It was a great satisfaction to me to learn that everything had gone on well at the camp during my absence; Mr. Stuart had a good report to make of all. The cattle had been duly attended to, and had become exceedingly tame and quiet. The sheep were in splendid condition, but their flesh had a peculiar2 flavour — and that, too, not a very agreeable one, still their value was unquestionable, for if we had been living on salt provisions, it is more than probable that half of the party would have been left in the desert. The practicability of taking a flock of sheep into the interior, had now been fully3 proved in our case, at all events; but I am ready to admit that they are, notwithstanding, a precarious4 supply, and that unless great care be taken, they may be lost. The men, however, appeared to consider them of far too great importance to be neglected, and I think that when taken, they will for that very reason be well looked after.
The stockade5 had been erected6 and really looked very well; it was built just as I had directed, with the flag flying at the entrance. I availed myself of the opportunity, therefore, to call it “Fort Grey,” after his Excellency the then Governor of South Australia.
Mr. Stuart informed me that a few natives only had visited the camp; but that on one occasion some of them appeared armed, being as they said on their way to a grand fight, four of their tribe having been killed in a recent encounter. Only the day before, however, a party had visited the camp, one of whom had stolen Davenport’s blanket. He was pretty sure of the thief, however, so we did not despair of getting it back again.
I observed that when we were on Eyre’s Creek, the climate and temperature were cool and agreeable. From that period the heat had considerably7 increased, and the thermometer now ranged from 96 to 100 degrees. The wind having settled in its old quarter the E.S.E., in this latitude8 was not so cold as we had felt it in a more northerly one. Why it should have been so, it is difficult to say: we know the kind of country over which an E.S.E. wind must pass between the coast and the latitude of Fort Grey, and could not expect that it should be other than hot, but we are ignorant of the kind of country over which it may sweep higher up to the north. Can it be that there is a large body of water in that quarter? We shall soon have to record something to strengthen that supposition. About this period the sky was generally cloudy, and, as I have before remarked, in any other region it would have rained, but here only a few drops fell, no signs of which remained half an hour afterwards; the barometer9, however, was very low, and it was not unreasonable10 to have encouraged hopes of a favourable11 change.
On the 3rd the natives who had visited the camp before our return, again came, together with the young boy who Davenport suspected had stolen his blanket. He charged him with the theft, therefore, and told him not to return to the tents again without it, explaining at the same time what he had said, to the other natives. The boy went away before the rest, but all of them returned the next day, and he gave up the blanket. On hearing this, I went out and praised him, and as he appeared to be sorry for his offence, I gave him a knife, in which I believe I erred12, for we afterwards learnt, that the surrender of the blanket was not a voluntary act, but that he had been punished, and forced to restore it by his tribe. I cannot help thinking, however, that if the theft had not been discovered, the young rogue13 would have been applauded for his dexterity14.
I had, during my journey back to the Depot15, sat up to a late hour writing, that no delay might take place in my intended arrangements on our arrival at Fort Grey. In revolving16 in my own mind the state of the country, I felt satisfied that, although the water had decreased fearfully since the July rain, the road was still open for Mr. Browne to make good his retreat, but it was quite uncertain how long it might continue so. It was evident, indeed, that neither he nor myself had any time to lose, but I waited for a few days before I broke the subject to him, reluctant as I was to hasten his departure, and feeling I should often have to regret the loss of such a companion. The varied17 reverses and disappointments we had encountered together, and the peculiar character of the expedition, had, as far as Mr. Browne and myself were concerned, removed all restraint, and left to ourselves in that dreary18 wilderness19, we regarded each other as friends only, who were united in a common cause, in the success of which we were almost equally interested. I knew, therefore, that the proposal I was about to make would give him pain; but I counted on his acquiescence21, and as time would not admit of delay, I availed myself of an opportunity that presented itself the third day after our return, to break it to him.
As we were sitting in the tent after dinner, with our tea still before us, I said to him, “I am afraid, Browne, from what I have observed, that you have mistaken the object for which I have returned to the Depot, and that you have been buoying22 yourself up with the hope that it is done preparatory to our return to Adelaide; for myself I cannot encourage any such hope for the present, at least. So far indeed from this, I have for some time been reflecting as to the most prudent23 course to be pursued under our present circumstances; for, I would not conceal24 from you the pain I have felt at the failure of our endeavours to penetrate25 farther than we have been able to do into the interior, neither can I conceal from myself the fact, that whatever our personal exertions26, the results of our labours have not been commensurate with our expectations, and that however great our perseverance27 or however difficult the task we have had to perform, the world at large will alone judge of its merits by its success. In considering how we can yet retrieve28 our misfortunes, one only step occurs to me, and whatever pain our separation may cost us, I am sure, where the interests of the services call for it, you will readily comply with my wishes. I propose, then, your return to Adelaide, with all the party but three; that you should leave me five horses, and take with you only such provisions as you may absolutely require upon the road. By such an arrangement I might yet hold out against the drought, and ultimately succeed in doing something to make up for the past.” My young friend was evidently unprepared for the proposition I had made. “You have done all you were sent out to do,” he observed, “why then seek to penetrate again into that horrid29 desert? It is impossible that you can succeed during the continuance of the dry weather. If you now go you will never get back again; besides, have you,” he asked, “made any calculations as to the means both of provisions and carriage you will require?” “That,” I replied, “is for my consideration, but I have done so, and it appears to me that both are ample.” “Well,” said Mr. Browne, “it may be so, I do not know, but I can never consent to leave you in this dreadful desert. Ask me to do anything else, and I will do it; but I cannot and will not desert you.” It was in vain that I assured him, he took a wrong view of the matter. That, as I had sent Mr. Poole home to increase my means, so I wished to send him, and that he would be rendering30 me as valuable, though not such agreeable service, as if he continued with me. “You know, Browne,” I added, “that the eyes of the geographical31 world are fixed32 on me, and that I have a previous reputation to maintain; with you it is different. If I hoped to make any discovery I would not ask you to leave me. Believe me, I would that you shared the honour as you have shared the privations and anxieties of this desert with me; but I entertain no such hope, and would save you from further exposure. I have not seen enough of this dreary region to satisfy me as to its present condition. How then shall I satisfy others? That Stony33 Desert was, I believe, the bed of a former stream, but how can I speak decidedly on the little I have observed of it. No! as we have been forced back from one point, I must try another — and I hope you will not throw any impediment in the way. There is every reason why you should return to Adelaide: your health is seriously impaired34 — you are in constant pain — and your affairs are going to ruin; on all these considerations I would urge you to comply with my wishes.” Mr. Browne admitted the truth of what I said, but felt certain that if he left, it would only be to hear of my having perished in that horrid desert — that my life was too valuable to others to be so thrown away — that he owed me too much to forsake35 me, and that he could not do that of which his conscience would ever after reproach him; — that his brother would attend to his interests, and that if it were otherwise, it would be no excuse for him to desert his friend — that he would acquiesce20 in any other arrangement, but to leave me he could not. “Well,” I said, “I ask nothing unreasonable from you, nothing but what the sternness of duty calls for; and if you will not yield to friendly solicitations, I must order you home.” “I cannot go,” he replied; “I do not care for any pecuniary36 reward for my services, and will give it up: I want no pay, but desert you I will not.” The reader will better imagine than I can describe, such a scene passing in the heart of a wilderness, and under such circumstances I may not state all that passed; suffice it to say, that we at length separated, with an assurance on Mr. Browne’s part, that he would consider what I had proposed, and speak to me again in the morning. The morning came, and after breakfast, he said he had endeavoured to force himself into a compliance37 with my wishes, but to no purpose; — that he could not leave me, and had made up his mind to take the consequences. It was in vain that I remonstrated38, and I therefore ceased to importune39 him on a point which, however much I might regret his decision, I could not but feel that he was influenced by the most disinterested40 anxiety for my safety. But it became necessary to make some other arrangements; I had already been four days idle, and it was not my intention to let the week so pass over my head. Mr. Browne was too ill to accompany me again into the field. I sent, therefore, for Mr. Stuart, and told him to put up ten weeks provisions for four men — to warn Morgan and Mack that I should require them to attend me when I again left the camp — and to hold himself and them in readiness to commence the journey the day but one following; as I felt the horses required the rest I should myself otherwise have rejected.
I then sent for Mr. Browne, and told him that I proposed leaving the stockade in two days, by which time I hoped the horses would in some measure have recovered from their fatigues41 — that as he could not attend me, I should take Mr. Stuart with two fresh men — that in making my arrangements I found that I should be obliged to take all the horses but two, the one he rode and a weaker animal; to this, however, he would by no means consent — entreating42 me to take his horse also, as he felt assured I should want all the strength I could get.
No rain had as yet fallen, but every day the heat was increasing: the thermometer rising, even thus early in the season, to 98 degrees and 100 degrees in the shade, and the wind keeping steadily43 to the E.S.E. The country was so dry, and the largest pools of water had so diminished in quantity, that I doubted whether or not I should be able to get on, since as it was I should have to travel the first 86 miles without water, there being none in any other direction to the north of us. Even the large sheet in the first creek, to which I proposed going, had fearfully shrunk. But what gave me most uneasiness, was the reduced state of water on which the men and animals depended. From a fine broad sheet it was now confined within the limits of its own narrow channel, and I felt satisfied that if I should be absent many weeks, Mr. Browne would be obliged to abandon his position. Foreseeing this contingency44, I arranged with him that in the event of his finding it necessary to retire, he should fall back on the little creek, near the old Depot. That before he finally broke up the camp, he should dig a hole in some favourable part of the creek into which the water he might leave would drain, so as to insure on my return as much as possible, and we marked a tree under which he was to bury a bottle, with a letter in it to inform me of his intended movements. Nothing could have been more marked or more attentive45 than Mr. Browne’s manner to me, and I am sure he saw me mount my horse to depart with sincere regret; but the interval46 between the conclusion of these arrangements and the day fixed on to resume my labours soon passed over, although I deferred47 it to the 9th, in consequence of Flood’s assuring me that the horses required the additional rest.
I had, indeed, been the more disposed to postpone48 the day of my departure, because I hoped, from appearances, that rain would fall, but I was disappointed. On the 6th it was very close, and heavy clouds passed over us from the N.E., our rainy quarter, towards the Mount Serle ranges, but still no rain fell on the depressed49 and devoted50 region in which we were. At eight, however, it rained slightly for about a quarter of an hour, and the horizon was black with storm clouds; all night heavy thunder rolled in the distance, both to the west and east of us; my ear caught that joyful51 sound as I laid on my mattress52, and I fervently53 prayed that it might be the precursor54 of a fall.
I could not but hope, that, in the ordinary course of events, to revive and to support nature, the great Author of it would have blessed the land, desert as it was, with moisture at last, but I listened in vain for the pattering of rain, no drops, whether heavy or light, fell on my tent. The morning of the 7th dawned fair and clear; the sun rose in unshrouded splendour; and crossed the heavens on that day without the intervention55 of a cloud to obscure his disc for a moment. If then I except the rain of July, which lasted, at intervals56, for three days, we had not had any for eleven months. Under the withering57 effects of this long continued drought, the vegetable kingdom was again at a stand; and we ourselves might be said to have been contending so long against the elements. No European in that respect had ever been more severely58 tried.
The day before we commenced our journey to the north it was exceedingly hot, the thermometer rose to 106 degrees in the shade, and thus early in the season were we forewarned of what we might expect when the sun should become more vertical59. In the afternoon the old man who had visited us just before we commenced our late journey, arrived in the camp with his two wives, and a nice little girl about eleven, with flowing curly hair, the cleanliness and polish of which would have done credit to the prettiest head that ever was adorned60 with such. They came in from the S.W., and were eagerly passing our tents, without saying a word, and making for the water, when we called to them and supplied all their wants. The poor things were almost perishing from thirst, and seized the pannikins with astonishing avidity, when they saw that they contained water, and had them replenished61 several times. It happened also fortunately for them, that the lamb of the only ewe we had with us, and which had been dropped a few weeks before, got a coup62 de soleil, in consequence of which I ordered it to be killed, and given to the old man and his family for supper. This they all of them appeared to enjoy uncommonly63, and very little of it was left after their first meal. The old man seemed to be perfectly64 aware that we had been out, but shook his head when I made him understand that I was going out again in the morning.
I determined65, on the journey I was about to commence, to run on a due north course from the first “Strzelecki’s Creek,” as soon as I should reach it, and to penetrate the interior in that direction as far as circumstances might justify66. As the reader will have concluded from the observations I have made, it had occurred to me that the Stony Desert had been the bed of a former stream, and I felt satisfied that if I was right in that conclusion, I should certainly strike it again. My object, therefore, was to keep at such a distance from my last course, as should leave no doubt of that fact upon my mind; it appeared to me that a due northerly course would about meet my views, and that if the Stony Desert was what I supposed it to have been, I should come upon it about two degrees to the eastward67 of where I had already crossed it. In pushing up to the north I also hoped that I might find a termination to the sandy ridges68, although I could not expect to get into any very good country, for from what we saw to the north it was evidently much lower than that over which we had passed, and I therefore looked for a cessation of the sandy ridges we had before been so severely distressed69 on passing.
I shook hands with Mr. Browne about half-past eight on the morning of the 9th of October, and left the depot camp at Fort Grey, with Mr. Stuart, Morgan and Mack, taking with me a ten-weeks’ supply of flour and tea. I once more struck into the track I had already twice traversed, with the intention of turning to the north as soon as I should gain Strzelecki’s Creek. As we rode over the sand-hills, they appeared as nothing to me, after the immense accumulations of sand we had crossed when Mr. Browne and I were out together. We stopped short of the flat in which we had sunk the largest well on that occasion, to give the horses time to feed a little before sunset, and not to hurry them too much at starting. The day was exceedingly warm, and the wind from the N.E. A few heat-drops fell during the night, but the short thunder shower at the Depot on the Sunday did not appear to have extended so far as where we then were. Nevertheless it would appear, that these low regions are simultaneously70 affected71 by any fall of rain; for there can be no doubt as to that of July having extended all over the desert interior, and the drizzling72 shower we had at the head of the northern Eyre’s Creek, just as we were about to retrace73 our steps, having been felt the same day at the camp. I have just said that the day had been exceedingly hot, with the wind from the N.E., a quarter from whence we might naturally have expected that it would have blown warm; but I would observe, that before Mr. Browne and I passed the Stony Desert on our recent excursion, the winds from that point were unusually cold, and continued so until after we had crossed the Desert, and pushed farther up to the north, when they changed from cold to heat. I will not venture any conjecture74 as to the cause of this, because I can give no solution to the question, but leave it to the ingenuity75 of my readers, who are as well able to judge of such a fact as myself.
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1
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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stockade
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| n.栅栏，围栏；v.用栅栏防护 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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buoying
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| v.使浮起( buoy的现在分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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importune
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| v.强求；不断请求 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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62
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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69
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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72
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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