Babes in the Bush

by Rolf Boldrewood

So had it been with him, in truth. Passing the farthest known explorations, his party came into a waste and torrid region, indescribably dread and hopeless. There, apparently, no rain had fallen for years. The largest trees had perished from desiccation of the soil; even the wild animals had died or migrated. The few they encountered were too weak to flee or resist. For weeks they had undergone fearful privations; had tasted the tortures of thirst and hunger, well-nigh unto death.

With men weakened and disheartened, O’Desmond knew that to linger was death. With a picked party of his long-tried followers he pushed on, leaving just sufficient to support life with the depôt. On the very last day which exhausted nature could have granted them they passed the barriers of the Land of Despair. They saw before them—such are the wondrous contrasts of the Australian waste—a land of water-pools and pastures, of food and fruit.

But simultaneously with their glimpse of the haven of relief came the view of a numerous, athletic party of blacks, clustered near the river-bank. For war or hunting, this section of the tribe had surely been detailed. There were no women or children visible—a bad sign, as the sinking hearts of the emaciated wayfarers well knew. They were brave enough under ordinary circumstances of fight or famine. But this bore too hardly upon human nature, coming, as it did, after the toils and privations of the terrible desert.

But there was one heart among the fainting crew which neither hunger, thirst, nor the shadow of coming death had power to daunt. Aware that with savages a bold yet friendly bearing is the acme of diplomacy, O’Desmond decided upon his course.

The chief stood before his leading braves, doubtful if not hostile.

Suddenly recollecting that among his private stores, faithfully distributed, upon which alone they had been subsisting of late, was a package of loaf sugar, the idea flashed across his mind of tempting the palate of the savage.

Raising a handful of lumps of the rare and precious commodity, he advanced cheerfully and presented them to the leader, who regarded them distrustfully. His retinue stared with pitiless eyes at the wasted white weaklings. It was the supreme moment. Life and death swayed in the scales.

Harry O’Desmond so recognised it, under his forced smile, as he lifted one of the smaller fragments to his lips, and with great appearance of relish began to masticate. Slowly and heedfully did the chief likewise. The charm worked. The flavour of the far-borne product, for which so many of the men of his colour had died in slavery, subjugated the heathen’s palate. He smiled, and motioned the others to advance. O’Desmond followed up his advantage. Every remaining grain was distributed. In a few minutes each warrior was licking his lips appreciatively. A treaty of alliance, offensive and defensive, was as good as signed.

That day the starving wanderers feasted on fish and flesh, brought in profusion by their new comrades. They had never seen a white man before, and were, like many of the first-met tribes, not indisposed to be peaceful.

When shown the encampment, the clothes, the equipment, the strange beasts, they pointed to the sky, snapping their fingers in wonder as they marked the leader’s height and stalwart frame, but made no attempt to raid the treasures of the white ‘medicine man.’