The Promised Land. Mudrooroo
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horses, then hobble them before turning them loose to forage for what grass there was. The remainder he ordered to set up camp, pitching the tents in a single row, at the head of which was his own and a short distance away those of the two civilians. By that time the mess had been set up and the native cook had his fire blazing while he prepared the food.
Sergeant Barron, when he had everything as he liked it, well ordered and spick and span, strode to where Sir George was sitting in his canvas folding chair, removed his kepi and lowered his voice to a rough growl as he said: ‘Would have liked to have got a bit further along, but the late start kiboshed it. Tomorrow, up at the crack of dawn and on the road by sun up. With that, we’ll make the waterhole; at least, so Monaitch assures me and what he says agrees with Bailey’s chart.’
‘Ah, yes, the Bailey expedition guide,’ Sir George replied. ‘I must have a word with him. I have heard that he is a convert.’
‘He is and it’s to the good and to the bad. Ready to obey a command, but his Jesus that and his Jesus this gets a mite overbearing, if you get my meaning.’
Sergeant Barron was about to add more to this effect, when he stopped, for his listener’s face had turned purple. Sir George’s voice shrilled as he retorted: ‘No, Sergeant, the meaning I get is good news indeed. In my time I have been a lay preacher, and the Word of God is not to be despised, nor are those who open themselves to our Lord and Master, Jesus, the very Son of God who came down to save each and all of us.’
‘Well, I’ll add my amen to all that, sir. I’ll send him along directly after we have eaten. Perhaps you can share a hymn or two,’ Barron replied, with a carefully neutral expression to which the knight could not take exception. The police sergeant turned to go, then looked over his shoulder and said: ‘Take it you’re prepared to eat police grub. Got one of my boys trained in what you might call the culinary arts. His food is basic, but filling. I’ll send over a plate for you and the lady.’
Sir George nodded, falling into the romantic past of his previous journeys, and when the plate of salt pork and beans was placed before him he ate with a gusto he had not felt for some time. He had invited Mrs Fraser to share his humble repast but did not notice that she merely pushed her food about on the plate, then fed it to her canine companion before excusing herself and going into her tent. She emerged with her drawing pad and quickly sketched the camp scene. There in the foreground sat Sir George in his canvas collapsible chair.
‘Ah, the first record,’ he said, eyeing the sketch, and then suggested that she might do another in a little while when he was communicating with the native constables. He wanted it when the sun was setting and long shadows streaking across the campsite. ‘Put in a tree or two, for I see that there is none that will give me the effect I desire.’ She nodded to this and, when the time came, followed him to Sergeant Barron who shouted as they approached: ‘Monaitch, on the double!’
A native clad in ragged shirt and canvas trousers ran towards them.
‘Civilian black, sir. Not one of mine at all and not eligible for a police issue of clothing,’ the police sergeant explained. Then, angry at such raggedness and shabbiness, he growled: ‘If the blighter put in a day or two’s work, what with everyone off to the diggings, he might dress like a king. Get them to ride or shoot all right, but an honest day’s labour, not on your nelly.’
‘All right, Sergeant, that will be enough.’ Sir George scowled as he added: ‘And he is working now, as my guide, and what’s more he is a Christian and when the occasion arises, I myself shall clothe him.’
‘Very good,’ Barron replied, his face carefully blank.
Monaitch stood before Sir George clutching a Bible. Proudly, he held it out towards the knight. ‘I carry Word of God,’ he intoned. ‘I cannot read, for he who was about to teach me was murdered by those who refused to accept Jesus as their Lord and Saviour. Fools, for they are perdition bound. Please, read me chapter and verse, for I hear you are Christian man. Good Christian man, yes? How uplifting, yes, a holy journey, undertaken in furtherance of His work.’
‘Yes, yes,’ answered Sir George, who once had been called Father by the remnants of a savage people he had instructed in the arts of civilisation and the true religion. He sought to summon up his reserves of piety, but those quaint years of being a father to savages who had ill repaid his efforts were long gone and he had other concerns to pursue now, even though he was ostensibly on a mission of mercy. The old image he now tried to invoke was for Mrs Fraser and her ready sketch pad.
‘I will preach to all of them,’ he declared, turning to her. ‘It will be a good picture, the light dawning in their dusky faces as I exhort them to forgo their cruel savagery.’
‘They’ve already done that. Good boys now, the lot of them,’ Sergeant Barron commented, defending his men.
‘But do they accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Saviour?’ Sir George replied testily, staring at the soldier who, for all he knew, could be as much in need of saving as any of the blackfellows under him.
‘That I wouldn’t know, but they accept me as their chief and the police as their new tribe,’ rejoined the sergeant. ‘That is what the governor wanted me to do and I did it. They’re loyal now and true to their uniform and me –’
‘Jesus alone is my Lord and Saviour,’ Monaitch intoned, breaking in to end the policeman’s words. He knelt and rattled off in a sing-song voice: ‘Therefore, accursed Devil, acknowledge your condemnation, and pay homage to the living and true God; pay homage to Jesus Christ, His son, and to the Holy Spirit, and depart from these servants of God, for Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, has called them to His holy grace. Accursed Devil, never dare to desecrate the holy sign of the cross. Through the same Christ our Lord, who is to come to judge the living and the dead and the world by fire.’
‘Amen, amen,’ called Sir George, shrilly. For some reason, he felt himself disliking the sentiment expressed, and this caused him to wonder from which sect the missionary had come. Still, he felt pleasure in having a convert of such fervour kneeling at his feet and clasping in both hands the cross he wore on a string about his neck. He looked around to see if Mrs Fraser was sketching this touching scene and was disappointed to find that she had disappeared. Well, she could copy it from memory.
Now, with his hand uplifted, he said, ‘Rise, my son,’ and then began to sing:
‘Speed Thy servants, Saviour, speed them!
Thou art Lord of winds and waves:
They were bound, but Thou shall free them;
Now they go to free the slaves.
Be Thou with them:
’Tis Thine arm alone that saves.
Friends, and home, and all forsaking,
Lord, we go at Thy command;
As our state Thy promise taking
While we traverse sea and land:
O be with us!
Lead us safely by the hand.’
‘Amen, amen, amen, amen!’ shouted the ecstatic Monaitch; but Sir George suddenly felt despondency sweeping over him. Once, he too had radiated such fervour, though into an unresponsive world that over the years had lessened his urges for such enthusiasms. How he longed for that more youthful time and faith, which had powered him through trackless wildernesses seeking out such as those who stood before him. ‘Hallelujah, hallelujah,’ he had shouted in exultation and those, his children, had shouted back: ‘Jesu, Jesu.’ Then, then, on fire, but now his heart held only ashes and his mind only greed for the pure gold. Gold, yes, gold, the soft glowing metal cheered him as well as fevered him. He breathed in deeply and felt that the dust particles in the air were gold, filling him with their power. Now he was ready. He took up the Bible, let it open at a page and read:
‘“At that time, as the eleven disciples were at table, Jesus was revealed to them. He reproached them for their disbelief and stubbornness, since they had put no faith in those who had seen him after