‘Of course,’ said Sturt. ‘Of course he would. A Christian minister.’
‘But I still don’t believe that it’s necessary to destroy the Aborigine beliefs, and their sacred grounds.’
Sturt smiled again, and shook his head. ‘Omelettes can’t be made without breaking eggs, Mr Walker. I know how strongly you respect the native superstitions. That, after all, is your motivation for seeking out this one chief Yonguldye. But sacredness is relative. And the sacred Christian nature of this one great mission, to explore and develop South Australia well, that simply must take precedence over the erratic beliefs of a few score of unschooled savages. I very much regret all those sacred places and magical artefacts which must have been lost; but I suppose one could express the same sort of regret about the Dissolution of the Monasteries. And in those historic days, we were dealing with the same God, weren’t we, and not with peculiar creatures like the Bunyip and the Yowie, and the Kangaroo-Men. No, Mr Walker, much as we would prefer to preserve these places, we cannot; and if the Aborigines forget their gods because of it, well, they will have forgotten nothing more holy than the boogie-man.’
It was gradually becoming clear to Eyre why Captain Sturt had picked him so quickly, and with such certainty. If Sturt was going to mount an expedition to explore the territory north of Adelaide, and look for cattle-trails and natural riches (and he had obviously been considering such an expedition for quite a long time) then who better to lead it for him that a man with inspiration, unusual vision, and an uncommon sympathy for the Aborigines? Sturt must have decided that an expedition could be smaller, cheaper, and that it would have a far greater chance of survival, if only the Aborigines could be persuaded to give it every possible assistance along the way.
It occurred to Eyre that Captain Sturt didn’t even like him very much. In fact the longer he spoke to him, the more sure of it he became. But like him or not, Sturt wanted him, and quite badly.
Eyre said, ‘I’m interested to know why you don’t want to lead this particular exploration yourself.’
Sturt laid a hand on his chest. ‘My health, I’m afraid. I’m still not quite the man I was. Eyesight’s poor; lungs still clog up a bit. My wife’s not keen, either. And, besides, I feel confident that you would carry it out far more successfully than I.’
Eyre nodded, slowly. He really had no more questions. Not for Captain Sturt, anyway. There was one question, however, which he had to ask of himself; and that was whether he was prepared to search for Yonguldye on an expedition which was intended to bring about the eventual extinction of everything that the Aborigines held to be holy; of their gods, and their totems, and their hunting-grounds; in fact of their existence.
If he went, and if he were successful, Yanluga’s spirit could at last be guided to its resting-place in the sky; but it was possible that his discoveries would hasten the white colonisation of South Australia by months, if not years, especially if he were to find opals, or gold. If he didn’t go, then the Aborigine’s lands might remain unexplored for decades, but Yanluga would have to remain where he was, buried like an animal next to Lathrop Lindsay’s favourite horse, his soul unsettled for ever. And there was no guarantee that Sturt himself might not decide to undertake the expedition; or any one of half-a-dozen explorers, some of them far more inconsiderate towards Aborigines than Sturt.
To Eyre, the responsibility of making up his mind was like a physical pain, and he stood for almost five minutes on the shoreline, his fingertips pressed to his temples, staring out to sea. Sturt, however, seemed to be prepared to wait for him, and sat on a broken wooden bucket nearby, quite calm, and smoked a cigar.
Destiny, thought Eyre. The terrible jug-a-nath of destiny. One day he had been responsible for nothing and nobody more than himself, and for keeping the wheels of his bicycle well-greased with emu fat. Then he had fallen for Charlotte, and become acquainted with Yanluga. Now Yanluga was dead, and Eyre had become responsible not just for him, but for every Aboriginal in South Australia. He knew it: he sensed it. What had Christopher called him? ‘One of these chaps who has to do something noble.’ Why had he been unable to let Yanluga lie? Was it because he still loved Charlotte; and carrying out this expedition gave him one last tenuous connection with her? Or was it truly a Christian sense of duty? The need to do something noble?
He thought of his father, on the night when he had told him that he was going to emigrate; and that he was not going to take holy orders. ‘I am extremely sad,’ his father had admitted, ‘but I have to say that I respect what you believe All I require of you is that you in your turn, always respect the beliefs of others.’
Had the words of an English country vicar, spoken over supper two years ago to his disobedient son, now become the leitmotiv for the gradual dismemberment of an entire primaeval civilisation? Perhaps they had. Perhaps that was the real devastating power of God’s holy word, from halfway around the world.
Because what could Eyre believe? In Christ crucified, and the holy testaments? Or in Kinnie-Ger, the cat beast; and Yara Ma, who could swallow a human being whole, and suck up a creek so that a whole village would die of drought? And much of what Captain Sturt had said was true. The blackfellows in the bush were filthy, and undernourished, and appallingly ignorant. Could it be that Yanluga’s death had set in motion an historic series of events that would at last bring them health, and contentment, and the spiritual satisfaction of knowing that they were the children both of Her Majesty the Queen, and of God?
Eyre turned his back on the sea, and walked across to Captain Sturt with his hands still pressed, a little melodramatically, to his temples. He was conscious of the melodrama, but Sturt was, too; and Sturt played his part by smoking his cigar with equanimity and saying nothing.
It was then that Eyre caught a glimpse of a movement among the distant sand-dunes. He slowly lowered his hands, and looked more carefully. At first there was nothing; but then he saw a thin stick, like a reed, or a wand, moving rhythmically behind the curves of the dunes. It began to rise higher and higher, and at last it revealed itself to be a long spear, being carried up the far side of the dune by an Aborigine warrior, fully decorated with ochre and feathers.
The Aborigine stood on the skyline for no more than a quarter of a minute, but it was plain to Eyre that he had meant to be seen; and that his presence there was not accidental. He made some kind of distant hand-signal, and then he disappeared from sight.
Captain Sturt turned around on his bucket just too late to see what Eyre had been looking at.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. He glanced back once towards the dunes and then he tossed his cigar-butt into the surf. ‘Perhaps we’d better be getting back.’
‘Yes,’ said Eyre. An extraordinary feeling passed over him, as if he were going to pass out. He blinked at Sturt and for a moment he couldn’t think who he was; or what either of them were doing here.
They began to walk back towards the port. A sudden shower started to fall, but at the same time the sun came out, and the gulf was bridged by a three-quarter rainbow, intensely vivid against the graphite-coloured sky. Then a second rainbow appeared, but fainter.
‘An omen, perhaps,’ smiled Sturt.
Eyre turned his high coat-collar up against the spattering rain. He was wearing a new silk necktie, maroon, and he didn’t want to get it wet.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘In any case, I accept your offer.’
Sturt looked at him, as if he were expecting him to say more. But when Eyre remained silent, he said, ‘Very well. That’s excellent.’ Then, ‘Good. I’m very pleased about that.’
They walked as far as the wharf, which was silvered with wet. They shook hands, and Sturt said, ‘I want to have a talk to Colonel Gawler; then I’ll be in touch with you again.’
Eyre said, ‘You knew what I was going to decide, didn’t you?’
‘My dear fellow,’ smiled Sturt. ‘I never had any doubt of it.’
‘You know what consequences this expedition may have
? On Australia, I mean; and the Aborigines?’
Sturt kept on smiling, but the expression in his eyes was quite serious. ‘The interior of this continent is quite uncharted,’ he said. ‘That means that the explorations of one man can have extraordinary effects on the lives of thousands. I myself discovered the second greatest river network in the entire world, after the Amazon. What you may discover on this expedition could be equally momentous. The great inland sea, perhaps; which could be wider than the Caspian. The greatest forest beyond the continent of Africa. You will be making history, Mr Walker; you will be finding rivers and mountains and deserts that no white man has ever found before.’
He paused, and then in quite a different voice, he said, ‘You will be finding something else equally important—and I speak now from my own experience. You will be finding yourself.’
Twelve
After the offices of the South Australian Company had been locked up that evening, he bicycled home to Hindley Street. The day’s showers had cleared the air; and it was one of those bright marmalade-coloured Adelaide evenings, with the fragrance of acacia in the air. His bicycle left criss-crossing tracks on the muddy streets.
He felt quiet, and rather depressed. He had explained to Christopher what Captain Sturt had said to him during their walk on the beach; and told him that he had decided to look for Yonguldye and whatever geographical or geological features Captain Sturt might be interested in. He hadn’t told him about the appearance of the lone Aborigine warrior, but then he felt for the time being that he would prefer to keep it to himself. He didn’t yet understand the visitation himself, and he didn’t want to share it until he did.
He felt like Macbeth must have felt, after seeing Banquo’s ghost.
As he turned into Hindley Street, three or four ragamuffin Aborigine children began to run after him, shouting ‘No-Fall-Over! No-Fall-over!’ and ‘Come -To-Jesus!’ which were the very first words that Aborigine children were taught at missionary school. The street was scattered with bright blue puddles, like mirrors, and the children skipped barefoot into the mirrors and smashed them into splashes.
Dogger McConnell was sitting on the verandah under a wet canvas tent, which he wore as if it were a particularly badly designed evening cloak. He raised a jug of beer, and called, ‘Good evening, mate! Come and have a drink!’
Eyre dismounted and put away his bicycle. ‘Why are you sitting out here?’ he asked Dogger. ‘You could have caught pneumonia, in all that rain.’
Dogger jerked his head towards the front door. ‘We had a bit of a horse-and-cow, me and the estimable missus. I was told never again to darken the parlour. Well, it was my fault. She’s a saint, really. A saint who’s married an objectionable old devil. Want a drink? It’s the first jug of the new batch; better than last time. Last one made you fart, didn’t you find? All day on the dunny playing Oh God Our Help In Ages Past and never a shit to show for it.’
‘I think I’ll wait until the brew’s matured a little, thank you,’ said Eyre. ‘Besides, I have some sensible thinking to do.’
‘Ah,’ said Dogger. ‘Thinking. That’s something I haven’t done for a while. Well, never mind. There’s plenty of beer here, once you’ve finished. Need your liquid, in this climate. Worse in the outback, of course, out beyond the black stump. Saw a fellow sitting under his mule once, waiting for it to piss, he was so thirsty. Saw another fellow squeezing shinglebacks in between his bare hands, just to get their juice.’
Eyre touched Dogger’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps I’ll come out and talk to you later. Leave some for me.’
Mrs McConnell was in the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up, flouring a board so that she could roll out her pastry. There was a good strong aroma of mutton and carrots curling out of the big black pot on the front of the range; and a steamed pudding was clattering away at the back.
‘A blackfellow called by,’ said Mrs McConnell. She nodded towards the stained pine dresser. ‘There’s a letter for you there.’
Eyre took down the pale blue envelope and tore it open. He knew at once that it was from Charlotte. The writing was firm and clear, with loops like rows of croquet-hoops.
Eyre read it through quickly; then drew across one of Mrs McConnell’s bentwood chairs, and sat down to read it again.
My darling Eyre, (Charlotte had written) after everything that occurred at the Spring Ball, I think that I owe you both an apology and an explanation. What I said to you on the wharf, my dear, that I would always love you, that was quite true, and remains true. Every moment that I am without you, you are dearer to my heart, and I miss you most dreadfully.
The day after poor Yanluga died, however, my father confided in me that he was seriously ill. He had suffered a seizure of the heart whilst in Sydney, and that was the reason why he came home before he was expected. His doctors have told him that he must take great care, otherwise his next seizure might prove fatal.
Of course, he is a volatile man, and it is difficult for him to keep his temper, but I know that he loves me in spite of everything and that he is trying in his own way to do his best for me. He is so sure that his time is short that he is anxious to put his family and his business affairs into order, and that I should be happily and appropriately settled.
To begin with, he had nothing against you personally, dear Eyre. It was just that he wanted to make sure that his only daughter should be secure and contented and well cared-for; and he did not believe that a mere clerk could do that for me. Of course, events since then have unhappily led to a personal argument between you, but father is not an unforgiving man, and the time may come when you will again be on speaking-terms with him.
In the meanwhile, please understand that I must do everything I can to keep my father rested and calm, and not to provoke him. It is my sacred duty as a daughter, I know you will realise that. That is why I spoke to you the way that I did at the Ball.
May I please beg of you not to disclose to anyone anything concerning my father’s health, since his business interests would suffer badly if it were suspected that he were unwell. Please remember my darling that whatever happens I shall always love you and think of you, no matter how many years go by.
Your adoring Charlotte.
Eyre folded up the letter and tucked it into his pocket. Mrs McConnell said, ‘Not bad news, is it?’
‘Well,’ said Eyre, ‘good and bad.’
‘Somebody’s died and left you a fortune?
‘Hm, I wish they had.’ He stood up, and walked around to the range, lifting up the pot lids to see what was cooking. ‘Is supper going to be very long?’
‘You’ve time to change.’
Mrs McConnell wiped her hands on her apron, and reached across to touch Eyre’s arm. ‘It’s that girl, isn’t it, Miss Charlotte?’
Eyre nodded.
‘I thought it was. I recognised the blackfellow who brought the letter. One of Mr Lindsay’s boys. She hasn’t written to say that she doesn’t love you any more?’
‘No,’ said Eyre, and for some unaccountable reason he felt a lump in his throat as big as a crab-apple. ‘She still loves me; but we may not be able to see each other for quite a long time.’
He paused, and then he said, ‘We may not be able to see each other ever. Mr Lindsay is determined to marry her off to somebody wealthy.’
Mrs McConnell heard that downsloping, near-to-tears catch in his voice, and came around the kitchen table and held him, without any ceremony or affectation, and kissed him like a mother.
‘You don’t always have to be brave, you know,’ she told him. Her eyes were pale blue, like a washed-out spring sky, with tiny pupils. ‘It isn’t necessary; not for women, nor for men, neither. I know how much you like her. She’s a very pretty girl. Not much in her head, perhaps, except for fun and flattery, but what girl has. Well, I never had much more, when I was younger, and there were times when Dogger piped his eye over me, I can tell you, although you’re on your honour not to tell him now. Why do you think I put up with him; w
hat with his beer and his snoring; and he can’t eat anything without making a crunching noise, not even porridge.’
Eyre looked down at Mrs McConnell and suddenly laughed. He kissed her on the nose, and then on both cheeks, and hugged her.
‘You’re a rare lady, Mrs McConnell. You’ve cheered me up.’
‘Are you sure? Because you can cry if you feel the need.’
Eyre shook his head, and kissed her again. ‘I don’t think so. I’ll go upstairs and get changed for supper.’
They sat around the dining-room table, under the slightly smoking oil-lamp, and ate mutton stew and suet dumplings and fresh greens cooked crunchy and bright. Dogger drank two pots of beer and told a long story about the Aborigines at Swan River; and how they had developed an insatiable enthusiasm for linen handkerchiefs, and broken into white men’s huts and cottages searching for nothing else, not guns, not flour, but linen handkerchiefs.
‘I suppose with hooters as big as theirs, linen handkerchiefs were quite a comfort,’ Dogger ended up, obliquely.
While Mrs McConnell washed up the dishes, Dogger and Eyre played a game of draughts out on the verandah.
Dogger said, ‘You’re quiet tonight, mate. Something preying on your mind?’
Eyre crowned one of his draughts, and then shook his head. ‘Nothing serious. But I may be going away for a while.’
‘Away? Where?’
‘Exploring. Well—partly exploring and partly looking for someone.’
‘Not in the outback?’
‘Yes.’
‘But, Christ Almighty, you don’t know the first thing about exploring! Do you have any idea at all what it’s like out there? How hot it can be? How dry? You can walk for weeks and never see water. Who’s going with you?’
‘One or two friends. Christopher Willis, I hope.’
‘You’re not serious. Christopher Willis, that wilting plant? He wouldn’t stay alive for three days in the outback.’
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