The adventure of the broad arrow: An Australian romance

by Morley Roberts

As he walked, he spoke a little to himself, but it was chiefly of far-away things, and he chuckled now and again with a very frightful sound. Though every once in a while he became half delirious, he was yet able to control his wandering mind. It occurred to him that he felt as he had sometimes done in drink, when it was necessary to have his wits about him. So, as he walked, he stopped sometimes and said to himself, as if he were another man:

"Pull yourself together, old son."

He stumbled on in the intense heat, and sometimes he stayed behind a bigger tree and let the shade cover him. As he slashed at one tree, he noticed the bark was not wholly dry. So, cutting into the sapwood, he got a chip, and sucked it. Why hadn't he done that for the poor Baker?

And as he travelled he was aware of men, or shadows, or ghosts behind every tree. He called to them, but when he came up they were far ahead of him. He believed in them at last, and they terrified him a little. He held his tomahawk as if to defend himself. And then he grew angry, and remembered, with peculiar gusto, the hot taste of the blood of Mandeville's murdered horse.

But the delirium left him when he caught his foot in a root, and went head-long. For he turned about in a blind rage and cut the root through savagely. It was alive, and had done it on purpose. He was no more than a child.

And by some odd and ridiculous notion of his mind, he began to feel angry with the Baker. Why did the man not come himself, why did he send him on such a hideous and futile errand, while he took his ease, lying down in the shade? When he got so far, it struck Smith with terrible distinctness that he did not remember in any way how he came to be with Mandeville in such a position. He could not recollect anything of the yesterday, and though he recalled the New Find, that seemed very far off and vague, and in no way connected with their present trouble. But he said at last, that when he saw the Baker he would ask him about it. Meantime he had to get water, and he held up his water-bag, which was as dry as a last year's bone.

But the trees now became denser, and there were patches of very thick scrub. He remembered that he had not blazed a tree for a good time, and he stupidly blazed every one he came to.

Presently he found himself futilely going round one tree, as though he meant to ring-bark it, and for a moment he could not remember in which direction he should go. But at last he recalled the fact, that the sun was on the right side of the back of his neck, and that his foolish squat shadow should be on his left. He walked fast, and ran.

He had been travelling about an hour, when it occurred to him with a horrible shock, that he neither knew who he was, nor what he was doing. He sat down on a wind-fallen tree, and pondered painfully, sucking his finger in a babyish manner. He knew very well that he was somebody who was thirsty, but he could not remember his own name, nor his own identity, and the frightful catastrophe appalled him. He had a peculiar desolation around him, the desolation of some newly-created being, born full-grown without knowledge of his destiny. He struggled with his brain for what seemed innumerable centuries, and it gave no answer. An intolerable melancholy oppressed him, and he still sucked his finger. And suddenly he noticed that it seemed to taste like milk, and he appeared to smell milk. He bit it, and tongued a little blood, which tasted like milk too. He resumed his fight for his own soul, and he took up his tomahawk; looking at it idly, he saw Mandeville's name on it, and said he knew that name. And then he saw Mandeville, and his own mind came back. He knew who he was. It was an intolerable relief.

But, then, the thirst came on him again, and his aural centre went wrong. He heard frogs; he swore to himself he heard them croaking. But it was all as dry as his throat. What was a frog doing in a dry forest? He rose up suddenly, and began to run again. And then he heard frogs once more; why, there were millions, millions of them, and they deafened him! He dropped his tomahawk, and ran through a bit of blind scrub, and out into sudden silence, which was quite as appalling as the noise he had heard. He ran on again, and stopped, and ran, with his dry tongue between his teeth. He knew he had thirst delusions on him. When he heard a frog next, he shook his head pettishly, and was as angry as a nervous man worried by drumming in his ears. He would be seeing water soon! And the big frog boomed, boomed, and boomed. He went on slowly through the scrub, and came to some saplings. The bit of whitish ground under them looked like water, and he shook his head again, A little more, and he would believe it—believe there was water.