Nothing Lasts Forever Read online

  “They are trying to keep us safe, I think,” Mel said, trying to quell his own rising anger and fear. “Who knows what ferocious animals prowl around this strange land looking for a tasty meal?”

  After two hungry days in the steamy shed with only a barrel of putrid water to drink, a group of white men arrived to sort out their slaves. The south Sea Islanders were hosed down with river water to quell the prevailing stench, just as the cattle in faraway Samoa were regularly hosed. Mel realized with some anguish that the white men had paid money…coins of trade…for the unfortunate islanders, and considered themselves to be their owners and masters. Mel had to swallow hard to control the rage threatening to once again consume him. Didn’t these white people realise that just because the skin colour was different, these islanders were equally human, not to be bought and sold like livestock?

  Mel, with five companions, was roped in a line and marched ten long miles to their new master’s land: a government grant, Mel overheard. Whatever that meant. He heard the area was called Jacob’s Well, and suited the growing of cane. They were issued with loose fitting trousers, shirts and leather boots which were rarely worn. Some of the previous Kanakas had formed family groups. Sometimes, though rarely, female Kanakas were acquired to take care of cooking for the slaves. Consequently they paired off and qualified for individual huts. The unattached male Kanakas shared larger huts, sometimes up to twenty living together.

  It took a while to learn what was expected of him to tend the cane, and Mel suffered many cuts and scratches from the accursed cane stalks. Later would come the burn-off and harvest…back breaking work. Then the plow-in and re-plant.

  The snakes were the main problem; brown devils that loved the shelter of the cane where they found unlimited food in the vermin who also liked to live there. And when one of the Kanakas was bitten by an Eastern Brown, with medical attention arriving too late to save him, Mel decided to persevere with his boots.

  It was all hard work, and Mel wondered if his body would ever stop aching. At least their food rations were much improved from the slop they’d been given on their voyage, and their digestive systems recovered surprisingly well.

  On one overcast miserable day one of the slaves tried to run away, and was dragged back by men on horseback. They were all forced to witness the flogging, and Mel was sick to his stomach as flesh was sliced from bone. Instead of putting the fear of God into the slaves, and acting as a warning, it stirred up resentment, and a lot of them plotted revenge and escape. After a few like incidents, the Kanakas accepted their fate; their spirit was broken. Not so for Mel. He learned to control his rage. Nothing lasts forever.

  Chapter Three

  The overseer on the sugar-cane plantation was called Thomas, a short, stocky man with a ruddy complexion, who always wore a wide-brimmed hat. He carried a whip, which he chose not to use. He treated the young islanders with compassion and had great sympathy for their plight. When he realised Mel could speak English, he sought him out often for conversation. They could often be found crouched down using old cane stalks to write in the earth. Thomas was impressed with Mel’s prowess. What a waste!

  Mel was sure he detected tears in Thomas’s eyes when Mel eventually told his story, of the false promises made to his father, King Metafet, to procure twenty unfortunate slaves.

  For two long, hard years Mel slaved in the cane fields, his only joy the chance to talk to Thomas and hear his stories about this strange land. Then hard times hit the cane farmers. A lot of them packed up and left, others reluctantly stayed on to ride out the drought and beetle plague. Either way, the Kanakas were a liability they didn’t need. Mel heard that some Kanakas mysteriously disappeared, while others were sold off. Thomas was concerned for ‘his’ Kanakas. He felt deeply for them, more so for Mel who had lost his life of royalty in Samoa and was now but a slave.

  Thomas had a cousin on an inland sheep station, who reluctantly agreed to buy Mel on his cousin’s very persuasive recommendation via telegrams. Thomas insisted that Mel’s comprehension of English and numbers put him a cut above the rest. A number of Kanakas from the cane fields were sent to Frazer Island to work as loggers. Thomas insisted that Mel deserved better.

  A horse-drawn buggy arrived to take Mel to his new home, and Mel was presented to his new owner, William Phillips, a man referred to as a squatter. The horse and driver were accommodated overnight as the trip had been long, and the horse needed a break and plenty of hay before the long trip back.

  Mel watched in the foggy dawn light as the horse was strapped back into the shafts of the cart. His new owner spoke kindly to the horse, and Mel felt strangely comforted by that fact. It was very early; the sun not yet up. He anticipated a long drawn out day just sitting in that uncomfortable cart, but he could not alter his fate. To attempt an escape in this strange land would be folly. He knew little about the terrain and prowling animals, not to mention the threat of black retaliation.

  Mel sat straight and impassive beside William as he was whisked along at a cracking pace, on the flat access ways of the cane fields. He’d never been in a horse-drawn vehicle before, and he found it exhilarating as the wind raced through his hair. He remained poker-faced, however, but full of hope for a better life even when the jarring caused his teeth to rattle at times.

  The terrain changed quickly to steep inclines with even steeper declines, thick bush encroaching on either side. Mel found it difficult to decide at times whether they were still on the overgrown track. On several occasions Mel thought the little two-wheeled buggy would tip right over, but William was an excellent driver, and the horse seemed to pick its way carefully through the wilderness, which earned it a bit of respect from Mel, who was wary of these huge, snorting, strange animals.

  William stopped at a little creek at mid-day, and the horse drank greedily. After filling a billy-can with water, William lit a small fire, safely enclosed in rocks which they found already set up with the remnants of the last traveler’s fire within.

  William handed Mel two slabs of bread enclosing a slice of tasty cheese, which Mel ate quickly. He’d not seen cheese such as this before, and found it tasty and enjoyable. Mel watched William throw some dust (tea Leaves) into the boiling billy, put the lid on it, then swing it around at arm’s length beside him. Mel jumped back in alarm. This seemed a strange and dangerous ritual.

  William stopped swinging, poured the almost black contents from the billy into two chipped enamel mugs, adding a generous amount of sugar to both.

  “Best let it cool for a minute or two,” William advised, but sipped on his immediately.

  Mel watched the horse, free of its embracing cart, fossicking around the rocks for the spiky grass which grew in sparse clumps. Although on a long rope, Mel wondered why the animal didn’t try to run away. It couldn’t be overjoyed about pulling the cart over rocks, through sticky mud where tributaries had dried, and up seemingly insurmountable peaks, to be pushed down the other side on sliding hooves. When the horse wandered over to William, Mel was astonished to see its nostrils vibrate as it gave a low nicker. Was it asserting itself? Was it threatening? All this was new to Mel, and he wondered fleetingly what he should do if the damn horse killed its master.

  William placed a gentle hand on the horse’s nose. “You want your tea, eh, fella? Hang on while I get your mug.”

  Mel watched in astonishment as William lifted an old battered enamel bowl from under the seat of the wagon, into which he poured the last of the cooled tea with a generous amount of sugar stirred through. The horse drank, making loud slurping noises, licking every drop from the bottom of the bowl.

  William laughed. “Better drink your tea, Mel, before Storm demands that, too.”

  Mel took a sip of his cooled tea and shuddered. It was bitter but sweet, and he found he had to keep sipping just to make sure it tasted as bad as he’d first thought. The white man seemed to find pleasure in drinking his, downing several cu
ps very quickly, but Mel wasn’t at all sure he’d ever get to really enjoy tea. And the stupid horse loved it, that was the amazing thing.

  William backed Storm between the shafts while Mel rinsed their mugs and the billy in the stream, after taking a long drink of the cool refreshing water himself. They were on their way again, Storm happily trotting over reasonably level ground.

  “We’ll make camp at sunset,” William said. He’d not spoken much through the morning…he had a lot to ponder over. His first decision when planning this god-forsaken trip was to be on horseback, leading a second horse behind for the Islander. But then Thomas had informed him that Mel couldn’t ride, so the cart was a necessity, albeit a bloody nuisance. The tracks sometimes didn’t suit wheeled vehicles, and he had the fear of breaking a wheel or axle and being stranded.

  When he’d first sighted Mel, he had more than a few misgivings. There was a sullen arrogance about the Islander, a hard glint in his eyes, and the tilt of his head warned of a stubborn wariness. But the young man was polite, helpful, and not above pushing the cart when necessary. And quite handsome for an Islander, William thought.

  William wondered again why he had agreed to this madness, this dreadful trek to Logan to rescue a Kanaka. He’d had no idea in the planning what he was up against. Dan, his neighbour, had pored over maps with him on many evenings, assuring William it was an easy run of just a few days. Yeah, double that! Damn Thomas and his insistence that this had to be done, in the name of humanity. The young Islander showed no gratitude for the effort William was making to save him from a hard life on Frazer Island, and it had cost William five pounds into the bargain, money which could have been better spent, he thought with some bitterness. And all he was getting from the rescued native was surliness, and the feeling of animosity.

  Through the long afternoon, William found himself slowly warming to Mel. His English was impeccable, once he got him talking, and when Mel reluctantly talked of his past life in Samoa William saw the sadness in his eyes. He could not help but feel great pity for the young man so cruelly taken from family, home, and all he knew, to be dumped in this hostile land of bushrangers, drought and hardship. And as a slave! Good God, what an ordeal.

  “I’m against what they’ve done to you, boy. Thomas insisted you were worth saving, so we’ll wait and see how things work out for us, eh?”

  At dusk they were at another little creek, with the ready- made fireplace for the billy. William unhitched the horse and tethered him on a long rope, throwing him a bucketful of hay from the dwindling supply in the wagon. Mel felt a trusting respect for William. There were no ropes to tie him, no whip to discipline him, just good company, good food, and informative conversation. And when William said he’d been saved, Mel knew in that instant that his future showed some promise. Maybe, just maybe, better times were ahead.

  Mel helped unload the cart, with one eye on the water birds further downstream in a reedy section of the creek. William noted his interest and did a running commentary of the species, the blue heron, the crane, the magpie geese, and the egret. “There are possibly yabbies and fish there, but we don’t have the time or the equipment to catch them.”

  Dinner was a piece of smoked meat sliced and fried with potato in a pan of dripping. Mel had never smelt anything so good, and he ate with relish watching William soak up the dripping from the pan with stale bread. Even the tea was almost enjoyable, and he was beginning to relax and enjoy William’s company. They slept wrapped in blankets under the wagon.

  It was still reasonably dark, but near dawn when Mel jerked upright from deep sleep, striking his head on the axel of the cart. A chill had crept through him at the sound of shrill, raucous laughter. The sound rolled and echoed off the surrounding hills, and seemed to come from every direction. What sort of evil spirit was invading their camp-site?

  William rolled over to look at him. Mel caught the glitter of his eyes in the pre-dawn light. “It’s all right, Mel. It’s only a kookaburra.”

  “What sort of spirit is kook-a-burra?” He couldn’t even say the name without getting his tongue in a knot, his fear was so consuming.

  “No, not spirit…a bird; sometimes called a laughing jackass.”

  Mel had heard of jackass, but only in reference to a fool. “Why does this bird make a terrible sound?”

  “Not so terrible to other kookaburras. That’s how they talk,…communicate with each other. Their call carries over many miles of bush. There are lots of birds you have yet to see, but none of them are a threat to us.”

  Mel felt reassured as he crawled out from under the wagon and rubbed his aching head. With instant terror he saw them, a group of ferocious near naked black men holding spears. They were just standing, one foot resting on the calf of the other leg, leaning on their dangerous looking weapons, silent as shadows. He was tempted to throw himself back under the wagon for safety, but William stepped forward. “Hello there,” he said, his voice friendly as he squatted beside the stream. “You fellas on walkabout?”

  The eldest of the group of black men grinned as the group squatted beside William. “Walkabout,” he said, nodding his cotton-wool capped head.

  After lots of drawing in the earth and pointing and grunting, the black men rose and left.

  “No need to be afraid of the aborigines around here, Mel. Most are very civil and friendly, once they know you’re not a threat. They are very helpful with their directions, and they say we’re about one full day from ‘the gap’. I was beginning to worry that I was off course.”

  Thomas’s assurance left Mel to ponder…what on earth was ‘the gap?’

  Over breakfast and another billy of tea, shared with the horse, Mel learned of the explorer Cunningham, who found the cutting through the Great Dividing Range almost seventy years ago with the help, again, of aborigines. His exploration between Mount Cordeaux and Mount Mitchel, ‘Cunningham’s Gap’ as it has since been called, opened the Darling Downs to pastoralists and farmers, giving them invaluable but treacherous access to the port of Brisbane. Mel was in wonder. This land Australia had areas not yet seen by the white people. And yet, without doubt, this was an extremely ancient land. He had so much to learn.

  They approached the gap in the afternoon, climbing up and down small ravines and wash-outs for hours. Mel couldn’t take his eyes off the range on his right. Such rugged, high mountains he had never imagined, and seemingly insurmountable. What great force had twisted and thrust the rocks that way? He recalled the volcanic past of his homeland, and some more recent eruptions, and wondered if these mountains were still active. William assured him they were not. On his left he studied a steep, high mountain peak with a sheer rock wall facing them. Mel found it amazing that the trees, tall and spindly, could find purchase on such a steep, rocky place.

  “Bell birds.” William said.

  Mel pulled his thoughts away from the formidable peaks and granite cliffs. “Bell birds?” he repeated, no idea what William had been talking about.

  William tapped on a steel bar of the cart with the billy, to make a strange ringing sound, then pointed into the bush, now close and eerie and almost jungle-like in its gloom.

  Mel understood the resemblance. “Ah! Bell birds.”

  They found a well used camping spot beside a small pond of water. Mel wondered what surprises lay in store for him this night, and was surprised when a round, shambling creature with the shortest legs he’d ever seen, wandered past their camp site in the gloom. He worried that the creature he assumed to be a baby, would be followed by its mother, of some considerable size.

  “Does it eat men?” Mel asked, not taking his eyes off the path the creature had taken.

  William laughed. “No, it’s just a wombat. It only eats plants and roots.”

  “What about its parents?”

  “That fellow probably is a parent. They don’t grow bigger than that.”

  Mel felt slightl
y relieved. “Out there in the jungle; are there lions and bears? Could they track us down and eat us in the night?”

  “No lions in this country. And the bears…we call them koala bears, are small and live in the tree-tops to eat leaves. No, there’s nothing out here to eat us. There have been reported sightings of Yowies in some areas like this, but they don’t seem to be a threat. According to Aborigine and European folklore they are fairly elusive creatures, maybe seven feet in height, like a gorilla but with a gait more like man. No one has ever been attacked or eaten by a Yowie so don’t worry on that score, Mel.”

  Mel shook his head in wonder. So many strange animals, such a strange, rugged land.

  At mid-day they were entering the gap, a place where the sun never shone. There was no stop for lunch this day. With a vertical cliff on the left, threatening to roll loose boulders down upon them, and in places a vertical drop on the right, and barely enough room for the cart wheels to hold purchase, Mel found himself clenching his eyes closed and twisting his fists together. William was silent, fiercely concentrating on keeping the sure-footed horse on track. The path was rough and treacherous, built by previous travelers using all that was available…loose rocks and rotting logs. At one stage, William and Mel had to rebuild the track in front of them. Obviously a huge boulder had come down the cliff face, and smashed a huge chunk out of the built-up track. Using poles to maneuver rocks, and broken timbers from below to hold them in place, they proceeded cautiously through the gap. Mel realised that being in the gap overnight was not a good situation, with a rock likely to give way at any time and possibly smash into the campsite.

  At one stage, Mel looked over Williams shoulder. The view was amazing in the afternoon sun, with distant ranges like row after row of hazy blue ripples against a sky of brilliant blue. By late afternoon they were through, the thick jungle-like growth now sparser and more compact.