Nemarluk Read online

  Now they were working up to the fights. To-morrow would be settled many an old score. There would certainly be a tribal fight also; perhaps even a battle in which each tribe would turn raging upon the other until all were engaged.

  Faster went the dance. Now a quick, maddening throb was in the drumbeats, a quivering stamp in the feet of the warriors that resembled angry thunder; the women’s voices shrieked a chant of revenge.

  In the great circle squatting around the dancers no eyes gleamed so malevolently as Wadjee’s, the shrivelled-up old witch doctor, squatting alone in the shadows just apart from the Council of the Old Men. Beady eyes were set deep either side of a broken nose. Cruel thoughts burned behind wrinkled brow. His skinny arms hung loosely across his knees; his necklace of bones was dull with age. Beside him lay the charm bag in which, sheathed in paper-bark, was the dreaded Bone. Other charms were there, too: shrivelled up eagle talons and crocodile eyes and “spirit” bones of men, queer-shaped charms of agate and ribbon stone, sticks mysteriously carved.

  But the charms that smoke-grimed bag held were mostly evil. Old Wadjee was the most dreaded witch doctor of all the tribes. Each tribe had its witch doctor, the cunning man who lived by preying upon the fears of the warriors, but who stirred up trouble only for his own gain.

  In pleasing contrast to these shrewd old schemers was Nemarluk in all his bravery, laughing in corroboree as he led the Cahn-mah. The bright eyes of Marboo never left him; she was singing only for him, her warrior chief. For Marboo was now Nemarluk’ s young wife, the happiest, proudest little woman in all the Wild Lands. She never noticed the sneer on the mouth of old Wadjee as he glared at her, then at Nemarluk. Nemarluk, the favourite, who already had great influence amongst all these people.

  Facing the Brinken men while leading his own warriors was Tiger. A solidly built young savage with lowering brow, his eyes were furious as he fumed and raged. In moments now he would lead his men against the Brinken who dared him challenge for challenge. Old warriors were already leaping into the air, chewing their beards, rattling their spears in the final fit of rage.

  Tiger was really the brother of Nemarluk, not such a giant but strong and fierce. Whereas Nemarluk was very boyish and ready to rush into any adventure, Tiger always thought first. Though Nemarluk could fly into a terrible rage, Tiger would always think coldly, cunningly, ferociously.

  These two fierce cubs of a warrior chief liked one another but could never have lived with the one tribe. Neither could be second dog. So, Tiger had thought it out. Then picked up his weapons and scowling, vanished towards the ranges. He fought his way to the leadership of a horde. And his fighting men were raging around him now: Chugulla the king with his shaggy head towering above the big warriors there; cunning old Walung, an Inkata of the Council, rattling his spears beside the heavily built, frowning Wadawarry who had the grizzled old Alligator at his spear arm. Tall and round backed and very skinny was old Alligator of the shrewd eyes; he was urging on the laughing giant Chalmer whose battle roar was like the bellow of a bull. The cunning Maru stamped beside them; and Chin-amon the spear thrower; and the sinewy Coonbook, with Anglartchie and others of his chosen band.

  All fighting men these; ruthless, cunning, and strong. They held sway over all Chugulla’s country along the Fitzmaurice to the Victoria, as Nemarluk’s Red Band ruled Nemarluk’s country away back to the Daly. The cattlemen on the distant Victoria River called this band “Tiger’s Mob” knowing the fierce cunning of Tulan the Tiger. Though Tiger used constantly to visit and study the whites, Nemarluk always kept to the bush.

  A spear hurtled through the air to be followed by another then another. To a sudden terrible drumming, warriors sprang forward with spears quivering in their wommeras as Nemarluk leaped in the air with a shout that turned all eyes upon him. He waved down their spears and shouted:

  “I declare war!”

  A shout rose to the skies echoed by the shriek of the women.

  “On the white men—and the Jap men!” roared Nemarluk.

  Utter silence. Staring eyes, spears poised, rage frozen to amazed faces. Overhead came the heavy swish of wings, the honk, honk, honk! of a flock of wild geese.

  “War on the white men!” roared Nemarluk. “War on the Jap men!”

  Tiger’s sullen face was staring towards Nemarluk, his cunning eyes gleaming. The words of Nemarluk voiced the wish of his life. He glanced at the painted faces all staring there in the moonlight, then leaped beside Nemarluk and furiously rattled his spears.

  “War on the white men!” he roared. “War on the Jap men!”

  Women leaped up screaming. Warriors rattled their spears and broke into the deep-chested war chant. Presently, Nemarluk shouted them to silence: “We are fools to fight one another,” he shouted. “The white men are all around our country. Even though far away, nearer and nearer they come. They come to take our lands, our hunting grounds. When they enter our own country, let us kill them.”

  To the roar of approval Nemarluk’s Red Band and Tiger’s Mob were suddenly joined by warriors, the heroes of all the tribes. These were warriors who had killed white men, men whom the white police sought, men who had escaped a hundred traps. There were men here who had ambushed a police patrol, who had lain in wait for the cattlemen, who had dared the white men’s guns. Sweating under their war paint they rattled their spears like madmen under this influence of war hysteria. Pundek was raving with excitement as he pushed his way to the front. Pundek had distinguished himself with the band who attacked the lugger Pat in the dead of night; it was Pundek’s tomahawk which swiped at Constable Kenneth’s head but chopped his fingers instead. Widjullee leaped beside Pundek, Widjullee who had speared the white man Watts and fed his body to the crocodiles. Widjullee was painted in the crocodile totem now. He rattled his spears not knowing that soon the inexorable law of the wild would be on his tracks—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

  Cunningly Tiger welcomed these noted men as the warriors surged around them: cocksure Mooderish with big mouth and aggressive face, heavy, hairy body; Nujooloo, killer of the white man Renouf, leered beside him. And by them now crowded Nudjie and Nanynyah and Cambit; their band had attacked Constables Hemming and Hoffman’s patrol and speared trackers, Charlie and Bogey. That wild foray was praised in song and dance at many a corroboree fire. Other excited warriors who had speared men, white, brown, yellow and black, with noted cattle spearers, leaped in among them. Soon all the killers had joined Nemarluk and Tiger. Fiercely they swore to kill any white men who entered their country, any Jap men who landed on their coasts.

  “The Jap men come often in their ships,” shouted Nemarluk. “By and by they will come like hawks gathering to the kill. Then they will take our country from us.”

  “Kill! Kill! Kill!” roared hundreds of throats. Tribal enmity was forgotten. This war against white and Jap men took their breath away. The Inkatas of the Council were silently squatting just within the ring of fires, not adding their voices as yet to the shouts of the warriors. But their old eyes were gleaming, and their deep-lined faces seemed to take on new life.

  And just within the shadows another pair of old eyes were gleaming, evil as a snake’s: “War on the white men and the Jap men!” How had such a thought come into the mind of a fool boy? Maliciously he watched Nemarluk, he whose name would ring far out across the Wild Lands.

  Sobering at last, the crowd of warriors broke into talking groups, then as with one accord grew silent and came and squatted around the Council of the Old Men. Patiently they awaited the wisdom of these men. The night grew very silent. At last the chief Inkata grunted, began to talk. They talked until the moon waned and the eastern sky lightened rosy pink to a rising sun. From the swamp arose the cackle of awakening wildfowl. And still they talked.

  “The white police?” queried a timid one.

  Mooderish roared with laughter.

  “Wah! We will kill them too!” And the women broke into shrieks of laughter, throwing mud at the timid one.
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  “Bul-bul?” frowned a wizened little hunter.

  Nemarluk sprang to his feet quivering with rage.

  “I will kill him! I will kill Bul-bul!” He stood trembling there with his big hands clenching and unclenching, glaring upon them all. Silently they stared. Uneasy, too, several of them looked.

  For Bul-bul was the most dreaded tracker in all the vast territory. As cunning as the best amongst them, as fearless as the best, and a bigger man even than Nemarluk. Bul-bul was nearly as big as the two giants Chugulla and Chalmer. And Bul-bul loved hunting, loved hunting men.

  A week later the tribes separated, scattering north, south, east, and west to a hullabaloo of shouting and spear waving; loud tribal calls from the men, shrill voices of the women ringing far over plain and swamp: “Ma-muck!” “Ma-muck!” “Ma-muck!” Imitative shrieks from the children, the young boys very brave as they hurled reed spears in mock battle. The long drawn calls grew fainter and fainter till there was only the sunlight and the great blue sky and the silence of the Australian bush. At the faint tracks upon the ground a dingo sniffed warily.

  After the corroboree time serious life must begin again for the little tribes and hordes of primitive men, women and children now steadily marching towards their own beloved hunting grounds. Again, as each year, there dawned the struggle for existence. Soon, the long dry season would be upon them. Each must live by his hunting skill and by the cleverness of the women in finding vegetable food, or else starve.

  The Cahn-mah marched happily towards their beloved coast; towards the scrubby little hillocks rich in vegetable food, the innumerable mangrove creeks and arms of the sea and short, gloomy, salt-water mouths, the beaches and mud flats and reefs that held .fish and shell-fish, turtle and occasional dugong.

  And among all these now scattered tribes there was a burning desire in the heart of many a warrior to drive his spear into the chest of white man or brown.

  CHAPTER III

  THE COMING OF THE BROWN MEN’S SHIP

  Nemarluk, the laughing chief, with his Red Band strode out in the lead, all eager-faced, walking with the long, springy, tireless tread of the aboriginal. Nemarluk had spread out his men to right and left of him about two hundred yards apart. And away out on each side of them were the warrior lads, Coon-anpore, Me-al-cull, Nungpare, Tunma; then the men warriors, Montspere, Nargoo, Kum-munga, Wahroo, Mah-lan, and all the men of the Cahn-mah. With them travelled skinny old Alligator with the shrewd eyes, and the stocky, sullen Maru. Both these warriors were men of Tiger’s Mob going aholidaying with the Cahn-mah.

  They were now in a country of earth mounds capped by stunted bushes. As the long line strode on there was a glimpse of a feathered head here and there, sun glint on chocolate body, spearheads moving forward among the bushes. Every eye read at a glance the faintest track of animal, bird, or reptile; whether upon the ground, the grass, or up in the trees.

  A wallaby broke cover just dodging Nargoo’s spear to run almost into Wahroo. A howl of derision arose as he missed the close shot. The wallaby doubled back with men racing across to cut it off. Confused by a spear that hissed past its eyes it doubled back again. Now huntsmen almost surrounded it. Swerving again to another spear and a yell, it ran into the spear of Mah-lan. A yell of congratulation greeted this throw. After the grinning Mah-lan had killed his prize and slung it around his neck, the huntsmen spread out again and marched on. They would thus march and hunt until all met, at sunset, wherever their night’s camp might lie.

  In line also but slightly behind the warriors came the lads who next season would be initiated into their first degree of warriorhood. Eager-faced lads these, fully armed and keen to use their weapons. This was their school time, their school of life. They watched every movement of the men ahead, studying the reason why; for the time would soon come when they too must join the warrior ranks to spend their lives in fighting for, in feeding, and protecting the tribe.

  Well behind the lads the women came dawdling; spread out, too, but in little groups that continually stopped to squat and dig with their sharp-pointed digging sticks for yams, edible bulbs and roots; or hunting snakes and lizards, and seeking the cosy camp of bandicoot, porcupine, rat—and the lovely little Nundjala. With a shrill of delight Marboo found one cuddled up in a cosy nest deep under a tuft of grass. The women grouped around her as she pulled the struggling little creature out. Its body was about one foot long with a longer black tail having a snow-white tip. Its little finger tips and toe tips were white like the tip of its tail and belly, but all the rest of its coat was a greenish grey fur. Frightened big black eyes looked from a quaintly large head. Its arched snout struggled violently in Marboo’s hand, its long whiskers twitching, its big ears standing straight up. Fiercely it struggled, getting into an awful temper, and suddenly sank its two long incisor teeth into Marboo’s wrist. She dropped it like a red-hot coal and it was away at a swift bounding run, marvellously dodging the dogs and women who were after it with a yell. Experts though they were they couldn’t catch it. Presently, it leaped for a tree and sped straight up at a great rate to disappear into a hollow.

  That Nundjala would never camp on the ground again; he should never have left his cosy hollow deep in the tree trunk. A lovely creature of the night is the Nundjala.

  When the women came straggling into camp at sundown their dilly-bags would be full of roots and bulbs and berries and vegetable fruits. Some would be loaded with snake and flying possum, water-rat and pelke and porcupine; so that should the men find no larger game the tribe would not go hungry to sleep.

  With the women were the young girls learning to know the vines and shrubs, the grasses and creepers whose roots and bulbs were good to eat; the value of screw palm and pandanus palm, of zamia palm and bamboo and the many trees whose fruit or shoot, pith or leaf or nut are good to eat. Learning, too, the track of snake and bandicoot, of “dry-land” turtle and water tortoise, of ground bird and water-rat, of porcupine and goanna, of Nundjala and pelke, and of the many other creatures and things that live and grow upon the earth. They learned, too, to recognize and distinguish signs on the trees—the scratch that meant possum or phalanger, Nundjala or pelke, goanna claw or beak of bird; to follow the flight of the wild bee; and to remember the surprising varieties of foods to be found in and around swamps and lagoons.

  Nature is a brutal master. He who does not know where to find his food must starve.

  The Cahn-mah had happy days on their march back to the coast. For it would be some months yet before the dry season dried up the waters and grasses and made scarce the game. Everywhere there was plenty to eat if a man only knew where to look for it. The Grevilleas were coming out in yellow flower on which dined honeysucker and shrieking parrot. Many shallow lagoons still swarmed with wildfowl. The still soft earth told a story to those who would read its letterings.

  And so the happy days passed. Old Alligator and cunning Maru, Tiger’s two men, were very keen on “war talk”, little dreaming how soon they would see it. One morning a month later, back at the old home camp, the Cahn-mah were squatting around the cooking fires dining on roasted fish when a warning call sounded. They stared towards Coor-i-ming look out. Yes, a smoke signal was rising softly into the quiet morning air.

  “Sail!”

  Marboo looked at Nemarluk, her little heart beating fast. Only she had a premonition of what this might mean. The warriors stared meaningly at each other then snatched weapons and rushed towards a vantage point.

  Yes, it was a ship, the sun glinting on its sails. The warriors stared at Nemarluk. But the die had been cast.

  “If they come into our water,” he said fiercely, “we will kill them!”

  They squatted down then, staring at the tiny sail so far away.

  “She is heading this way,” said Lin of the eagle eye.

  “She will come,” growled Minmara, “like they all come—to take our land. This time, we shall kill them.”

  His heavy, sullen face was suddenly distorted by rage
. He shook his fist towards the far distant sail.

  “Let us talk,” suggested an old Inkata, cunningly, “lest they do the killing, not us.”

  “Call the Old Men together,” growled Nemarluk. “Plan now, for soon it will be too late. We must take them unawares, otherwise their fire-guns will kill us.”

  “I have a plan,” said the old Inkata.

  It was a good plan, a cunning plan. A plan which, if it worked would separate the crew aboard and, above all, would give them hardly a chance to use their fire-arms.

  All the afternoon they sat there gazing out to sea, their fierce eyes gleaming under shaggy brows. Their talk dwindled to an occasional grunt. The sail had drawn much closer. She was a pearling lugger and, definitely, was heading for their waters.

  “If only they will land!” shouted Nemarluk. “We will kill them and take all the iron and tobacco they have.”

  A roar of approval greeted this lust for tobacco. At the start of this great war of theirs they had actually forgotten loot and tobacco.

  Tobacco and iron! The only two things which the aboriginal craves of our civilization. He wants nothing more of us. The thing he most dearly loves is—freedom. And we take that from him.

  Late that afternoon the Ouida sailed into Port Keats. Not a real port this, it is only a name, a bay in a wild coast with mangrove and plain and hills all around. Cautiously the lugger crept on, right into Treachery Bay.

  Sharp eyes were aboard that little lugger; very uneasy eyes. Well they knew the danger. But the winds had been calm, and they had almost run right out of water. They must load up with water somewhere, and with wood too. This vessel was on a shark fishing cruise, for at this time the price of pearl-shell was very low.

  Seeking an anchorage from which if danger threatened they could slip away easily, the little craft slowly crept up the bay. The crew aboard stared into the dense fringe of trees to either side. Even the keen eyes of the suspicious Melville Island boys could detect no sign of life.