The Bushman — Life in a New Country

by Edward Wilson Landor

Boating, as an amusement, ought only to be followed during the summer months, from the 1st of October to the 1st of April. In the winter season there are extremely violent gales of wind from the north-west, that sometimes last for three days together. Their arrival is generally foretold by the rapid falling of the barometer; and at Perth it is almost always preceded by the rising of the estuary. A singular storm visited the district of Australind in the night of the 17th June, 1842. It crossed the Leschenault estuary, and entered the forest, making a lane through the trees from three to four hundred yards wide. In this lane, which extended for many miles, nothing was left standing but the stumps of trees; whilst the trees on either wide of the land stood up like a wall and were perfectly uninjured. The storm in its course, which was in a direct line from N.W. to S.E. levelled the trees in the valleys as well as those on the hills. Its effects were not like those of a whirlwind, when trees appear twisted round, and scattered in every direction; in this lane the young healthy trees, which were generally broken off about two or three yards from the ground, all lay in the same direction.

Twice have I nearly paid dearly for my rashness in boating. My boat was once capsized in a moment in a squall, and Hannibal and myself were soused in the water before we knew what had happened. I caught hold of the bilge of the boat, and nearly drowned myself with laughing at the Son of Amilcar, who was splashing about shrieking with terror, and swallowing quarts of salt-water, as his open mouth popped every moment under a wave. In vain I called to him to come to me, and lay hold of the boat; he could neither see nor hear, and would have soon joined his illustrious namesake in the Elysian fields, had I not managed to throw the bight of a rope round his neck, and towed him within reach, when I held him up by the collar of his jacket (ducking him under water occasionally to make him cease from howling) until we were rescued by a fishing-boat.

One day, the 11th April, 1843, feeling disposed to take my book on the water and enjoy the calm air, I embarked by myself—a most unusual occurrence, as I scarcely ever went out alone. What little wind there was blew down the estuary, but only gently ruffled the waters; and my boat glided noiselessly before it. A couple of hours took me to the farther extremity of Melville water, and here it fell calm. I now began to feel uncomfortable, for the air was close, and dark clouds appeared rising in the north-west. The wind began to blow in gusts; a sudden puff, curling the waters, would strike the boat and make her heel over until her gunwale kissed the wave, as with a sudden start she rushed forward under the impulse of the blast. I was now making homeward. The heavens became black with angry clouds; the wind first sighed and moaned like a reluctant Spirit driven forth to fulfil its task of evil, feeling something of remorse at crimes foreshadowed and inevitable; and then working itself into fury, as though it would stifle thought, and crush out the germ of pity, the Wind in its might and rage rushed roaring over the waters, making the foam fly before it, and tearing up the face of the estuary into rugged lines of wild tumultuous waves. The little bark vainly strove to keep her head to the storm, which bore her down until the water poured over the gunwale.

It was about six o'clock in the evening, and darkness, hurried on prematurely by the tempest, spread suddenly around. The waves, as if trying to leap beyond the reach of some internal agony, rolled high above my head, as the "Fair Maid of Perth" sank hopelessly in the deep channel, with rocking mast and shivering sails. But not yet submerged, she rose again, and fronted the storm, struggling desperately to reach the northern shore, which was not far distant. But the skies grew blacker still; the storm became a hurricane; the wind roared so loud that no voice of human agony or despair might be heard above its tremendous fury; the waves grew higher and mightier, and became rushing hills of water, overwhelming, irresistible. To me, quailing in my frail bark, in all the consciousness of helplessness and ruin, it seemed as though the winds and the waves were really sentient beings combining to overwhelm me, and increasing their efforts the more I struggled.

This is no fiction that I am relating, but a reality that happened to myself, and which it would be impossible to exaggerate. Never shall I forget the last tremendous wave that came down upon me, impelled by a maddening gust which whirled tearing along through the wild air, and scooping its deep passage through the waters. In vain was the jib-sheet let fly; in vain did I luff into the wind. I could not quit the helm, and therefore was unable to lower the sail which in that hurricane could not have been got in easily, and in the meantime the boat, breaking off from the wind, would have been swamped. I was so near the shore that I hoped still to reach it, the wind being abeam, in the course of a few minutes. But nothing could withstand the last wave and blast. The boat lurched, and broke off. Hurled on her beam-ends, the boom was in the water; the waves rushed over the side; she struggled bravely, and tried to right herself; but after staggering forwards a few seconds, the weight of the in-rushing water bore her down, and she slowly fell over on her side. The sensation was by no means pleasant. I felt her going, without being able to prevent it. I glanced around for aid or hope; but there was neither. I could see nothing but waves, and hear nothing but the roaring blast. The shore was close to me, but the high waves, and the darkness of the hurricane, prevented my discerning even the tops of the trees. As the boat capsized, I kicked off my shoes and threw off my coat and waistcoat, and seizing the main-sheet, let myself down in the water, trying to find bottom, but there was none within reach.

I struck out towards the shore, but the ablest swimmer that ever swam could have made no progress against that sea, and I could scarcely swim at all.

I scrambled back to the boat, which now lay on her side, level with the surface. On getting upon her, you may conceive—but no! you cannot—the horror of the moment, as I felt her gradually go down —sink, sinking beneath me. All now seemed over. My time had arrived; my last moment was come. I collected my thoughts, and prepared for it.

I did not feel so much terror as I should have anticipated in such a scene. Death seemed inevitable, and I nerved myself, and prayed. All the past did NOT press upon me at this moment, in this death- struggle, as some readers may imagine. I thought not of my sins, nor of my friends, nor of time misspent and work left undone—my whole mind was absorbed in the sense of DEATH and FUTURITY. The glances, rather than the thoughts which shot across my soul, seemed like revealings of immortality. My sensations were mixed of horror and hope; the CHANGE from the old to the new Life seemed beginning within me. It might have been excess of terror, but I did not feel terrified. I felt that all was over, and there was no room for the anguish that arises from doubt. All struggling was vain, and though in tumult and horror, I yet felt resigned. The World of Time was past, and new being was at hand.

Such is the memory which I must ever bear of the hour when (yet vigorous and full of Life) I was held in the arms of Death.

The boat went down. The waves rushed over me; the enemy held me by the throat, and seemed to press me into the opening grave. Even as the light faded from my eyes, and the Spirit waited for that quick, sharp touch of the dart which should free it from the bonds of mortal life, I perceived the stem of the boat rising slowly out of the waves, whilst the stern was borne down by my weight.