The Disenchanted Soldier

by Vicky Adin

  Daniel was exhausted. For hours, he had hung on to the solidness of his bunk, but the lack of sleep and a general malaise had left him feeling weak. He thought the women had shown great courage through it all, and was grateful he only had himself to worry about.

  After a while, most of the passengers regained their sea legs and managed to move about again, but while they were willing to put their backs into cleaning up the mess, their spirits were low. Strong winds and rolling seas followed them for the remainder of the journey. No longer was the air full of excitement. The conversation now was all about how to survive the remaining weeks.

  At long last, a voice carried down to them from the crow’s nest. “Land ahoy! There she is.”

  On the 11th of November 1863, New Zealand came into sight. The relief at having finally made it erupted into excited chatter and laughter. The passengers crowded around the rails, staring into the distance to catch a glimpse of the land they had travelled so far to see.

  Joe pointed out the sights to Daniel. “Them islands are known as the Three Kings. Many a ship’s been lost there when they got too close with the wind in the wrong direction. Shortly, we’ll see the cape at the far north of New Zealand.”

  Daniel stared out into the distance looking for a dark shape. “What’s it called?”

  “Cape Reinga. The locals, Maoris that is, believe all the spirits of the dead leave from there. It’ll be another few days before we get to dock in Auckland. She’s around 180 nautical miles away, and the wind is coming straight for us.”

  “Why should that be a problem?” asked Daniel.

  “No ship can sail directly into the wind, laddie, but it’s where we’re heading, directly upwind. The only way we can get there is by sailing close-hauled, sometimes called beating, ’cos it feels like the hull is beating against the waves all the time.”

  “What does that mean for us?” Daniel turned his head towards Joe to assess how serious this could be.

  “The cap’n will have to keep tacking back and forth so the wind comes from the port side for a while, then he’ll turn the ship back again through the eye of the wind and carry on sailing with the wind coming from the starboard side. See?” Joe tried to demonstrate with his hands. “If we keep beating like that we’ll make it. Let’s hope the wind doesn’t pick up, though, ’cos the ’eavier the wind, the rougher the seas. Then beating can be real uncomfortable.”

  Joe’s speech was riddled with nautical terms, the Californian twang creeping in, mixed with the soft burr and rolled r’s of his home country. Daniel was too awed by the sights before him to worry about what Joe was saying. After the weather they’d endured, nothing could be as bad. At least land was in sight.

  “Ooooh. Look, there. Dolphins,” came the cry. Someone pointed to a pod of a dozen or so dolphins playing on the bow wave.

  “And up there. Look.” A pair of gannets soared effortlessly in the small bands of thermal lift generated from the ocean swells. They were a sight for sore eyes and an entertainment that kept everyone pointing and watching for hours to come.

  Over the next few days, despite the heavy waters, Daniel, Joe and many of the others spent most of their time on deck studying the land as they sailed past. Even from their distance, some five miles out, they could make out a few details. In the early morning, the colours were multihued. Purples and golds spread across the land as the sun rose, deepest black in the shadows of the gullies, bright green as the light caught the tops of ferns covering the hillsides. The land came to life as they turned closer to shore. With a borrowed telescope they could see the textures of soft, small-leaved bushes juxtaposed with spiky trees. Sometimes the ocean spray rose up against rock or cliff; at other times the sea ebbed and flowed smoothly into the land. Fish were abundant in the dark blue waters. Birds filled the sky. The beauty of this land was breathtaking.

  The spirits of the people began to lift more and more as they sailed closer to Auckland. They had come to the land of plenty. The sun shone and everything looked like a picture postcard to those used to grey, damp industrial England.

  Joe pointed out the various headlands and islands as the ship beat down the coast past Bream Head, the Poor Knights Islands and Great Barrier, on through the many islands in the gulf, into the sheltered waters of the Waitemata Harbour, to tie up at the Queen Street Wharf in Auckland.

  Chapter Four

  Manawatu, New Zealand

  1995

  “What a grand tale.” Ruby clapped her hands together. “You are a one for storytelling.”

  “Must run in the family.” Libby smiled at the irony behind the compliment, knowing she had married into the family, but nobody noticed. She tried to make the story as interesting as possible, without over-dramatising but not missing anything out either. The best part of an hour had passed and the teapot had gone cold. She marvelled at the routine. It never changed. The two aunts both got up at the same time, another pot of tea was made and fresh scones placed on the table. Someone stoked the fire and opened the door to let out the back draught filling the room. Cigarettes were lit. Throughout the process of refilling the cups and spreading butter, jam and cream on the scones, questions were fired at her from all directions.

  But Libby wouldn’t be drawn on the next episode. “No, that’ll have to wait. I still need to check some facts before I can go on. But what other stories have you got to tell me now?”

  “Great Barrier,” said Ruby. “You mentioned Great Barrier. Did he go there, do you know?”

  “No, I don’t think so. The ship didn’t stop there. In those days it would have been an isolated place and difficult to get to. Why?”

  “I remember Ma saying something about the old man being given some land there, or something.”

  “Yes, that’s right, I remember now.” Maggie chipped in. “My, she used to make us laugh with her stories. Remember the one she used to tell us?” Laughing so much, she spluttered in the retelling. “Dad’s big day out to Auckland, and how he got dressed up in his best coat, wearing his trilby, and how smart he looked.”

  “We all know that one,” laughed Ruby, her mouth full of cake, wiping the crumbs away as she talked. “Can you imagine it? All the moans and groans from Dad being made to put on his best clothes. No-nonsense was our Mum.”

  She turned to Libby as she explained, “When a job was to be done it had to be done properly. Off to Auckland he was – by train. They’d got a letter or rates bill, or something – don’t really remember how she said it came about – but anyway it was supposed to be backdated charges for a piece of land Grandfather Adin had. So off our dad went. He didn’t know where Great Barrier was, so he asked at the wharf. He was told he’d have to take a boat out across the harbour and much further on. Several hours by boat, or was it days?”

  Ruby looked at Maggie for confirmation, but she only shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It was winter, I remember that, and a grey, cold day it was, with the wind blowing off the water, so he said. He decided right there and then to forget all about it. He got straight back on the train and came home. They wrote saying the authorities could keep the land. Nothing more was heard about it.”

  Libby sat listening to this exchange, wondering how this family could make a story out of so little. It had taken months of research to come up with the facts of Daniel’s early life and his journey to New Zealand. Yet here they were, all laughing, each chipping in, to elongate a single event into something more than it actually was. The bubbling humour around the table was the everyday kind that came from people comfortable with each other.

  Intrigued by the piece of information about the old man having been given some land, she caught Ben’s eye across the room. Libby had long ago learnt to rely on Ben to get them talking. He could remember many of the tales from when he was young, and he was family, so he could ask. She could almost see his brain ticking over. He knew what he’d been told, but from what Libby had found out so far most of it didn’t fit.

  “So, if he had a piece of land given t
o him, what was the story about him getting into strife and being forced to join the army?” Ben asked.

  Charlie removed the cigarette from his mouth. “Well, I don’t know about how he got the land and all that. All I know is what we were told about how he got drunk and got himself into a fight somehow. Apparently he ended up before the magistrate who told him to get on the boat and go back to where he came from.” Charlie, too, was now spluttering with laughter. “Grandfather said he couldn’t do that because his stepfather had told him never to come back and, any road, he had left some trouble behind there. So the magistrate had ordered him to join the army.”

  “What sort of trouble?” Ben tried to probe a little further.

  “Never knew exactly.” Charlie shrugged. “Just trouble. Young ’uns and all getting up to mischief. No harm done, but cross the law in some way and your number’s up.”

  Libby tried to focus the conversation. “Conscription was in force; he had no option. All men were expected to sign up. So tell me about the medal?”

  “Dunno about that either. All we know is he had one. ’Cause there was another story about how he soon realised he had nothing against the Maoris and didn’t like being in the army, so he decided to get out.”

  “Yeah. I remember being told that one.” Len moved from the easy chair to the table where Libby sat. “Let’s see now. It seems he was on sentry duty one night with another man. In the moonlight, they spotted some Maori intruders – two or three of them. They both fired at the same time and shot one. They thought they’d killed him. They ran up to where he was lying on the ground, dying, with a large gaping wound, blood and gore and dirt all mixed up together. ‘My kill, my kill,’ his companion had yelled. Grandfather replied, ‘Fine with me! If you’re so keen you can have it. I don’t want it. Makes me sick. I don’t want to fight these people,’ ” recounted Len. “It wasn’t the last time he would say something like that. Over the next few days, so we were told, he got depressed about the whole thing and got drunk. Very drunk. He was arrested the next day for being drunk on duty. They put him in a tent with a guard to await court-martial. One of his other mates sneaked up to the back of the tent, slit it open with a knife and got Grandfather out. He escaped, fled the army and made his way up the river from Trentham to Foxton, where he stayed.”

  “Colourful tale,” admitted Ben. “And it’s more or less what I remember being told as a kid. Great stuff and like a Boy’s Own adventure story, but the more you think about it, the more it doesn’t make sense. In those days, desertion was a death penalty or a gaol sentence, at least. You certainly wouldn’t have got away with running off like that. They’d have been after him like a shot. At a minimum he would have got a dishonourable discharge.”

  “Hmm, maybe you’re right, lad,” agreed Charlie, “but we can only tell you what we know.” Chas lit another cigarette in his nicotine-stained fingers.

  The room went quiet as everyone took in Ben’s comments.

  “Well, one thing’s for certain,” said Ruby, breaking the silence. “He did have his medal, so he must have done something right.”

  “Do we know why he got the medal, or when?” asked Libby.

  “No, we were never told that part.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “At the bottom of the Whangaehu River,” replied Ben.

  “What!” exclaimed Libby. “How did it get there?”

  “During the night of the Tangiwai disaster, Christmas Eve, 1953. When Uncle Henry and Queenie died.”

  Oh, my goodness! Libby looked around at the smiling faces. They all know this story too. And what a story it must be. Is there no end to the tales this family has up its sleeve? But first things first: What did Daniel do to get a medal?

  Chapter Five

  Auckland, New Zealand

  17th November 1863

  By 1863, Auckland had developed into a busy town of some 8,000 people. During the voyage Daniel had learnt a great deal about the history of New Zealand, including the Treaty of Waitangi signed in 1840, and of Auckland, in particular, the rapidly growing capital.

  Dr Asham, who had travelled this route before, told him the first immigrant ships to weigh anchor in Auckland Harbour had been the Jane Gifford and the Duchess of Argyle, in 1842. Daniel tried to imagine what it had been like twenty-odd years prior. There didn’t seem much here now in comparison with the crowded streets of Liverpool and London.

  “Those early settlers must have had hearts of lions,” said Daniel, “having to live in tents or – what did you call them?”

  “Raupo whares – basically cottages made from bulrush,” Dr Asham reiterated. “And they were reliant on the natives to bring wheat and other fresh foods across by canoe from the Manukau Harbour, or many miles overland from Onehunga.”

  Feeling magnanimous the doctor had continued, “By 1845, three and a half thousand people lived in Auckland, but things were changing. All was not well. One of the Maori chiefs, Hone Heke from up north, objected to the British flag flying above the township of Kororareka – it’s now called Russell. He chopped down the flagpole, ransacking the town. People were frightened but held their ground, but by the time the flagpole had been chopped down for the fourth time and the town burnt out, many of the townsfolk left. Packing up what they could salvage from their homes, shiploads of refugees sailed to Auckland. It was chaos, I can tell you. The place wasn’t ready for so many people. Needless to say, relationships with the Maori people deteriorated. Not long after that, the first of the wars broke out in the north. Take care, boy.”

  “Thanks for the information.” They shook hands, and Dr Asham raised his hat and went about his duties.

  The ship sailed past several small bays – Official Bay, Mechanics Bay and Commercial Bay. Larger, better quality homes sat on the clifftops and hillsides overlooking the harbour where the wealthier and more important people of the city settled. Reclamation work was going on to claim more flat land at the water’s edge to cater for the growing population. Point Britomart, where the fort had once stood, had been removed, and the dirt and rubble was being used as fill for a flat area of Customs Street and what was called Fore Street, later to be called Fort Street.

  Standing at the rail, Daniel could see the town of Auckland appear before him exactly as Joe had told him. He could see where the reclamation work had been started, but it was a long way off being finished. He picked up the kit bag containing his worldly goods and, tossing it over one shoulder, made his way down the gangplank onto the wharf busy with men loading and unloading ships.

  Voices carried on the breeze as workers shouted instructions to one another. Horses, many yoked to carts and drays patiently waiting to take the goods away, shook themselves inside their harnesses or tossed their big heads, stamping and snorting as they munched their way through oats in bags slung under their muzzles. The smell of their fresh, steaming droppings assailed his senses moments before the odour of fish wafted past his nose as a load swung off a small boat further along the wharf.

  People made their way to and fro searching for their trunks and other belongings. Everywhere he looked, he saw soldiers of every regiment and colour. An assortment of ships sheltered in the harbour: paddle steamers, transporters, gunboats, barges, even a couple of men-o’-war, but everyone seemed in high spirits. He found the sight welcoming, and even if the Auckland he walked into was a town preparing for war, he felt good.

  Nevertheless, it seemed strange to put his feet on dry land once more after so many months. He jumped up and down on the spot a couple of times to make sure it wouldn’t move.

  Joe came up behind him. “Yep, it’s solid. I can vouch for that. This ’ere wharf were built about a decade ago. It joins Queen Street there, which runs straight up for about a mile. Before this were built, goods and passengers had to be unloaded into small boats and ferried to shore.”

  Daniel could see the clay road that was Queen Street stretching out ahead of him. As far as he could tell, it was fairly well established, with importa
nt looking buildings two and three storeys high, some constructed of stone, others in wood. On either side of Queen Street makeshift footpaths of rough wooden planks kept pedestrians clear of the clay road.

  “What’s that street and those buildings up there to the left?” pointed Daniel.

  “That’ll be Shortland Crescent. It’s what could be called the main street, I suppose. There are shops and buildings of all shapes and sizes up there. But look ’e there.” Joe indicated towards North Head, the volcanic headland across the harbour. “That’s Devonport. They fly the flag from Mt Victoria to tell everyone a ship has arrived. It’s used as a signal there could be mail from home.”

  Pointing back up Queen Street Joe told him, “The courthouse, gaol, gallows and stocks are further up there, on the corner of Victoria Street. Try to avoid them, me boy. At the far end there’s a steep incline and a rough track leading to the Karangahape Road ridge. But you’ll soon find yer way about. Come on, mate, let’s find us a drink.”

  As they made their way along the wharf Joe pointed out the Waihorotiu Creek flowing down the side of lower Queen Street. “Be careful there, sonny; it floods in winter and becomes an open cesspit. Many a drunk has been fished out of that sewer after a night on the town.” Joe laughed at Daniel’s horrified expression.

  Before they had gone far a barrier and makeshift desk stopped them.

  “Welcome to New Zealand.” The sergeant stood beside the desk while two corporals wrote down details of the men who filed past. “We need every able-bodied male to sign up now. Give your name to the corporal ’ere, and we’ll see to ya. There’s work to be done to make this land prosperous. We need all the single men we can get. Are you ready to sign on, lad?” he asked Daniel.

  “What, already?” asked Joe. “Give the boy a break. He’s only this minute set foot on land.”