Southern Gold

by Jude Thomas

  It is on one of these breathers halfway along the Pigroot, that Kip starts to bark hysterically. The terrier yelps and tugs and breaks free of its berth behind the box seat then leaps off the coach. It scrabbles in the dusty shale then speeds off towards the west, and the travellers see that it is chasing a black object running for its life through the yellow tussock landscape.

  The object is agreed to be a cat, some having gone feral over the years after escaping from domesticity and becoming lost in the hills. The feline’s speed is remarkable as it arrows straight ahead without a tree in sight to clamber up. Then it suddenly dummies wide, bounds in a glorious pattern over straggly clumps of purple thyme that cling to the dry earth and doubles back to head for the coach, apparently perceiving that its only chance of safety lies in mounting one of the front horses. The maddened cat leaps onto the tail of one of the leaders and fastens its claws deep within its hindquarters. The horse and its leading mate tug and thrash within the shafts, trying to break free.

  Ned Devine lashes and lashes at the cat from his position of control. ‘Hell’s bells and buckets of blood! Get off, you bloody bugger, get off, I say! Whoa, whoa, whoa Beauty, whoa Lucy!’ but this exertion does not calm the horses who are tugging and wrenching. The cat, its bulging eyes full of fear and fury, squalls louder and digs further into its hold, before it finally disengages itself and sprints for the hills.

  But the damage is done and Ned Devine is furious. ‘Hell’s fire! You crazy bloody mutt!’ The latter oath is directed at Kip, who has given up chase and is limping and whining around his owners. ‘Strewth! The shaft’s cracked through and the through-brace has fair ripped into Beauty’s rump with her tormented jumping – what a stupid bloody dog!’

  Its owner steps forward to protest. Ned raises his whip and the man cowers and the women gasp, but Ned only lashes the ground several times and stamps and paws like the horses.

  Then he draws in a deep breath, slaps his corded thigh, throws back his great head and laughs loud and long. ‘Bugger me days, folks! Wouldn’t that rip ya nightie? That cat gave us what for, hey what? Gave us what-for! It’s enough to make a stuffed bird laugh. Okay, okay, show’s over – let’s get to work now, men!’

  Ned Devine releases the horses to graze as he sets about treating the gallant lead pair’s wounds and lashing up the cracked shaft.

  Billie jumps up and down clapping, but the two Misses MacGregor clutch their breasts and each other in rapid succession. ‘My dears,’ cries one sister to Billie and Susannah, ‘that you should hear such words!’

  ‘Such words!’ agrees the sister and totters backwards inhaling deeply. Whether the deep breath causes her to take in too much oxygen or whether the thought of such words penetrates her modesty, she slumps to the ground in a faint.

  At the same moment the carriage, now free of the horses and much lighter, starts to drift backwards. Before anyone can gather their senses it gains momentum and the inner wheel catches one leg of the prostrate lady before it comes to halt against a rock. Then, slowly as if caught in time, the whole thing topples sideways. The whip and his men lurch forward and grasp at the rear wheels and just manage to halt its downward trajectory.

  ‘Fuckin’ bloody son of a bastard!’ roars Ned Devine at his brake, who has not secured the chocks properly.

  Shouting then transfers to concern for Miss MacGregor, who regains consciousness with a whimper. The sisters comfort each other. Eventually the injured Miss MacGregor’s shin is splinted with stripped matagouri branches and she smiles weakly as she is lifted onto the coach. The uninjured Miss MacGregor pats her hand. ‘All better,’ she consoles.

  ‘All better, only painful. Bloody painful!’ whispers her other half with a giggle that is immediately reciprocated.

  With the split shaft strapped tight and the horses refreshed the remaining passengers re-embark. They look at each other in silence.

  The wordless boy then ventures an opinion. ‘Well, that was a cat-astrophy,’ says Robbie Macandrew in a droll tone, looking at Mr Albert Sew Lee. Billie gapes at such an amazingly witty comment and her canted eyes are bright with adoration.

  Mr Albert Sew Lee replies in a broad Australian accent. ‘Doggone it,’ he grins back.

  The passengers gasp and start to laugh and slap one another with incredulity.

  The nervous tension breaks, thoughts of what could have been a terrible disaster are dismissed, and once again spirits are raised as they recommence their journey. Well behind schedule, they will continue to lag behind this day as Ned nurses the team along to the next staging post at Kyeburn. Peace restored, he breathes deeply of the pungent wild thyme.

  The cat yarn is played out with effect for years to come, and it becomes lore that a giant black panther stalks the Pigroot and sometimes holds up His Majesty’s Mail escort so that outlaws may relieve the transport of its cargo.

  Eichardt’s Private Hotel,

  Queenstown, Central Otago.

  Wednesday, 25th January, 1871.

  Dear Mother Meg and Alf,

  I trust you are well. I am writing to tell you of my safe arrival.

  We had a pleasant journey over two days, trotting along steadily until we arrived at Queenstown. Mr Macandrew ensured I was comfortable and his son Robbie seems satisfactory. I made a new friend Susannah, who travelled with us as far as the Naseby junction. Her parents have bought the Publican’s lease to an hotel and they were cheered to know I have lived in licensed premises for many years and am not turned ruffian or disreputable!

  Also in our coach was a Chinaman dressed in fine clothing with a topper hat and sitting up and staring ahead, who did not say a word until we were far along the Pigroot and so we assumed he did not understand our prattling. Then after a long while we found that he knew English very well, as he had been born in Australia and spoke in an educated way! In general, we were a happy group of travellers and our journey was safe. I shall write on Sundays after this, so that you may expect my letters on Tuesdays.

  I trust this finds you both well, as I am.

  I remain,

  Your loving Ward,

  Billie Frost.

  Chapter Thirty

  Robbie Macandrew distances himself on the pretext of studying. In truth, he is not at all happy playing minder to Billie Frost. She is calamity on legs, in his opinion. Well, not all the time; she is a smart lass and can compete with him on many topics. But at sixteen he really does need to concentrate on his books so he will be up with his classmates when he returns to Boys’ High next month. His father is happy to leave him to his own devices if he so wishes.

  Angus Macandrew knows the proprietors of the Ballarat Hotel well and is confident his charge will enjoy Arrowtown. Their hosts’ son is anticipating Billie’s arrival, having heard she is curious and interested in exploring.

  Although few Europeans go to the Chinese gardens – they prefer not to mingle with Orientals – young Samuel regularly visits his friend Ah Lum up there and believes his guest will enjoy the outing. It takes the pair forty minutes to negotiate the steep hillside track to his hut. Chinamen are not permitted to dwell within the town boundaries although Ah Lum is respected in the town and serves his Celestial customers without the prejudice often meted out in return.

  Nearing his pocket of ground, Billie is amazed to see a profusion of vegetables. In a land of dry tussock and rock, the green abundance spreads in narrow rows right down to the Arrow River below.

  The hut is wedged into the cliff, not much more than a pile of rocks precariously stacked and crudely thatched. A feeble fire is set in its core, the smoke drawn outside through a tin pipe. The only other features are a small pallet bed and a few cooking utensils.

  Ah Lum beams, but rarely speaks. He rustles into the shadows and brings forth two delicate cups and a twist of tea leaves. He scoops fresh water into a blackened pan and brings it to a rapid boil then places it onto a rock. He sprinkles a few green shreds into the water and waits in silence. Then he pours the steaming liquid with utmo
st care into one cup, bows to Billie and presents it to her, respecting the strange local custom of serving women first. He repeats the process for Sam. Only then does he pour the brew into his own rough beaker and together they bow. They sip the tea; it is weak but fragrant.

  Without much difficulty, through signs and a few words – it is evident he knows more English than he lets on today – Ah Lum confirms that there are many like himself working in the same way around the district. They supply a wide catchment with fruit and vegetables and therefore many think the Chinamen make a considerable profit. But like his countrymen, Ah Lum must pay an increasing poll tax to the government, plus repay his guarantor in China, before he can save even a few pence to bring his wife from China. Ah Lum’s eyes dim as he indicates it will be ten years before he sees his bride.

  Although the alluvial gravel has given up most of its gold, the Chinese work methodically over the tailings in the wake of the main rushes, satisfied with small returns. Or so the locals believe. But with near-impossible financial straits, some return home penniless. Some succumb to alcohol, or surrender to their opium pipe dreams. A few, like Ah Lum, survive and prosper.

  Eichardt’s Private Hotel,

  Queenstown, Central Otago.

  Sunday, 26th February, 1871.

  My dear Mother Meg and Alf,

  I trust you are well and Mungo is being a good boy.

  Your last letter did have me laughing over the two painted ladies in the public bar who turned out to be men.

  This week we were based at Arrowtown, near the middle of the Province. The town is full of action. The main street is planted with an avenue of oaks and sycamores, and it is strange to see English trees in such a setting, but somehow it all fits together. With autumn approaching, their foliage is starting to turn, and I daresay the streets will be a mass of golden leaves before long.

  I visited one of the local Chinese gardeners, whose fruit and vegetables are supplied far and wide. To tend his garden, even without rain, he carries buckets of river water up the hillside several times a day. What gumption! He wears his head shaven except for a long braid, but he is a very nice man. His face is happy, but I noticed such sad eyes. As we said farewell he presented me with a small celadon tile. It is like a pale green coin, and he indicated this will bring me luck! I shall treasure it and always remember his kindness.

  Soon we shall be homeward bound, the last stop being Naseby where I do so hope to meet my friend Susannah once again! Mr Macandrew is not so sure that this can be achieved.

  I miss you very much, even more than last week.

  Your very loving Daughter,

  Billie.

  The Royal Hotel,

  Naseby, Central Otago.

  Wednesday, 1st March, 1871.

  Dearest Mother Meg and Father Alf,

  You will get a surprise to receive this letter so soon after the last, but I assure you all is well and I am now at Naseby!

  You will also get another surprise to know that we shall be arriving home in a few days’ time, instead of the end of next week! Mr Macandrew’s work will finish on Friday and so we shall leave the following morning. It will be such a thrill to see you, so I shall write just a little more because I shall surely forget it in the excitement of seeing you and Mungo!

  You will not guess where we are to stay for three days and nights? It is at the Royal Hotel, which is run by Susannah’s parents! Mr Macandrew had been very gloomy to me about my seeing Susie, saying that it was a large town and that he did not intend to dally. But he had been jesting all along, as he planned that we should stay here!

  Indeed, Naseby is not large at all, but a small town. Oh, it is so thrilling to see my friend once more. We two have quickly become bosom buddies. Please have no fear at my language, as Susie says it is American and she learned it from a reliable coach driver who is from Texas.

  We had such an agreeable time and Susie also plays chess. I did not play, as I had come to realise before now that I am a real duffer at the game. She played with Robbie, whom I believed would take her easily. But in the event, she captured his King! It was a fine challenge, although I still cannot see how one understands the strategy and manoeuvres – and I doubt I ever shall. My brain is not made that way, and that is that.

  Yesterday Robbie gave me a small gold nugget. It is about the size of a half-pea. He purchased it from a boy his own age who was offering it for sale as we walked along the street. Most gold is traded to the bank agent, but in this case Robbie gave two pounds to the boy who was trading it. Two pounds! Then when he presented it to me I could not believe my eyes! He said it was a token of our educational tour of the goldfields. Robbie is a rather quiet boy but very droll, and I assume he inherits that from his Father. We have become good friends, although I suppose that when he returns to his chums at Boys’ High he may not see it that way. He plans to go to the University after he matriculates, to read Political Economy. It sounds very dull, but Robbie says it is about production and trade and he expects to enjoy it.

  I shall be home on Saturday night, almost before you receive this, my last letter. I cannot imagine how five weeks have gone by with such speed! How I look forward to seeing your faces, and to hug you so tightly.

  Your very loving and excited Daughter,

  Billie.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Angus Macandrew proposes that Billie join him on the paddle steamer Antrim to Glenorchy at the head of the lake; he is conducting business at the Frankton Lodge with William Rees, holder of a huge pastoral empire encompassing much of the Wakatipu basin. During the gold rush the law required grazing to make way for mining if a workable prospect was found. This was a trying time for the family, but due to Mr Rees’ enterprising nature they recovered and the farm is again prospering.

  From her close position playing draughts with the publican’s daughter, Billie listens to what she can about high country runs. But it is fearsome hot inside the crowded public house. She wanders outside and along the gravel foreshore.

  The lake is cool and inviting. Its stony bottom feels like satin on her feet – bumpy satin, but so smooth. She wades in with hitched-up skirts, then ties them around her waist. Her chemise can get wet – what harm will it do – and nobody will care a jot. Other bathers are doing similarly and some of the children are almost naked.

  How warm is the air and how lovely is the lake’s rippling touch. She closes her eyes and – what a marvellous idea! She shall pretend she is Ophelia and lean back on that large bract of driftwood. Here is a twig to represent her flowers: ‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there’s pansies, that’s for thoughts,’ murmurs Ophelia.

  How silky is the water. How tender is its lapping. Her hair trails out and her arms drift with the current. How tranquil she is as the sun embraces her body.

  But now – how cold and wet – she is choking and trying to scream and being unable to as the lake pulls at her billowing dress. Ophelia transforms into Billie. She pulls and wrestles and will not be beaten under. Not yet. Not yet.

  Yet the pulling is persistent and gentle and persuasive, and she is floating down and down. And soon, all is peaceful.

  And now people are splashing and a woman is crying out, and men are carrying her aloft, and they are slapping her back and hanging her upside down. Until a surge of lake spews from her throat and nose and she is coughing now, gasping and gurgling. Coughing from the depths of her being.

  Perhaps Billie Frost drowns for a moment in Lake Wakatipu. But now she is all dried out – subdued, chilled. The homeward voyage is restrained and the mountains are stern against the dusky sky.

  Eichardt’s Private Hotel,

  Queenstown, Central Otago.

  Sunday, 12th February, 1871.

  Dear Mother Meg and Alf,

  I have had another satisfactory week, and trust you have had the same.

  We took a trip up the Wakatipu Lake to Glenorchy with a flock of sheep! Of two-legged passengers we wer
e only six, but lo and behold, also aboard was the American lady with whom I discussed the little blue butterflies! She is on “grand tour” of many months and intends to carry on to the central North Island specially to see the Pink Terraces. She believes them to be the “Eighth Wonder of the World” but I cannot imagine anything more wonderful than this lake.

  There was nothing much at Glenorchy except an hotel, but it is where Mr Macandrew met with some men to talk about farming.

  Back in Queenstown, Robbie says that horses are now so plentiful they cannot be sold at a reasonable price and owners prefer to let them run in a paddock, paying two-and-five-pence per week for their accommodation, in preference to selling them at a loss. I suppose this is the best thing to do, although the ground is so very dry. I should not like to be a farmer.

  I am faithfully keeping up my daily journal. I have had a slight chill. I am missing you all very much, but you should not fret as I am now quite well.

  Please give Mungo extra hugs from me.

  I remain,

  Your loving Ward (and Daughter),

  Billie.

  P.S. The American lady called on me next day and gave me her fashion magazine, called ‘Harper’s Bazaar’. I thought I should burst from excitement when she said I could keep it!

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Otago Girls’ High School has not had many settling-in issues and Billie starts on the first day of its second term. The scratchy serge skirt is annoying after the freedom of summer cotton. Starting directly into fourth form on the basis of her application results, she is introduced to a range of new subjects. Greek is difficult because she has missed the basics, but it is becoming more enjoyable. English and history are what she continues to favour best, followed by Latin and botany. But she is a duffer at dancing, hopeless at calisthenics and worse at music. Drawing lessons sounded fun, but she must only sketch flowers in vases this year, so very dull.