What Became of the White Savage Read Free

captain and the second mate. After two weeks with no wind at all, followed by a period of foul wind, a good breeze from the south finally set in and they were able to breathe again. But then, two more men fell ill; no one could understand why. Two deaths, one wounded man, three sick: there weren’t enough hands to hoist full sail and the captain had no choice but to go on under reduced sail even though the winds were favourable. Water rations were reduced.
    They sailed well clear of the west coast and the north-western tip of Australia. Coming into the Gulf of Carpentaria they followed the coastline at a distance. With the aid of a telescope, they could make out nothing but inhospitable mangrove swamps and long stretches of sand. The captain never dared to give the order to take a closer look, sailing further from the coast in the evening, and only approaching again in the morning. The Arafura Sea seemed to go on for ever. They spent a week navigating in this cautious manner. The islands of the Torres Strait came into view, but the captain did not want to make landfall there for fear of being attacked by savages. The heat had once more become intolerable. There was no improvement in the sick men’s condition.
    The schooner headed full south and tried to find a passage through the maze of sandy islands and coral reefs that rose out of the water and threatened constantly to rip open the ship’s hull. On the third day, they managed to get reasonably close to shore and found a welcoming bay, bordered by a ring of trees, behind a rocky peninsular. The captain decided to explore it, telling the men that if this area proved to be as arid as the others, they would abandon Australia and head for Java. The dinghy was launched, the larboard watch called; they rowed to shore, pulling hard on the oars and landed on the beach with four empty barrels to be filled with fresh water.
    Yes, it was after the Cape that things had gone from bad to worse. Now, lying on his bed of ferns, he thought longingly of water: a great jug of fresh water.
    He went to sleep, forgetting his hunger. Several times in the night, he woke up with a start, expecting to be roused by an order for more sails, with the reassuring sound of bare feet on the boards and the snoring of his shipmates. But no, there was only the silence of this alien land, a bed of leaves instead of his hammock. He closed his eyes again, amazed that he was still alive.

    In the morning, it took him a few moments to recall the previous day’s events. He leapt up, knocking down his makeshift hut. The sun had just risen, but no birdsong had announced the dawn. He headed back along the wooded valley towards his lookout point at the top of the cliff. One glance was enough for him to realise there would be no rescue that day: heavy clouds were scudding across a lowering sky, the sea was flecked with white horses, huge rollers were breaking on the reef that bounded the bay, the surface of the water alive with waves criss-crossing it. No mariner would risk sailing his ship into this.
    He felt crushed by the physical sensation of his solitude. Letting himself slide to the ground, he put his head on his knees and fought back the tears of rage that engulfed him. Thirst made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. On the ridge, the sand blew up in whirls, whipped up by gusts of wind into short-lived tornadoes.
    He went back down to the beach and followed the bay towards the south. The trees he’d guessed at in vague outline the day before became a forest, and by the time he reached them, he realised he was in a mangrove swamp. Trunks rose out of the muddy, murky water, where there lurked God knows what kind of creatures. Turning away from the sea, he began to walk along the side of the gully. The plateau dropped down into a vague plain, the swamp stretching inland as far as the eye could see. Discouraged, he turned back and retraced his steps. Even if he had found a way through, what would he have