initiation ceremonies. Here, far away from the police, they would meet Tiger’s Mob.

  But Tiger was too cunning; he guessed a patrol would soon visit the Big Ring Corroboree camp. With his henchman, Wadawarry, he had doubled away to the Daly River. Here, right under the nose of the Daly Police Outpost, he believed the police would never expect him. With Chugulla on leash, Constables Fitzer and Langton were patrolling the Victoria River country.

  At the thought of Chugulla, skinny old Alligator laughed. Squatting there with hunched shoulders, his knees under his chin, he looked like a long, halfstarved, leering crane. Walung and big Chalmer, Chin-amon and the sullen Maru, all laughed over the camp fires as day by day the tribes congregated from far and wide.

  “It’s such a pleasant walk Chugulla is leading them,” said Alligator, with his leering grin, “into all the bogs he can find, then into the roughest country in the foothills. Then he brings them out into the scrubs where all the prickly vines are. And that big dingo Bul-bul must take step by step with him. Ha! ha! ha!”

  “I saw one policeman with his tongue hanging out for a drink of water,” grinned Walung. “The other was twenty miles away trying to bring the horses around a bog. You couldn’t see horses or men for mud.”

  “That would have been the time to have speared them!” declared Nemarluk.

  “Yes,” agreed Chin-amon, “had we been all together. But Tiger had doubled back to the Daly. Chugulla was a prisoner. One half of us were dogging the policeman and trackers with the horses, the other half were dogging the other policeman and Bul-bul with Chugulla.”

  “I wish I’d been there,” frowned Nemarluk, “with you and with Deven’s men.”

  “Ah!” said Mara, “we would have speared them all. But if you were dogging them now you’d find they were wideawake. The trackers are scared for their lives; and they know Chugulla is leading them a dance.”

  “May he wear their feet out,” grinned Nemarluk. “May their bones for ever stay in the mud.”

  “Wah!” boomed Chalmer. And there was no laughter in the giant’s face.

  “Tiger was away on the Daly,” smiled Nemarluk, “the police away back towards the Victoria chasing a phantom, and we here at the Big Ring camp. What a scatter! And we’re quite safe.”

  “If they come while we’re at the ceremonies,” snarled Walung, “there’ll be trouble.”


  Fiercely they swore to back him up. Nemarluk was happy and excited. This year the Great Ceremonies would be held. After the ceremonies the tribes would disperse. The police by then would be weary travelling the country looking for them here, there, everywhere. While they were in a muddle he and Tiger’s Mob and Deven would get together and plan—and act. He clenched his fist, his eyes gleaming. Soon now Nemarluk the chief would be the hunter, not the hunted.

  “Would you like to hunt a patrol?” he hissed to Chalmer.

  “Big game, that!” boomed the giant. “But I’ll hunt anything.”

  “He! he! he!” piped Alligator. “Just fancy Bul-bul with a spear through his ribs in the night.”

  “He’d twist about like a stuck snake,” gloated Maru. “I hope my spear does it.”

  “It shall be mine!” hissed Nemarluk.

  “Looks as if Walung and me and the others will have to spear the policemen on our own,” grinned Chin-amon. “Deven’s men don’t like Bul-bul either.”

  “Cut Charlie’s kidneys out for me,” called Kergutt. “I want his fat to grease my axe.”

  “You shall have it!” promised Pooneemillar. And they laughed.

  Kergutt was the lame one. A bullet had done it, a bullet from Charlie the tracker’s rifle as he writhed with a spear in his leg. Kergutt had been very lame ever since. He had been a great runner, not one of his tribe could run down game as he could. He would never run again. Now he sat by the fire, grinding his axe blade with sand. Very patient he was, making a good job of it. He had securely fixed the axe head in a wooden haft, then lashed them together with boabtree fibre, firmly embedded in bees-wax, hardened gum and native resin. He wanted Charlie’s kidney fat to grease the lashings.

  “I can make it last a long time,” he said as he bent over the axe. “I can melt every little bit into oil that will keep my axe handle strong throughout many a wet season.”