The Adventures of Louis de Rougemont

by Louis de Rougemont

On the last day I once more made up a bed of eucalyptus leaves and rugs on the floor of Gibson’s hut. Surrounding him at the last were his wife—a very good and faithful girl—Yamba, myself, and Bruno—who, by the way, knew perfectly well that his friend was dying. He kept licking poor Gibson’s hand and chest, and then finding no response would nestle up close to him for half-an-hour at a time. Then the affectionate creature would retire outside and set up a series of low, melancholy howls, only to run in again with hope renewed.

Poor Gibson! The women-folk were particularly attached to him because he never went out with the men, or with me, on my various excursions, but remained behind in their charge. Sometimes, however, he would follow at our heels as faithfully and instinctively as Bruno himself. For the past two years Bruno and Gibson had been inseparable, sleeping together at night, and never parting for a moment the whole day long. Indeed, I am sure Bruno became more attached to Gibson than he was to me. And so Gibson did not, as I at one time feared he would, pass away into the Great Beyond, carrying with him the secret of his identity. Looking at him as he lay back among the eucalyptus leaves, pale and emaciated, I knew the end was now very near.

I knelt beside him holding his hand, and at length, with a great effort, he turned towards me and said feebly, “Can you hear anything?” I listened intently, and at last was compelled to reply that I did not. “Well,” he said, “I hear some one talking. I think the voices of my friends are calling me.” I fancied that the poor fellow was wandering in his mind again, but still his eyes did not seem to have that vacant gaze I had previously noticed in them. He was looking steadily at me, and seemed to divine my thoughts, for he smiled sadly and said, “No, I know what I am saying. I can hear them singing, and they are calling me away. They have come for me at last!” His thin face brightened up with a slow, sad smile, which soon faded away, and then, giving my hand a slight pressure, he whispered almost in my ear, as I bent over him, “Good-bye, comrade, I’m off. You will come too, some day.” A slight shiver, and Gibson passed peacefully away.

CHAPTER XV

Lost in the desert—Gibson’s dying advice—Giles meets Gibson—A fountain in the desert—A terrible fix—Giles regains his camp—Gibson’s effects—Mysterious tracks—A treasured possession—A perfect paradise—Grape vines a failure—A trained cockatoo—An extraordinary festival—My theory of the “ghosts.”

After the funeral his wife followed out the usual native conventions. She covered herself with pipeclay for about one month. She also mourned and howled for the prescribed three days, and gashed her head with stone knives, until the blood poured down her face. Gibson’s body was not buried in the earth, but embalmed with clay and leaves, and laid on a rock-shelf in a cave.

The general belief was that Gibson had merely gone back to the Spirit Land from whence he had come, and that, as he was a great and good man, he would return to earth in the form of a bird—perhaps an ibis, which was very high indeed. I must say I never attached very much importance to what he said, even in his sane moments, because he was obviously a man of low intelligence and no culture. If I remember rightly, he told me that the expedition to which he was attached left Adelaide with the object of going overland to Fremantle. It was thoroughly well equipped, and for a long time everything went well with the party. One day, whilst some of them were off exploring on their own account, he lost himself.

He rather thought that the sun must have affected his brain even then, because he didn’t try to find his companions that night, but went to sleep quite contentedly under a tree. He realised the horror of his position keenly enough the next morning, however, and rode mile after mile without halting for food or water, in the hope of quickly regaining his friends at the chief camp. But night stole down upon him once more, and he was still a lonely wanderer, half delirious with thirst; the supply he had carried with him had long since given out.

Next morning, when he roused himself, he found that his horse had wandered away and got lost. After this he had only a vague recollection of what happened. Prompted by some strange, unaccountable impulse, he set out on a hopeless search for water, and went walking on and on until all recollection faded away, and he remembered no more. How long he had been lost when I found him he could not say, because he knew absolutely nothing whatever about his rescue. So far as I remember, he was a typical specimen of the Australian pioneer—a man of fine physique, with a full beard and a frank, but unintelligent, countenance. He was perhaps five feet nine inches in height, and about thirty years of age. When I told him the story of my adventures he was full of earnest sympathy for me, and told me that if ever I intended leaving those regions for civilisation again, my best plan would be to steer more south-east, as it was in that direction that Adelaide lay.

He also informed me that the great trans-Continental telegraph wire was being constructed from north to south. This he advised me to strike and follow to civilisation.