Left alone, Voss groaned. He would not, could not learn, nor accept humility, even though this was amongst the conditions she had made in the letter that was now living in him. For some time, he sat with his head in his hands. He did truly suffer.
Except for the dogs scratching and sighing, the night had grown silent, the fires had fallen into embers, when grass began to rustle, feet approached the leader, and there was Turner’s face upon the darkness.
Why did I bring the man? Voss wondered.
‘Look at this, sir,’ Turner invited.
‘What is it?’ asked Voss.
Then he saw it was the handle of the frying-pan.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘How does this concern me? Is it of any interest?’
‘It was him,’ laughed Turner.
‘Who?’
‘The cook, or Jack-of-all-trades. Lord God Almighty!’
‘I am not interested. You are foolish, Turner. Go to bed.’
‘I am not all that foolish.’ Turner laughed in going.
He should have been drunk, but his stomach would sometimes turn sour without all that assistance.
As he prepared for sleep, Voss continued to feel incensed against the miserable fellow. Though it was Judd who had roused his anger. It is Turner, he said, but he knew that it was Judd.
And Turner knew, in the tent that was shared by several.
Some were already snoring as Judd lay fidgeting against the pillow of his saddle.
‘Listen, Albert,’ Turner said. ‘You are awake, I can hear that.’
He rolled over, so that his long thin body was close against the thicker one. His long face was very close.
‘Remember that there compass, that was lost at Jildra, or not lost, it was in your bag?’
Judd did not have to remember, for he had not forgotten.
‘It was put there, see, on a moonlight night, by a certain Prussian gentleman, who was innocent on account of he was sleep-walkin’.’
‘I do not believe it,’ Judd said.
‘No more do I,’ Turner continued. ‘He was as naked as moonlight, and bony as the Lord. But his eyes did not convince this one.’
‘You did not tell,’ said Judd. ‘Not till now.’
‘I have been caught before,’ Turner replied. ‘And this was valuable.’
‘I do not believe it,’ said Judd. ‘Go to sleep.’
Turner laughed, and rolled over.
Judd lay in that position until his bones had set, but did also sleep at last.
Then everyone was sleeping, or waking, to remember that it would soon be Christmas, and fall into a deeper sleep.
About midnight, however, wild dogs had begun to howl, which woke the dogs of the expedition, and these were soon moaning back in answer. The night was grown rather black, but with a flickering of yellow from a distant storm. A thin wind ran along the crest of things, together with the high yelping of the increasingly uneasy camp dogs.
Himself disturbed, Voss got up at last, and stumbled in search of their two native guides, tracing them by the embers of their fire, against which they were rolled like animals. Their eyes were open, he could see, upon some great activity of their minds. If only he could have penetrated to that distance, he would have felt more satisfied.
Dugald, the old man, immediately turned away his face, and said, before other words could be spoken:
‘I sick, sick.’
And was rubbing his belly under the remnants of his ridiculous swallowtail coat.
‘Have you heard something, Dugald, perhaps? Could it be wild dogs?’
‘No dogs,’ said Dugald.
These sounds were made, he explained, by blackfellows who intended mischief.
Just then there fell a few big drops of flat rain, and there was a sudden thumping of the earth, and protesting of grass.
‘That is cattle,’ said Voss.
It could have been the sound of cattle in motion, of frightened cattle, a little farther up the valley where the herd had been left to graze.
‘Blackfeller no good this place,’ Dugald moaned.
Voss now returned to his tent, and fetched a gun. He called to the two natives.
‘You come, Dugald, Jackie. We go look cattle.’
But the two men were fascinated by the fire. They turned their faces from the darkness, and stared closer into the coals, rubbing their cheeks against the dust. Darkness is a place of evil, so, wisely, they avoided it.
Voss continued up the valley for what seemed like some considerable distance, encountering only a vast, dark humidity. Once a cow and calf propped, and snorted at him, and lumbered away. There was no further sign of cattle.
‘Nutzlos,’ he said, coldly furious, and discharged his weapon once or twice in the direction the herd must have taken.
When he returned, Le Mesurier and Palfreyman had come out, awakened by the shots and a hysteria of dogs.
‘It is probable that blacks have driven off the cattle,’ Voss announced. ‘There is nothing we can do for the present.’
Beside their fire Dugald and Jackie were listening to these words. The voice of the white man could have been issuing from the earth.
So Christmas began.
In the morning, it was learnt that more than half the cattle had been driven off. Dugald, who had resumed possession of his ancient grace and a kind of sad resourcefulness, said that Jackie would take his horse and search — Jackie had eyes for stolen cattle — and Voss accepted this suggestion as a temporary measure, if not a way out of their dilemma.
The others were secretly glad that, for the moment at least, they need not exert themselves on such a radiant, pigeon-coloured morning. After breakfast — a subdued, though contenting meal — Harry Robarts fetched out a flag they had brought with them, and fastened it to a sapling-staff, from which it hung rather dank. At once somebody began to mumble, then almost all joined in, and they were singing ‘God Save the Queen’.
The German in his crimson shirt observed them with amusement, but quite kindly, holding himself erect by instinct, if not from approval.
Afterwards, Mr Palfreyman produced his prayer-book, and declared his intention of reading the Church of England service.
Then Voss said:
‘It may not be the wish of everyone, Palfreyman, to be forced to worship in this way. It is preferable if each man does his own part, and reads in his own book. There,’ he concluded, looking at them.
It was not altogether unreasonable, and Palfreyman made himself condemn certain of his own thoughts.
Soon, one or two who possessed prayer-books had taken them out, and were attempting to follow the words, in that place where the wild jasmine was sweetly stifling a sense of duty, and the most dogged devotions were shot through with a glint of parrots. Turner, frankly, whittled wood, and recalled how the rum was far more efficacious than prayer as a means of refreshment. Judd went away.
‘The old beggar,’ Turner was quick to call. ‘What will yer ma say? Church is not out.’
‘I have things to do,’ Judd mumbled. ‘There is the mutton.’
‘Then, I will come and lend a hand,’ Turner proposed.
But he was not encouraged by the convict, who went from there, shambling and mumbling.
‘There is no need,’ he said, surlily. ‘I have my own methods, and will be ready by noon.’
So that Ralph Angus looked up from his dry book, and his mouth was full and moist in anticipation.
Judd was soon hidden by the blessed scrub. He who could squeeze the meaning out of a line by pressing on it with his finger-nail, always hastened to remove himself from the presence of true initiates when they were at their books. All the scraps of knowledge with which he was filled, all those raw hunks of life that, for choice, or by force, he had swallowed down, were reduced by the great mystery of words to the most shameful matter. Words were not the servants of life, but life, rather, was the slave of words. So the black print of other people’s books became a swarm of victorious ants that carried off a man’s self-respect. So he wandered through the bush on that morning, and was only soothed at last by leaves and silence.