the Darling natives.
It can be imagined how these incessant attacks, combined with the
harassing nature of the country, gave the party all they could do to hold
their own, and but for the prompt and plucky manner in which the attacks
were met, not one of them would have survived.

After crossing the Mitchell, steering north, they got into poor country,
thinly-grassed and badly-watered, with the natives still hanging on their
flanks. On the 28th of December, the blacks began to harass the horses,
and another hard struggle took place. Storms of rain now set in, and they
had to travel through dismal tea-tree flats, with the constant
expectation of being caught by a flood in the low-lying country.

In January, they had a gleam of hope. On the 5th they came to a
well-grassed valley, with a fine river running through it, which they
named the Archer. On the 9th they crossed another river, which they
supposed to be the one named the Coen on the seaward side. But once
across this river, troubles gathered thick again; the rain poured down
constantly, the country became so boggy that they could scarcely travel,
and to crown all their misfortunes, two horses were drowned when crossing
the Batavia, and six others were poisoned and died there.

Fate seemed now to have done her worst, and the explorers faced the
future manfully. Burying all that they could dispense with, they packed
all their remaining horses and started resolutely to finish the journey
on foot. On the 14th two more of their horses died, and the blacks once
more came up behind to reconnoitre. As may be imagined, the whites were
not in a patient humour, and this last skirmish was brief and severe.

On the 17th two more horses died from the effects of the poison plant.
Fifteen only were left out of the forty-two with which they had started.
They were now approaching the narrow point of the Cape, and found
themselves on a dreary waste of barren country whereon only heath grew,
and which was intersected with boggy creeks.

On the 10th of January, they caught a glimpse of the sea from the top of
a tree, and on the 20th they were in full view of it. As they went on,
they were entangled in the same kind of scrub that baffled Kennedy, and
at last on the 29th, after some days of scrub-cutting, it was determined
to halt the cattle, whilst the brothers should push on to Somerset in the
endeavour to find a more practicable track. In the tangled, scrubby
country through which