Landings

by Jenny Pattrick

  Danny takes another forkful. ‘This is good stew. Please thank your wife.’ Then, defensively, ‘The people here think I did well to try and rescue her.’

  ‘Some do. Others cry shame about fathering the child.’

  Danny puts his plate on the floor. Holds his head in his hands. ‘Oh, God, it is all a mess. Can’t you do something about Bridie? That bloody McPhee doesn’t want her.’

  ‘He does, it seems.’

  ‘Don’t I have some rights? As father?’

  ‘Danny. You have a wife. You have committed adultery, for one thing. Who knows whether you took the girl against her will …’

  ‘I would never! Never!’ Danny suddenly hides his hands in his pockets. An odd, furtive gesture. ‘She is so loving! So sweet!’

  The man seems to have no instinct for self-preservation. Naylor sighs. Danny will do poorly at trial if he goes on like this. And yet it is true that many in this town applaud his actions and condemn the police for allowing Bridie to be held so cruelly. His own Emily would happily lead an expedition to free her.

  ‘Danny,’ he says, ‘she is a poor, mindless girl. If she was sweet to you, and you fell, perhaps others did? Can you be sure the baby will be yours? Eh? Why are you so bent on condemning yourself? It makes no sense at all. Think of your poor wife. Surely she is wretched?’

  Danny rocks back and forth on his little bench, his hands still deep in his pockets. ‘I am no use to Stella. She is better off if I am here.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘I have done her such harm …’ Danny looks up quickly at Naylor. Is about to say more but clearly decides against it. He stands. Shrugs. Peers out of the high slatted window of the lock-up. ‘Could she be brought to see me?’ he says at last.

  ‘Stella?’

  Danny nods. ‘I need to talk to her.’

  Naylor is sharp with him. ‘I’m sure you do. But will she feel the same need?’

  Danny doesn’t answer.

  Autumn 1908

  Sly-grog

  PITA MORROW WAS not dead, as feared by his parents and assumed by Danny, but had become a skilled and well-paid dropper for Mr Melville O’Leary’s sly-grog trade. Twenty years earlier the government, in its blessed wisdom (according to Mel O’Leary) declared this whole district — the Rohe Potae or King Country — a ‘No Licence’ area. Settlements along the Whanganui River were included in the ‘liquor desert’, after representation (so the government said) from Maori elders upriver. In all this vast area not one hotel or shop or guesthouse might sell liquor. A private citizen (if he were Pakeha) might apply for one case of whisky a month for private consumption, but that meant filling in a form in triplicate, depositing one copy with the local police and sending money somehow to a licensed store outside the area — too much trouble for most of the railway workers and mill-hands.

  Not everyone had the power to influence authority that Alexander Hatrick possessed. That worthy citizen applied to the licensing court in Wanganui for a packet licence for his boats. When the application was declined, Hatrick, lowering his brows, demanded to know the grounds.

  ‘That is not required,’ said Chairman Bassett firmly. Then he added that the meeting was adjourned so that the applicant might prepare arguments for an appeal.

  ‘I have come down today, and am here now to argue my case,’ raged Hatrick. ‘I think it is very unfortunate and unsatisfactory that gentlemen should sit on this bench whose judgements are warped by their prejudices.’

  The very next day his packet licence was granted.

  The thirsty growls of the railway workers, building the new north–south main trunk line, carried no such clout. They were trapped in a dry area, months on end in their bush camps, and not a drop to be had — legally, that is — for miles.

  Thank the good Lord for Mel O’Leary and his breed, who risked their lives and reputations bringing illegal liquor up the winding bridle tracks, along logging roads in the bush, travelling at night with their clinking succour, making their secret deliveries, using every trick in the trade to outwit the police.

  By this time, 1908, the railway was almost finished. Sizeable milling towns now flourished along the tracks, all dry. Complaints from the citizens were numerous. ‘Give us the chance to vote prohibition or not!’ they pleaded. They would have voted ‘Licence’ to a man; forget about the ladies. But the authorities remained deaf. The King Country was dry for its own good. End of the matter.

  At every election time in Wanganui, O’Leary voted with the prohibitionists: ticked ‘No Licence’ on his voting paper. His droppers were instructed to do the same. ‘We don’t want a good business ruined by legal liquor,’ he boomed, his vast belly rolling under his watch-chain, ‘so be careful where you make your pencil mark.’ Mel O’Leary had even taken out membership with the Wanganui Band of Hope, though he never once attended a meeting, not him.

  Railway towns and bush camps

  ‘Another request I have to make is that the sale of spirits within our district shall be stopped absolutely. I do not want this great evil brought upon our people. I hope this House will be strong in preventing this evil coming upon us and upon our people.’

  Wahanui, leading chief of the Rohe Potae (King Country), speaking to Parliament, 1884

  ‘It is a feature of the arrangement that no liquor is to be sold if the territory is opened for the railway.’

  Premier Robert Stout, speaking when he turned the first sod for the main trunk line

  AFTER EIGHT MONTHS as a dropper, Pita owns six horses — two mounts and four pack animals, a good wool suit and a gold watch-chain with watch attached. He visits the bawdy house near Turakina once a week and drinks (proper imported Scotch whisky) at O’Leary’s legal public house on the outskirts of town. He never goes near the river, though. Pita Morrow enjoys taking risks; will dodge around the law with the best of men. But the thought of being locked up in jail fills him with horror. It gnaws at him that he cannot go upriver, or even visit his parents and cousins, but the thought of the drowned girl, of Hatrick’s powerful rage, keeps him distant from his beloved waterway. Too many people would recognise him. Meantime he takes great care to keep his identity and that of his customers secret.

  The lucrative railway line is Pita’s beat: Karioi his first drop, then Rangataua, Ohakune, Horopito and Erua — all rough railway towns. Further north he serves the line of rugged camps where men hack a route through the towering bush, digging out an even gradient and laying sleepers for the creeping iron rails that have almost joined north and south — Auckland and Wellington.

  But eight months is a good long time for a dropper to stay clear of the law. The weekly runs have lost their edge of excitement. On this, his final long trek through the bush, Pita Morrow, alias Phillip Matthews, has a plan — involving greater risk, bigger profit, and a bit of fun. He pulls his new hat down over his eyes, against the low sun (and also against recognition), swaying easily in the saddle as his mount plods up the winding Field’s track towards Karioi. The packhorses follow, labouring under their precious loads.

  He reins his horse in under the shade of an old beech tree. There is grazing here, and a stream winding in and out of the dark bush. The three horses and Pita all drink noisily. The water, tasting sweetly of leafmould and rich earth, is running clear over stones in a westerly direction. Sooner or later it will find its way into a larger river and then down into the Whanganui itself. Pita finds a small dry beech leaf, shaped like a tiny boat. He places a drop of spit into its curved centre, then places the leaf gently onto the surface of the water where the current flows swiftly. It is an action he has performed many times.

  ‘Ka kite,’ he whispers, knowing himself foolish, but all the same eased to think the little craft may deliver part of himself back to his own river. Will it ever be safe for him to return? Pita cannot be hopeful. They must all think him dead by now. Perhaps they were pleased to be rid of him, but still he would like — sometime when he is safely away — to reassure his mother.

/>   Pita (Phillip) had come into Mel’s business via one of that entrepreneur’s illicit distilling operations in the bush upriver. Pita had brought in a consignment of evil-smelling raw alcohol and had been intrigued to watch Mel doctor it with his own secret concoction of herbs, sugar and water, adding a splash of genuine whisky until he judged it pleasant enough to fool his customers — enough raw spirit to inebriate, but well short of a lethal dose. Mel O’Leary was very firm on this.

  ‘Those sly-groggers who sell raw poison! Mad, they are. Cutting off their own noses for the sake of a quick sale, boyo. Who needs a fine drinker poisoned by raw alcohol? Now, my good stuff will do the trick but keep the fellow alive to drink again. Isn’t that the way, then?’

  He would send his droppers north and west, upriver and inland, deep into the King Country, to men (‘and women — let’s not forget the ladies, my boyos’) to the many secret destinations where money lay hidden along with an order for whisky. Mel O’Leary only dealt in the hard stuff. Not enough profit in beer and too heavy to pack in.

  Prohibition was making Mel O’Leary a rich man. In the summer of 1908 his best dropper, Phillip Matthews, decided it was time to cut himself a bigger slice of the profit.

  Back under the shade of the tree Pita sips from a hip-flask of the pure Scotch whisky he can now afford. He will not touch the bottles he is transporting — adulterated rubbish, as he well knows. As the liquor warms him, Pita dreams of a new life on some distant river — perhaps in Australia; he has heard they have mighty rivers there.

  ‘What do you think?’ he says aloud to Tawhi, his munching horse. ‘I could be river captain of my own boat up some wide foreign river. That’d be something, eh?’ But the river he imagines is his own: his bush and his rapids and his own people admiring his prowess.

  Pita has money hidden in a secret ‘drop’ of his own, and soon will have more. He grins to think of his plan. O’Leary considers his system faultless and his droppers beyond reproach, but in an illegal trade all manner of fiddles are possible. Pita has been shaving a little more than his half share of the sales for months. Easy to explain — a bottle smashed here, a drop short-changed there. But on the return journey from this run he will risk much more, and have a good laugh too.

  He stands as he hears barking. Someone whistles his dog, below on the track. Quickly Pita leads the packhorses deeper into the bush and ties them there, out of sight. No point in hiding altogether — the dog would know. Pita pulls his hat lower and waits under the tree with Tawhi. It’s unusual for a traveller to be on this part of the track so late in the day.

  A tall fellow rides up, the dog at his heels. Pita calls to the dog. Pets it and offers a piece of the bread and mutton he’s eating. Anything to keep the dog from wandering, for Pita is dismayed — and a little excited — to note that this man is in police uniform. The tall man leans out of the saddle, offering a hand.

  ‘Tim Naylor, constable at Raetihi,’ he says, smiling in an easy way, though his eyes are sharp.

  ‘Ko Tawhi, au,’ he mumbles, taking his horse’s name. ‘Kia Ora. E pehea ana koe?’ He ruffles the dog’s ears, lets him lick his greasy hand.

  ‘Kia Ora,’ replies the constable. But he can go no further with the Maori language — a relief to Pita. ‘Heading up to Karioi?’ he asks.

  Pita shrugs and lets out a stream in his own tongue. Naylor persists. He points up the track, indicating that they might travel together. Pita gives what he hopes is a foolish grin and indicates that he is tired, will sleep under the tree. It would spell disaster if the constable decided to stay too, but surely he will have business up in the town? Probably, Pita thinks — enjoying the danger of it — he has come to keep an eye out for droppers.

  ‘I’ll be on my way, then,’ says Naylor. His manner is light, unsuspecting.

  Pita grins again. ‘Ka kite.’ He releases the dog as the policeman whistles him to follow. Man and dog head on up the track and out of sight.

  Pita waits, sipping on his whisky, until he’s sure the law is a good distance away. While he’s on a run he can keep to the fine and lovely line between drunk and sober. Back home in his one-room hut, hidden in a quiet stretch of bush behind O’Leary’s Public House, he will often lie for hours in a drunken daze, and then, next day, sick and gloomy, hate himself for the fool he is. But now the danger and the thought of his plan keep him sober enough.

  As the shadows reach into his sunny corner and light begins to fade, he brings the packhorses back to the stream. He unloads the patient beasts, then tethers them to graze while he sees to his cargo. There are three dozen green glass bottles in each pannier, six dozen to a horse, hidden under bags of flour. All are stoppered with a glass ball and wire spring contraption. Easy to re-use. Pita unpacks them all, lines them up on the grass by the stream. Now, from the bottom of the panniers, he takes two large glass preserving jars. Carefully he uncaps each bottle and pours a small cupful into his jar. A same small cupful of riverwater refills the bottle. When he has finished, his two jars, brimming with O’Leary’s liquor, are back in the panniers, under the twelve dozen slightly less potent bottles of ‘O’Leary whisky’.

  Pita strikes a match to re-read his paper noting tonight’s orders. Mostly he can remember them, but every time there are one or two new places.

  Karioi, he reads. Three fenceposts past the signpost bend — 3 bottles.

  That’s a familiar drop. As are the next two — Big rock by white stone in stream — 1 bottle. Hole in old stump by single totara tree 3 chain before town — 4 bottles.

  Then there’s a new one on the other side of the little township: 5 chain on Rangataua road. Two small bushes then a big one. Under the big one — 4 bottles.

  Droppers do not usually deliver inside the town boundary, and Pita is no exception. Not tonight, anyway. A few days’ hence, we’ll see! He heads up to Karioi, leading the horses on the edge of the track so the grass will conceal the hoofprints. It’s a good black night, the Milky Way tracing a bright cloud across the sky, a little breeze shifting the branches. A perfect dropper’s night.

  Before he reaches the first drop Pita dismounts, ties Tawhi and one of the packhorses off the track, hidden from sight. He leads the other horse quietly forward, counting the fenceposts. At the third past the signpost he reaches into a hollow, covered by small branches, pulls out three empty bottles, a leather pouch tied to the neck of one and jinking with coin. Pita counts the money — 36 shillings — pockets the order for two weeks’ hence and places three full bottles in the hollow, re-covering them with the branches. The big rock near the river is close by, though neither recipient knows it. Drop addresses are jealously guarded. One bottle (why does the man bother?) goes into the carefully disguised hole beneath the rock.

  Pita doesn’t like the tree-stump drop — too close to town. He leaves his horse back a bit, walks quietly through the shadows, makes the drop and is away again before any silly dog gets a whiff of him.

  Back with the other horses, he makes a wide circle around the town, using sawmillers’ tracks through the bush. Rangataua next, and then Ohakune. That’s all he can do in one night. He’ll camp in the bush during the day and ride to Horopito at dusk.

  Near Rangataua he is almost caught. Some kind of celebration is going on — a party and bonfire on the edge of town. He can hear the singing and laughter, see the shooting flames. This is a regular and a big drop — a dozen and a half bottles for a buried kerosene tin marked by three river stones in a row. Pita can’t simply ignore the drop — a disappointed drinker is a dangerous man — but the revellers are too close. He wraps the bottles in sacking and walks alone towards the marked spot. The flames of the bonfire will make the men blind to the wider surrounding, or so he hopes. Quietly he lowers his bundle and removes the cleverly disguised lid. Perhaps he clinks the glass as he exchanges full and empty bottles, or perhaps the breeze carries his scent. Suddenly there is a furious barking and a big dog hurtles towards him out of the dark. Pita freezes, tucks his head down, waits for the att
ack. The dog approaches on stiff legs, silent now. Pita sneaks a look, tries a quiet word. The tip of the dog’s erect tail begins to wag. A good sign. He will not be attacked. But a friendly dog is almost as dangerous to him as an angry one.

  Someone at the bonfire calls out, ‘Rags! Get over here!’ The voice is coming closer.

  ‘Go on,’ whispers Pita, hoping his command sounds fierce. ‘Go home! Get! Haere atu!’

  ‘Rags, you bastard!’ Pita can see the shape of the man against the flames.

  ‘Leave him be,’ shouts another voice. ‘He’ll be right.’

  One command or another makes sense to Rags. He turns and trots back to the fire. Pita completes the drop without waiting to count the coin, runs back to his horse, his heart pumping. But he is grinning. This is fun! Perhaps the second voice was the owner of the drop, waiting anxiously for replenishments and fearful that his hiding place might be discovered. At any rate he is away again, through the maze of logging tracks, his load growing lighter as the night progresses.

  TWO DAYS LATER Pita is ready with his bold plan. He has sold his two packhorses to a sawmiller near Erua for a handy sum. He won’t need them again. Now, ready to move at speed, he packs up his bush camp. Half the empty bottles he hides in the scrub, the others, wrapped and carefully stacked in the panniers, he loads onto his own mount. These all contain a golden liquid — one-quarter O’Leary sly-grog, three-quarters cold tea. Anyone taking a pull would soon know — less kick than a newborn babe — but the look is good. Pita chuckles. His money pouch is full and will soon be crammed. O’Leary will set no eye on this stash — or his dropper. After today’s run Pita will take off for new lands and new adventures.

  He feeds his horse the last of the oats. Today he must ride quickly, in broad daylight, along the new railway line, from one work gang to the next.