by Jude Thomas
While gold continues to rattle into the hungry tills.
From the realms of sleep, Billie hears her name being shouted. Someone is shaking her hard. Robbie is hissing, ‘You mad lassie – are you a total idiot? I told you to bide inside! And I told you – oh Christ, thank goodness you’re all right!’
A group of men is also crowding around, gasping with relief. They have snatched gaslights from Eichardt’s front veranda and rushed around the adjacent streets with Master Macandrew, calling and calling her name. Now here she is, half asleep on a hay bale. They are baffled.
‘Thank God she’s alive. She could have been taken – ’
‘Whatever possessed her to come here and then sit in a haystack? In the middle of this stink! Is she right in the head?’
‘Has she been – ?’
‘She looks calm – she looks in order.’
‘Jasus, Mary and Joseph, she’s stepping down now, cool as you like!’
‘If I were her father I’d give her a right walloping, that I would!’
‘All right, all right, you blokes,’ finalises the leader of the group. ‘Let’s just give thanks that we’ve found her. Come on miss, let’s carry you back to the hotel.’
Robbie Macandrew can hardly speak for the surge of emotion that overtakes him: anger laced with relief. He knows he will get a fearful drubbing from Father when he finds out. He may even be sent home in disgrace.
‘I’m ever so sorry, Robbie,’ says Billie earnestly. ‘I just found myself walking under the stars and ended up here. Nothing bad happened and I didn’t mean to worry you. I am truly sorry.’
‘Don’t ever,’ he hisses between clenched teeth, ‘do anything so bloody daft again.’
Eichardt’s Private Hotel,
Queenstown, Central Otago.
Sunday, 19th February, 1871.
My dear Mother Meg and my lovely Alf,
I trust you are both well. I did enjoy reading how Mungo carries your letters in his little mouth as you take them to the Post Office!
The evenings are a tiny bit cold, even though the days are burning hot, as it is rather like a desert, being inland and high up.
Sometimes at night I am wakened by the coaches that arrive late and with much to-do. I look down upon them from above and remember our own journey last month. The stars are so very clear. I can see Orion’s Belt and the Southern Cross and the Milky Way. I saw a shooting star flashing across and it was a marvellous sight!
I am learning so much more than I ever knew before, even though some of it is not so pleasant. For example, when I was little and saw the prospectors travelling through Dunedin, wagering on how much gold they were going to find, I felt envious of them. However, as it turned out, in winter many were found in a pitiable state. Their poor feet were frostbitten so badly that some required amputation. Also, many settlements were snowed up without provisions and without any possibility of outsiders reaching them, the snow being over ten feet deep! I am glad I have always been warm enough and although chilblains torture me in winter, I shall try to never complain again.
Mr Macandrew still travels out to do his inspections of the Banks on most weekdays. His territory covers Shotover, Arrowtown, Maori Point, Cromwell, Clyde (which was The Dunstan) and Alexandra districts. He sometimes returns to Queenstown the same day and other times he stays on, then has a few days’ rest in between. He must visit Ophir, St Bathans and Naseby before we return.
Tomorrow he is taking me to Arrowtown where we will stay for two days. Robbie will not come this time.
I miss you both and Mungo, but I am in the pink.
I remain,
Your loving Ward and Daughter,
Billie.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Some days are long and languid, just the thing for reading or dozing. Then, to enjoy the opposite sensation, Billie walks into the lake up to her knees; it is now so familiar and cool. Other days are full of action, like the times when Mr Macandrew takes the young travellers with him on one of his visits to a district bank or gold receiver. ‘This is an educational day,’ he always begins, ‘and I will be pleased to receive your reports in due course. Tomorrow morning will be satisfactory.’
Angus Macandrew’s flourishing moustache and abundant eyebrows conceal most of his facial expressions and Billie is not always sure of his intent. Of one thing she is certain: with his dry wit and ready chuckle, Robbie’s father is not of the dour breed of Scottish settlers.
This time he hosts the young pair on a journey to Skippers, twenty miles north of Queenstown. As they lurch along the cliff face above the canyon he instructs, ‘We’re coming up to Hell’s Gate – not dynamited, but precisely drilled then filled with water. The frost did the work and the rock cracked. You might think this merely a rough trail, but in fact you will come to see that it is a feat of engineering.’
Billie is not sure she wants to see: they seem to be on the precipice, some three hundred feet above the Shotover River. The river’s immense power is manifest. It churns with plumy rapids then races along unimpeded, before slowing to turquoise depths, gentle and deceptive.
‘This is the richest river in the world, in my estimation,’ Mr Macandrew shouts over the roar. ‘Aye, richer than the Klondyke. At this time of year the flow is quite calm, but it surges like a demon in spring when the snows melt. It’s been known to rise eleven feet in five hours.’
‘Carrying away bridges and strong horses,’ intones Robbie, ‘according to reports.’
Billie tries to concentrate on the rock formations, rather than imminent death below. She is glad to be on the inner side of the carriage.
‘You’re not going to be sick, are you?’ Robbie grins.
‘Never!’ responds the bilious girl. ‘I just wish to concentrate on the lovely rocks.’
The schist’s muted tones calm her anxiety. Flecks of pale yellow pyrite shimmer in the sunlight and the rock face could indeed appear to be elevating. Fool’s gold, nods Billie, knowing that after scratching in the gravels until they are nearly mad, men have then killed over the worthless mineral.
When the sturdy little mares slow their trot to negotiate some fallen debris she reaches out of the carriage. A gecko, previously motionless in the sun, flicks away under a fissure. The rock is flaky and gravel lies where it crumbles and falls. She lifts a chip as a souvenir, or to study for her report. Then the carriage picks up speed and at a sure-footed pace, they are carried on to Skippers.
It is a lively township, rough and ready like most mining settlements, but with enough to hold the younger guests’ interest while Inspector Macandrew carries out his mission at the bank. This culminates in an excellent luncheon at the Otago Hotel and then they are on the homeward stretch. ‘One and a half hours in, three hours there, one and a half hours out,’ calculates Billie.
‘That is,’ responds Robbie, ‘if we don’t fall into the river – oh! Watch out!’
Billie screams and lurches away from the apparent danger, before regaining her self-control. It is the first time Robbie Macandrew encounters the Look.
Eichardt’s Private Hotel,
Queenstown, Central Otago.
Sunday, 5th February, 1871.
Dear Mother Meg and Alf
I trust you are well. I am having such a splendid time!
Queenstown is just the ticket. There are all number of people coming and going and I love to watch them. I sometimes sit and sketch them in my journal, especially the Americans whose style of dress and manner is quite different than our own. Madras cotton is the mode and the plaid has peculiar colours woven side by side, such as orange and blue, or green and purple. You might imagine that this would look queerly mismatched, but it is not so. Also, I could not tear my eyes from a most elegant lady dressed fully in cream, only with black trims at the lapels and cuffs. I do not believe she would wear the same pale outfit on the streets of Dunedin!
Then I saw a lady with a dress of lavender butterflies on a yellow background. You know how I love butterfli
es and I could not believe my eyes when I saw this fabric, so I approached the lady and told her of what Robbie calls our ‘native Zizina or common blue’. (If these dear little creatures are ‘common’, I would be glad to also be called so!) I am obliged to tell you that I am not pestering these ladies, as they do call out an invitation to me.
Instead of wide skirts like ours, theirs are flattened at the front and swagged up at the back. It sits ever so snug because the skirt is cunningly cut in shaped gores. They also wear such pretty hats, like little saucers set quite forward on their head. Men also wear bold chequered coats and even yellow trousers! I feel rather drab in comparison, but have been sketching their clothing so ferociously that I soon may require more drawing paper!
I miss Mungo very much, and of course I miss you also.
I remain,
Your loving Ward,
Billie Frost.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Central Otago’s wild beauty is dazzling. Its colours are strong and its perfumes aromatic. But the region also provides visions that would curdle Meg’s blood. From ransacked land left by crazed diggers, to the outcome of those who have become ruined its by excess, there is evidence enough.
The real gold rush, where more than eighteen thousand prospectors scratched away like demons to find ‘the colour’, has dwindled. After pouring off the ships with their swags, desperate to find gold whatever the cost, most of those men are now either rich, disillusioned or dead. Many of the latter met their end through infection, freezing temperatures or alcohol-induced brawling. Murders by gun, knife and throat-cutting were so common it is said that a man could stumble over half a dozen bodies between the pub and his tent. Some miners preferred the proximity of a few pubs and a grocer. Others isolated themselves further up the rivers. Wherever their placement, their pathetic calico shelters without so much as a ground cloth could not prevent frostbite any more than a diet of mutton and tea could prevent scurvy.
But panning in the rivers has given way to blasting and sluicing for alluvial gold, and cooperatives are employed for wages. Most general stores in trail towns still trade their goods in exchange for gold – there is big money to be made in supplying food, clothing, equipment and lodgings and pubs also keep weighing scales to settle bills. Some miners hold on to their nuggets and chips, though this is a dangerous practice since lawless desperados are always on the lookout for an opportunity to swoop down and relieve them of their earnings.
Times are changing but are still prosperous, especially in the towns, and Queenstown is very much a centre of trade and tourists. The spacious Eichardt’s Hotel is positioned adjacent to the glittering Lake Wakatipu. Mayor Bendix Hallenstein has gifted the Queenstown peninsular, on which he formerly ran a sheep station, to the town. Billie surmises that he must be wealthy indeed. She wonders if he might be related to Benny, her school friend of the same surname.
There are many hotels in Queenstown, but in her opinion Eichardt’s is the most handsome and is surely superior with its electrical lighting! Across the lake, the Remarkables mountain range juts into the skyline like a cardboard backdrop, too vivid to be real, too real to be fake. The tops are still dusted with snow even though it is high summer.
It is scorching by midday at ground level and Billie flings off her petticoats in the privacy of her room. Without Mother Meg to look askance, she takes herself into the street. No scandal erupts – this is a frontier town where peculiarities are commonplace – and she continues this liberty until dinnertime, when guests dress with the decorum expected at a tourist hotel.
There is little decorum in some other parts of the town. Rats and mice are so plentiful they are fair game; men brag that they kill hundreds in a day’s sport. Miners are disagreeably disturbed during their rest by vermin running over their faces and inflicting bites at will, spoiling provisions, gnawing their boots. It is a continuous process to keep the numbers at bay, and exhibitions are a commonplace method of extermination where sacks of rats are released to fight with dogs brought in for the purpose. The standard entry is two shillings and sixpence and the men place bets on the dogs. The one that eliminates the largest number of vermin – usually with swift decapitation – carries the day.
From behind the shed venue, straddling a stack of pallets, Billie watches through a knot-hole in the siding boards. Not permitted to go near gaming rooms and arenas, she easily convinces herself that this time she is merely en route to the foreshore. Initially fascinated with horror, soon she cannot bear the monstrous sport. Repulsed, she turns away and runs towards the lake.
Paddling in the clear, cold water is a grand way to adjust one’s senses.
Eichardt’s Private Hotel,
Queenstown, Central Otago.
Sunday, 29th January, 1871.
Dear Mother Meg and Alf,
I am having a pleasant time, and trust you are having the same.
You will be pleased to know that the food and lodgings are very agreeable here at Eichardt’s. When you think of our own big vegetable gardens, you will be amazed to know that the Cook recently paid half a crown for eight potatoes! Mr Macandrew believes that someone is making a fortune on the backs of others. He says that commerce is essential, but greed is not. Without potatoes, Cook often makes scones to have with our meat, as flour is only 5 pence per pound. Yesterday they were flavoured with thyme, which grows wild all around. She says it is also good under the pillow to ward off nightmares. Oh, yes, you can be sure I have inspected the kitchen, as well as all other nooks and crannies, to see what is what!
There is a chandelier in the dining room and I do so love to watch the sun catching the prisms and dancing around the walls.
Robbie is a kind boy and does not patronise me from his position of being three years older. He says that he misses his schooling in one way, but is gaining valuable education in another, and should catch up enough to matriculate in due course from Otago Boys’ High. He says he might teach me to play chess.
There is an abundance of butterflies flitting and fluttering their wings in the sunlight, dear little blue things that swarm around the tussock and the thyme. I shall draw them, but it will not be easy to catch the way they change colours from fawn, to grey, to blue, to violet. Also, there are tiny coppery ones that blend into the landscape so well. This is a glorious place even if much of it looks like a Wild West desert. It is so wide and big, and the light is vibrant and sharp, so different from the soft colours of Dunedin.
I trust little Mungo is well and not missing me too much. I do so miss him!
I remain,
Your loving Ward,
Billie Frost.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Monday 23rd January 1871
Meg is unable to farewell the coach at daybreak – her kitchen duties will not allow it, or more truthfully, she cannot bear the thought of it. She clutches her child tightly and Alf gently disengages her after a time, before shouldering Billie’s trunk and with Mungo as a natural choice, accompanies her to the Wain’s Hotel dispatch. Alf strokes each of the six matched greys and admires the gleaming red coach with its scrollwork and distinctive yellow wheels, all strong and light, with leather through-bracing and powerful brake. Billie clambers up the footstep after hugging Mungo and her guardian. ‘Hurrah, hurrah and ta-ta for now, Dunedin!’
Women squeal as ‘Cabbage Tree Ned’ flashes a wide smile and cracks his whip over the leading pair who whinny and perform a mock shy. He may be an expert on the reins, but Ned Devine is also a dandy with his well-oiled hair, tight Bedford cord trousers and heavily braided velveteen coat.
Billie waves excitedly but is cramped between two men and two elderly ladies so is unable to secure much movement on the plush seats. She faces Mr Macandrew, his wordless son and three others, cramped in like sardines and some of them nearly as odorous. ‘There are ten of us inside this coach, never mind those on top, so we shall need to take small breaths,’ she instructs them all, ‘by crikey!’ She heard that expression from Cabbage Tree Ned earli
er, and it zings in her mouth like sherbet powder.
Passengers exchange glances as if to say, ‘Let’s hope this prattle doesn’t continue.’ Some smile benignly, others feign deafness. Public transport is an event to be endured.
The laden coach pulls away from the departure point with a surplus of shouting and whip-cracking, and the six-in-hand advance at a steady trot through the northern streets. They pick up speed, not slowing as they ford the shallow waters of the Leith. Now into a gallop and on to Blueskin without a minute to spare, given the manner in which the whip encourages the horses.
Two of the passengers are sisters, dressed identically and so alike that they could be twins. The Misses MacGregor smile continuously and nod and finish each other’s sentences without pause. They look at each other for approval and never does the other fail to give it. They look dotingly upon Billie and undertake to watch out for her.
Refreshments are taken at Carey’s Hotel while the team is changed, then they are off on another two hours of rolling and pitching before skidding to a halt at Waikouaiti. Three travellers change to a coach-and-four bound for Oamaru and the remainder stop only for five minutes.
It is time enough for Billie to make the acquaintance of a girl her own age who is to travel with her parents and small dog Kip. ‘By crikey Susannah,’ she says, ‘I daresay it shall be refreshing not to hear again that the fare to Waiko’ite is only twenty-five shillings, whereas it’s sixty shillings to Oamaru. Or to have to endure that frightful pong!’
With an addition of the new passengers, including an Oriental gentleman in a top hat, the rollicking pace progresses them onwards once more.
By the time they are well into the hills, the horses are panting heavily. Before they start on the next sharp ascent the passengers are requested to disembark and walk a while. The male members walk ahead with Ned and one brake man. The second brake plods some yards behind the carriage, on the lookout for back-slips. The women and young ones bring up the rear. Every now and then Ned calls a halt so the horses can take a breather and the laggers can catch up and rest.
