Nothing.
She had the wrong bag.
She had picked up the bag of that bloody red-haired American.
Everything hit her at once.
Her daughter had been taken.
Frank was chasing the terrible man who had taken her, but the countryside was wild and unfamiliar to Frank. He wouldn’t know where Smith might be going, in spite of what the detective had told him.
And now, on top of everything else, she had the wrong bag.
She bent over in terrible grief, pounding on the bag, unable to breath, trying to scream.
“My baby. My baby.”
15
The Chase
The drumbeat of Nightingale’s hooves played the words of The Charge of the Light Brigade in Frank’s head. Half a league, half a league, half a league, onward. It was echoed by the pounding of his heart in his chest. He could scarcely recognize his own emotions. He’d fought in wars and seen terrible things; he’d lost his own brother to a brutal enemy act. But nothing had prepared him for how he might feel if he lost his beloved daughter.
The horse took the road at a gallop, flying along the rutted surface like a thoroughbred on a race course. The bridle path appeared through the trees briefly, and he realized that it split in two, with one part going towards the ocean, the other continuing down to the river. If Smith had gone in the direction of the ocean he could turn inland anywhere and be impossible to find. He had to believe he’d gone to the ferry, knowing that crossing the river would give him an unbeatable head start. He’d seen the empty punt pulling in when he was at the ferry with Helen, twenty minutes ago. The ferrymen had told him the punt would depart for the far side as soon as they had a passenger. If he could get there before the punt pulled out he could stop Smith and rescue Sarah Jane.
He was at the river in ten minutes, in time to see the ferry punt pulling out into the stream, swaying as the current tried to push it off its cables and downstream towards the ocean. He could see Smith in the centre, facing the far side, holding onto the horse with one hand, Sarah Jane tucked under his arm. He was the only passenger on board; a pole-man stood at the front of the punt making sure it didn’t snag on anything. On the far side, a coach awaited, ready for the return trip. That would slow things down, especially if Smith didn’t see him coming.
He checked his belt for the gun Inspector Buckley had lent him. It was loaded and ready to go, but how could he shoot at Smith, knowing he was carrying Sarah Jane? He had always been a dead shot who hardly ever missed his target. But he’d never had to shoot a man who was carrying his own child. A bullet did not know enough to stop when it entered one body. It could just as easily continue on into another body. Chances were he would not be able to use the gun.
“Is there any other way to get across the river so I can meet the ferry?” he asked the cable operators. They were sweating over the handles of the cable wheel and took a moment to answer, then both looked up at him.
“There’s a bridge…ten miles…to the east,” one said between grunts.
“Too far,” said the other. He stopped pushing the wheel, but left his hands in place, ready to start pushing again. “Take the path along the river towards the ocean and cross where it curves back away from Fortrose. It’s shallow there. Then go along the beach for a bit and turn inland.”
They returned to their labours. As he spurred his horse towards the coast, he heard one say, “Bad idea. The river is sandy near the mouth and it’s treacherous.”
He was at the curve in minutes, and forced the horse into the shallow water. Nightingale moved carefully, testing the firmness of the sand. He leaned over and watched the water in front of him, searching for small disturbances in the water that indicated drops in the riverbed, stroking the horse’s mane, to calm himself, but also because he needed both of them to get across the river. “Careful now, Nightingale.”
At the mid-point, he came upon a shoal; it was below the surface, and the horse stopped, refusing to move forward. He dismounted and led her, making sure there were no holes she could step into, feeling in front of himself with one foot before putting his full weight on the stony shoal.
Less than five yards from the bank on the far side, he felt firm sand. The current was stronger as the water concentrated into a race, pulling at his legs, and he held on to Nightingale’s saddle and let her take him the last part of the way. In spite of its firmness, the sand kept dissolving under his feet, but they made it to the edge and struggled together up onto the bank.
Astride the horse once more, he hurtled along the beach for two hundred yards and then headed inland again until he met the river, where a decent track had been constructed; he followed it towards the ferry, letting the horse have her head, calculating when the ferry punt would dock on this side of the river. He should arrive at the same time as the punt, or soon after. And it would take time for the poleman to secure the boat to the dock. No one would be allowed to disembark until that job was complete.
The punt was already docking when he arrived. The poleman carried the rope wound around his arm ready to tie it to the cleat. Smith hadn’t seen Frank coming, and stood at the front of the punt, ready to disembark, still holding the horse and Sarah Jane.
When he saw Frank approaching along the path, he took a step back and said to the poleman, “I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to return to the other side, if you please. Push off.”
“Not so quick, sir,” said the poleman. “I always have a pipe before I cross back. I’ll leave in ten minutes.”
Smith let go of the horse and retreated to the rear of the punt, clutching Sarah Jane.
Frank jumped from Nightingale and waded out into the waist-deep water. “Give me my daughter, Smith.”
“Push off, push off,” Smith said to the poleman. He looked around frantically. “This man is a kidnapper. I’m a police officer, and I just rescued the baby from his wife. They’re both criminals.”
“He’s no police officer,” said Frank. He plunged into the water, grabbed the side of the punt and hoisted himself on board. “He stole my daughter. You’re finished, Smith. Give Sarah Jane to me.”
Smith pulled out his gun. “Get off the punt, now, or I’ll shoot.”
Frank could see the gun hadn’t been cocked, and he hit Smith hard on his wrist with both fists, coming from below. The gun flew from Smith’s hand and into the water, bouncing along the surface like a stone tossed by a schoolboy. Frank reached for Sarah Jane, who was staring at him trustingly. She raised her arms towards him and chuckled.
Before he could grab her, the poleman stepped between them and took her from Smith. “I don’t know who this baby belongs to, but I’m going to keep her until someone I’m sure is from the police tells me the truth.”
“You can ask Inspector Buckley, from the Invercargill police” said Frank. “Or Mr. and Mrs. Brunton from Otara station. They both know Smith was there and that he killed a man.”
The poleman looked from one to the other, wavering.
“Is there a problem here?” asked someone from the bank of the river.
A coach had arrived at the dock and disgorged a well-dressed couple, the man with a distinct military bearing. They were standing at the end of the dock, flanked by two sturdy coachmen, watching the action with interest. Frank recognized the man’s suit as one he’d seen at Te Aro House: a Mosgiel Tweed. Very nice. He took a second to admire the cut, and the way it hung from the man’s shoulders, and then turned back to Smith, seized him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him up onto his toes against the railing.
Smith was surprisingly calm, sneering at Frank as if he were still in control of the situation. “I’m a policeman,” he shouted to the party from the coach. “I’m from the Dunedin station. I’m trying to arrest this man for kidnapping.” He stamped on Frank’s foot, causing Frank to loosen his hold on the collar, and jumped away. Frank followed him as he backed along the rail and into the corner of the punt. He put his fists up at Frank and said, “I was on t
he boxing team at Dunedin Boys High School. I dare you to make a move. I’m arresting you for kidnapping, and murder. Anything you say…”
Frank pulled back his fist and slammed it into Smith’s nose, where it landed with a satisfying crunch. Smith crumpled to the ground, a look of astonishment on his face, blood pouring from his nostrils.
“And I was the regimental champ,” said Frank. “Stand up and I’ll hit you again.”
“Could someone tell me what is going on here, exactly?” asked the older man on the dock.
The poleman turned towards him and gestured at Frank and Smith. “We have someone here claiming to be a policeman, and he’s trying to arrest this tall bloke who just hit him for trying to take his baby away. I don’t know who’s telling the truth, sir. But I saw the tall bloke with a baby earlier on. He came down to the ferry when we were on the other side and he asked when we were leaving.”
Frank massaged his knuckles, relieved that the poleman couldn’t tell one baby from another.
“Well, I’m a magistrate,” said the man from the coach. “And I’d like to hear what each of you has to say.”
The woman beside him spoke up quietly. “That baby is the image of the tall gentleman. How could anyone doubt that she belongs to him?”
The magistrate glanced at his wife and nodded. Frank half expected he would, Solomon-like, offer to cut the baby in half. He was elated, knowing that he had his Sarah Jane back. No one was taking her away from him now. He would fight them all if he had to.
“Can you tell me anything about this child that would convince me she is yours?” said the magistrate to Frank.
Frank thought for a minute. What did he know about Sarah Jane that distinguished her from all the other six-month-old babies in the world? Then he remembered her birth, during the flood, and how he had cut the umbilical cord with his own knife. “She has a tummy button that sticks out in an odd way,” he said. “I was there when she was born, and I had to tie the knot in the cord.”
The poleman opened Sarah Janes’ dress. “It certainly does stick out,” he said. “I’ve never seen one like that before.”
The magistrate stepped onto the punt, holding the railing to keep his balance, and checked Sarah Jane. He smiled and nodded at Frank. “You’re right. I haven’t seen one like that before either. She’s going to have to explain it to her husband one day.” He took Sarah Jane in his arms and looked down at her. “You have an adorable daughter, Mr….what did you say your name was?”
“Hardy,” said Frank. “Sergeant Frank Hardy.”
“Of the 57th Regiment?” asked the magistrate. “A Die hard? I remember reading about you in dispatches. Quite often, I seem to recall. I was a colonel in the 57th., back in the days of the Taranaki Wars. Regimental boxing champion, you say?”
Frank nodded, although it wasn’t exactly true. He’d thrashed the regimental champion once, if that counted. He was itching to take back Sarah Jane, but this was not the time to rush things.
Roderick Smith, who had clambered to his feet and was trying to stop the flow of blood from his damaged nose, seemed to realize that things weren’t going his way. He took off his coat and threw it at Frank and then vaulted over the railing of the punt into the river, landing up to his chest in water beside the dock. Then he dived in and struck out towards the opposite bank, swimming strongly. About ten yards out, the current picked him up and pulled him downstream. He stayed afloat, flailing madly, trying to swim towards the other side, but the current got to better of him. As they watched, he was taken downstream, bobbing fruitlessly in the racing water.
Frank had thrown Smith’s coat down and lunged for him, but everything had happened too fast. He watched Smith disappear downstream, knowing he wasn’t going to follow him into the water. Not with Sarah Jane rescued and waiting to be returned to her mother. Smith could save himself.
“I’d like to go after him,” said the poleman. He shrugged apologetically. “But I can’t swim. He’ll be alright, won’t he?”
The magistrate shaded his eyes with one hand and scanned the surface of the river. “He may make it,” he said. “Foolish chap, jumping into the water like that. What was he trying to get away from?”
“Hanging,” said Frank. “We can’t convict him without a trial, but I believe he killed a man. The man who kidnapped the other baby girl.”
“There are two?” asked the magistrate. “Interesting. Are you intending to cross the river? Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell me all about it as we cross?”
The poleman sat on the bench on the dock and smoked his pipe while the two coachmen manoeuvred the coach onto the punt and pulled the brakes into place, setting chocks by the wheels to be extra sure it would stay still. Frank had done that himself once, and he appreciated the extra effort.
After some jockeying, they decided they would have to make two trips. The magistrate’s wife would go first in the coach with the two coachmen, and Frank, the magistrate, and the horses would follow on a second trip.
When everything was in place and the brake applied to the wheels of the coach, the poleman signalled the two men on the other side; they were going to have their work cut out for them, pulling such a heavy load, even without Frank and the horses on board. However, once the punt began moving along the chains, the movement of the river helped. The poleman was straining on his pole at the rear of the punt, doing what he could to help the other two.
The punt returned and Frank and the magistrate climbed aboard. Frank tied the two horses to the rails and leaned beside them holding Sarah Jane close to his heart, trying not to grin. He was already imagining Mette’s reaction when he returned to the mail coach with Sarah Jane. More than anything, he wanted to see her face when he trotted around the bend carrying Sarah Jane in his arms.
When she saw him coming, she rose from the spot where she had been sitting on the side of the road, and looked in his direction, her hands over her mouth. He knew she must be terrified about what he was bringing back, and so he waved at her to let her know he had a living baby in his arms, and she ran towards him. Afraid to scare Sarah Jane, he slowed Nightingale to a slow trot, smiling and enjoying the moment. They met fifty yards from the coach and he jumped down and handed Sarah Jane to her. Then he wrapped both of them in his arms and stood there holding each other. He felt better than he had in his entire life.
A little voice said, “Fah?”
Helen had crawled out into the road and was clutching at Frank’s trouser leg. He knew she needed attention, but this was Sarah Jane’s moment. He picked her up and carried her back to where Detective Tuohy sat and plunked her down. “Could you watch this one for a few minutes, Tuohy?”
He would sort everything out eventually, but he wasn’t finished enjoying his moment yet.
16
The Bottom of the Bag
Now that she had Sarah Jane back, all Mette wanted was to get to a hotel in Bluff and pop the two girls into a warm bath. Their clothes were grubby and their napkins needed changing. She had no spare ones with her because of the Gladstone bag mistake, and the best she could do was to rinse the ones they were wearing in a puddle and wring them out as hard as she could. The girls both resisted having a damp napkin wrapped around them and held in place with a pilch, but there was no choice; she could hardly leave their bottoms bare. Once their own little bodies warmed up the wetness, they settled down and accepted the change.
How stupid of her to pick up the wrong bag in Wyndham. She was certainly not going to tell Frank what she had done. Not yet. He needn’t know that the manuscript, one of their best chances for making money, was gone. She would tell him when they were on the way home, when everything was back to normal.
She imagined the red-haired American opening the bag when he reached Melbourne and discovering a boring thousand page book. Of course, there was nothing in his bag, so he must be planning to pick up some gold along the way, probably somewhere in Bluff, and he would discover the mistake then. He would toss out the manuscript, or
burn it, and use the spare napkins as towels, not knowing what their real purpose was. Professor Mann was sure to be upset, but with all that had happened, how he felt was the least of her problems. Perhaps she wouldn’t tell him it was lost, either. She would think of a story to tell him later.
Once Frank returned with Sarah Jane, everything had happened in a blur of love and action. The older couple who had come from the ferry with Frank — colonel something or other and his wife — had offered to take the wounded coachman to Fortrose, and had left one of their own coachmen to drive Mette and the girls to Bluff. Detective Tuohy had gone back to Fortrose with Mrs. Brunton’s bay, hoping to ingratiate himself with the family, she imagined.
As soon as the men had managed to push the coach upright, she had climbed on board with the babies. Frank rode beside them on Nightingale, vowing not to budge an inch away for any reason. She felt very safe, even when they crossed the river and found the poleman staring downstream through a telescope, searching for Smith.
“No sight of him,” he said. “Could have been thrown ashore at the bend. But I doubt he’ll come back. Probably half way to the West Coast by now with a different name and a gold mining licence.”
“I’ll keep an eye open for him,” Frank said. “He may still come after me. When we get to the Bluff we’ll stay locked in the hotel until we hear from Inspector Buckley. Tuohy will tell Buckley the whole story and he’ll put the word out. They’ll know about him, even on the West Coast. He won’t get away.”
Finally, after what seemed like hours of bumping along the road, they arrived in Bluff, the coach pulling up at Scott’s Club Hotel on Gore Street, opposite the port. She caught glimpses of the ocean through the window of the coach, and hoped that meant they would have a view of the harbour from their room. She loved a nice view. The water looked calm compared to what she’d seen in Fortrose; she could see a ship entering the harbour, sails down, ready to dock at the wharf beyond the railway station.
Come to Grief Page 14