A short story by Craig Cormick
CAPE YORK, 1848 — Kennedy's blood is draining out of him. Seeping slowly into the damp soil. He is lying in the mud with three spear wounds. One in his back, one in his side and one in his thigh. He can feel his life slipping away. He knows he will never see civilisation again. Will probably never see another civilised person again. Will die in this accursed tropical wilderness.
The reporters crowd around him closely. Eager to see every trickle of his blood. They can tell he hasn't got much time left. Can see the red flecks appearing in his spittle. It is tragic, they think. That is the word. Tragic. The rescue ship Ariel barely 10 miles away and Edmund Kennedy, after crossing hundreds of miles of wilderness, has been speared within reach of safety. They write in their open notebooks — Tragic.
"Would you describe your situation as tragic?", one of the reporters asks. A small fat man in dark cardigan, coming undone at the sleeves.
Edmund Kennedy looks around himself, his eyes widening a little, and he opens his lips to speak. The reporters poise their pencils over their pads, ready to spear them down sharply, recording his dying words. But he says nothing.
"Mr Kennedy", says another reporter, stepping a little closer. He is also a small man. With a bright red bulb of a nose. A map of purple veins. "You've just been speared", he says. "Some would say you're dying."
Edmund Kennedy blinks a little and turns to this man. The reporters ready their sharp pencils again. "How does it feel?", the vein-nosed reporter asks.
But Kennedy only stares at him as if he is speaking a foreign tongue that he cannot understand.
"They will call your expedition a failure", says another reporter. Also a small man. As he calls to the explorer, his eyebrows rise like dark question marks.
Edmund Kennedy licks his pale lips. Slowly. Leaves blood on them. Wants to ask them who exactly will call it a failure. But he cannot draw breath. The spear appears to have pierced his lungs.
"They will say you failed", says the reporter again. "Say that you never even completed half your expedition. Never even crossed to the gulf. Say that your men died and that you let the empire down."
Edmund Kennedy tries to shake his head. It has not been his fault. He has been a great man. A noble leader. He has struggled against untold adversities. Picking his way along a stretch of coast never meant to be trodden by men with carts and sheep.
The marine surveyors, Captain Owen Stanley and Phillip Parker King, were both fools to believe that an overland journey to Port Essington should be made along the cape and not further inland. And he was a fool to have agreed to lead the expedition on that route. A fool for fame and immortality. A damned fool.
"Damned!", he tries to mutter. But the words will not come. He looks again at the ring of reporters encircling him.
They have no idea of the difficulties of travelling through jungles and mangroves. Progressing inch by inch. Have no idea how the toil could wear men down. Even the greatest of men. He has to try to tell them.
"Would you call yourself a poor leader?", calls another reporter.
Now Edmund Kennedy tries to rise up on one elbow. He looks around for Jacky Jacky, who has been carrying him for the past day. Carrying the weight of leadership of the expedition. He looks for him. But cannot see him. Only the ring of wild men around him.
He waves an arm feebly, trying to ward them off. But they press closer. Know it won't be long now.
"Mr Kennedy", calls the reporter with the dark cardigan. "How did it feel when the men began dying on you?"
Kennedy remembers that the first death on the expedition was a native they had shot for attacking them. Then there was Costigan. He wants to tell them that was an accident. The fool shot himself while struggling to get his rifle under cover. Out of the drenching rain. And he wants to tell this to the reporters. Wants to tell them how it both saddened and angered him.
And he wants to tell them about the rains. And the ticks. And leeches. And how the expedition livestock died. Then their meat went putrid. They could only make two or three miles' progress each day. It was an impossible task. But he also wants to tell them that he never gave up. Never!
"Who would you blame for your failure?", calls another reporter.
"Yes, who?"
"Who?"
They are pushing closer now. Almost right on top of him. Frenzied. Close enough to reach out and touch him if they dared. Sharpened pencils poised menacingly. Then the small reporter in the dark cardigan reaches out. Asks, "Will you blame the blacks?".
The others watch cautiously. Wait to see what Mr Kennedy's response will be.
"The blacks have pursued you for days, have they not?", the small man asks. "Have cast spears at your back in cowardly attacks. Have hidden in the shadows to ambush you. Robbed you when you were wounded. Slain your men."
Edmund Kennedy looks about him fearfully. Where is Jacky Jacky? Have these wild men gotten to him already? Or has he escaped? Is he making his way to the ship with the expedition journals? He hopes to God he has escaped these savages.
The short fat reporter in the dark cardigan sees that Mr Kennedy is not able to answer him and swats a mosquito on his face. He looks at it distastefully. He is growing bored with this already. He lowers his pencil and picks at the wool around his frayed sleeve. Unravels it a little. Then he turns to regard the men around him.
"Personally", he says, "I think the colonies and the empire need great men like Mr Kennedy. And he could be a very great man. A great leader. He led his expedition through inhospitable lands where no white man had ever trodden before. But he was dealt a cruel blow by the treacherous natives."
The men around him nod and make a note in their books. Treacherous natives.
The man standing directly beside the cardiganed reporter, an illustrator, begins drawing a quick sketch. A picture of Mr Kennedy standing, pitching forward, a spear having struck him in the back. His arms are thrown up. The great man struck down by a cowardly attack. The pose is quite heroic, the reporter thinks. Quite appropriate. The illustrator then draws some dark hidden faces peering around thick tree trunks. The savage assailants.
The reporter looks around him cautiously. Just to make sure there aren't any dark faces there. Hunting them. Spears poised. But he sees nothing. There aren't even thick trees in the grassy plain where Edmund Kennedy lies dying. He swats at another mosquito.
The small man with the blood-veined nose leans forward and asks, "Mr Kennedy, would you describe the blacks as treacherous?". He has already written the word but he wants to hear Mr Kennedy say it.
But Mr Kennedy says nothing.
The reporter sees that he will have to prompt him a little.
"Fetch the black boy", he says.
"Yes. Fetch the black boy", says the dark cardiganed reporter.
The ring of men opens a little and one of them pushes Jacky Jacky forward. The ring closes behind him and he falls to his knees by the dying explorer.
Edmund Kennedy recognises him at once. "Jacky Jacky", he says softly. The reporters stab quickly. Pencils jotting quickly on their pads.
"Are you well now?", asked Jacky Jacky.
"I don't care for the spear wound in my leg, Jacky, but for the other two spear wounds in my side and back, and I am bad inside, Jacky!"
The reporters write each word quickly. Jacky Jacky replies so softly they can't quite hear the words and have to press closer.
Jacky Jacky has said that black fellows always die when they get speared in the back. Edmund Kennedy then coughs up a little pink spittle. The reporters wait for the words to come.
"I am out of wind, Jacky."
"Are you going to leave me?"
"Yes, my boy; I am going to leave you; I am very bad, Jacky, you take the books, Jacky, to the Captain, but not the big ones; the Governor will give you anything for them."
Jacky Jacky nods.
"Jacky, give me paper and I will write." The reporters press in even closer still. Jotting the words quickly. Anxious to see what the great man will write.
Jacky Jacky draws out a piece of paper and a pencil from somewhere inside his clothes and passes them to the dying man. Guiding his fingers around them. Mr Kennedy looks hard at them a moment, then slowly stabs the pencil to the paper. But before he can write a single word he falls back. Dead.
The small man with the dark cardigan kicks Mr Kennedy in the leg. Then again, closer to the spear wound.
"He's definitely dead", he says. "A pity. That was getting quite good."
"Do you think the black boy speaks English?", asks another reporter. Despite having just written down his conversation with Kennedy.
"Probably not very well", says the vein-nosed reporter.
"Ask him", says the reporter in the dark cardigan, picking at the thread around his sleeve once more.
"You speekee English?", asks the vein-nosed reporter.
Jacky Jacky lifts his head slowly and looks at him. Regards the curious markings on his nose. Like a map of the rivers of the cape country around them. Regards all the reporters carefully. Knows that like the Yadhaigana people, through whose land they are passing, that they are waiting for a chance for confrontation, and will turn violent if provoked by the wrong actions. He knows he should not take his eyes from them. Knows how suddenly they could turn on him.
"You savvy?", the vein-nosed reporter asks again.
Jacky Jacky nods his head slowly. "I speak good English", he says.
The reporters all smile as one. Like a pack. "What's your name?", asks the reporter in the dark cardigan. Very slowly.
"They call me Jacky Jacky", he says. He has no intention of telling them his real name — Galmarra — the song man.
"You could be a hero if you're willing to cooperate with us", says the cardiganed reporter.
Jacky Jacky narrows his eyes a little. "What do you want?", he asks.
"We only want you to tell us a story", says the cardiganed reporter. "We only want your story."
Galmarra does not want to give these men his story. Knows they will take it and make it their own story.
"What do you want?" he asks again.
"How does this sound?", asks the vein-nosed reporter. "Jacky Jacky is the finest type of noble savage, who alone lived to tell the tragic tale of the death of Mr Kennedy, who, so close to his goal, with treacherous natives persistently hanging on his footsteps, fell at last beneath their spears."
"Yes, that's good", says the dark-cardiganed man. "But how will Jacky Jacky get away from the wild blacks?"
The reporters look at each other blankly. Then turn to Jacky Jacky. He looks back at them, and then says, "That night I left him near dark. I would go through the scrub and the blacks threw spears at me; a great many; and I went back into the scrub. Then I went down the creek which runs into Escape River, and I walked along the water in the creek, very easy, with my head only above water, to avoid the blacks, and get out of their way. In this way I went half-a-mile. Then I got out of the creek and got clear of them, and walked all night nearly, and slept in the bush without a fire."
"Yes", says the cardiganed man. "He appears on the beach and waves wildly to the ship."
"But they think he is one of the wild blacks", says another, writing furiously in his book.
"Yes. But the savages are after him. They are onto his track. And if he cannot attract the attention of the crew, they will spear him."
"I like it", says the reporter with the dark cardigan. "It's got real drama. But he does attract their attention, and a boat comes to save him just as the wild blacks are about to cast spears into his back."
"Only the heroic and devoted Jacky Jacky lived to tell the tale", says the dark cardiganed reporter again.
All the reporters write that line.
"And what about the rest of the party?", asks the vein-nosed reporter. "The ones left behind at Shelburne Bay and at Weymouth Bay?"
The reporter with the dark cardigan picks distractedly at his sleeve again. Unravels the wool. Unravels the plot. "I think we should let them die in the wild. Heroic but tragic deaths."
"Perhaps we should save some?", says a man beside him. Younger than the rest. New at the trade. Jacky Jacky could lead a rescue party to save them just as the encircling blacks were about to spear them", he says.
"Or perhaps they should all be slain and eaten by the blacks", says the illustrator, planning the picture in his head already.
"Are they known to be cannibals?", the young reporter asks.
The rest of his colleagues turn to regard him with a scornful look. "They will be if we report they are", says the cardiganed reporter. As if stating one of the basic commandments.
"And what of Jacky Jacky?", asks young reporter.
But the cardiganed man does not need to answer. Most of the reporters have known his type before. Have interviewed him. Have written his story. Made him into a hero. Rewarded him with valuables and attention. Maybe they'd even have an official lithograph of him made. Then one day he'd be left alone in the wilderness. Ignored as they moved on to the next story. He'd probably take to drink. End badly. Fall into a campfire or something.
"We'll make sure you're well provided for", says the cardiganed reporter to Jacky Jacky. "As long as you cooperate with us."
"First I bury Mr Kennedy", says Jacky Jacky.
"It doesn't matter", says the cardiganed reporter. "As long as we say you've buried him he will be buried." He slaps at another mosquito. Wants to be gone from this infernal swamp.
"How does this sound?" he asks. "You say, 'I caught him in my arms and held him; and then I turned round myself and cried. I was crying a good while until I got well; that was about an hour, and then I buried him. I digged up the ground with a tomahawk, and covered him over with logs and grass and my shirt and trousers. That night I left him near dark.'"
"It sounds fine to me", says another reporter, writing it down. Also wishing to be gone from there.
"Truly the noblest of noble savages", says the vein-nosed reporter. And then, quite overcome by his own purple prose, says, "In the cities this story will be the sensation of the year. People will weep when they read our reports. They will raise a public subscription to fund the building of a cenotaph on this site, larger than that built for fallen warriors. And they will look back, many years hence, and ask each other if they remember what they were doing when they heard the news that Mr Kennedy had been killed."
The other reporters nod. Make more notes. Slap at mosquitoes.
"Fine, then", says the dark cardiganed reporter, still unravelling his sleeve further. "I think we can finish up here." Then he says to Jacky Jacky, "You can carry our gear".
"I carry Mr Kennedy's journals to safety", says Jacky Jacky. "I save Mr Kennedy's story."
"The journals!", says the reporter with the dark cardigan. "Yes. The journals! We've got to have those." The reporters all turn towards the explorer's saddle bags. The journals might have only the scantest of lines in them, but they will tell Mr Kennedy's story in his own words. Much more tragic than the black boy's words. They can take his words of grief and suffering and self-doubt and accusations of official incompetence and turn him into a valiant hero. Yes. They must have them!
They quickly pick through the saddle bags. But they are empty! The reporters turn back to Jacky Jacky. Anger on their faces. But he is gone.
"The little devil", says the reporter with the veined nose. "Quick. After him. We've got to get those journals before he reaches the ship."
But Jacky Jacky is gone. Melted into the darkness. Wading the crocodile-infested rivers with only his head out of the water. Carrying the heavy burden of Mr Kennedy's story to safety. He will never deliver the journals to the captain of the Ariel. Arriving with only a small notebook and his own story. And he will carry the weight of that story forever.
[From Unwritten Histories, an anthology to be published by Aboriginal Studies Press later this year.]