Return for the Gold

by Margaret Hall

  Mother’s arms folded around me as I splashed from the shallows, then she was holding me at arms’ length and laughing. ‘A new bonnet, lass! My, but it’s a fetching one.’

  ‘Fiona, my dear, the lass deserved it for her hard work these last two years,’ said Father, gruffly, wanting to justify his generosity when we had so little money for frivolities. Another bonnet for Mother was hidden in our luggage and I smiled at the thought. If only John Southern had told the court where our gold was hidden, there’d have been a new outfit to go with the gift.

  Mother smiled at him and took his arm. ‘Indeed she does. Oh, Michael, I’ve counted the days and hours for this moment. It’s been a long time of waiting. We’ll hear all about the trial and — and our Brendan — when you’ve eaten.’

  Little One swung on my hand, and Bridie the mischief-maker told me of new ducklings and how she now baked the scones and bread. The boys released their hold on Wag, my black and tan collie, and the next few minutes were utter chaos as I was enveloped by leaping dog and shouting children. It was the best possible welcome home.

  My two older brothers arrived to carry packs and holdalls. Sean the eldest is a duplicate of Father: a fine miner but with a heart for farming. Father needed him, so here he stayed, his Irish temper coping with frustration by flaring almost daily. Kerry is the peace-maker, already a cattleman respected by everyone. Both have Father’s colouring, while the rest of us have red or auburn hair like Mother’s.

  Most of the settlement folk crowded into our kitchen as the meal finished, and the room was filled with excited chatter. Even Paddy Flynn, forester and miner, who was double my age and a constant challenge to our teasing, took my hand and bowed, saying, ‘We’ve missed you, Mary Kendrick, and if you hadn’t accepted Nik’s proposal, I’d be setting my cap at such a comely lass. I saw you pass in your new bonnet.’

  I tried without success to withdraw my hand and hissed, ‘No wonder Rowan ignores you. Let my hand free.’

  His blue eyes twinkled. ‘Must be magnetic attraction. Unlike poles attract, and begorrah, we’re always in constant feuding.’

  ‘Paddy Flynn! Enough of your nonsense,’ called Mother, knowing full well that he sought revenge for the constant baiting we gave him. Brendan and I still hoped that he would one day propose to Rowan Winchester, but the likelihood receded as the years passed.

  Laughter dwindled to silence as Father gave full details of the trial and its outcome. Faces hardened as they heard that the hiding place of the gold had not been revealed.

  Sean thumped the table and swore. ‘And what good has that done them? What bloody good, I ask you?’ He turned to Father, an older version of himself. ‘We need that gold. We’ve taken only a few ounces since you left … not enough to shoe a damn horse with. And there they’ll be — paying for their crimes, aye, but never able to recover their takings.’

  I glanced from Mother’s frown at Sean’s angry words, to Father’s obvious difficulty at holding back his own disappointment. ‘Did you fully expect otherwise?’

  ‘Yes, I did. They could’ve used that information to try and lessen their sentences.’

  ‘I doubt that it would,’ said Buzz, our bee-keeping woodsman. ‘It might have helped where I come from but not all states of America, and not under British justice in a case like this.’

  There were some silent moments as each person assessed the outcome of our dashed hopes.

  Mr Winchester, who first settled at the beach with Father back in 1865, rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. I noted the black armband of mourning on his sleeve and thought how he had aged since his son, Badger, had drowned over two months before.

  ‘It’s no good fretting, Michael. We must put it all behind us now that the trial is over. Anger just sours a settlement. Who’s to tell the O’Neills, though?’

  There was another silence. They were in their eighties and very frail these past two years.

  ‘I will,’ Mother offered, and setting a quick smile, asked us about our adventures and what we had seen in the city.

  Slowly the tension eased and even Sean smiled as we described how Brendan had assured himself that his box of books was on board the ship, with never a thought for his trunk of clothes still sitting on the wharf.

  My glance wandered from one loved face to the other. Father was describing Christchurch City to the children, and all the excitement and adventures of the past weeks were reflected in their wide eyes and delighted faces.

  My nightmare had lost most of its terror now that I was home and distracted by so many things. I could only hope deep inside me that the two rogues would receive sentences to keep them in prison for all or most of their lives. Thoughts of their escape were best not dwelt on.

  CHRISTCHURCH SUPREME COURT

  John Southern had stood at the entrance to the courtroom as Red Lucas watched the jury re-enter having finally made their decision about his part in the bank robbery in Christchurch.

  The verdict was predictable: ‘Guilty, my Lord.’

  Southern smiled inwardly as Red lost control and, cursing jury and judge, was dragged from the court by wardens.

  ‘Perfect behaviour!’ smiled Southern, completely satisfied.

  There was sudden quiet as the judge retired and court officials and lawyers sorted papers and spoke to colleagues prior to the next case … his case.

  Red Lucas had been identified by bank employees as the man who attacked the bank manager, because his mask had been torn off during the struggle — one of three big cases involving violence and kidnapping for which he had been found guilty.

  The clerk of the court called, ‘All stand!’ and Southern faced the jury perfectly in role. He appeared shocked to be considered an accomplice to such a violent crime. He swore on oath that at the time of the robbery he was living in a beach shack south of Greymouth, and in contrast to Red’s wild behaviour, his evidence was that of a confused gentleman in need of money to settle debts … hence the thefts of gold at Swag & Tucker and Ross, and the link with Lucas. He would never attack a helpless person, and hadn’t known Lucas at the time of the bank robbery.

  Since the bank employees gave conflicting descriptions of the second robber, the verdict came almost as speedily as Red Lucas’s, but for Southern: ‘Not guilty’.

  He bowed to the judge and took his position between the two warders for the return to Addington Gaol to await their sentencing on the other two cases. He was convinced now that all the money and gold that they had accumulated previously and banked under yet another false name would be his when he left prison or escaped. Lucas’s sentence would be huge.

  It would only remain for him to retrieve his bank documents and the gold from his hiding place down in South Westland.

  Chapter

  – Three –

  ‘Four nines are thirty-six. Five nines are forty-five. Six nines …’ The chanting voices had only half my attention. The other half was listening for the sound of the latch on the side gate, telling me of Mother’s return from the O’Neills’ cottage.

  ‘Is Mrs O’Neill going to die?’ asked one small pupil. I was suddenly aware that one by one the voices had ceased chanting.

  I met Bridie’s interested gaze and said briskly, ‘We hope not, but she’s very sick.’

  ‘Mum and Auntie Mere and two of the kaumatua have come to stay and Mum says Uncle Fred and Aunty Heni are coming from Okarito, too,’ said Rawi with tactless unconcern. ‘Will they give Taua a tangi?’

  ‘We won’t talk about a tangi because she’s sure to get better.’

  I thought how sad it was that no one was grieving for the difficult old lady, except my loyal mother and Mrs Winchester.

  ‘Anyway, she’s not Maori so she can’t have a tangi.’

  ‘Ged! Watch what you say, boy!’ I snapped. ‘Rawi’s father’s Maori and the O’Neills have had close relationships with the Tainui whanau and the local hapu. Rawi wouldn’t have come to keep them company if the Tainuis hadn’t agreed.’

  ‘W
ill Mum take me home with her?’ Rawi’s eyes widened and his hand slid into Whistle’s.

  I looked at both boys as the realisation of what might happen shocked the whole class.

  ‘Gee whiskers! They couldn’t do that,’ cried Ged, head boy now that Brendan had left, and also the one who had guided the police to Southern’s hideout last April. ‘Could they?’

  ‘Do you want to stay?’

  The expression on Rawi’s face was sufficient answer to my question. I hadn’t considered the possibility until now, and I searched for reassuring words.

  ‘We’ll have a talk with your family, Rawi, and … and we can say how well you’re progressing with your lessons. They may think that’s very important.’

  ‘There’s a spare bunk in our room now that Bren’s gone,’ offered Ged. ‘But I wonder what will happen to O’Neill’s cottage? And who’s going to look after Thomas Patrick?’

  ‘Mr O’Neill to you, and you’re all talking as if Mrs O’Neill were already dead. If she does die, Rowan thinks that one of his whanau will take him home to be nursed and so free Mother from constant daily visits.’ I closed the book. ‘There’s but ten minutes to end of class so you can run to Buzz’s cottage and back, and no dinner until you’ve told me the nine times table.’

  Slates clattered into the cupboard under the window seat while I set to work on the evening meal. ‘Little One, don’t run off. You can be my special helper and fetch the taties and carrots, and we’ll try that new song as we work.’

  My thoughts slipped away. So much was changing at Swag & Tucker settlement. The Ross family was moving inland next year so that Katie would be nearer her husband, known as Beanpole because he’s so tall and slim. He was often away felling timber for more grazing. I seldom saw dear Rowan those busy days, but she was always there when I needed a friendly ear.

  There were long discussions now in the evenings about the future of the community. The Winchesters were thinking of selling their 200 acres inland now that there were no sons available to share the farming. Even Paddy was restless and thought he might try for work with the district council, building the promised inland road linking the glaciers with the towns north.

  Everyone in Westland could see that the inland valleys would open up to farming, since that would bring more profitable employment than searching for leads of gold at the beaches. In less than two years I would be living with Nikolas, by which time only those still working the gold sands would remain at Swag & Tucker. When I was born, there were over twenty cottages, but as the miners cleared the area of surface gold, men had found it a struggle to support their families, and moved north to seek other employment.

  Little One stood on the box beside me and scraped carrots. ‘You said we were going to sing,’ she accused.

  I laughed, and together we sang an old Irish lullaby that a passing traveller had taught me just before I went to Christchurch.

  Within just one week all the excitement of my time in the city had been driven from my mind by daily routines, the sharing of future plans, and Mrs O’Neill’s failing health. But in the night hours I remembered my nightmare and wondered whether any prison could hold a man like Southern indefinitely. Waiting for news of his and Lucas’s sentences increased my tension.

  It was mid December when Mrs O’Neill died. Relatives came from many parts, and decisions were made about the house and about her husband Thomas Patrick who was vague and seemingly unaware that it was his wife who had been buried. Age does strange things to a brain. The Tainui family from south held long discussions about Rawi’s future, too, now that he was not needed to help the old folk.

  On the evening before the Tainui whanau returned south, I asked Mother if Rawi was to go with them.

  ‘I fear he might because they are convinced he’ll be a burden to us.’

  ‘Did Father tell them that Whistle will be bereft to lose his only true friend; or how well Rawi’s doing with his schoolwork?’

  ‘Yes. That was mentioned when we spoke to them this afternoon.’

  ‘Do they know how Rawi feels?’

  ‘Surely they do, but we’ll ask your father when he comes in.’

  But there was no need. A small brown figure hurtled into the kitchen as we spoke. ‘Where’s Whistle? I can stay! I can stay! I gotta find Whistle. Oh, Mrs Kendrick, I’ll be as good as good … promise I will.’ And he gave her a hug before vanishing out into the yard.

  We learnt later that he could stay for the schooling but would go home for the holidays, and we were delighted. Thomas Patrick, now in his eighties, would go to Arahura with his youngest daughter, and the house would be shut up for the present but could be used by visiting friends of the community.

  We had all been bedding extra folk, and the boys had been banished to a tent to make room for them. Now in small groups the mourners departed and the settlement seemed very quiet when the many voices had faded away.

  ‘It will be strange to have our games of “forty-fives” at Gareth’s house instead of O’Neill’s in future,’ said Father at lunch as we remembered the past two days. ‘Thomas Patrick may have lost much of his memory but he could still hold a dealing of cards with the best of us.’

  Sean gave a rare smile. ‘Perhaps he was like old Ben — as deaf as a post until someone said the word whisky.’

  ‘Ah, but we all knew Ben’s clever ways to avoid taking part in work of any kind, and deafness was the cleverest of all,’ smiled Mother.

  There was a ‘Halloo!’ from the track and everyone spoke at once. ‘It’s Mr Condon!’ ‘Mail!’ ‘My turn to hold the horses.’ The room emptied as we poured out onto the track to greet the mailman who was heading south.

  ‘A fine packet of letters for you, Michael, and a big Christmas parcel from old Ireland for the young ones.’ He untied straps on one pack and pulled out various packages for the five households. It being the last delivery of mail before Christmas, he had an extra horse, and the boys led them away for a light feed then a drink, while Tom Condon tucked into a plate of scones and several cups of tea.

  ‘Thirsty work,’ he laughed.

  Father riffled through the thick bundle of letters while Mother and I watched him anxiously. Would there be news of the men’s sentencing? My heart was pounding so hard I felt sure someone would notice.

  ‘Ah! We’ll open this one, if you’ll pardon us, Tom.’ He unfolded a page and, as usual, frustrated us by reading the contents silently. I held my breath, hands gripped tightly in my lap.

  Then he spoke. ‘Sentences have indeed been set: “Frederick Jensen (alias Red Lucas) penal servitude with hard labour for life. Tom Sutton (alias John Southern) penal servitude for twenty years. Both sentences to be carried out at Lyttelton Prison.”’ There was a hiss of disbelief as he added for those who hadn’t visited the city, ‘That’s the port town for Christchurch.’

  Father looked at us as if he couldn’t understand what he had read.

  ‘Only twenty years,’ cried Mother and I together, and she added, ‘Yet he was the ringleader. Is that justice, Michael?’

  ‘No … no it isn’t,’ I burst out in my anger and fear.

  I could see that Father thought the same but he tried to reassure Mother. ‘Twenty years in that prison would be a life sentence to me. The man will be over sixty when he’s released. Little cause for us to worry.’

  ‘Is the prison secure? Are we sure he can’t escape … really sure?’ I recalled so vividly the threat that Southern had made in my dream.

  ‘Oh, aye, it is that … the largest prison in New Zealand and by all accounts very strictly controlled. I hear that the inspector of prisons has brought in chains again for troublemakers there. There’s been an increase in the number of warders and all are armed when out with work gangs. Escape would be well nigh impossible.’

  No prison could be tough enough for those two rogues. I buttered the last of the scones and passed them to Mr Condon, trying unsuccessfully to control my shaking hands.

  Twenty years and he would b
e freed to haunt us again. I’d be only thirty-six! Oh, how cruel. I’d be living in fear for always.

  LYTTELTON PRISON

  ‘Three six two.’

  John Southern looked up as the number was called.

  ‘Yes, you. Make it bloody snappy or I’ll book you for more than yer gear,’ yelled the warder behind the bench of the storeroom.

  Wrists handcuffed together, Southern stepped forward, forcing his expression to remain that of a shocked and puzzled man. Timidly he held out his arms for his prison issue of clothes.

  The warder spat out an unbroken list of words. ‘Shirts-cotton-two-pair-trousers-duck-regulation-length-short-two-pair-jacket-duck-one-stockin’s-striped-two-pair-cap-one-boots-one-pair-blankets-two-no-mattress-for-first-probation’ry-month-sign-’ere.’

  Southern lowered his head to hide the rage he felt inside, and entered his signature slowly beside the number 362. The pile of clothes and bedding was dumped onto his arms.

  All his personal possessions were taken from him in the guardroom where more lists were read out, and more signatures written slowly.

  ‘Turn ’bout. Quick march.’

  Along the corridor, tramp, tramp, down the stairs to a whitewashed concrete room where he was stripped, washed and head-shaven, then given a medical examination by a doctor who noted scars, missing teeth, and his general description such as height and weight. To Southern’s relief, he was allowed to keep the tinted glasses.

  He struggled into the harsh cloth of canvas trousers, concentrating on his assumed character. He must learn to be anonymous. Handcuffed again and carrying his blankets, he was marched across a yard and into another building. Up an iron staircase past a row of cell doors and a man in white, scrubbing walls.

  They halted in front of an open door. ‘Two minutes to stow gear and make up bed. Come on! Come on! Make it snappy.’