Return for the Gold

by Margaret Hall

  ‘Ka aru taua, ae?’ whispered Rawi to Whistle, and they chuckled.

  ‘No, you couldn’t!’ I snapped.

  They looked at me with rounded eyes.

  ‘Yes. I understood that. You’d never keep up with them without a horse … and don’t you dare consider taking Digger!’

  ‘School ma’am!’ Whistle wrinkled his nose at me. ‘You spoil everything. You used to share adventures and now you’re Miss Big-Boots.’

  ‘I have to be, with such troublesome pupils.’ I ruffled his hair and dodged his punch. I added as sternly as I could, ‘Any plans to follow the men and you won’t sit down for a week, which will no doubt make your lessons seem double in length.’

  Then we all laughed, but I knew I’d be alert once the cattle arrived from the valley.

  LYTTELTON PRISON

  The Chief Gaoler of Lyttelton Prison glanced at the next item on the list before him — a minor matter compared with the floggings he had just imposed on three men who had started a riot in one of the workrooms.

  There had been similar incidents in his first year in the prison when the school had been closed and all games and recreation stopped. The government inspector had decided that prisons should be made less attractive, so tobacco and food rations had been cut. He had stated that if food was left or rejected, then the men were being overfed. Even the twenty or so children were put on half rations to discourage them from a career of crime.

  The Chief Gaoler had considered himself the right man to enforce those regulations and was annoyed that men still dared flaunt his orders. He read the next entry before him.

  Number 362. Suggestions that he be placed in the printing works. He is educated and a neat and willing worker.

  He glanced across at the senior warders. ‘Request refused,’ he said. ‘The boredom of his present job is part of his punishment. As Class Three, he can receive no privileges. If he’s an active man, he’ll apply for hard labour. Place him in the kitchens for twelve months.’

  He transferred his attention to the next entry.

  Number 219. Broke silence in workroom and argued loudly with Warder Yates.

  ‘Leg irons and half rations, one month. Must set an example here.’

  The list continued.

  John Southern welcomed his transfer to the kitchens. The more areas of the prison he became familiar with, the better his chance of finding the perfect escape plan. The smells sickened him at first: the tubs of salted meat, and stewing cauldrons of cabbage — a rare luxury meant to supplement the unvarying diet of bread, meat, potatoes and oatmeal. No skill was required to prepare meals for his fellow prisoners and, as yet, he was not allowed to prepare meals for the warders.

  His spirits had lifted recently because he had recognized a man exercising on the Class Two circle in the yard and now he had glimpsed him at work in the kitchens, a scullery hand in the warders’ section. He was a mill-hand cobber, Bert Skildale.

  They had worked together over ten years ago when he, Southern, had first arrived in New Zealand after his escape from a Melbourne gaol. A thin weasel of a man, but one of two who had helped him conceal his identity when he worked at Fleming’s Mill at Port Levy on Banks Peninsula. Ironically, the mill was only a day’s walk from Lyttelton Prison, if only he could cross the harbour. He had thought of the mill many times, wondering if old hands were still there.

  Bert would be on a lesser sentence, being in Class Two. If only he could speak to him. Bloody regulations! He’d have to take it slowly: see if Bert remembered him. He’d try to time his uplifting of stores with Bert’s. Watch and wait, because no risks must be taken. His chance would come if he curbed his impatience.

  Chapter

  – Seven –

  Every time I thought of Bess, my heart would sing.

  Paddy described my mood in his usual teasing fashion. ‘She ’minds me of me Grannie when she heard I was sailing for New Zealand.’

  Even the children caught my excitement and called me ‘Cheery Mary’ which did nothing for class discipline. Mr and Mrs McAllison had visited Bess and invited her for luncheon. Her cousin did not seem well-pleased, and the McAllisons were not impressed with him. Bess was able to tell them of her predicament and it was suggested that she write to her father’s solicitor while she was with them, to ask if her employment contract was legal. This was done and the reply was received at the McAllisons’ address.

  Another luncheon appointment was made, receiving even less enthusiasm from the cousin who warned Bess that no more invitations were to be accepted.

  Unknown to me, Father had offered her a home here at Swag & Tucker if she would like to help in the guest houses until after my marriage. Then she could take over my position as teacher.

  I was speechless when I heard this, and then Father read out Bess’s letter of delighted acceptance.

  ‘Peace reigns until Mary finds her tongue again,’ smiled Sean.

  ‘When will she come? Soon? Is she still at that terrible house?’ I longed to know all the details.

  Father glanced at the page and replied, ‘The solicitor has arranged for her to live at Hugh McAllison’s home until she can come south. He has also collected from her cousin her legal wages for the past five months’ work. She will travel south to Okarito in late May at the time we hope to drive the cattle north. I’ll travel the first few stages with the drovers then bring young Bess home from Okarito.’

  ‘You’ll not be wanting to go the whole distance to Arahura then?’ asked Mother with surprise.

  ‘Nay. There are too many going already. Gareth has the better business head and I vowed there’d always be men here at Swag & Tucker. Paddy, Spider and Buzz are too far down the beach should a crisis occur.’

  My heart lurched and suddenly the nightmare seemed but yesterday. I could hear Southern’s voice so clearly: ‘You will be alone and no one will know … no-one!’

  I listened to the discussion about distribution of the menfolk but my fears made little sense of the words.

  ‘How many of the boys are going north? What about Agnes at Longridge?’ asked Mother.

  ‘Agnes will have Thomas Winchester, Banjo Bill, and Rowan is to join her. Beanpole will be there, too.’

  Oh, it was horrid to remember the robbery and the hostage-taking … the one time when the women were left unprotected.

  I was suddenly aware that the subject had been changed.

  ‘I’ll need a woman’s company for Bess. Shall I be asking Mrs Winchester?’ teased Father, glancing across at me. The sudden change of expression on my face gave him his answer. He glanced at Mother. ‘Will you be sparing Mary to come with me?’

  ‘I’m thinking there’ll be no holding her,’ she laughed.

  Exploding with excitement, I ran next door to tell Rowan.

  Bess … dear Bess, who would soon write to me with no restrictions and who would be here within five weeks! How quickly my fears had dissolved again.

  Those weeks melted away in spite of a cold April. When lessons ended each day, we rode on the big sledge hauled by Digger with Paddy fooling at the reins, pretending he was driving the Queen to her palace. And Buzz would be singing bawdy American ballads.

  This was the time we loved — the last firewood collection before the frosts. Buzz would fell one of the skeleton trees on the edge of the flooded forest and cut the limbs and trunk into the size of hearth logs. We young ones would be the cheap labourers. The smaller children would collect the kindling pieces in seed sacks, while Ged and I would load the sledge. Paddy did little, but kept us entertained with antics and miming people we knew, in between splitting the larger logs into handling size.

  The sea was deep blue, edged with the curl of surf. Seabirds squabbled and bellbirds sang from the bush on the ridge. We would pause on the top of the zigzag track at the end of the day, to give Digger a rest, then came the insecure ride downhill and along the beach road, perched high on stacked logs.

  ‘Best stop below your cottage, Paddy. We’ll walk the r
est in case Mother fears for our safety,’ I called breathlessly as Digger broke into a trot, sensing his reward of oats.

  ‘To be sure I can then ease her mind by saying we lost you in the flooded forest.’

  ‘As if she’d believe that,’ I retorted.

  He reined in, and we scrambled down to the track. ‘Gee-hup, old horse,’ he cried, and flicked the whip at us. ‘And don’t you be vanishing down your mouse-holes, me darlin’s, before you unload and stack this lot, or I’ll skelp you, so I will.’

  We were not in awe of Paddy but we were of Father, so the logs were stacked with the men’s help, and speed increased as we smelt the aroma of stew wafting across the back verandah.

  I thought of Bess and wondered what she would think of our rough ways. I prayed that she was a pioneering person at heart. She had mentioned times she had ridden with her father when he was called to a patient in one of the remote bays. She must be used to an outdoor life, and some discomfort, too. Her last letter had been filled with the excitement of coming south, and preparations had been finalised. I wondered if she ever thought about that night by the Taipo River.

  Inland, the men were drafting steers for the saleyards, checking that all was well for the 140-mile journey. The Hereford-Shorthorn beasts had been fattened on a small harvest of turnips, and on oats scattered between the stumps in a fenced-off paddock. According to Mr Winchester they were in the peak of condition.

  ‘They’ll take all of a day to come over the terraces and through the gorge,’ explained Father. ‘Mr Kozan will ferry all of you across the river so that you can watch them come out to the beach. This is indeed a big occasion and one to remember.’

  Whistle bounced up and down on his stool like a jack-in-the-box and Rawi’s grin stretched to his ears. The young ones had never been up to Longridge because the gorge track was so dangerous, and the chance to see the semi-wild cattle would be an unforgettable experience.

  ‘It’s time to pack your baggage, Mary, for they intend to arrive tomorrow.’ Father smiled as my grin matched Rawi’s.

  The cattle would take four days to reach Okarito where Bess would be waiting … four whole days for me to watch Nik at work.

  I was so distracted with excitement when the day arrived, that Mother took over the afternoon classes so that I could pack and do purely routine tasks like preparing dinner for three extra men. My older brothers would be joined by Paddy Flynn who was to ride with us to Okarito for stores. I dreaded the teasing he’d be giving me on the journey. Spider and Buzz were to sleep in O’Neill’s house to watch over the women and children.

  It was mid-afternoon when we hurried down to the river, a chattering group of women and children following the menfolk. Even Katie Ross and her three-year-old, Pennyweight Jane, came down from the hill cottage to be with us.

  ‘I’m to return to the valley with James,’ she told us. ‘He wants to show me the site for our cottage, so I’ll be away for almost three weeks. I’m so excited.’

  The Ross family would be moving to Longridge in the middle of the year. Oh, if only it was to be me. It was hard to hide my frustration at times.

  We were ferried across Big Jack River by a beaming Mr Kozan who was impatient to welcome all his three sons at one time. We women and the children sat on Mrs Kozan’s porch to wait for the cattle, exchanging news and memories while we swatted at sandflies that were fattening up for winter.

  Suddenly Rawi cried, ‘Listen! Listen! I c’n hear ’em.’ There was a general rush of children down the slope towards the gorge, until we called them back. ‘These beasts aren’t milking cows. Don’t take chances with them for they’ll be frightened and angry at being moved,’ warned Mother.

  The first horseman appeared from the tree-ferns and scrub at the mouth of the gorge, then one by one came the white-faced cattle, mumbling complaints that were answered by sudden echoing calls from the beasts still in the bush. Occasionally there was the crack of a stockwhip and the sharp bark of a dog, but mostly there was just low grumbling. I suspect the narrow gorge track had scared the cattle as much as it had me eighteen months before.

  The cattle came in broken threads with a horseman ahead of each group. The men let them take their time across the two terraces, watching them snatch at grasses and cool down enough to drink in the shallow water.

  Ged and the boys were counting the animals but by the time they reached forty they were arguing as to whose total was correct.

  ‘There’ll be all of a hundred beasts,’ Father told them. ‘And it’s been a mighty task to get them down that narrow gorge track.’

  A fair-sized paddock had been fenced to hold the stock and when the gate was at last closed, we crossed to admire the chestnut-smooth coats and the horns. The boys helped with rubbing down the horses and the men looked weary from the hours of tension.

  ‘Never again,’ Simon vowed. ‘We didn’t lose a beast but it’s a hellish route. We’ll have to widen that track with explosives or find some other way out.’

  ‘The flooded forest is drying out and those quicksands could do with checking. If a track could be cut down that sheer terrace, the Awakiri seems the better route,’ Father suggested.

  The discussion continued over mugs of beer as the men eased off boots and leant back against the wall of the verandah. As with all enterprises, there was much to learn. That was why six men were taking the cattle north, so that later trips could be made by fewer but experienced drovers.

  LYTTELTON PRISON

  In Lyttelton Prison, the shifty-eyed kitchen-hand gasped as he stared across the sacks of potatoes at a fellow prisoner. ‘Carl … Carl Slater!’

  ‘Shut yer bloody mouth,’ hissed Southern, glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot. Then he gave a nod of recognition. ‘Gotta be careful, but it’s right good to see you, Bert, old mate. Best not to talk though. We’ve less than a minute. Forget my name … there’ve been changes. I collect stores this time each day. Be here when you can.’

  He shouldered his sack and left Bert Skildale in a state of shock. Carl Slater, our old cobber, what got Sam and me outta trouble over the missing whisky at the mill. What’s ’e in for? His mind reeled with questions.

  A warder entered the storeroom. ‘Why the hell are you taking so long in here? Move yourself!’

  Bert shouldered the sack and staggered back to the kitchens.

  That was the first of several meetings between the two men during the days of April, and by then Southern had an outline of two plans for escape. The better plan depended on his getting a transfer to the work gang on Ripapa Island on the far side of Lyttelton Harbour, and already Bert had memorized a set of requests that would assist Southern once he escaped. There was no ‘if’ in their plan.

  In early May, Bert was released, and Southern could only hope that his orders would be carried out. Within days, there were more changes for him to adjust to so he had little time to fret.

  He was passing the doorway of the warders’ kitchen on his way to the brine tubs, when an accident happened to the trainee cook. The man had cut his hand badly and near fainted at the streaming blood. Southern grabbed a cloth and put pressure on the wound while the cook dithered helplessly. The warders heard the uproar and took over, pushing Southern aside.

  But the senior warder had looked at him with surprise. ‘Quick thinking. What’s your number?’

  ‘Three six two, sir.’ Southern looked modestly down at his feet.

  ‘Kitchen-hand?’

  ‘Yes … sir.’

  ‘Can you cook?’

  Southern peered at the man through his tinted spectacles. ‘Oh yes, I can cook. I owned a small restaurant before I was cheated on investments and went bankrupt. Ten … fifteen years back now but one doesn’t lose the skill. Nothing’s gone right since then.’

  ‘Well maybe life’s improving. Get through there and report to the cook.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Tell them to get another kitchen-hand.’

  Southern shuffled away and quietly reported hi
s orders to the cook, a flabby man whose meals were of poor standard. Southern, who had merely worked in a restaurant, smiled to himself.

  Within a week he was indispensable and the warders decided not to mention that they were dining better than they had in years.

  At nights, Southern exercised his muscles until the sweat poured down his body. He was becoming a very fit man.

  Chapter

  – Eight –

  As we left the Saltwater River behind us and watched our fifteen head of cattle thin to single file into the bush, I fully realized why the droving had to be done in winter. The Saltwater had been low but it had taken time for the men to find a crossing free of quicksands, and the cattle were nervous. Whips cracked and dogs yelled as loudly as the men, but it took two hours to get them all across and to sort them into groups of about fifteen beasts for the narrow track through the bush.

  Riding as we were at the tail-end of the herd, our horses splattered through the churned mud, and the steers were soon caked to the belly.

  We had started moving from Kozans’ as first light turned the valley into greyness, and now it was mid-morning as Father turned in the saddle and gave me a smile.

  ‘They’ve made a fair porridge of the track, haven’t they? Sorry you came, lass?’

  I brushed sandflies from a damp face and smiled back. ‘Better porridge than spelling with Bridie.’

  ‘Young Bess will wonder whether to return to Greymouth if this muck doesn’t dry out by our return.’

  I leant forward in the saddle to avoid giant fronds of tree-fern, and wondered the same. Our dog, Jet, trotted patiently behind Father’s horse, looking as subdued as the cattle. The bush rose tall on either side, closing out the sunshine as we climbed the low ridge to the Cook River. Birds were silent except for the chatter of fantails dining on disturbed insects. The only other sounds were the squelch of hooves, the creak of saddles on sweating horses and the heavy breathing of the cattle with an occasional bellow far ahead.