13^th February 1861: “If I turn my face to the east, I can taste the salt in the sea breeze. However, a murky swampland filled with twisted mangroves blocks our path to the ocean. Had Burke heeded my warning about the extreme weather in this country, we would not be caught in monsoonal rains that threaten to drown us. Father, I am losing faith in my leader. I am losing faith in this expedition. I fear Burke’s ignorance of the perils in this land will see my death before I see your face again —”

“Pack up, Wills,” Burke says. “We’re turning back.”

He stands outside the square of canvas I use for a makeshift tent. Leech-infested mud covers his breeches up to his knees. I close the notebook, being careful not to let the hanging mist smudge my words. I do not dwell on the fact my father may never read my private musings. My writings to him provide relief from Burke’s poor judgement. But though I, too, see no way forward, I fear going back.

“We only have supplies for twenty-seven days,” I say. “It will take us double that to reach Brahe and his men at the depot camp. And travelling through the summer heat will kill us.”

“We’ll halve the rations,” Burke says. “At least our backs will be to this god-forsaken weather.”

I climb from my tent and tilt my face to the oppressive bank of cloud. How quickly one forgets the feel of a dry tongue when standing in the rain. At least in the dry I can unroll the maps I’ve so carefully tended to and pray God shows me a shorter path to take. I do not dare take them out now. To have the rain run the ink would spell our doom.

#

16^th February 1861: I expect us to reach our temporary camp by mid-day, where our team members, King and Gray, wait with the pack animals. I hope the camel’s injured foot has healed. He will not make the journey back to the depot camp if he’s lame. Even though we will need to halve our daily rations, I look forward to a decent meal. Burke and I finished the last of our rations last night —”

Burke glares at King and Gray, then throws an empty sack onto the ground. “You gluttons!” He spreads his arms wide and gestures to the barren landscape we are about to cross. “Do you see a store from which to purchase more grain? Do you see an English farm from where to buy eggs?”

“We didn’t eat the food,” Grays says. “It was rats. Hundreds of the blighters. Clean chewed through the sacks before our eyes.”

Burke’s eyes smoulder with fury. “Then pray the rats return tonight so we’ll have something else to eat.”

#

4^th March 1861: “I’ve never eaten camel meat. It’s tough and gamey, but the charred flesh fills my aching stomach with a warmth I cannot describe. I must confess I did not believe Gray about rats eating the food, but each night they came in plagues that would shame the numbers in London’s sewers. What they did not eat, they spoiled with their faeces, diminishing our already scarce supplies. We supplemented our rations by shooting the lame camel, but with one less pack animal, we can no longer carry all our equipment —”

“What we did not use yesterday, we leave behind today,” Burke says.

“We won’t need this,” Gray says, tossing the satchel containing the maps, the quills, and my journal into a pile of cooking pots we haven’t used for weeks. “There’ll be no need to draw a map. From our discarded equipment, anyone will see where we’ve been.”

I leap from where I’m saddling Billy, our pack horse, and pluck the satchel from the pile.

“These maps are irreplaceable,” I say.

“So is my life,” Gray says, snatching at the satchel. “One less bag is one less pound for the horse to carry.”

King steps forward and shoves Gray in the chest.

“The maps stay,” he says. “I’ll be damned if I’m lost out here with the likes of you.”

Gray sneers. “You playing boss now, soldier-boy?”

King drops his hand to the knife on his belt.

“Don’t give me a reason to lighten the load by your twelve stones.”

King is not a tall man, but he creates a formidable presence when he puffs out his chest. Gray, however, is a coward. He spits into the dirt and walks away, kicking over a canteen of water left on the ground. As the water soaks into the earth, so too does my hope for our survival.

#

7^th April 1861: “Burke shot Billy today. I blame myself. If I’d been less concerned about adding my observations to the map, I’d have noticed Gray stealing Billy’s water ration for himself. But am I less guilty of thievery? Though my lips crack from thirst and my parched throat torments me, did I not tip the last of my water into my inkpot so I could sketch the cross of stars I saw in the southern sky.”

“How many days travel to the depot camp?” Burke asks.

I can’t think. The hellish heat saps my energy. The gunshot that ended Billy’s anguish from sand colic bangs like a hammer in my head. My stomach cramps from eating the skilligolee too fast. I should have copied King and sipped the watery porridge, but after resisting food for a day to spare the rations, I could not contain my hunger and wolfed down my serving.

“Ten days walk,” King says, from his resting place against a rock. “We passed that tree over there ten days out on our way north.”

I force my eyes open and look across the dry landscape to the lone tree in the distance. I remember drawing it on the map. It stood out because there is not another tree that height for as far as the eye can see. But King has not factored in the change in our circumstances.

“Twelve days,” I say. “When we headed north, we had full stomachs and fresh legs, not to mention two beasts to bear our load.”

“Twelve days,” King agrees.

Burke sighs. “We have eight days of rations left if we stretch it.”

King tips back his hat, revealing his sun-reddened face.

“Then we need to find more food.”  He climbs to his feet and wanders toward the tree.

Burke studies me. “The meat from the horse will give us three extra days.”

Seeking relief from the hammer in my head, I press my fingers into my temples. “Only two. The meat will spoil in the heat.” The hammer pounds harder. Giving up, I lean forward and pull the map from the satchel. I mark Billy’s resting place with an X.

#

11^th April 1861: “Despite the harsh environment, I’m astounded at the diversity of flora. Father, I look forward to showing you the new plants I’ve discovered —”

“Can we eat this?” King asks.

He holds out a plant that looks like Portulaca, an edible plant I know from my botany studies. I take a leaf and crush it to my tongue. The mildly sour taste confirms my suspicion. “Where did you find this?”

“In the gully. The ground beneath the rocks is damp. If we dig, we might strike water.”

Burke rummages through a pack and pulls out a small spade. “Gray,” he calls. “Get down there and fill us a canteen.”

Gray is resting beneath the square of canvas. He grudgingly gets to his feet. “Whereabouts?”

“Ten paces up the gully,” King says. “You’ll see the plants easy enough.”

While Gray sets off to find water, I pull out the map and draw a picture of the plant alongside the marked trail. But when I see how close the plant is to Billy’s X, I realise how little progress we are making.

“We’re moving too slow,” I say to Burke. “Brahe will still be at the depot camp but he won’t wait forever.”

“I only told him to wait three months,” Burke says. “He’ll be long gone.”

“I told him to wait four months.” I haven’t told Burke I secretly amended his orders. At the time of planning the expedition north, Burke would listen to no one but himself. But considering our circumstances, I’ll welcome his reprimand.

Burke clenches his hands into fists, but then he sighs.

“Your impertinence is forgiven.”

“He is well stocked with supplies.”

Burke stares across the barren landscape. “We’ve got to reach him first.”

“Hey, hey! Have a look at this.”

Gray stumbles towards us, dragging something long that shimmers coppery-black. It’s not until he reaches us, I realise what it is.

“Jesus, Gray,” I say, jumping to my feet. “That’s a snake.”

“A bloody brown,” King says.

“You fool, Gray,” Burke says. “What if it bit you?”

“It’s already dead,” Gray says. “Found it under a rock. These are beaut cooked. Get a fire going. We’ll eat it before the flies do.”

“Not bloody likely,” King says. “You’ll be deader than Billy if you eat that.”

“With no more horse meat, we’ll be dead if we don’t,” Burke says. “Stoke the fire.”

Gray raises the limp snake and waves it in King’s face. “You’re not the only one who knows how to cook bush food. You don’t want to eat it, fine. There’ll be more for me.”

#

12^th April 1861: “Burke’s inept leadership is testing my patience. He and Gray have fallen ill after eating the snake. There is little King or I can do to help. Only God knows their fate —”

Burke swings his fist at Gray. “You’ve bloody poisoned me,” he shouts. Spit flicks from his mouth, but then he clutches his stomach and bends over, seething through his teeth in agony. “Bloody bastard.”

Gray also clutches his stomach. Sweat rolls down his face. A brown stain seeps through the back of his breeches. “Don’t blame me,” he says, breathing hard. “What about Wills’ weed? Thought it didn’t taste right.”

Burke scrambles through the dirt and knocks Gray to the ground. “Is Wills sick? Is King?” He draws back his arm and punches Gray in the face. “They didn’t eat the snake, did they?” He punches Gray again and again. Gray’s lip splits and blood spurts from his nose.

King leaps into the fray and clinches his arms around Burke. “Get off him,” he says. “He’s sick too, goddammit.”

Burke attempts another swing at Gray, but King rolls backward and pulls Burke onto the ground. For a moment, Burke lies breathless, but then his stomach cramps and his bowels release.

“Jesus, Burke,” King says, rolling out from beneath him. “Wills, get something to help clean up these bastards.”

I run back to our pitiful pile of equipment. The only thing useful is the cloth that’s wrapped around the shotgun to keep the dust out of the firing mechanism. Damn Gray. Damn that snake. Damn Burke’s ignorance. Grabbing the cloth, I run back to King. The mess of stools seeping through Burke’s pants makes me dry retch.

“Give it here,” King says, taking the cloth. “I got this. Get rid of that snake before we’re all bloody poisoned.”

I return to the fire pit. What’s left of the snake is still in the pan. Using a stick, I scrape out the remains but the fleshy mush turns my stomach. Carrying the pan far from the camp, I toss the lot into a clump of Spinifex.

#

18^th April 1861: “We buried Gray today. I’m trying to convince myself his death was some kind of punishment for his role in Billy’s suffering. In truth, as second-in-command, I must bear responsibility. It was I who insisted we continue, though neither Burke nor Gray was in any condition to travel. The rancid snake meat scoured their bowels for three days. Gray suffered the worst. The beating from Burke did not help. In the end, Gray just lay down. It’s cruel to suggest, but if one thing comes from his death, it’s that there is one less mouth to feed. On this last leg of our race to Brahe, the land offers nothing by way of sustenance. I’ve mapped a shorter route which will save a day’s walk, but Burke has resumed command and he insists we rest. We’re not leaving until tomorrow. I only pray that tomorrow is not too late —”

We’re greeted by an ominous silence when we reach the depot camp. The fire pit is cold. There’s no sign of Brahe or his men. Fresh camel tracks mark the ground but in the fading light, it’s too hard to tell which way Brahe headed.

My impatience with Burke’s incompetency snaps. “We shouldn’t have stopped for as long as we did. We could have been here yesterday.”

Burke’s face flushes redder than his sunburn. “Search everywhere,” he says. “Brahe might have left us supplies.”

Desperate for a scrap of food, a mouthful of water, a bullet to end my misery, I search the camp. Finding nothing, I collapse to the ground. Despite my efforts, I will die like Gray.

“Over here,” King shouts.

I stagger to my feet and stumble to where King stands next to a tree.

“Marks,” he says. “In the bark. What are they?”

I trace my finger over the gouges in the wood. “It’s a message,” I say. “Look. APR-21-61. That’s yesterday’s date.”

“D-I-G,” King says, running his hand over carved letters. “3 FT – N. W.” He looks at the ground. “Brahe buried something.”

King drops to his knees and searches the ground around the tree. Finding a patch of turned earth, he uses his fingers to dig. I kneel beside him and scoop away the loosened soil. Joining us, Burke peers over our shoulders.

“What’s there?” he asks.

Deep in the ground, my fingers strike wood. “Supplies,” I say. “Buried to protect it from vermin. Help me get it out.”

We dig a box from the ground and pry open the lid. Inside is a canteen of water, strips of dried food, medicine, shotgun cartridges. And a note.

I roll back on my heels and read the message aloud. “It’s from Brahe. They couldn’t wait any longer. They were too on low supplies. Brahe left us what he could spare on the chance we’re still alive.” I cast my eyes over the remainder of the message then crush the note in my fist. “They left at dawn. We missed them by a day.”

#

23^rd April 1861: “We’re leaving the depot camp today. King and I wanted to follow Brahe, but Burke has over-ruled. He wants to head south-west and try to reach the outer post of a cattle station. As it’s my duty to map his expedition, I cannot in conscience abandon my leader. Father, my fate is in God’s hands now. I only pray he is not as unforgiving as this land —”

 

The Dig Tree is based on the true story of what became mythologised in Australia as an heroic failure- the expedition led by Robert Burke and William Wills, who together with John King and Charles Gray became the first Europeans to travel the length of Australia from South to North. On the return journey, having missed William Brahe and the backup party at Coopers Creek by only 9 hours, Burke, Wills and King decided to try and reach Mount Hopeless but Burke and Wills succumbed to exhaustion and starvation in the June. Initially buried at Coopers Creek, nearly two years later, they received Australia’s first state funeral and were buried at Melbourne General Cemetery.