by Dorothy Eden
For the first ten miles of the journey the little convoy had the company of a dozen or so militiamen on horseback. They rode ahead across the scrubland that was mostly the tawny tussock grass, sprinkled with stunted manuka bushes, and added greatly to the excitement of Katie and the two children. But when the road forked, one fork going on over the plain and the other towards the forest, they waved their farewells.
Katie sighed audibly, and Saul said it was time to stop for lunch and some musket practice. While Fred lit a fire and brewed tea, the women should have their first lesson in firing a gun.
This was not a particularly successful experiment. Jemima was quite hopeless and also terrified. She would be of more danger to her friends than to any possible enemy, Saul decided, and told her bluntly that she had better attend to the children, and leave the fighting to Briar and Katie. Katie was fearless enough, but erratic and screamed with excitement each time the gun exploded. Briar loathed the cold, heavy feel of the weapon in her hands. But she was the only one of three who knew this was not a game. Some time, tonight perhaps, during the long dark hours, she might, in deadly seriousness, have to be able to use this weapon. So she gave all her concentration to the lesson, and at the end had the dubious satisfaction of hearing Saul say that for a beginner she was not too bad, she might even be able to hit a haystack in the dusk.
When he came up to take the gun from her she whispered, “How far are we from that place?”
“The militia have gone that way. We won’t pass it. Now come and eat.”
Fred had milked the cow and Jemima had warmed milk for the baby. There was plenty of milk for Jimmy and Lucy, too, and hot tea for the rest. Suddenly it was a picnic. The sun shone, the tea tasted smoky and fragrant, the baby fell asleep, and the women, already tired from the jolting of the wagons, would have liked to do the same.
But Saul was urging them on. “We’ve got to do another fifteen miles before we camp for the night. Let’s get moving.”
Now the country changed from the scrub-covered dunes where the sea winds swept to partly cleared bush, the track running between tree-stumps and the ever-springing ferns, into patches of dense green. The going was rough and exhausting. The drays creaked and squelched through patches of mud and crushed bracken, birds fluttered and darted in the branches, giving alarmed cries, and Lucy frightened, began to sob.
Saul turned. “Stop that child crying!” he rapped. Briar was aware of Katie’s startled gaze. “Is someone listening?” she asked.
“If there’s anyone listening, they can hear us a mile away,” Saul said grimly. “But there’s no need to advertise our presence more than can be helped.”
Then he added encouragingly, “I’ve done this trip more times than I’ve kept count of, and nothing’s ever happened to me. Don’t be alarmed.”
But the gaiety had vanished from the little party, and tension had taken its place. They were all getting tired, too. Briar felt jolted in every bone. Her bonnet had been whipped off by an overhanging branch and her hair loosened. She began to feel in a dream. Presently she would wake to find herself back in Aunt Charity’s house in Wellington, listening to Sophie’s prattle about gowns and husbands and parties. If only she were there …
An uncontrollable tear slipped down her cheek, and Saul said in his curt voice, “Not you, too, my love. It’s enough that the children cry.”
Briar hastily wiped her cheek. “I am not crying!”
“No, and you won’t do so.”
She hated his hard autocratic voice.
“Perhaps you should have married Sophie.”
“Perhaps I should.”
“She would just as easily have had you as Peter.”
“And you?”
Her eyes blazed beneath his keen regard. “You know that I didn’t fall into your arms!”
He suddenly gave his great laugh. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow when we’re safely through the night. One requires some certainty of a future to make quarreling worth while. We’ll come into open ground soon and we can find a camping place.”
Katie, who had been dozing at the back of the wagon, her head resting on the piled up baggage, suddenly awoke and gave a stifled scream as a brown kaka swooped overhead, giving its harsh cry.
“O-oh! I didn’t know it would be like this.”
“Don’t be such a baby!” said Briar sharply. “One strange bird, and you scream.”
She was aware of Saul’s sidelong glance. She tilted her chin and sat more erect. Let her back break, she would not show another sign of weakness.
At last the bush thinned out, and they came into open country again, dominated by the great snow-covered peak of Mount Egmont, and with actually a thin plume of smoke from a farmhouse in the distance. Everyone’s spirits rose at this sign of other white habitation, and after a brief rest from the jolting of the wagons they continued their slow monotonous journey until dark.
Saul chose their camping spot near a stream, and well in the open so that although they were painfully visible, especially if it were bright moonlight, any marauders would also be visible before they could attack.
He did not state these reasons, and the women were tired enough not to start fretting about danger. After supper Jemima wrapped herself and the children in blankets beneath the wagon. Katie, whose eyes grew a little rounder and wilder at each strange bird call or rustle of the wind in the bracken, presently crept in to join Jemima. Saul handed Briar a blanket and told her to do the same beneath the other wagon.
Stiff with weariness, Briar sat upright beside the flickering fire. “I prefer to stay here,” she said.
“As you wish. But you must sleep some time.”
The edge of the forest, and the lower level of the bush was black against the sky. The sturdy bullocks, tethered to tree stumps, were moony white and startlingly visible. If the lurking enemy could see nothing else in this little camp, he could see the undisguisable forms of these animals, and know that white men were near. It was useless for Saul to be casual and easy, as if no danger existed, for he had his rifle within reach.
“You’d better give me a gun,” Briar said briefly. “But load it first. I’m not expert enough to load it in the dark.”
“Very well,” Saul agreed. “But there’s no sense in us all keeping watch. Fred, you’d better get some sleep. I’ll wake you at midnight.”
“Yes, sir.” Fred looked uncertainly at Briar’s erect figure. Saul, who missed nothing, added crisply, “My wife will sleep later. Try not to disturb the others when I call you.”
Then they were alone as they never had been, not even last night in the bedroom at the Ship Inn. They might have been the only people in the world, Briar thought, this strange dark man lounging easily on the other side of the fire, and herself.
She was too tired to think much about it. Had it been Peter Fanshawe, she thought wistfully, she would have moved over to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. As it was, she had to preserve her dignity and her semblance of courage. For Saul’s nature was not made for gentleness. He was swift and violent, and expected her to match her mood to his. Last night … How Sophie would have screamed, she thought, and gave the merest ghost of a giggle. This, to her horror, threatened to turn into a sob. She stiffened herself abruptly. If she was sitting in the middle of the wilderness with a man whom she didn’t love it was entirely her own fault.
“Well,” came his voice across the fire, “do you like these southern stars?”
“At the moment they’re singularly unattractive.”
“Who taught you to speak so well?”
Her voice came sharply, “My father.” She added, as reluctantly. “He was a schoolmaster.”
“Was?”
“He’s too old now.”
“You’ve a great deal to tell me about yourself. But there’s all the winter to do that.”
She shivered, drawing her cape about her. “It feels like winter now. Couldn’t the fire be bigger?”
“I don’t want t
o show a light over the whole of Taranaki. I told you to wrap yourself in that blanket and sleep.”
For the first time her voice wavered. “I couldn’t sleep.” She gazed towards the dark line of the forest. Trees, stiff and straight, seemed to move out of it towards them, silently. No, there was nothing coming. It was her tired eyes giving her double vision, making even the stars swing in the sky.
“Tell me some more about your family, Briar.”
But she was too weary to improvise. She could think of nothing but that she hated those two imposters who had looked at her from the mantelpiece last night. Solid, humorless, dull. Her parents had not been dull or unloving, she knew.
“Why did they let you come to New Zealand?” Saul’s voice prodded.
“They thought it for my good.”
“Have you any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Yet they let you come?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” she said impatiently. “Do you mind—I can’t answer questions—I’m listening.”
“Don’t listen. There’s only the wind, or a morepork calling.”
“What’s the time?”
Saul held his watch to the firelight. “Almost time to wake Fred.”
“Have you done this often before?”
“Often, in the early days.”
“And you’ve been—attacked?”
He nodded briefly. He would have moved over to sit beside her, because her erect stubborn little figure looked so forlorn. But it would relax his watchfulness too much. Tonight he had others besides his wife to think of. And he was in no mood to cope with the hostility which his proximity seemed to arouse in her.
The moon swung higher in the sky. The bullocks had folded their legs beneath them to sleep at last, looming in the darkness like gigantic mushrooms. Jemima’s baby whimpered a little, and Jemima stirred, comforting it. The wind had risen and sounded like the sea. Saul threw more of the dry scrubby manuka branches on the fire and sparks flew up. The little scene was illuminated fragmentarily, then sank into gloom. Briar had slumped a little as if she might be asleep, still sitting stubbornly upright.
Then, with the abruptness of night creatures, a kiwi gave its harsh squawk, and Briar leaped to her feet and stumbled blindly towards Saul.
“The guns! Quick!”
He was laughing quietly. “It’s only a kiwi.”
“My God, what a country!”
“You’re worn out. Lie down.”
“I can’t—” her resistance was drugged with sleep—“in a crinoline.”
“Then take the damned thing off.”
“Saul Whitmore!” Her outraged voice was sharply awake. “This isn’t a bedroom.”
“More’s the pity.” But he desisted from his intention, for this was no time to lose his wits. “I’m going to wake Fred now. For goodness’ sake take off that preposterous gown and lie down, or you’ll be of no use to anyone tomorrow.”
“I had meant to stay awake all night. My responsibility—as mistress—” Her voice was slurring again. Before Fred had crept, grunting and yawning, from his cover, she had stumbled on to the blanket and closed her eyes.
The moonlight, the flickering fire, the moving shadows disappeared into a dream, the wind stopped rustling in the long grass. She was stiff and sore with cold and exhaustion, but later warmth crept into her body, and she had an illusion of being wrapped in comfort. She awoke in the first daylight to find Saul lying beside her, his body keeping her warm. The sun was rising, the birds calling, they were all still alive, and the day was somehow miraculous.
XV
LATE THAT AFTERNOON they came into the little settlement not far from Lucknow. The sight of smoke on the horizon had cheered them immensely, and even the baby who had been restless and irritable all day stopped whimpering and sucked her fist with a semblance of content.
But when they bumped into the narrow lane, already sticky with mud, that was obviously the village street, Briar and Jemima had to conceal their dismay.
For the thriving settlement Saul had told them of was merely a dozen or so wattle and daub huts with thatched roofs and tin chimneys. Tree ferns and bracken and the untidy raupo bushes grew everywhere. At the end of the street was the church, a wooden building scarcely the size, Briar thought, of Aunt Charity’s dining room, but with a stout kauri door and even a tiny steeple.
There was a public house, a tin shanty-like structure, with a horse hitched to the verandah post, and next to it a shop which ambitiously claimed on its sign that Elisha Trott stocked merchandise of every description.
A handful of people had appeared in the muddy street. These were headed by a large white-haired woman in a brilliant red calico dress. She came up to them, and without ceremony held out her hand to Briar. Her large face was shining.
“I’m so glad to see you, my dear. I’m Martha Peabody, the minister’s wife. I’ve baked a plum cake and I’ve got the kettle on. So step down and have tea with me. Have you had a good journey? Saul, it’s good to see you.”
Saul sprang down. “If you’ll give me a chance, Martha, I’ll introduce my wife. How did you know we would arrive today?”
“I watched the weather. Oh, and there’s a baby! Oh, my dear.”
She had plunged forward to take the baby from Jemima and fold it to her immense maternal bosom.
“Now, this little one needs rest. Come in, all of you. There’s plenty for all. The children, too. My, we need you children. We’re starting a school, and so far we’ve only got four pupils. Saul, you said rightly. You have got yourself a pretty wife. But she looks worn out. Are you going on to Lucknow tonight?”
“Of course. It’s only four miles.” He sensed something in her face and lowered his voice. “Where’s the Reverend?”
“He’s off doing a burying. He’ll be back before long.”
“You mean—”
Martha nodded briskly. She turned to take Briar’s hand. “It does us all good to see new faces. We’re a very small community, as you can see.”
“Mrs. Peabody,” said Briar urgently, “has your husband gone to bury those poor people who were murdered by the Hauhaus?”
“Yes, my dear. But don’t be alarmed. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day.” She gave her serene smile. “That’s my weapon, rather than carrying a gun. Though I can do that, too, if necessary. My husband thinks this is just an isolated incident, and there’s no need to be afraid. But Saul told us you were not the kind to be afraid.”
Briar’s voice was stiff, “I don’t see how he could have known.”
“He’s no fool. Now let’s all come in and sample my plum cake.”
Somehow they all crowded into the tiny book-filled parlor, and ate the cake and drank the hot strong tea. Then Martha took the women into the back yard to explain the workings of a camp oven.
“Look,” she said, displaying the small brick edifice, “you stoke it with bundles of bushy manuka tied up with flax—see, the bundles must be the right length. Then, when the bricks are white hot draw out the embers with a scraper like this, and brush out the oven with a manuka broom dipped in water. Then in goes your bread and meat at the back, the scones and cakes in front. When the bread’s baked there’s still heat enough to bake apples or quinces or potatoes. Mrs. Whitmore, of course, will have a real stove at Lucknow, but you, Mrs. Potter, will have to do with this kind. It’s perfectly simple. Except when it rains, of course, and water drips down your back.” She gave her broad humorous smile. “But we’re all pioneers, aren’t we? Can’t have roses all the way.”
This was sound wisdom, but Briar had a moment of deep misgiving when she left Jemima in the tiny hut that was to be her home.
It was built in the familiar wattle and daub pattern, which consisted of a row of saplings stuck in the earth, and then crossed horizontally with other saplings. The spaces were filled with clay, and the roof was merely thatched with the strong native grass. Inside, there was on
e room with an earth floor, and a ladder, leading to a loft.
Fred had obviously been trying to brighten the place. There was furniture made from packing cases, a dressing table covered with chintz, with a small mirror propped on top, an iron bed in the corner and a rag rug on the floor.
Jimmy and Lucy thought it was the greatest fun. They longed to climb the ladder and sleep in the tiny loft. Jemima, after a moment of suppressed panic, brightened and said, “With the things I’ve brought I’ll be able to make it nice. Some curtains for the window, and my pots and pans hanging here.”
Fred gave her a look of gratitude. “Come and see my potato patch,” he said eagerly.
“Jemima, wouldn’t you come and live at Lucknow? There’s plenty of room, Saul says.”
Jemima looked at Briar affectionately, her old-young face full of resolution.
“This is where Fred’s to grow his potatoes. It wouldn’t be the same on someone else’s land, would it? And we’ll have a cow, and the sheep. No, we’ll be fine, Miss Briar. You get along and see your own home. We’ll come over to visit later.”
Briar was overcome with desolation at the thought of leaving Jemima and the children, and of continuing the journey with only Saul and Katie.
“Lucy’s too small to walk four miles,” she protested.
“She’ll have to learn to,” said Fred phlegmatically. “She’s got sturdy legs and good stout boots. Don’t you worry, Miss Briar. Jem will be over to help you settle in.”
So this, too, was being the mistress, Briar thought. Jemima, thin, white-faced, tired, with three small children, could walk four miles to help her, a healthy young woman of nineteen, settle into a house which one assumed was six times as palatial as this hovel of Jemima’s.
But last night, she remembered reluctantly, she and Saul had borne the knowledge of danger and the responsibility while Jemima and the children had slept.
It was giving and taking after all. Besides, Briar planned to teach Jimmy and Lucy to read. She could give according to her ability, just as Jemima could. Life was full of dangers and difficult situations, but also challenging. Perhaps already, she thought with a slight shiver, she had conceived a child to be born in this green wilderness.