by Vicky Adin
“So did I at first,” agreed George, “but I like a good bet as much as anyone, and this killed two birds with one stone. We help Tom and win some of our own.”
For this last race day of the Summer Carnival, it looked as if the whole town had turned out in the sunshine to watch. The men, many wearing bowler hats, keeping company with their womenfolk in bonnets and parasols, arrived in time for the first race at noon. It was a sight to see as hundreds of people made their way on foot, on horseback, by bicycle, horse and gig, pony trap – every way they could.
“How much have we won, then?” asked Amos, practical as ever.
“Good question,” answered Daniel. “Let’s see. We put in two bob each, so that’s ten bob down. The bookie offered odds of twelve to one since no one expected Merry Boy to win. That’s six pounds. Minus our ten shillings leaves a net profit of five pounds and ten shillings. That should buy some timber for Tom, and you all get your money back. We’ve done well.”
Standing in line to get their money from the bookie, Daniel picked up his conversation with Jock. “I must say, having you around when it comes to horses is a real bonus. The day when I came to you looking for some old nag to ride around on was a great day for me.”
“Takes pride in me work, don’t I? Not having people saying Proctor sold any ol’ hacks to anyone. Especially them what knows little. But you knew what you were looking for. You have a good eye.”
“Picked up a few tips back home when I was with the Lancers, I suppose, but the horses here are tougher and stay longer.”
“Only if they’re trained right. Some of them buggers flog their horses too hard on the sand and break their wind. The clever ones only use the sand for strengthening. You gotta keep an eye on who does what.”
“So, if I was to follow the horses a bit like, what would I be looking for?”
“Broad chests, strong legs, none of those fine hocks for me, too easy to break. Watch the eyes. Any that roll their eyes or flare their nostrils when you check ’em over have been badly treated or pushed too hard.”
“Next,” called the bookie.
Daniel handed over the chits and received his money.
The bookie tried to entice Daniel into making more bets. “Nice little nest egg you’ve got there, matey. What you gonna do with it? I can offer you good odds on Sand Hopper in the next race.”
“No, thanks. I’ve got what I came for.”
“Too bad, sonny. Could’ve been a big win.” Turning away from Daniel he called, “Next.”
“Wise move, Charlie, me boy. Don’t get sucked in by those leeches. They only want to take your money, not give it to ya. Sand Hopper ain’t no good on this track,” said Jock.
“Thanks for the advice. Again. But how do you know?”
“Watched him down at the beach, I have, when I take me horses down. Sand Hopper likes the hard sand just after the tide’s gone. Hates the soft sand, and the track ’ere today is too soft and cut up.”
Daniel and Jock rejoined the others to share out the winnings.
“Let’s get a beer,” suggested Dick.
Soon after, with tankards lined up along the bar, they were deep in conversation about the rest of the races.
“How about we put some pennies on the big black stallion in race four? He looks a likely one.”
Daniel refused to be persuaded to put any more money on the horses. “Not me. I’m not going to risk Tom’s timber money for anything. You enjoy yourselves.” Daniel wiped the beer froth from his upper lip with the sleeve of his jacket. “For once, I’m calling it quits and going while I can. I’ll talk to Ted at the sawmill on me way home.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Jock, swallowing his last mouthful. As they made their way to the back stalls to collect their mounts, he asked, “Are you happy with that mare of yours, Charlie?”
“Yes, I am. She’s great. Why do you ask now, after all this time?”
“Well, her dam dropped another one this season, and she’s a likely looker. I might think about breeding from her, or maybe racing her. That one of yours is a full sister; could be good for breeding. She might be getting on a bit now, though.”
They reached the stalls, saddled their horses, and rode together talking about horses, and whether breeding was an option, until they reached the edge of town.
“I can’t believe how much this place has grown in the three years I’ve been here,” said Daniel. “Do you know how many houses there are now?”
“Nah, never bothered much about things like that meself. I keep away from town when I can. Prefer horses to people, I do,” answered Jock.
“Well, I can tell you. There are twenty-three. I counted them the other day when I was walking up Main Street. And that don’t include the post office or the stores, neither hotel, nor the school and the two sawmills.”
“Not that surprising, not given all the new arrivals. People need somewhere to live. It weren’t that long since that bunch from Scandinavia arrived. You remember their ship tied up to the new wharf? That ain’t never happened before. Most of them have gone to work on the railway line, so I hear. The one being built between Wellington and Palmerston North to replace the old tram line.”
“Of course,” replied Daniel. “Tom told me there was around a hundred and twenty of them. That’s a lot of people to come to a small town. No wonder the sawmill’s so busy. Anyways, gotta stop here now. Catch you later.”
“See you around, Charlie.” Jock waved as they parted company.
* * *
The sawmill at the far end of town operated non-stop during weekdays, but Ted, the owner, would be found working at the weekend. The increasing population put demands on them for wood for frames and boards to build houses, planks for porches and boardwalks, and sleepers for the railway, so there were always plenty of discards and rounded kerf cuts.
As he made his way past the log carriage Daniel signalled, “G’day, Ted,” above the noise of the huge circular saw head rig that churned out the planks. He and Ted had met long ago in the army and respected one another.
“Yo, Chas,” yelled Ted as he left his post, putting the saw into neutral. “What can I do for you today?”
“I was wondering if you could help out. I need some cheap timber delivered up to Tom Watson’s place. He’s in need of a new room now his missus is due with their sixth one. The other lads and me got some money but we was hoping you’d be generous like and give us a good price.”
“You’re in luck. That pile over there was a bit too green when it got put through the saw – all the planks have twisted a bit. No good for best boards but with a bit of clever layering you could make it work. There’s a pile of kerfs over there, too. If you can use it, you can have it for six guineas the lot.”
Daniel counted up all the money in his pocket – the winnings, his original two shillings, and a few pence beside.
“Five pound, twelve shilling and thruppence ha’penny. That’s all I got. Will you take it?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Charlie. But it’s for a good cause. I like Tom.” Removing his glove he extended his hand to Daniel. “Done.”
They shook on it and discussed the delivery.
“I don’t want Tom to know it was me, you understand?” said Daniel.
“Sure thing.”
Nor would he be the one to help with the building, knowing his skills in that area were minimal, but Daniel was satisfied he’d done all he could to help a mate in need. Remounting his horse, he headed south to his shack on the banks of the river. Whistling a tune as he went, his mind ran over the possibilities of joining up with Jock Proctor.
I could get interested in this racing game. Might never have the money to own my own horse, but with a mate in the know, so to speak, who knows what might happen?
Chapter Nine
Auckland
1998
Libby sat pondering over the papers spread before her, a pencil in one hand while the other was busy twirling a section of hair round and rou
nd in her fingers, a habit of hers when she was thinking. Where have all the years gone?
Her fascination with Daniel had begun long ago when their children had been small and the older generation still alive, but had waned over the years. She and Ben had moved away from the area for work. The years slipped by, another promotion, another move, and the visits to the Manawatu family home became less and less frequent. Their daughter’s wedding a couple of years ago had been a wonderful occasion, but it started her thinking. Her family was growing and she still had questions about the past. She owed it to the next generation, and those yet to come, to learn as much as she could and write it all down.
Libby was always exhilarated by new discoveries and fired up by what she found, but most of the time the research was routine – and often fruitless. Hours were spent hunched over microfiches at the local genealogy club, finding leads that turned into dead ends. At other times she would read up on the history of the town and region, trying to work out what might have happened. She sat poring over yet another list of names and dates, none of which told her anything new.
It’s all so frustrating. I wish I’d done all this sooner, before Nana and the others died. They could have answered my questions. Then I wouldn’t be having these problems. But, what’s done is done and can’t be changed.
She remembered the time she had been shown the old family Bible into which all sorts of important papers and letters had been shoved. Libby had laid the large, beautifully bound, leather-covered Bible in front of her hoping to find more secrets inside. She’d opened the cover with high expectations and was not disappointed. The old family photographs hanging at the ‘homestead’ had been the trigger that started all the stories in the first place. Libby would ask about one of them and a steady stream of stories would pour out, some reaching myth proportions.
Ben had laughed when she told him the true story of the one about Daniel getting drunk and getting a dishonourable discharge. His discharge from the army was clean, but his record with the Armed Constabulary was another story. He got himself into trouble after a drunken fight a few days after Christmas 1869 and was sentenced to three months hard labour before being discharged – not dishonourably, but certainly in disgrace.
Daniel’s army papers, which Libby had requested from the Archives, showed that after the battle of Orakau Pa he was valet to Colonel Lyons for two years in the camp at Cambridge. In December 1866, at the end of his three-year stint, he was discharged without any blemish on his record.
She wondered what Daniel did during the two years he was in camp. He must have had something more interesting to do than run messages and act as valet to the colonel, but the records didn’t enlighten her. Then he went missing for about eighteen months before the next set of records caught up with him. He joined the Armed Constabulary in April 1868 and was discharged on 27 January 1870, none of which made sense, but then much of Daniel’s life had not made sense. Libby thought the stories were much more interesting than the reality but facts were facts, as simple as they sounded.
From the history books she knew that Orakau Pa was the last big battle of the Waikato Wars. There were a few smaller ones, like the battle of Gate Pa where the British took a hammering, and a couple of others later on, but most of the Maori fled south across the river and settled in what is now known as the King Country. The army stayed on the northern side and set up camps in Te Awamutu until the end of 1864 or early 1865, withdrawing to Cambridge as the military settlers moved in, taking over the confiscated lands and forming the frontier towns.
One story she did prove was, like all the soldiers who fought in the war, Daniel was granted fifty acres of land. His was at Pukerimu in Cambridge. Ben was excited when Libby had told him, until she pointed out that Daniel had not worked it.
“The government surveyors of the day took a survey map, divided it into squares and allocated the plots without seeing the land,” she told him. “Some would have received prime flat land while others would have received steep, boggy land. Who knows what Daniel received or why he left it.” At least she had the lot numbers and location and would investigate it one day.
To Libby’s surprise, the story of Ben’s grandfather, Charles, getting dressed up to go to Auckland in search of land on Great Barrier Island proved to be right after all. A letter from the solicitors in 1936 asking for back rates was true, and they did forfeit the land. What she hadn’t been able to find out was how Daniel got that land in the first place. Was it a second land grant or did he buy it? Neither scenario sounded likely. She would have to keep searching.
With a sigh Libby gathered the papers into a pile, re-sorting the most relevant to the top, ready for her to study next time. There were so many gaps she hardly knew where to start. On the distaff side, little was known about Granny Adin, a fact that intrigued her. Right now, though, there was some work she wanted to do before Ben came home.
An hour later, “Ben? I’m so glad you’re home. Come see this,” Libby called.
Ben peered over her shoulder at the computer screen. “What, hon? What have you found?”
“Nothing new, just filling in the chart – but doesn’t it look impressive? I’ve gone back seven generations.” The glee in her voice made Ben smile. “And with an awful lot of dates filled in. From your family’s point of view, the New Zealand branch started here.” Libby pointed to the timeline on the screen. “Five generations ago with your great-grandfather, Daniel, in 1863.”
Turning in the chair she looked up at Ben. “I still wonder about what their life was like. It gets to be a compulsion sometimes to keep reading about the history of a place, trying to imagine how Daniel fitted. He must have been awfully lonely sometimes, with no family of his own.”
“You’re a softie, you know that,” he said.
“So you keep telling me – but don’t you think so?”
“But Daniel married, so what’s your problem?”
“I know. But not till much later. He was thirty-eight before he even met Granny Adin. What did he do before then? Who were his friends? Did he have a girl? Who knows. But I tell you one thing – Granny Adin is the one I’d like to find out about. Her life is so sketchy. A bit here and a bit there, and great thundering gaps in between.”
“Didn’t you find a postcard in the family Bible from her nana to Amy, saying she was in Wakefield? Did you follow up with the Nelson records?”
“I did, but nothing. I thought I was on to something with that postcard. ‘To my dear Amy – I hope the new flax will banish a lot of your sorrows, dear, and come a glad New Year. Much love to all and your dear self from your old Nana’, dated December 1917.
“But I can find nothing in the Nelson records, or anywhere else for that matter, to tell us who it might have been. I took a guess, since the card was addressed to Amy – Daniel and Emma’s youngest – that ‘Nana’ could be Granny Adin’s mother. But it can’t be.”
Libby had gone from excited to frustrated all in the space of a few minutes. Engrossing as she found it, there was so much she didn’t know. It had turned into a case of stop and stall and not a lot of go. A bit here and there, but she wanted to make sure it was all as accurate as possible.
“OK. Tell me, what do you know?”
Instead of answering Ben’s question, Libby looked at the papers spread in front of her, tapping her pencil on her front teeth, and asked one of her own. “Where did you think Emma and her parents and brothers and sisters all came from?”
“I was always told they were Prussian.”
“Hmm.”
“Why?”
Again Libby twiddled a section of hair in her fingers. “I’m not entirely sure about that. I’ve been back over all the records, comparing them again and again, to try to make some sense of it all. The passenger list says the father, Eduard, was from Bohemia.”
“Bohemia?” Ben rubbed his hands over his head. “They’re miles apart. There’s a huge mountain range between them. It’s a totally different country, always has been
– different languages too. Bohemia’s now part of the Czech Republic. Prussia became part of Germany in the 1870s. It no longer exists as a separate nation.”
“I thought so. Just checking. The next funny thing is Emma’s marriage certificate. It says her mother’s name was Rachel, but the passenger list shows the mother’s name is Frederika. Which is right?” Libby looked up from her papers. “Gosh, I do wish there weren’t so many names the same. It confuses the generations and which side of the family I’m talking about! And it’s so hard to explain. It’s complicated enough for me.
“Anyway, where was I? Emma’s younger brother Fritz, who everyone ended up calling Fred – yet another Fred – was born in Linden, Germany. Or so it says on his death certificate from 1900. He was only twenty-seven, and the parents were married in Waldenburg, which is in Saxony.” Libby looked at Ben. “Was that part of Prussia then?”
Ben reached for the atlas on the bookshelf and tried to find all the places Libby had written down as towns named in the various documents. “Technically then, yes, they did come from Prussia. But at least now we know the father came from Bohemia.”
Picking up a photo, Libby stared at it looking for clues. “In this picture of ‘Aunty Clara’ on horseback, which Clara is it? There are at least three.”
“I don’t know,” replied Ben. “I can’t help you with this one.”
“Talking of horses, did Daniel own any racehorses, do you know?”
“Not that I know of. I always understood Daniel liked a good flutter and knew a bit about them. Not sure where he learnt it all from but apparently he could spot a good one.”
“What about your grandfather then, since Uncle Len owns a few?” queried Libby.
“A ‘few’ is an understatement – around eighteen at the last count. And yes, Grandpop and Nana were keen followers and part-owned horses with some others. Ellen’s Pride is the one I remember. There was always a photo of it on the wall, winning some race or other. Aunty Ruby always liked a flutter on her favourite numbers – five and ten. Uncle Charlie pretended to be a buyer. Went to the sales, a lot, but never bought anything that I know of. I suppose all of us had an interest to a greater or lesser degree.”