The next half hour was blessedly peaceful. We entered the gorge and steamed up, while one of the deckhands squeezed down below to hammer plugs into holes, as we were taking water. Five rivets had gone, Captain said. But Fanny, you would never guess why all was suddenly peaceful. The young McPhee girl was lost overboard! The boy, Douglas, finally took his head out of the engine-room and came into the cabin.
‘Have you seen my young sister?’ he asked, quite polite, I’ll give him that. His older sister was still clinging to the Constable’s arm, feigning fear, I don’t doubt, no thought for poor Bridget. I blame her. She is the oldest and should have kept an eye.
When it was finally established that the girl was not aboard, the peace was shattered once more with shouts and recriminations from Miss McPhee to all and sundry. Her face so red and ugly I thought it would burst, and the boy quite the opposite — silent and pale, shaking like a leaf, as well he might.
We all thought she must have gone over when the logs struck, but it is beyond my comprehension how those two could have ignored their sister’s absence for so long. Well, Captain took charge. We were close to our landing by now and Constable Naylor was put ashore to organise a search party downriver. Mack gave him a spare horse and went with him. As the Wairua pulled away I could still hear Miss McPhee going on at her brother. I would have stopped her mouth with soap if I were her mother, the things she said.
I can tell you I was glad to be back in my quiet house. Mack and the Constable didn’t find Bridget McPhee, but returned with the news that she was safe back at Pipiriki House.
Well, Fanny, now you know about it from the horse’s mouth. No doubt there will be something in the paper. Mr Hatrick is not one to let loggers get away with such behaviour.
Give dear Bernadette and Mary a kiss from their auntie, and save one for yourself.
Your loving sister,
Lil
Constable Tim Naylor
July 14th 1904
I travelled upriver on the steamboat Wairua between Pipiriki and the Houseboat at Maraekowhai. While the crew were winching up Ngaporo rapid, loggers struck the vessel. A passenger identified them as Danny O’Dowd and Pita Morrow. Forty-five minutes after leaving the rapid a lady passenger, Miss Bridget McPhee, was reported lost overboard. Captain James Jamieson pulled in to Ramanui landing and I disembarked along with two waysiders, both named Mrs Feathers. At 10 minutes to midday a farmer, Mack Feathers, and I proceeded by horseback downriver, stopping to search where we could, though the banks were high for the first half hour. No sign was seen of either clothing or the lady.
At 3.15 pm we reached Ngaporo rapid. Mr Feathers swam his horse across to take the true right bank and I remained to search the left. We searched thoroughly below the point of collision with the loggers. No sign. We then proceeded slowly downstream. Mr Feathers had difficulty due to the terrain and lack of bridle track. I passed through the vegetable gardens of the Chinese man but there was no person at home. At 4.30 pm I reached the hut of the recluse Samuel Blencoe. He informed me that the girl had been found and taken to Pipiriki. Further questioning proved fruitless. I formed the opinion that the old man is not inclined to speak freely to men of uniform.
Mr Feathers then swam his horse back across to join me and we proceeded to Pipiriki House. Miss McPhee was being cared for by her mother and hotel staff. The housekeeper, Mrs Morrow (mother of one of the loggers), was of the opinion that the victim’s mind had been damaged, though she said it was too early to be sure, as shock might have been the cause, and a good night’s sleep the cure.
Paid Mr Feathers 1/6d for the use of his horse.
Constable Tim Naylor,
RAETIHI STATION
Samuel Blencoe
I seen something move down by the river. Through the leaves I seen it all and it were ugly. Constable asked but I would never send no man to jail. Not even for that ugly thing.
On a fine morning I might walk up the river track to feel the warm mud under my toes and the sun on my poor scarred back. So it was that day. Just below the rapid they call Oakura, it were, the lowest of the triple. The birds shouting their news to all and sundry. I don’t go no further upriver than this place. So I turned and that’s when I saw. The river makes a little beach there, sandy and quiet, with the willows drooping close. It is an eddy, you might say, which pulls in any broken thing the rapids have spat out: branches, a sheep, fenceposts.
This time a man and a woman.
The man come up out of the river, dripping water and blood and dragging the dead weight of the woman. Pulling her by her torn skirts through the shallows. The man were Dannyboy O’Dowd. I didn’t know him then but heard later that’s who he were. He looked dead beat and she looked plain dead, lying still and white where he laid her. Down he knelt beside her, the blood from a head wound colouring the poor drowned skin of her face. A wet, white, still thing.
I watched from above.
Danny touched her face, so gentle. I heard his moan like a sick animal. He turned her to her side maybe to see if any wound might be there. She rolled like a dead weight. He held her there, waiting, kneeling over her, but no movement from that poor white body. The man stood. Even from above I could see him shake.
A second man come up from the river. Pita Morrow. That little eddy do catch them all. Their log raft came after. I heard they were going to try floating logs down, the daft buggers. Pita Morrow would sail a craft to hell and back for a bit of a lark. Those great tree trunks were turning lazy in the current; they would slip away soon enough if those men paid no heed.
I don’t know what Pita said to Dannyboy. Some words passed, I seen that. Whatever it was might as well been bullets shot from a gun the way Danny bucked. In a trice he were roaring angry. He whipped around to face Pita, shouting into his face about it all being his fault and look what he done — that sort of blaming words. It happened so quick I hardly seen it. That sunny-faced man suddenly a living torrent of fury, fists flying and words shouted unto the heavens. Even the birds stopped their song. When I think back on that sight I see a man angry at more than a ruined girl. All manner of rage and despair rode on his back, gave strength to his arm.
I heard the smack of fist on head; I heard the crack of bone. I seen the dark man flung clean away off his feet and into the river. I seen the current take him, floating and still, away downriver. The logs moving, too, pushed out by his splash maybe — away they went, silent and still as poor Pita. A terrible sad sight.
When I looked back to see if Danny would run after the raft and the floating man he were on his knees again by the woman. Now she were bucking like a horse, a spout of water shooting from her mouth. She come back. Our Bridie come back from the dead. The poor soul coughing and retching and bringing up buckets full of river. Dannyboy holding her in his arms, wiping away the spew, no thought for the other man or his raft of trees.
I come down then. I seen the look on his face, so proud and loving. Who would think his rage had just sent Pita Morrow to his grave? You might think the man born again into a new life, so mild and sweet in all his ways towards the girl. That Dannyboy were crying like a baby, smiling to see her quieten in his arms and breathe more easy. Her eyes steady on his face. She were a beauty all right, with her copper hair wet and shining and her features neat and all in their right place, but the eyes dark and empty like, as if she were still in the river with the water running through her. A queer old sight the two of them.
He brung the girl down to my hut, holding her close like a newborn lamb.
‘I saved her. I saved her.’ He said it over and over, eyes shining at his own good deeds. What about the man he just ruined? But I never said no word. He sat on my log while I brung the fire back alive and put on a kettle. But she would drink no warm tea nor do nothing for herself. Dannyboy moaned to see her so limp and helpless. He would not lay her down by the fire but wrapped her in my blanket and rocked her, but still she shivered. He kissed her sweet face but ever it remained white as marble.
&
nbsp; I spoke then. Danny would do nothing but rock her. ‘She must go to Pipiriki,’ I said. ‘She needs a doctor or the Sisters. Take her to Mrs Morrow.’
That brought us both to our senses. The word Morrow. You could see the thoughts chasing around in the man’s head.
‘I cannot go there,’ he said. First true words he had uttered since she come back.
Dear God, the man were useless. Clinging to the girl as if he were the drowning one and she the raft. So I walk upriver to Charlie’s. If God and me were not parted company long ago I would likely say a prayer that the girl be safe, be forgetful of her time in the river. Anyroad I said the hope out loud as I walked, with no one but the bush and the river to hear.
Charlie were in his garden hoeing away as ever. I asked him to come with his barrow and take the girl to Mrs Morrow. Charlie frowned a bit but he come ready enough. Dannyboy and the girl were in my hut then, I was glad to see, he keeping her warm on my bunk, but still the white cheeks and no life to her, arms and legs as loose as the water that ruined her. We put the blanket in the barrow and then our Bridie. Charlie Chee set off the five mile to Pipiriki. I seen him go, his bare feet slap slap and his pigtail flying. Five mile through the bush he ran with our Bridie. He is a tough bugger, Charlie Chee.
Seemed Danny couldn’t let her go. I seen him dancing alongside, holding her lolling head still and banging his own head on branches the while. The track is narrow up our way. How far he went with Charlie I couldn’t say. To my mind he should have been searching the river’s edge for his brother’s body.
I blew up the fire and drank my mug of tea, and prayed to the river to hold its peace for a day or two till I got my breath back.
Which it did not, for the great flood were on the way.
Ruvey Morrow
We heard it first from the pigeon post. Bert brought the tiny paper in to me in the kitchen.
‘What can we make of this?’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Do they want a search party?’ It worries Bert if he cannot make out what is needed or what to do.
Captain Jamieson is a fine river man but his handwriting is so large that he can scarce get two words on the messages. 1 overboard Ngaporo it said. Just that. He should have written help or some such as well.
Bert was all for taking the motor-waka up right away, which would be no easy task with the river rising, but he would manage it.
‘Wait a bit,’ I said. ‘Jamie Jamieson would not leave anyone, and they have the constable aboard. They will have put ashore and found her.’
‘Well, why the pigeon if they have it in hand?’ said Bert.
He had a point there. But my view was that they wanted a hot bath and warm towels ready. Perhaps Captain was going to proceed and the constable would bring back the poor soul to dry out, Ngaporo being closer to us than the Houseboat. So Bert got the waka ready but held off till further news.
I felt in my bones it would be one of those McPhees. They were bad enough with the parents in sight. Let loose, who knows what they would be up to? But I should have guessed our Pita and Danny would be involved, knowing they were on the river with those logs. A black day.
Up till the luncheon it was peaceful at the House. Only two guests — Mrs McPhee, who sat quiet as a lamb in the winter-garden room, painting a pretty watercolour of the ferns, and a smart gentleman heading up to one of the new railway towns, he said; stuck till the slip was cleared but happy enough to wait, wise fellow, in the comfort of Pipiriki House. He knew which side his bread was buttered.
So I had my feet up against the stove and a cup of tea in my hand when Bert came running to say Charlie Chee had brought Miss McPhee in and to come quick.
Mercy, what a sight! Charlie Chee stood by his barrow, trying to get out a word or two. But his language is hard to make out at the best of times and now, with him puffing like a steamboat, his thin chest heaving in and out under his tunic, you could not make head nor tail. The poor silent girl sprawled in the wooden barrow, pale as her dress, arms and legs flopping like a rag doll. I must have been a sight myself, that first moment, for I was struck dumb by the girl’s face. It was as if the river had washed all life out of her young features. We are so used to finding spirit of some sort in a face — anger or shyness or a smile — you read a person by their eyes and the stretch of the mouth or tilt of the head. Poor Bridget’s face was fearsome in its blankness. I near cried out in my fright. It could have been the devil sitting behind those blank eye-sockets. Or God. Her gaze fixed on some distant thing away above my head. Not with any shred of recognition. She sighed then — a long slow breath as if weary of this world — and so did I, as her lids closed over those two black pits.
Bert gave me a good push, which shook me out of my trance, and we brought the girl inside. Mere was sent to fetch Mrs McPhee, and Charlie was sat down in the kitchen with a mug of hot tea and a scone. He is not fond of the mutton. Charlie is a good man; I will not have bad words said against the Chows when Charlie is about. He understands more than you think. Fancy running all that way with Bridget McPhee, who he did not know from Adam, to bring her to safety. A hero, I said. And said it again a few days later to Mr McPhee’s very face I was that angry.
She could not walk, fell in a heap when we propped her up. Mere ran a hot bath and she and I carried her upstairs. Mrs McPhee wringing her hands but not inclined to put them to good use, I noticed. A grown girl in that state is more awkward than a sack of potatoes, but we two got her to the bathroom. We had to lay her on the floor to unbutton her clothes and pull off her pretty boots. All down her back were purple bruises coming up in the white flesh. You could see where her poor body had been rolled from rock to rock down the rapid. I looked over to the door to see if Mrs McPhee noticed, but that fine lady had disappeared, leaving us to care for the sad lost thing who had been Bridget McPhee.
Later Tim Naylor rode in with Mack Feathers. The constable had his notebook out, asking questions. When this, who that. I told him readily enough and so did Bert. Charlie Chee had gone back home by then; he is never one to waste time that could be spent earning a penny. But we both put in a good word for Charlie and the constable wrote it down.
‘Have you seen a log raft come by?’ he asked then.
‘No,’ I said, but I noticed Bert kept his mouth shut. Constable Naylor noticed too — there are no flies on that young man. He worried at my Bert with his questions like a dog after a buried bone.
‘But you did see something?’ And when Bert turned away: ‘It could have been a log raft, then, Bert?’
Now my Bert took umbrage at that, as well he might. The constable addressed me as Mrs Morrow so why not afford my husband the same dignity? I have noticed it before with some of the newer Pakeha, who think a brown skin carries some sort of message.
Bert straightened his back and I knew we were in for one of his tirades.
‘Yes, Constable Naylor, I saw three logs, cut by my whanau from what is left of their own Maori land, and blessed and given to my son-in-law. I saw the raft float past some time back. Mr Hatrick may shout all he wants about river traffic, but the law he laid down is only his law. Where is the law says no logs on our river, Constable? You show me. When I was a tama here on this river, how many times did I see Pakeha floating their logs down? Or cut and leave them to wash down in floods? Many, many times.’
Bert drew breath to continue but I laid my hand on his arm. ‘Constable Naylor will want to be on his way,’ I said, hoping to pour oil, or at least get him out of the kitchen. Once Bert is truly away he will break into his own language and then we will be stuck till suppertime.
But the constable was clearly not to be brow-beaten by native oratory. He looked at us sharpish. ‘It was your boy Pita on that raft, and your daughter’s man, Danny O’Dowd. They hit the Wairua, damaged her plates. We believe that is when the girl was tossed overboard.’
That was a blow. More than a blow, when it all sank in. I felt a dark cloud drifting slowly over our comfortable life at Pipiriki and said a quick Hail
Mary to push it away. Mr Hatrick is not a man to forgive and forget.
Later I had a quiet word with Bert.
‘What you said about the law — is that true?’
Bert grunted, giving me the mischievous look I’m so fond of. ‘How would I know? You can bet he will be back to his rule books in the morning.’
But there was trouble also in those old eyes.
‘What is it, Bert? Spit it out,’ I said. ‘If there is bad news we will bear it together.’
Bert sat to his dinner and ate a while before he spoke, my insides churning the longer he took to tell.
‘I saw the logs all right,’ he said finally, ‘but no one aboard. I went down to the landing, thinking to paddle out and tow them ashore, but they were far on the other side. Then I saw, I think I saw — you know my eyes, Ruvey — a head in the water with the raft. It ducked down, then it seemed to come up again. For air, I suppose. Seemed like someone was trying not to be seen.’
‘Just the one?’
‘The one.’
‘Was it our boy?’
‘The hair was dark.’
‘Every head of hair that’s wet is dark,’ I said.
Bert leaned over to give my hand a pat. A sure sign he was worried too, for he is not one to touch in public, even in the kitchen. ‘We will find out soon enough,’ he said.
An empty hope, as it happened, for the very next day the skies opened and the river rose over the landing and up to the sheds and we had our hands full carting the goods to higher ground. The pigeon post got down to Mr Hatrick in time to keep the Waimarie safe at Taupo Quay, thank goodness, but the coal bunker got away from its moorings at Pipiriki — drifted on down halfway to Jerusalem — and for a while we thought all Mr Hatrick’s great enterprise here might be washed away downriver.
Landings Page 7