Margaret had Colin’s boot off and Felicity had produced a roll of bandages which between them they were wrapping around Colin’s sprained ankle. They’d both stopped when it became clear Colin’s brother was the same Isaac Lloyd who’d died during the riots the previous year. The lad who’d been with Seth, but had redeemed himself by saving Sarah Bell from Seth, before she’d mysteriously disappeared with Bryce Sinclair. The mystery of her disappearance fascinated the remaining townsfolk and there wasn’t a week which went by when some miner claimed he’d seen her ghostly figure in the bush. It was usually the illicit alcohol talking, but it only grew the legend.
Margaret stood up, placing her hand on Colin’s shoulder. ‘You poor thing, we remember your brother, and the man he worked the fields with. Your mam was right to worry, wasn’t she, Fred?’
Fred nodded. He’d poured a nip of rum out and brought it over to the table, placing the glass into Colin’s hands.
‘What’s this for… oh,’ Colin said, turning to face Margaret, then Felicity, before looking back at Fred Sweeney. ‘He’s dead?’ Colin asked.
‘Sorry, lad,’ Fred said. ‘Drink up, it’ll take the sting out.’
Colin examined the liquid in the bottom of the cloudy glass, the fumes stinging his weepy eyes, swallowing it in one go, where it burnt a trail through his broken heart.
‘Finish fixing up his ankle, then you and Felicity take him to see Reverend Young, he’ll show you where Isaac is now. Best I can do lad,’ Fred said.
With his ankle strapped, and Margaret on one side, and Felicity on the other carrying his pack, the trio make their way up the hill towards Reverend Greg Young’s house, the house he shared with his wife Christine, and their ward Samuel. Here there were signs of a well-loved garden, and an oft-visited house. The women didn’t bother knocking, entering the house calling for Christine, who did as much ministering to the woes of the township as the Reverend himself did for their souls.
‘You found another stray for me to feed?’ asked Christine Young, her hands on her hips standing silhouetted in the kitchen doorway, Cook beavering away behind her, trying to catch glimpses of the latest arrival.
‘This is Colin Lloyd, just arrived in town. Cleaned up some rubbish on the way in, which we’ll need the Reverend for later. But he’s here searching for his brother—’
‘Probably gone north with the rest,’ Christine interrupted.
‘Looking for his brother, Isaac Lloyd…’ Margaret finished, tilting her head.
‘I, oh,’ Christine replied, bustling forward to gather the boy in her arms despite him towering over her. ‘You poor boy, to come all this way, and to find out he’s up there now. Let’s get a cup of tea into you, and then we’ll… well, then we’ll get the Reverend himself to take you to see poor Isaac. Such a shame that he went when he did, but Sarah was with him when he died, so he wasn’t alone. You’ll get some comfort out of that I’m sure. Just wish she was here to tell you herself,’ Christine prattled on, in between calling for tea and ushering everyone into the front room.
The room contained the trappings of a traditional English parlour, apart from the exotic weapons hanging on the walls. Made of greenstone, they gleamed with an almost supernatural light, their edges super sharp. There was an incredible beauty in their lines. Some featured intricate carving, the likes of which Colin had never seen before. Isaac’s death weighed heavily upon his shoulders but it was also surreal. They hadn’t seen each other for years, and Colin had, in his own mind, built him up to be something he probably wasn’t. They’d imagined Isaac as a successful prospector, saving his earnings to build a large home for them, away from the squalor and poverty of Wales. And with a few simple sentences, no matter how delicately delivered, they shattered his dreams.
With the tea delivered, and after Christine had dispatched Samuel to fetch the Reverend, she quizzed Colin about his family, his travels, who he’d seen, what he’d done, so that by the time Reverend Young arrived, Colin’s head was spinning.
Reverend Young, his wild hair in disarray and mud up the back of his legs, greeted Christine with a kiss on the cheek and dropped into an armchair, his sock-clad feet stretched out towards the fire his wife had just lit.
“Welcome, dear boy, sorry for your loss. Samuel filled me in on the way here. A terrible tragedy and a dark time in Bruce Bay’s history. It’s settled down now that most of the men have moved on, but this is the final resting place for so many, your brother included.”
“Thank you,” Colin said, his eyes prickling. He wasn’t the same boy who’d nearly drowned in Port Chalmers, so he shouldered the pain, brushing it away.
“It’s callous to ask so soon, but have you given any thought to what you might do?” Reverend Young asked.
Colin shrugged. He’d only ever planned on mining gold alongside Isaac. He didn’t have the foggiest idea what he’d do now that he had no brother and that the gold had run out.
‘Stay here for a few days, till you sort yourself out,’ Christine suggested. ‘You can share a room with Samuel, we’ve got the space and you can help us pack as a way of earning your keep,’ she said, looking to her husband for approval.
‘Excellent idea, Christine always knows best.’
‘You’re leaving Bruce Bay?’ Colin asked.
‘We’re going to Dunedin as soon as it’s arranged, except the Chinese. I’ve just been over to their camp and they’re staying. They don’t come to church, so apart from the Sweeneys and the Toomers, and a few of the old hatters — the washed-up miners, there’s not much of a congregation. It’s back to Otago for us. You’re more than welcome to join us. It’s still safer to travel as a group. Things have calmed down since last year’s troubles, but the papers are full of idiots advocating war with the Māori.’
‘I’ve just come from Dunedin,’ Colin said, frustrated. This wasn’t how he’d imagined life working out. It had seemed so simple back in Wales, and now he’d have to go home with his tail between his legs like a mongrel beaten by its master.
‘You’re welcome to come with us, or stay in town, or work your way north with the others. Hardly any boats call here now that there’s no need for supplies, so you’ll have to go north or south on foot unless you want to wait for the next boat who bothers coming in,’ the Reverend said.
‘We’re staying,’ Felicity added. ‘Father thinks it’ll pick up again, that the Chinese will strike it lucky after everyone goes, and he wants to be here for that.’
‘He’s lost his mind. And after what happened to you today,’ Christine said, stabbing at the fire with the poker, sending sparks flying out of the grate, hammering her point home. ‘Come to Dunedin. You can’t stay here, not now.’
‘Or go with the Sweeney’s, they’ll take you on as a nanny, for the short term. Won’t you Margaret?’ Reverend Young suggested, fiddling with his grubby shirt sleeves
‘Of course we would have you, Felicity. Fred is almost ready to pack it in, and we’ve been talking about going to Christchurch — plenty of decent opportunities in a bigger town. Following the gold has paid off, but Fred wants something more stable now because of the baby.’
The room fell silent as the occupants contemplated the inevitability of parting ways. This wasn’t the first time they’d held this discussion. There’d been plenty of dinners where Toomer pontificated that staying was the best thing to do, to show the Māori who was boss. Fred Sweeney maintained he’d stay as long as his bar was profitable, and not a minute longer. A congregation bound its reverend the same way a crime confined a prisoner to his chains. But there was no congregation anymore and the little church which opened with such joyous festivities only a year ago had emptied pew-by-pew until it made more sense for those who remained to meet in the Reverend’s front room, which was warmer and had the extra benefit of hot cups of tea no matter the weather.
‘I could go north, to the gold mines up there,’ Colin said, breaking the silence, although the chorus of dissent which greeted him made him regret his words
.
‘That’s the most ridiculous thing—’
‘They’ll eat you alive up there, besides, war is coming—’
‘Yes, war is inevitable now the Governor has ordered hundreds of troops. The last thing you want is to get involved there—’
‘Come to Dunedin, they’re crying out for sensible lads. You could be a clerk, or an apprentice.’
‘Or join the church,’ the Reverend finished for them. ‘But I expect anyone brave enough to cross the oceans to find their big brother is old enough to make their own decisions. Christine and I will pray on it for you.’
‘Silly idea going to the gold fields,’ Christine muttered.
‘As I was saying, before I was interrupted, stay here until you figure things out, and whatever you decide, well, we’ll be here to help. Now, are you ready to see your brother?’
The room stood as one, but the Reverend waved them back down.
‘It’ll just be me and the lad. Come on then, Colin.’
With Colin leaning on the Reverend’s arm, the men left the house and limped up the muddied street to the church.
Standing by the simple wooden cross bearing Isaac’s name and the date of his death, with the Reverend’s hand on his shoulder, Colin let himself cry, his tears mixing with the drizzle falling.
The following weeks passed in a blur. As news of the gold up north increased, Bruce Bay had emptied fast, with even the poorest of miners finding the means to pack up and leave. Colin hadn’t decided which direction he’d go but until his ankle healed he had to stay in a town filled with ghosts.
The Pipe
The body in the ditch wavered as the water tried navigating the obstacle in its path. His glassy eyes crying with the relentless West Coast rain falling into them.
Reverend Young stood with his head bowed, oblivious to the weather. A new soul was in heaven today. Another unexplained death to add to the growing list he kept tucked away inside his bible. The number of deaths at Bruce Bay should have been decreasing at the same rate as the residents were flooding out of Bruce Bay in search of golden pastures elsewhere. But that wasn’t the case. The deaths had been increasing - mostly those society wouldn’t miss, but they were all God’s children.
A group of Chinese miners stared at the minister, the language barrier making the moment even more awkward. They usually dealt with their own but this wasn’t any ordinary death. The strangled man had angry fingermarks around his neck, with his long handled opium pipe hammered down his throat until only the black lacquer bowl protruded from his mouth.
Fred Sweeney and a few his regulars stood behind Reverend Young, co-opted to help give the man a Christian burial in the overflowing graveyard.
‘Ready?’ Reverend Young asked, bending down beside the corpse. And he tugged on the long wooden pipe until it slipped from its ghastly home. He wrapped it in his handkerchief and passed it to the nearest Chinaman, a man more wrinkled than alive. The package disappeared within the folds of the man’s voluminous sleeves.
‘Help me,’ Young said, climbing into the ditch, reaching under the dead man’s slight shoulders.
Sweeney and his men waded into the mud and grabbed the man by his skinny legs, and on the count of three they heaved him out of his resting place and onto a canvas tarpaulin from Toomer’s store.
Toomer didn’t seem to care that people were dying in town, he profited whether they lived or died and had added the charge for the tarpaulin to Reverend Young’s account. Sweeney would miss Toomer about as much as he’d miss the driving rain of Bruce Bay.
The Cart
Packing took place haphazardly, with Christine Young changing her mind about what she was and wasn’t taking with her to Otago with great regularity. They’d packed Cook off to Dunedin on the last scheduled ferry, and from hereon any boats calling at the Bruce Bay wharf were an unexpected bonus.
The Sweeney’s cart and horses were ready to go. They were heading to the city of Nelson. To everyone’s surprise, John Toomer had bought the Sweeney’s bar, with grand plans to turn it into a proper hotel. Whilst everyone thought he’d lost his mind, the Sweeney’s hadn’t given him a chance to back out of the deal, wasting no time in packing up, leaving behind most of the bar’s fixtures and fittings.
Today they all stood in Reverend Young’s parlour, listening to him reading from his well-worn bible. The parlour’s walls and floor empty of everything except the dining room chairs, moved in for the final service.
John Toomer stood smirking on the edge, his fat gut hanging over his trousers, his own bible unopened on his chair. He jiggled from one foot to another, his disdain for religion obvious as he sighed overly loud when Young announced it was time to pray.
‘Amen,’ Toomer said a little loudly when the prayers were over and the small crowd milled around saying their final goodbyes. ‘Come on, Felicity, let’s go,’ Toomer instructed once it was clear there was no food on offer.
Everyone fell silent except for Samuel dragging the chairs into the hallway, oblivious to the sudden tension.
‘I’m going with the Sweeneys,’ Felicity said, looking at her boots.
Toomer’s jaw slackened.
‘Like hell you are,’ he said, forgetting where he was, with Reverend Young only three feet away.
‘They’ve engaged me as a nanny for the babe. It’s a good job, Papa,’ she said, not daring to meet his eyes.
‘Better than working behind a bar,’ Christine added, placing her arm around Felicity’s shoulders.
‘She’ll be in safe hands,’ Fred Sweeney said.
They’d all colluded about what to do with the girl, knowing that to leave her under her father’s thumb, in a failing town full of drunkards and opium addicts was a recipe for disaster. Leaving it to the last minute had been the best idea the group had come up with.
‘You can’t steal my daughter from me,’ Toomer blustered, the cords on his neck pulsing.
‘I’m old enough to work, Papa. I’ll be learning a skill in the city, with good people,’ Felicity added, darting a look towards her father.
‘You’ll stay here and help me. That’s your place.’
Colin stayed out of the argument raging around him, it wasn’t his battle. He would travel part of the way with the Sweeney’s, but would leave them to travel further north, to the goldfields in the Coromandel. The others weren’t pleased, but he’d decided that as Isaac wasn’t here to send money home to their mam, it was up to him.
‘And I suppose you’re taking the boy, whoring my daughter out?’ Toomer spat towards Sweeney.
‘That’s enough,’ Reverend Young commanded.
‘If you go, you’re no daughter of mine. Soiled goods is what they’ll call you, you cheap whore. Get out of my sight,’ Toomer said.
‘You go, the door is right there,’ Christine said.
Toomer spat at Christine’s feet before storming out, the door almost wrenched from its hinges.
Felicity collapsed where she stood, finally released from the abusive shackles of her father. Colin leapt forward to catch her, relief surging through him. At last the adventure could continue. He’d nearly left on his own half a dozen times, frustrated with the delays. But now, now they were truly leaving.
‘Up you get, gotta go before he changes his mind,’ Colin joked, lifting Felicity to her feet.
She looked as pale as churned butter and whilst Colin was conscious of the needs of others, he didn’t think he could survive another delay. They had to leave today.
‘You sure you’re up to travelling today?’ asked Margaret Sweeney.
‘She’s fine, just needs a cup of tea,’ Christine interrupted, as business-like as usual. ‘Best to take advantage of the good weather while it’s here, too changeable for my liking. Come on love, into the kitchen with you, a cup of tea then it’s goodbye Bruce Bay.’
The road to Nelson felt longer without the comforting humour of the Reverend and Mrs Young. Toomer he didn’t miss, but Colin had leaned on the Reverend, soaking up hi
s humorous pearls of wisdom. He’d had a brief taste of how good men could be during his time with Warden Price in Dunedin, but in Bruce Bay he’d left the horrors of the past behind and had relaxed into this new life. Although the Sweeney’s were a lovely family, Fred Sweeney was too preoccupied with his wife and child to spend any quality time raising a teenage boy.
They’d been on the road for days, when a passing comment by Felicity Toomer sent Colin tumbling from his seat by the fire.
‘Do you think Warden Price ever found Sarah?’
‘Warden Price?’ Colin asked, brushing damp earth from his trousers.
‘Do you know him?’ Felicity asked, eyes wide in the firelight.
‘He saved me from drowning.’
‘That sounds like him,’ Fred said.
‘How do you know him?’ Colin asked.
‘He was the law in Bruce Bay, until he left to hunt down Sinclair, Samuel’s father,’ Fred replied for her. ‘The Reverend won’t have us speak about it anymore, but we all agreed—’
‘Not all of us,’ Margaret interrupted.
‘Most of us believe something must have happened. Price was too good not to have tracked down Sinclair, and Mrs Bell. So probably…’
‘There was a lot of confusion that day, Fred, but nothing unnatural. Sinclair took Sarah, and Price couldn’t find them. Sinclair probably went to Australia and sadly Sarah is most likely dead. Don’t go scaring the boy with ghost stories.’
‘But that’s why Price couldn’t find them. They vanished.’
‘But Mister Price ran away with Mrs Lester.’
The group gawped at Colin, supper cooling on their plates.
‘Mrs Lester?’
‘The lady at the manse. I never met her, but they told me Mister Price had taken Mrs Lester north to his new posting. At least, that’s what I think happened.’ Colin shook his head. ‘It’s all hazy now. Seems like years ago.’
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