A Little Water Was Visible, Which I Quickly Baled Into
The Canvas Bags We Had Brought For The Purpose.
The bottom of the hole
was filled in with dead sticks, leaves, the rotting bodies of birds and
lizards, bones of rats and dingoes.
Into this ghastly mass of filth I
sunk up to my middle, and never shall I forget the awful odour that arose
as my feet stirred up the mess. Nevertheless water was there, and
thankful I was to find it, even to drink it as it was. After half an
hour's work in this stinking pit, sick from the combination of
smells - distinguishable above every other being the all-pervading perfume
of aboriginals - I was rewarded by some twelve gallons of water, or, more
properly speaking, liquid.
I decided to take the gin back with us, as it had been clear to me for
some time past that without the aid of natives we could not hope to find
water. With our small caravan it was impossible to push on and trust to
chance, or hope to reach the settled country still nearly five hundred
miles ahead in a bee-line. Even supposing the camels could do this
enormous stage, it was beyond our power to carry sufficient water for
ourselves. The country might improve or might get worse; in such weather
as we now experienced no camel could go for more than a few days without
water. I felt myself justified, therefore, in unceremoniously making
captives from what wandering tribes we might fall in with.
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