The cattle had been terrified at their first sight of the sea rolling up the beach towards them, but the steep hillsides kept them from breaking away. As the tide had drawn back, they left thousands of plod-marks in the wet sand.
When we reached the Cook River flats I reined in and gazed up the valley to the highest peaks in New Zealand, already with snow touching the tops of the foothills.
Paddy cantered back to help guide our mob to the others out on the shingle. His eyes twinkled as he trotted in front of me. ‘A foin soight indeed to see a lass in trews and a skirt.’
I had to smile and so missed my chance of a retort.
Robert McIntosh, the ferryman, had his longboat drawn up on the stones below where the braided channels met, and I waited there while the cattle were driven up to where the river spread out. I could see them milling around at the water’s edge, eyeing the swift current in the first channel. Before they broke away, every man and dog gave voice and the mob was pushed to the edge so that finally two beasts swam for the far bank.
After that the others followed meekly, with riders moving them on and gathering them up on a shingle bank. The rest of the channels were only belly-deep and not a beast was lost in the crossing. I think we all sighed with relief at seeing the first of the glacier river crossings accomplished so successfully.
Father and I waded out to the launched boat and settled in amongst the packs, stores and saddles. The longboat slanted across the current, our horses swimming white-eyed behind the stern. I was wet to the knees, and the glacier water froze my feet with a deep aching. My sympathy was with the horses. I glanced down at my wet skirts, waterlogged boots and trews. I had refused to ride side-saddle on such a rough trip and trews were essential.
‘Spectators,’ murmured Father with a slight smile.
I glanced upstream and saw three horsemen on the edge of the bush. For an instant my heart stopped. Could Southern be one of them? I tried to swallow my fear. Then one man waved and when Father named a man from Gillespies Beach, I took a long breath and sighed my relief. They were plainly checking on the condition of the stock, but later they helped guide the mob around Oturekua Point.
Once we reached the far beach, Nikolas cantered back to ride with us into the settlement of Gillespies. I felt a glow of satisfaction as womenfolk and children came out onto the track to watch us approach. The girls near my age had expressions of disbelief and envy at my riding with the men. I felt years older and impossibly smug.
Nikolas nudged his horse close to mine and teased me with a grin. ‘Mary, oh Mary, you’re playing to a full audience.’
I couldn’t contain a laugh. ‘And why shouldn’t I? I’ll never have such a chance again.’
‘If Mrs O’Neill was alive, she’d be saying, “Tis a sin to be making an exhibition of yourself.”’
‘And aren’t you enjoying all the excitement too?’ I retorted, and we both laughed as we reined in to dismount. Father looked amused as I waited for Nik to assist me, but he made no comment.
I walked stiffly to the Carrolls’ cottage as boys took our horses for a rub down and a feed. Mrs Carroll fussed like a mother hen as we stepped onto the verandah.
The warmth of the kitchen made me realise that the day had had a touch of winter in spite of the sunshine. There was frost in the late afternoon air and my wet feet felt like ice as I unlaced my boots and peeled off stockings. I wondered how I would feel when we slept under the stars the next two nights, somewhere between the bush and the sea. I vowed to make no complaints for I knew the men had not wanted me on the trip.
Father had longed to experience at least part of the cattle drive, but he also needed a chaperone for Bess on the return journey. He knew that the older women had no wish to accompany him so what other choice had he, without making a double trip?
We were eating porridge, bread and bacon before daylight. There was no glamour at such an hour and certainly no admiring audience.
Nikolas saddled our horses, saying, ‘You’ll be saddle-sore by tonight as this will be our longest day.’ He lowered his voice as he helped me into the saddle. ‘I wish it was just us two meeting your Bess … no cattle, no fathers.’
‘And no Paddy,’ I laughed. ‘He’s a right pest with his mock-Irish teasing.’
‘He won’t get a chance today because he’s riding with Simon in the lead.’
We shared a smile, for Simon was a solemn man.
The tide was high but turning, and the cattle set an unhurried pace around the next headland and along the seemingly endless line of steep hillsides that lay beside the high tide mark. Travelling at such a slow pace, the cattle should arrive in good condition.
At one stage, the boulders ahead seemed to come to life as twenty or so seals lumbered down to the sea, alarmed by the approaching cattle. They were fascinating to watch, so clumsy and yet so fast. All that was visible as we passed were curious faces bobbing beyond the surf.
We met three groups of travellers who stood close to the cliffs holding their horses’ bridles, fascinated by the passing scene. One pair of men had a string of packhorses taking supplies to Gillespies and places south. I felt confident with so many of our men around but I still looked closely at each traveller.
The miles inched past. The tide reached its lowest point in early afternoon and then climbed slowly towards us. We paused briefly for a hasty brew of tea with bread and cheese while the cattle grazed on the coarse vegetation at the mouth of Haupiri Creek.
There was frost in the air when, in late afternoon, I remounted for the last time and rode ahead with three others to set up camp at the Waikukupa River.
‘We’ll be glad of a fire tonight,’ murmured Nikolas as together we set the kindling glowing, heads close together so that I blushed happily.
‘Now then, you two! We’ve hungry men to feed,’ laughed Mr Winchester, and we looked as guilty as a couple of children.
By the time we had rigged tent-flies for shelter and grilled the Carrolls’ gift of mutton chops, the darkness had built a wall beyond the firelight. I licked greasy fingers and gazed around at the lean faces of men drinking billy tea or stubbing tobacco into pipes to keep the night insects away. Sparks crackled up in red and green explosions from the salt in the logs, and the scene was printed in my mind in firelight colours.
LYTTELTON PRISON
Southern wiped a cloth over his damp brow while the new kitchen-hand struggled with the cauldron of stew. It was two weeks since Bert Skildale had been released with the chain of requests that he had learnt parrot-fashion. Would he pass them on to Sam, who worked at Fleming’s Mill at Port Levy? It was a worrying thought.
Although neither Bert nor Southern was entirely familiar with the hillsides on the other side of the harbour, they remembered enough landmarks to arrange two hiding places for clothes and food, should Southern be able to escape. Both his plans involved that direction, and a derelict hut and two caves made ideal hideouts.
From the last cave, he could travel over familiar ground across the slopes of the two mountains to his friend from the past, Kelvin Kellaway. Searches would be sure to concentrate on the harbour settlements and then the city of Christchurch on the plains inland.
On this particular day, two wardens who had just finished a meal, were watching Southern through the doorway as he worked while they enjoyed a short break in the daily twelve-hour duty.
‘So, we’re away to relieve the warders at Ripapa Island next week,’ rumbled the older man. ‘We’ll miss these meals, for sure.’
‘Back to flamin’ overcooked tucker. Never know what’s bin slipped into the muck for extra flavour … or for spite,’ agreed his companion.
‘Got any ideas how we could take the trainee cook with us?’ The warder cut a slice off a plug of tobacco and began to chew it.
The other man’s face creased into a grin. ‘I get yer drift. Let’s pass the word around. Someone’ll have an idea. They’d bloody well better have.’
And they did. In fact, the senior war
der of the relief contingent, while examining the list of six convicts to be sent to the island, carefully altered 352 to 362. What difference did it make? One prisoner was as good, or bad, as another except that in this case, one prisoner was extremely important to the warders’ morale.
A few days later, when the hard labour gang returned from wall-building near the railway tunnel, the roll-call was made. Southern and others on special work, such as boiler stokers and cooks, always attended this roll-call before being locked in cells at sunset. The men were searched and six numbers were called out for transfer, to replace men working at Ripapa Island and now due for release.
Southern’s mind reeled at the news. The island! He felt sweat break out in spite of the cold of early winter. Could he rely on Bert to carry out those whispered orders that he’d repeated daily as the kitchen warder moved between the storeroom and kitchens? No looking back. This was his chance and he’d never get another.
As he shuffled in line to his cell, he paused in the doorway and asked, ‘Have I gotta go over water?’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be an island, would it?’ snapped the warder.
‘I–I can’t swim, and boats … they scares me rigid.’
‘Get inside. It’s a steamer you’re going on, not a rowboat.’
Southern backed into the dark cell as the door began to close. ‘Don’t make me go! Me Dad was drowned an’ I saw it all.’
‘Shut your whining or you’ll lose points for talking.’
The door crashed to and the bolt slammed home. Southern sank onto his bed, scarcely hearing the sound of doors shutting fainter and fainter down the line. Someone yelled a curse and was silenced by a shout then, as warders’ boots clumped down the iron stairs, there was only the measured tread of the two guards on that level.
Southern had taken a risk, but he hoped that his words would spread around and be remembered. They must be made to think that he couldn’t swim. His acting was about to be tested to the fullest extent.
Chapter
– Nine –
‘Begorrah!’ moaned Paddy as he put cold hands around a mug of tea before dawn next morning. ‘I’ll have no need to shave me handsome chin with a frost like this to freeze me whiskers.’
‘You should be like the boys and grow a beard.’ I gave an unsympathetic grin as I blew on my fingers before tightening a buckle on my saddle-pack.
‘Me toes fell off in the night, too.’
I raised my eyes heavenwards. ‘I hope you’re not asking me to be sewing them on again?’
‘Indeed not, for they’re unwashed ones, but I’d not be minding a weep on your shoulder.’ He placed his mug on a log.
‘Keep your distance, Paddy Flynn!’ I picked up the billy of tea and he moved smartly out of range, laughing.
After a slow start we reached the Waikukupa, a dangerous river with a deep channel. Mr Gibb was there to show us the best crossing, but it proved a frustrating morning. Andreas, Nik’s brother, fell in the water and it was not a drying kind of day in spite of the sunshine.
Much of the beach between there and the Omoeroa was backed by swampland and the slow pace became monotonous.
We spent that night with the Wallace family by the Waiho River where he plied the ferry, and we talked until my eyes drooped since late nights are customary in return for a bed. Only the two older men and I were offered beds but it was bliss to forego another night in the open.
In the early morning light I watched the cattle move down to the crossing, their nostrils puffing dragons’ breath into the frosty air. My teeth were chattering as we caught the first breeze from the mountains inland, and I was relieved to ride ahead with Father and Mr Winchester, leaving the cattle to set their own pace. We were to arrange a holding area for them at Okarito, and also to meet Bess, who would have arrived two days ago.
The Five Mile and Three Mile Beaches were ghost towns. Where twenty years earlier had been a mining population of 1500 with forty stores and five hotels — even a dance hall — there were now only a couple of cottages and a shack or two. We paused at the Grahams’ but still reached Okarito by noon.
And there was Bess, watching for us at the hotel. Sudden shyness curbed my excitement, but when I saw the smile, with dimple, all uncertainty vanished. By the time I’d dismounted, she was beside me, and we clasped hands with delight, as sisters would.
‘Oh, this is the moment I’ve dreamt about for so long,’ she cried. ‘So many questions to ask. Was your long ride from Swag & Tucker exciting?’
Our eyes met and we both knew that we were remembering that other, too-exciting journey when we had met.
Bess continued before I could answer, ‘Where is your father because I must thank him for all his wonderful kindness.’
I remember the rest of that day as one of talking and sharing, as I relished at last having someone near my own age, a friend with whom I could confide and share laughter. And although we were never alone until we reached home, just having her with me, knowing that she had shared my fears, released a tremendous amount of tension.
We reached Swag & Tucker with only two overnight stays, and Father looked exhausted by all our chatter. I think he would have welcomed Paddy’s company, but he was to follow us a day later with a laden packhorse.
When we dismounted in front of our cottage, there was a full muster of remarkably clean children assessing their future teacher with undisguised curiosity.
‘She’s riding sideways like Mother,’ announced Little One in a loud whisper.
Bess chuckled and handed the reins of her horse to Whistle, saying, ‘Better sideways than backwards.’
Ged snorted and nudged Bridie as if to say, ‘She’ll do!’
‘I’m Ged. I’m head boy,’ he stated, holding out his hand.
Bess took it firmly in hers and said very seriously, ‘Hullo Ged. You hold a responsible position. I’ve heard what a support you are to your sister, Mary.’
Ged gave me a grin and replied honestly, ‘Not always.’
Mother stepped forward, laughing, and introductions were made to Mrs Winchester, Rowan and Katie Ross from up on the hill.
Again I felt a shiver of sadness at how small our community had become. Four years ago there had been seven families and now there were only three. We were rapidly becoming a ghost town like the other gold-bearing beaches.
Bess was whisked away by Mrs Winchester to see her bedroom and to unpack, and I took Mother’s arm and began to tell them all about the cattle drive as we walked inside.
It being Saturday, there was no schooling next day, and the smaller children attached themselves as shadows to Bess’s heels, watching everything she did. Everyone gathered for our Sunday Prayer Gathering in the O’Neills’ cottage, and then at last I had Bess to myself as we hastened away for a brisk walk on the beach.
‘Everything is so different from the East Coast,’ she admitted as we stood together on the headland, watching the sea rolling in along the spit leading to Awakirikiri River. ‘The tussock hills of Banks Peninsula seem so arid in comparison to this. The bush in its valleys was not lush or as tangled as the forests over here.’
‘Everything grows so fast in rainforest, and tracks have to be constantly cleared. In fact, Paddy is to work for the Council next year to keep the inland track open … the one that passes through Longridge and ends at Karangarua.’
We gazed down at the ghostly grey of dead trees covering many hundreds of acres and the width of the valley.
I told Bess, ‘The big Awakiriki River changed its course and poured through the forest. Then, being fickle, it went back to the original course across the valley but by then the damage was done.’
‘So that’s where the gold is hidden?’ she murmured. ‘What a weird place it looks.’
‘You can’t see the island from here.’ I glanced at her strong footwear. ‘If you don’t fret over muddy boots I could take you there.’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘You lead the way.’
We hurried down the zigz
ag track and followed the line of the forested ridge through dense flax. Fifteen minutes later, we had passed through a belt of dead trees and crossed the log bridge over the creek to climb the boulders that formed the island.
Breathless, we stood on the summit that our men had burnt clear, dug over and dug again, all to no avail. Here and there, shrubs were regenerating, and the closeness of the dying trees made a ring of shelter. I sank onto a rock and fanned my face.
‘This is where Southern camped — where he was arrested. The gold must be somewhere near here, but is lost for all time.’
‘I suppose it’s useless to poke around?’ asked Bess.
‘I’ve given up after three visits. The men have been so thorough.’
‘And those robbers now in prison gave no clues?’
‘None. They denied hiding any gold, but the police are certain that it’s in this area somewhere.’
‘Perhaps they hid it amongst the dead trees?’
I shook my head. ‘When the river rises this becomes a swamp and to put it in a dead tree would be too risky. A strong wind has blown down quite big trees. No, the island is obvious … near their camp.’
We gazed slowly around the island, listening to the wind grating dead branches together, and a solitary kingfisher laughing down by the creek. Birdsong had already left the sombre forest.
Bess shivered. ‘It’s so quiet. I keep listening for a sound that isn’t there. I’d hate to be here after dark.’
That evening, Bess met Thomas Winchester who had ridden from Longridge for fresh bread and stores — the most eligible bachelor in the district, excluding Nik, of course.
He arrived at our place with Mr Winchester that evening to play cards, and I wondered what impression he’d made on Bess. Mother and I left the men and went to read to the children for a while, and she whispered to me as we closed the door, ‘As well that Mrs O’Neill is not with us to see the men with cards on a Sunday.’
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