Nemarluk Page 7

  When he came to these waterholes the snouts of big crocodiles were just visible above gloomy depths. Nemarluk left the creek and pushed his way deep into a dense vine jungle. It was as gloomy as moonlight, for countless saplings grew so close together that he had to walk sideways when passing through. Masses of vines and creepers sent struggling tendrils up the trees, seeking sunlight far above. The ground was carpeted by a mass of leaves. Nemarluk pushed his way far in to where he felt sure no wandering crocodile could smell him. Then sat down and ate his fish raw, he would leave no tell-tale ashes of a fire. He lay on his side amongst the saplings and fell fast asleep.

  He had lost his tracks in the sea and creek. Where he was now was impossible for horses to follow. Nor would his feet leave tracks that could be seen on this mass of leaves, in dense gloom. Even were it not so the bravest trackers would not dare to follow alone; that would surely mean death.

  For hundreds of miles this part of the North Australian coast is deeply channelled by gloomy tidal creeks, swamps, river mouths, and salt arms of the sea. Muddy, dark-green, scummy, or deep and gloomy waterholes, full of crocodiles and hedged densely with vine scrub, are death traps to all but the truly experienced.

  Nemarluk woke, staring into the blackness of the pit. He sat up, smelt decaying vegetation and a whiff from moving salt water. The mighty sea was heaving; soon the tide would be coming in. And then the night would be given over to creeping waters and to things that crawl and rage.

  He sat deathly still as a cold body pressed upon his leg; he felt the slow tugging pressure as it pulled itself to his other leg and gripping, while still pressing and crawling lowered its head to the earth and pulled its long body across. Without a sound on the moist leaves the snake disappeared upon its business.

  Nemarluk sat motionless, his staring eyes slowly tuning in to the darkness. This wild man’s eyes began to glow slightly, to absorb night light so that he could sense things in darkness. Presently, he could partly distinguish black rods, rods that were trunks of saplings. Eerie green glows of light glided past to vanish then pulse into light again. Fire-flies these. And now a glow of phosphorus upon decayed vegetation. His ears were catching a faint hissing that is the breath of night in primitive places such as this. Then came an outraged bellow, a splash, then splash upon splash as two bull crocodiles fought in some black hole in the scrub.

  A terrible loneliness came upon Nemarluk. He wanted An-de-mallee his own home camp; he wanted the camp fires and the corroboree songs; he wanted his own Red Band; he wanted all his people; he wanted Marboo.

  He groped for his spears, stood up, stretched out his arm and groped his way between the saplings. Leeches sucked the blood from his legs, the bark of saplings scraped his legs, his lips were parted, his eyes faintly luminous as he followed his outstretched arm. He came to a creek where the bank sloped suddenly into black water. Cold air arose from scummy pools; fire-flies glowed in space. Groping, he sought where the creek would be narrowest. Tensely he stared down the blackness of muddy banks. Then, away down there, phosphorus streaked out. A glimpse of a black snout, the lap of little water waves. Silence and darkness again. He chose the narrowest part of the creek, guessed where unseen black shapes might be lying in wait in the mud, then leaped in and plunged for the invisible bank.

  He got there, and clawed straight up the mud to the trees, leaping in among them in gasping relief.

  But now a moan filled the air between the trees, swept up every black creek, every tidal inlet. The tide was rushing in filling the shallowest creeks deeply and widely. The mouths of the creeks were in turmoil, for sharks came rushing in snapping amongst the swarm of fish and shark met crocodile to snap and run or snap and fight.

  As Nemarluk stepped cautiously on a terrible uneasiness overtook him; he glanced behind again and again, listening. But no one could be following him; there was only the spirit world here, and the snakes, and the crocodiles, and the sharks. Those and the glowworms and fire-flies, the darkness and a million trees. He pressed on only to glare over his shoulder again and again. Someone was sending him a telepathic message; the harder he pressed on, the more insistent grew the message.

  “Don’t go! Don’t go! Don’t go!”

  Nearly frantic now he pressed on, thinking of Marboo.

  Soon, he was hemmed in. Deep, wide creeks were all around him. Impossible for him now to safely cross creek after creek. Soon it would be dawn. His arms found a tree at last with wide, spreading branches. He groped for a length of strong vine, and climbed up. Laid his spears carefully across the branches, settled himself comfortably, then lashed himself to the tree with the vine. Too well he knew the deep, drugged sleep that comes just before the dawn. At such a time an aboriginal may roll in the coals of a fire and burn terribly before he wakes. And Nemarluk did not want to fall from his tree in sleep. Crocodiles at high tide often crawl overland from creek to creek. And—their scent of meat is keen.

  Nemarluk awoke in full sunlight. Birds were calling. Through the branches above sunlight filtered. Nemarluk glanced down, and snarled. Three big crocodiles lay waiting there, evenly apart, around the tree.

  Nemarluk worked warmth into his limbs then undid the vine, and grasped his spears. He must not waste a single spear. He did not fear these crocodiles, but he knew that one slip would mean death. He noted the clearest space between the trees behind two of the saurians, slipped to the ground and instantly ran straight towards a crocodile, only to leap straight towards the other, then immediately leap between them and away. He heard their twisting rush as they swerved around in pursuit, but he was away and dodging among the trees. He ran a little distance then steadied up and laughed.

  Crocodiles can run with amazing speed a short distance on dry land, but are not so fast at turning and dodging.

  Nemarluk carried on cheerfully all that day, his face laughing now as he pressed on to An-de-mallee camp. He hummed the war song of the Cahn-mah. Soon he would be with his friends.

  He had covered many miles by late afternoon. Lengthening shadows brought a chill of loneliness. When the sun went down he looked suddenly behind. Again came that message. “Don’t go! Don’t go! Don’t go!” Frowning, he pressed on, now travelling through forest country.

  He slept like a dingo under an overhanging log. Awoke to a growing dawn. Stood cautiously erect. The first thing that caught his eye was the bent back of a kangaroo not a hundred yards away. He sighed his relief. The kangaroo would not be grazing so peacefully if danger threatened. Nemarluk fitted a spear to his wommera. He would kill the kangaroo, and eat again. For eternal vigilance is the law of the wild. The kangaroo had failed and must pay the penalty.

  He cooked and ate portion of the ’roo; lit a smoke signal, and pressed on, He was supremely confident that long since he had completely outwitted any pursuers. The next day at sundown he was approaching An-de-mallee camp.

  Presently, he heard the yelp of a dog, the laughter of a young lubra. He pressed eagerly on, then crouched low. Over the sand-dunes rose the wailing howl of a dingo. Then his call was answered. He leaped up and ran eagerly.

  A loud, ringing cry greeted him. He raised his voice in reply and laughed to the skies. He ran on. Those that remained of his Red Band greeted him, and all the warriors, and the women and children all came running to meet him. Happily they crowded around him.

  That night, the first for many nights, Nemarluk slept happily among the fires of his people. He missed Marboo.

  It was daylight. Far away out near Talakinyin approaching a broken sandstone divide a line of packhorses were picking their way down on to firmer country. Trackers riding ahead, then a policeman with the prisoners, and then another policeman in the rear. The two police had joined forces again. One of them, Ted Morey, had been walking at the rate of sometimes fifty miles a day, all on his own. While his mate, Jack Mahony, travelled with the horses by night to dodge the native look outs. Meeting again and again at rendezvous after rendezvous they had sometimes worked as far as fifty miles apart. Alr
eady, they had covered a thousand strenuous miles in the search for the elusive Nemarluk. Stern-faced men these, determined, resourceful. Beaten again and again, they came again and again. Doggedly they pushed on. Their horses were leg weary now, a tracker was gabbling with fever. But they would not turn back until horses and men were all done.

  Marboo walked with them, her eyes terribly anxious. The patrol was travelling between Laberie and Paperbark creeks. Over a divide the leading horses were disappearing as the prisoners climbed up behind them. Marboo suddenly stopped and lifted her foot with a pained expression, pulling at a thorn. Under lowered lids her black eyes were staring back at the big policeman, her heart beating wildly. The policeman dismounted to give his horse a chance and Marboo vanished amongst the rocks. A startled shout, a wheeling around of horses, but Marboo was leaping from rock to rock swift as a fleeing wallaby.

  To An-de-mallee camp, one hundred and fifty miles away! Straight down on to the plains and on and on. On to Nemarluk.

  Marboo travelled day and night, a wisp of the night, terrified of the spirits of the night. On to An-de-mallee! An-de-mallee and Nemarluk!

  It was night at An-de-mallee camp. The tribesmen slept in huddled groups, their spears beside them. Not a leaf stirred, not a coal glowed. It seemed that night itself was sleeping the deep sleep of the wild man.

  Suddenly a body flung itself upon Nemarluk. He leaped up with out-thrust spear ... Marboo lay there panting, her eyes saying “Police!” She could not speak.

  In hoarse gutturals Nemarluk woke the camp. Wildeyed, they listened into the night.

  The silence of the bush listened with them. A nankin bird glided by on silent wings.

  Nemarluk took to the bush, and Marboo was beside him. A river barred their way. Nemarluk plunged in. Marboo swam beside him. There were crocodiles in that river.

  Minmara fled downstream, Coon-an-pore and Me-al-cull with him.

  The Red Band scattered to favourite hideouts. But others remained in camp. At dawn the dogs snarled. The camp listened and heard the dull thud of galloping hooves coming closer.

  The tribesmen grinned at one another, then sat solemn-faced. Nemarluk and his Red Band would be scattered far and wide by now.

  Nemarluk’s band met again miles away, in the heart of a vine jungle near the beach. One by one they gathered cautiously to the rendezvous, silent as snakes gliding between the vines. Presently, there were twenty of them, all hard-bitten fighting men of the wilds.

  They squatted there in the jungle, swapping experiences, laughing quietly. Ears keen, listening ever and anon, to lean toward one another and eagerly plan. They planned to cut off the trackers one by one.

  Night came. Minmara crept out on to the open beach and there lit a small decoy fire. It twinkled bravely. Should police come out on to the beach a mile away they would see this fire. Would creep up and rush it, believing their quarry to be sleeping around it. The noise would wake the sleepers back in the jungle.

  And noise did awaken the sleepers. Nemarluk and Minmara snatched their spears and were away almost over the tops of two startled trackers. Spear blades threatened rifle barrels, but the trackers ducked and the hunted men were past them slipping through the jungle like phantoms. Coon-an-pore, Nungpare, and Tunma fled together, the others scattered in all directions.

  The hunted men sped on through jungle, then across salt arms and bog where it was impossible for horses to follow.

  They came out on to forest country and made inland for the Moyle River, travelling through scrubs and the big messmate and woollybutt country, travelling faster than horses could travel. Night and day they travelled only easing up when in the Moyle.

  The tribesmen in those savage lands greeted them with a rattling of spears and a furious challenge to the faraway police.

  “Let us get together and kill them!” they yelled.

  “Where is Tiger?” asked Nemarluk.

  “Away in the Victoria.”

  “Chugulla?”

  “With him.”

  “Tiger’s men?”

  “Scattered to the ranges until Tiger comes back.”

  “We can do nothing without Tiger’s Mob,” declared Nemarluk sullenly. “We will live with you until Tiger returns.”

  The tribesmen scowled. It was true. They could do nothing without a leader, they could only boast.

  Nemarluk and Minmara needed rest after their long flight. But their rest by night was broken by dreams of a raid. By day they hid in the densest swamp, ears alert for the signal call that would tell them that danger drew near.

  “These warriors are brave men when the police are not near,” sneered Minmara. “Let them but hear the thud of galloping hooves and they will be away like the wind.”

  “Yes,” agreed Nemarluk. “But they will warn us first if they can. They are good men, but they need Tiger’s Mob to give them guts. Our own tribesmen are just the same as these—without the Red Band.”

  Minmara squatted silently, frowning into the gloom of the swamps. Half hidden by foliage some black and white geese were perched on the branch of a giant tree, yarning companionably. A male bird whistled softly. Receiving no answer from his larger spouse he tried to draw her into conversation with coaxing whistles. Still she spurned him. So the old-man goose arched his neck and broke out into a tirade of grunting cackles. The old lady refused to take this sitting down. Angrily she blew herself up, got a firmer grip of the branch with her yellow feet, puffed out her white breast and trumpeted angrily. Other of the male birds cackled and whistled softly, meekly enjoying the joke.

  “The Red Band!” grunted Minmara savagely. “How we have been scattered—just because we have killed a few Jap men!”

  “We will come together again,” replied Nemarluk fiercely.

  “Mangul, Lin, Mankee,” said Minmara at last—“will they kill them?”

  But Nemarluk frowned. He did not know what to answer. Full well he knew that the law of the wild is an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. And he believed the white man’s law to be the same also.

  A week later they were camped with the tribesmen at Narvee camp, in jungle by the Moyle River. A sleeper in the night awoke and heard the call of a dingo.

  He listened. Presently, the dingo called again, and at the very end of the long drawn howl the listener detected the very faintest sign of a cough. He threw back his head and answered. At the end of his call a practised ear would detect the faintest sign of a holding of breath, as if the dingo had almost coughed just at the very last. Then away in the distance rose a mournful howl. The listener sprang up and awoke the others.

  They grouped together, clenching their spears, staring into the night. The dingo did not call again. Just before daylight they were shadows flitting through the jungle.

  The police crept into their camp to find the coals still warm.

  “And we did not make a sound,” frowned Morey.

  “I believe the night birds whisper them we are coming,” shrugged Mahony. “We’ll have the job to do all over again.”

  “Anyway we won’t have to light a fire,” answered Morey brightly. “Get the boys to put the quart pots on while I knock up a few johnny-cakes for breakfast.”

  All that day from the swamps of the great Did-ee plain swarms of ducks arose that at times seemed to darken the sky. Ducks that told of the presence both of the hunters and the hunted. For the tribesmen though avoiding the police were not afraid of them; it was Nemarluk and Minmara the police were after. So they hunted as they travelled, ever wading farther into the swamps, and in laughing shouts to one another joking at the terrible fix the patrol would find themselves in as they were drawn farther and farther into the morass. Now and then, in the tangled bush dividing swamp from swamp they would get a glimpse of Table Top Mountain standing like a majestic sentinel far out in the centre of the plain.

  Late afternoon came, bringing its long shadows. Then, the afterglow of the sun. Evening fell. The police patrol had travelled twenty-eight miles th
rough bog and swamp, a terrible trip for horses, mules and men. Wearily they camped. And phantom tribesmen stampeded their horses in the night.

  CHAPTER X

  THE RAID

  Police and trackers spent an anxious day in guarding camp while rounding up their horses. By that time the tribesmen were thirty miles away. They left plain tracks for the police to follow.

  But Nemarluk and Marragin cunningly doubled back towards the coast. A few days later and they were back at An-de-mallee camp. Here Nemarluk collected his scattered tribe, then led them into the sandhill country between Nan-yar Plain and the coast. Secure in hideouts there they led a nomadic life ... Until one late afternoon a smoke signal warned them: “Police!” They fled, just in time.

  For week after week, Nemarluk was closely hunted now; allowed no rest; a patrol was ever at his heels. With the remainder of his Red Band sullenly marching beside him he led his tribe across the plains into the swamps, out again to forage the forest lands. When harried from here he doubled back to the coast and the morasses by the sea. He hid on the beach flanked by salt-water creeks and with a wall of mangroves behind him; he hid in the vine jungles among the sand-dunes.

  One night Nemarluk was almost surrounded there. He and his horde, crawling on their bellies, escaped through the ring and gained the open forest. He travelled his people eighty miles a day to the Wangan Ranges, then away to the jungles around the Moyle. Exhausted at times they would just flop down where night caught them. Hunt for food the next day, then begin the unending flight again.