‘Well, is there some problem?’ I asked, for I was needed back in the parlour to pour tea.
‘He wants to come into the parlour and introduce himself to all.’
I wasn’t sure about that. Not sure what the rules were for constables, for we had not had one down to the House yet. And with the trouble over selling liquor, Mr Hatrick might not want us too cosy with the constabulary.
‘He is a good enough lad,’ said Bert, ‘and has brought his good uniform down in a sack so he can come in clean.’
I popped into the kitchen to see for myself. There he was, very smart in his tunic and trousers and standing politely to see me come in. A tall man, a good head above Bert, who is no minnow. I took to him right away, with his manners and his eyes brown as raisins.
‘Second Constable Tim Naylor,’ he said. ‘New appointed to the Raetihi Station.’ His nod and his smile pleasant — not putting on side, nor yet servile.
‘Mrs Ruvey Morrow,’ I replied. ‘Cook, and for the moment housekeeper. Pleased to meet you.’ Which I was. After those McPhees it was a relief to find someone you could take to moving into the district.
It turned out he was not here for the sly-grogging at all, or not that he said. We have had a little trouble with the law over the drink. We are a dry area, praise the Lord, but Mr Hatrick has somehow obtained a packet licence for the boats. He is a crafty man who can argue a case with the best legal men. But word got out that the stewards on the boats would sell the odd drop when they were tied up at the landing. Bert said it was harmless, but I saw the queue of men from the kainga hopping aboard and off again with their brown paper parcels. It was not right. On that matter I would side with the law. I do not believe for a moment that Mr Hatrick would have known, though Bert said he did. Anyway, all that was put a stop to. Threats were made by some authority down in Wanganui and Mr Hatrick gave the order.
So we naturally thought the constable was here to check up. But no, the good man wanted to set eyes on the whole area covered by his station, which was a tall order, as it spread between Raetihi and Pipiriki and much of the river too. The last constable never came down once that I noticed. Constable Naylor had last served at the Foxton Station, so he said, and Patea before that, though he looked too young to have so much experience under his belt.
In the parlour he made his rounds, very sure of himself, a little bow to the ladies and a good firm handshake with the men. I noticed the constable was quick to sort out the visitors from locals. Captain Jamieson received special attention, and the two ladies from the River Trust farm upriver, both Mrs Feathers — married to brothers and down for a decent hot bath, they said, and a dose of civilised life. They were both fond of croquet and would come down to take advantage of our green and of Mr Hatrick’s ‘four-day-stay special’. Mr and Mrs McPhee received the constable’s same careful treatment: a greeting, a smile, a few questions. You could imagine Constable Naylor noting it all down later for future reference or reports.
Through all this, Gertie McPhee changed her mood from winter to full sun. Suddenly that young madam was all smiles and flushes, which did her complexion no good, poor thing. When her father failed to introduce her, young Gertie took it into her own hands — seized his arm awkwardly and gave her name.
‘We are all coming up to Raetihi,’ she gushed. ‘I am so glad there will be someone pleasant to pass the time of day with.’
A very forward statement for a young lady to make, in my opinion, and also rude. There are several good souls up in Raetihi when you get to know them.
The constable smiled and took her hand. ‘I hear we are to share a river trip tomorrow. I look forward to it.’
Clearly Gertie McPhee understood him to mean that she, rather than the river trip, was the event looked forward to. She beamed and bobbed and cast glances left and right to make sure we had all noticed. You had to feel sorry for her. In fact Bridget, her sister, smiling prettily at the prospect of the river trip, drew the constable’s eye far more often, a blind man could see that.
Then, on top of all this, when the guests were settled and I had my poor feet up against the stove in the kitchen and a good cup of tea in my hand, Bert came in with the news that Dannyboy and our Pita were on the river with the logs.
Pipiriki to Houseboat: 59 miles, 107 rapids
The cruise up these fairy waterways with the cool fragrant forests all around, the gorgeous shadow, pictures in the water, the wonderful wild gardens of ferns on the bank, the murmur of the waterfalls and the rush of the river in one’s ears is one of the most truly delightful in this land of a thousand fine tourist pilgrimages.
Lady tourist’s journal, 1904, Wanganui Regional Museum
THE DARKNESS IS almost complete this time of a winter morning. Long ago the new moon has set. It must be the stars that give the river that faint glow, as if it is lit from beneath, not above. Stewie Biggs, fireman, stumbles down to the jetty, shaky-legged and sorry-headed after a convivial night in the crew’s hut (liquor from the steamer’s packet licence having mysteriously found its way ashore), stumbles twice on the rutted track before he pitches headlong into the mud. He curses and staggers to his feet again. Below he can just make out the black bulk of the Waimarie against the water. His smaller upriver Wairua will be alongside. The water is dead calm, not the slightest breeze to ruffle its strange luminous surface. A morepork calls twice; otherwise there is silence. Down here the early morning bustle up at the House — staff preparing an early breakfast for the departing guests — is unseen and unheard.
Moving by instinct rather than design, Stewie climbs aboard. Almost immediately he feels better. The slight uncertainty under his feet — the gentle pull of the current flowing under the boat — stabilises him in some way that he recognises but would never bother to express. He opens the small hatch to the engine-room and clambers down. Here he is sure-footed. He lights the hurricane lamp and hangs it on a nail. Late the previous night he emptied the fire-box, throwing the ashes overboard. Now he has to get a good fire going before Dusty Miller, the engineer, comes down. Stewie would like to be solitary, to enjoy being alone aboard the tough little Wairua, his favourite of all the riverboats. But here is a pale face at the hatchway, an uncertain smile on the lad’s face.
‘Hello,’ says the fireman, busy with his shovel.
‘Hello,’ says Douglas. ‘Can I watch?’
Stewie sighs. You get this: star-struck visitors wanting to help, only getting in the way. But he likes the gentleness of the boy, the sharp interest in his eyes. He picks up an oily rag.
‘Come on, then. Wipe down the brassy bits. Engineer likes it to be winking clean.’
Douglas squeezes in beside the wiry little stoker and rubs away at the knobs and gauges and the round belly of the boiler itself. The little space soon heats up.
Stewie eyes the two water gauges and adds water to the boiler. When the level shows exactly half full he closes the tap. ‘At least we have a plentiful supply of water on hand,’ he jokes. ‘Coming upriver, then?’ He has heard about the McPhee business last night and suspects this is one of the brood.
‘Yes.’
Not a talkative lad. The fireman approves. He slaps the boiler, sitting like a great sausage on top of the much bigger fire-box. ‘This feller will have a heavy day of it. The flow will be swift. You watch for the triple rapid: Ngaporo and the one each side of him. My bet is we will have trouble.’
‘Why?’
‘Think about it, lad. Three rapids so close. We can’t let pressure drop for even a minute. No time for the poor old boiler to gather strength before we are on to the next. Ngaporo, the middle rapid, is an unpredictable brute at the best of times. We’ll have to winch up all three, no doubt.’
Douglas would like to ask about winching, but here comes Dusty Miller, the engineer, rubbing his chilly hands and climbing aboard, no nonsense. He gestures with his pipe for Douglas to move out, inspects the pressure gauge and nods to his stoker.
‘Not quite one fifty yet. See if
you can raise her a bit. We’ll need it.’
Douglas climbs up away from the noise and warmth of the engine-room. Now he can hear the dawn chorus in full cry. He loves it all; can’t remember when he felt so awake. All of it is good: the thrum of the boiler coming up through his feet, the gentle rocking of the boat as the deckhands come aboard with cargo. Douglas breathes in the dark smell of wet bush and muddy water.
His dreaming is broken by the shrieking of Bridget, running down the track from the House. ‘Douglas, Douglas!’
He dodges behind the cabin structure, not wanting to share this moment, but the deckhands point out where he is. Bridget barrels on board, hair unbrushed, ribbons flying.
‘Douglas! We didn’t know where you were! Father is in a rage. He wants you to go up with him to Raetihi. He says there is room on that great horse for two and you will be useful.’
Douglas’s mouth drops wide open. He can say nothing for fear he might cry.
Bridget rushes on, perhaps not noticing his distress. Perhaps not caring. ‘Father is ready and waiting with supplies loaded atop the nag. He is all a-boil to get going. You better skip to.’
Douglas pushes past her without a word. Head down, he steps ashore and walks up towards the House.
‘Sorry, Douggie,’ calls Bridget. Douglas turns to wave but already she is exclaiming over something else, her high voice carrying her views to the whole world.
Douglas has never rebelled before. But here he is, halfway up the bank on his usual route of obedience when the moment presents itself. Bert Morrow is bringing the horse and cart down with the passenger valises and other supplies for upriver. Without thinking, Douglas simply turns and walks down again, hidden by the cart, takes a large sack of something on his shoulder and walks aboard with it. He dumps it on the foredeck and then sits behind a screen of sacks and boxes. He hears his father shouting; hears Bridget shout back that Douglas is on his way. Then he closes his mind to the outside world and imagines a new adventure involving riverboats, powerful engines and dangerous rapids.
ABOVE THE TRIPLE rapid, only a few miles north of Pipiriki, Danny and Pita wait for the light. They have spent a cold night under a makeshift roof of fern leaves. Pita has drunk most of his liquor and is alternately talkative and argumentative.
‘See then,’ he says, prodding his brother-in-law in the shoulder, ‘isn’t it a better life on the river here — easy days and a full purse at the end?’
‘Well, so you say. I have chosen farming.’
‘Why not change? Farming is hard work. Logging is the way.’
Danny sighs. He has heard the argument too often; it cuts too close to the bone. ‘You are free to change your life. I have land and a house to care for. A wife.’
‘And your wife works cleaning rooms so you can care for your useless land.’
Danny stands suddenly, scattering their fern roof. He crashes into the bush, where Pita can hear him noisily relieving himself. When he returns his face is rigid with dislike.
‘You have drunk too much so you say such things. Keep your ideas to yourself or we will have blows on this trip. I tell you this: I will take a different pilot next time.’
Pita laughs. ‘Next time the logs will be mine, Dannyboy, and you will be at home scratching your poor soil. You forget who gave the timber.’
Danny tears at a piece of bread, chews hard to stem his words. He swallows cold sweet tea and watches his precious logs. He needs Pita and must control his anger. This adventure, so anticipated, is turning sour. Danny, easy with his friends, sunny-natured, had not considered for a moment that he and Pita would rub each other raw. Danny curses himself for not thinking of the liquor. Or of Pita’s arrogant ways. He slaps at a mosquito, throws a crust to a pair of paddling ducks. ‘Where’s that damn Wairua?’ His grating voice startles the ducks; they clatter away over the water and heave themselves into the morning mist.
‘Let’s go now,’ says Pita, stretching. His voice is still slurred from the liquor. ‘We’re wasting time here.’
‘She’ll be on her way by now,’ says Danny as calmly as he is able. ‘Another hour and she will be up through Ngaporo. And you might be sober. Then we’ll be clear to set out.’
He is wrong about that, though. On both counts.
Reports of the Accident
Hauled over shadow at bottom of rapid. An extension of the wall from the R.B. would improve. The top of the rapid requires dredging and a snag and boulders require to be removed. Found bottom badly, also in a shadow above the rapid. A wall from the R.B. would assist this.
extract from a Wanganui River Trust report, Tour of Inspection, February 1908, by chairman T.D. Cummings
Captain’s report
Wairua delayed two hours at Paparoa rapid w. stone in screw-shaft. Nosed into shingle while deckhands made clear. Delayed further below Ngaporo. Wire not found. Deckhands secured spare wire to tree and commenced to winch up.
Loggers (D. O’Dowd and P. Morrow) coming down through Ngaporo hit Wairua port bow 10.30 am. Two plates bent but not broached. Five rivets lost. All plugged w. wood pegs above rapid.
11.15 am — 1 passenger reported lost overboard. Miss B. McPhee. Brother and sister not sure when. Passengers difficult to control. Dispatched 1 pigeon to Pip House to warn them. Put Constable Naylor ashore at Ramanui Ldg to organise search.
3.30 pm — At Te Maire dispatched pigeons to Houseboat w. delay time and passenger numbers — 5 tourists 3 waysiders.
Arr. Houseboat 8.30 pm. Replaced wood plugs w. gutter-bolts and pumped out. Inspected damage. Prow bent off plumb to starboard. Will test how she goes downriver if urgent repair needed. Brother and sister still difficult.
A letter from Mrs Lily Feathers of Ramanui to her sister in Wanganui
Dear Fanny,
Holy Mother Mary bless you.
I am back at Ramanui after a treasured stay at Pipiriki House. What a pleasure it was to turn on a tap and out flows Hot Water! And a good roast meal every night, cooked by a hand not mine. Betty has become a dab at the croquet and beat me twice but it is all in the family, after all, so I didn’t mind too much. After the four days Betty and I felt quite back in order again and ready to take up the reins on the farm. Were Rob and Mack pleased to see us? Who can tell? Our men are Good Sorts and Hard Workers but neither has much of a way with words. It is lucky we are two women together or our tongues would dry up and shrivel from lack of use!
While at Pipiriki we were blessed to be able to take the Morrows’ small motor-canoe down to Jerusalem for Sunday Mass with Father Soulas. He is a great and tireless worker for the faith. We felt so proud to see that beautiful church on the hill, which the hands of our own men had helped build. All the Sisters’ little convent children were lined up in the front pews. Clean Sunday smocks, brushed hair tied back, clean white ribbons in their dark locks. They are blessed to have such a start in life.
Coming home upriver on the steamboat there was a bit of excitement. Three of Angus McPhee’s older children were up for the ride. You would remember him from last year, down your way, Fanny, the mill-owner with the ginger beard who made such a fuss in the paper about the Chinese, calling meetings and berating the Catholics in public because they would not take a stand. I do not take to the Chows, as you know, but the Presbyterians are worse in my book.
Well, these three McPhees were Trouble from the first minute. The older girl had some bone to pick with her younger sister. Some rivalry over the new Constable, I fancy. Would not let her be, and then started in on the boy for not taking her side. My head was ringing with her shrill accusations. I suggested they take their argument outside the cabin, which they thankfully did. God’s beautiful scenery to marvel at, and all they could do was bicker. I think the boy went and pestered the engineer after that, while the two girls kept on.
Oh dear, what a screed, Fanny, but I am coming to the strange part. Captain ran into trouble at Paparoa rapid — a stone in the propeller screw, I believe — and back we drifted to the foot of the rapid.
Nothing to be done but clear the obstruction. It is common enough. The deckhands into the water and diving underneath. For some reason the younger girl, Bridget, got it into her head that we were in danger. Scream! You would not believe the noise that girl could make. She screamed to see the Maori diving under, to feel the boat shifting and rocking, though we were secured to the bank — any fool could see that. She screamed again when the stone finally came loose and we began winching up Paparoa. By this time the older girl had latched on to the new Constable — did I tell you we now have one stationed at Raetihi, and zealous in his work, by all accounts? This older sister was clearly embarrassed by her sister’s antics and would break off her attentions with the Constable to shout at young Bridget. I was quite out of sorts with it all. The delay and then this bad behaviour. The Protestants do not know how to bring up their children, I have said it before. Those little mites at Jerusalem could show them how to behave, Natives though they be.
But worse was to come. At Ngaporo — you know the rapid I mean, Fanny — we had trouble again, and more delays. The deckhands could not find the winching wire. Rangi must have spent half an hour fishing with his hook to find where it lay on the riverbed, but in the end the Captain sent him and Eru ashore to climb up with a spare wire, which they tied to a tree above the rapid and we winched up on that. Bridget was screaming her head off all over again. Then, just as we were mid-rapid, would you believe it! Loggers came tearing downstream! Three giant logs lashed together, and two men aboard. I knew them and told the Captain smartly, for loggers are not allowed on the river. Well! They hit us with a bang that shook my teeth near out of my head. We heeled to one side, Captain swearing and fighting to keep us afloat and two passengers rushing to take the poles and fending off the bank, as we were close to beaching. Dear oh dear; accustomed as I am to river travel this was a journey well forgotten. Be sure those men will be reported and prosecuted.
Landings Page 6
