Abigail's Quest

by Lois Mason

  Over the three weeks that the Wrights had been resident, Mrs. Sergeant had come to know Abigail well. She was almost the daughter she had never had. And, although she knew that she could never replace Abigail’s own dear mother, God rest her soul, Abigail already occupied a special corner of her heart. The poor child had been through very harrowing experiences these last weeks. Such devotion and tireless caring for her sick family! And now she was off on this rash endeavour. What stubbornness! It would either make or break her, and Mrs. Sergeant feared Abigail would shatter.

  “Oh, nay, my dear, there are very few Maoris down here. They say ’tis too cold for them,” she laughed, her chin wobbling benignly. “I doubt whether you’ll see any on your journey, though there are some tribes to the North. Don’t worry if you do encounter them—they’re very friendly. I hear the Maori women have even carried the miners off the paddle-steamers at Waikouaiti, on their backs. Nay, those about here are quite harmless, very different from the tribes in the North Island. They’re a fierce, warring lot from what we read in the Witness. Nay, ’tis not Maoris you should worry about, ’tis the cold nights. I have some spare thick blankets—you’ll be sure to take them, won’t you?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sergeant, but Mama brought plenty of our own and I think I shall have more than enough.”

  “Well then, I’ll make you some nice thick mutton sandwiches and cut some of the Dundee cake for you to take tomorrow. There’s naught like good food to keep you cheerful!”

  “You are so good to us. How can I ever repay you?”

  “Now, child. ’Tis naught. Just come back to me with your father, that’s all I ask.”

  “Aye, Mrs. Sergeant. I will,” Abigail promised fervently.

  “Would you wear this for me? ’Tis a Saint Christopher—’Tis supposed to bring good fortune for travellers. I’m afraid I’ve let my churchgoing slip since Mr. Sergeant passed away, but we were always good Godfearing folk. If this helps you, then ’twill bring me joy.”

  “I’ll wear it for you.” Abigail slipped the thin gold chain around her neck, and the medal lay next to Mama’s locket with her father’s photograph inside it. “This is my father, Mrs. Sergeant—’tis not very clear, but there is a good likeness, just the same. Pray for me, that I may find him.”

  “Oh, I shall, my dear.”

  Samuel Wright’s portrait was very grim-faced and stern, but Mrs. Sergeant could almost see the twinkle in his eyes from the laughter lines around them. He had long side-whiskers, compensation for the sparseness of hair atop his head.

  “He looks gentle, Abigail,” Mrs. Sergeant commented as she handed the locket back to the earnest girl.

  “He is. He was hardly ever angry with us. He used to tell us the most wonderful stories of when he was a boy, and of the long voyage out on the ‘Strathfieldsaye’ from Gravesend in 1839. He was but a young man, then, seeking a better future for himself. He found it too. Our saddles and bridles are among the best in Sydney!” she said proudly. “I must find him. I know I shall!”

  Her faith was never more apparent. How could Mrs. Sergeant convey to her that her father might already have met with any number of misfortunes? Disease, accidents, drowning, perishing from the cold, were all common occurrences on the gold diggings. She thought best not to quench the girl’s burning zeal. She had little else now in the way of hopes. With her innocence of youth, she had no conception of what it would be like on the gold-fields. Neither, for that matter, had Mrs. Sergeant; but she did have vague maternal apprehensions of the places towards which Abigail was heading.

  “Abigail, you will be careful, my dear, won’t you?” she warned nebulously. “You shall be staying in public houses, and they are rather—er—rough, I believe.”

  “Mrs. Sergeant! You are not to worry about me! I am perfectly able to look after myself,” Abigail assured her. But, deep inside, she was very afraid. She had never been anywhere on her own before. The only journey sustained by herself had been up to Aunt Caroline’s at Windsor, and then there had been dear, welcoming friends to greet her. Who would welcome her at Gabriel’s Gully? That was what she dreaded, not to know a soul. Still, she consoled herself with the knowledge that she, Billy and Mama had known nobody when they stepped ashore from Dunedin Harbour, and now she had a dear friend in Mrs. Sergeant. She would have courage, just as her father had had at the same age when he set out alone from England. There would be no refund for her!

  Despite bolstering herself with these thoughts, Abigail’s sleep was fitful, filled with wild fancies of ferocious natives, drenching storms, and rude, arrogant men.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  It was a grey, inauspicious morning, a moody, downcast morning with a dull, sultry sky. Not the morning for a girl journeying on her own. The bustle of activity outside Cobb and Company promised that Abigail would not be alone. She cast her eye over her travelling companions, waiting nearby while the grooms loaded the baggage into the leather and canvas boot of the scarlet coach, modelled on the Concord pattern with its canoe-front dashboard. She noted only one other female amongst them.

  “Are ye sure ye’ll not be wantin’ the escort?” A high-buttoned police officer, strutting in his Wellingtons, called out to the coachman.

  “The only escort I’ll be wantin’ is when they carry me out feet first! You know I’m the best driver in the South Island! There’ll be no need of an escort, thanks just the same. I can outrun anyone bold enough to challenge me!” boasted Cabbage Tree Will, so nicknamed for his floppy, ragged hat which resembled the crown of a cabbage-tree.

  Abigail felt like a little brown sparrow, anxiously darting her eyes over the accommodation and her fellow passengers. She had tied her bonnet firmly by its cinnamon velvet strings, and had worn her most sombre travelling gown. There was not money to spare for a mourning outfit for dear Mama, so she had made do with what she had. But even the brown watered silk buttoned high to the neck, with its matching Garibaldi jacket, could not hide the turbulent glow in her cheeks.

  She was on her way at last! It was a guilty excitement—she thought of Billy, so regretful that he could not be with her. It was unavoidable. If only she could bring Papa back to him! What a sweet thought that was. There, her two carpet bags had joined the trunks and now all were secured and covered by a canvas tarpaulin. Cabbage Tree Will turned to the waiting group.

  “Take your places, ladies and gentlemen. Ladies first! Inside please! We’ll be off in half a shake of a lamb’s tail!”

  The matronly soul was assisted into the coach by her husband. Abigail hesitated. Crude hands roughly grasped her waist.

  “Put your foot on the iron step!” an unshaven warmth hissed in her ear. She gasped, but did as she was bid, and the woman’s husband pulled her in.

  Abigail dared not look at her assailant, dared not give any hint of encouragement. Her heart raced as she squashed in her wide skirts beside the only other lady. A roughly-dressed man soon squashed himself beside her. Were those the hands that had recently been around her? She trembled. Dirty, jagged fingernails, and gnarled, stubby fingers were planted firmly on soiled moleskin thighs. She rivetted her eyes to the opposite side of the coach, away from the remaining passengers who were now entering.

  There was a mingling crowd of interested passers-by, watching the coach’s departure. The woman on Abigail’s left turned to her.

  “Since we are to be at such close quarters for so long, will you allow me to introduce ourselves?”

  Abigail nodded.

  “I am Mrs. Grant, and may I introduce Mr. Grant?”

  The gentleman beside her leaned forward and smiled at Abigail. “How do you do, Miss...?”

  “Wright,” she nodded. “How do you do.”

  He looked neither well-to-do nor poverty-stricken. “Are you travelling all the way?” he asked her.

  Abigail nodded again.

  Mrs. Grant carried on the conversation. “We are only going to Clarendon, at the south end of Lake Waihola. Mr. Grant’s brother has
a general store there. He has been so busy with the gold rush crowds that he has sent for Mr. Grant to come and help him. Mr. Grant’s usual employment is in the flourmill. Confidentially,” her high-pitched voice achieved a softer tone, “he did not much like the work, so I’m very pleased he is leaving it,” she smiled smugly.

  Abigail replied, in between the bumps and jolts, that she hoped they might be happier in their new situation.

  The mists could be seen rising from the valleys as the coach lurched its way over Dunedin’s surrounding hills towards the Taeri plain. Four horses were giving all they had, straining up along the bushy, dirt road.

  “On yer own, eh?” The tobacco breath was nauseating. Abigail ignored the crude man beside her, and attempted to continue conversing with Mrs. Grant.

  “What’s a wench like you doin’, goin’ out to the diggin’s on yer own? There’s only one reason that I know of,” he leered towards her. Quivering, she felt his rough arm, hidden by the voluminous mass of brown skirt, sliding against her leg.

  “Leave me alone,” she whispered through her teeth. She dared not create a scene, not wanting to draw attention to herself.

  “A good leg, too,” he smiled evilly. Abigail could feel his hand digging into her thigh. Any minute now, she would faint.

  “Take your hand away.” Her demand was barely audible.

  “Make me!” the horrid man taunted.

  But she did not have to. A quick shuffle, a firm “Leave the lady alone!”, and her attacker was no longer beside her. He had been replaced by another, equally rough, just as tattered. Was she to bear the same treatment again? she wondered.

  “You should not have travelled alone,” her rescuer admonished.

  “You have no right to speak to me in that manner,” she flared. This time she was prepared. She resolved she would not endure another rough handling. “Mrs. Grant? Would you be so kind as to ask your husband if he might change places with me? I feel rather faint, and I think if I could sit beside the—er—window,” she could not think what else to call the opening left where the rolled-down black duck curtains failed to meet, “I might feel better.”

  “But, of course, my dear. I hadn’t realized, and we are rather a crush, aren’t we? Harold, please exchange your place with Miss Wright.”

  With a minimum of fuss, Abigail was safely ensconced between Mrs. Grant and the canvas side; safe, apart from four pairs of curious male eyes, including the sulky, smirking ones of the instigator of the unfortunate episode. She would concentrate on what could be glimpsed between the curtains.

  The countryside was much greener here, she noticed. A vivid, brilliant green, not the hazy, muted bluish-green of home. Totaras, beeches, and cabbage-trees gave lofty shelter to a lush profusion of flax, ferns, and mosses. The coach burst down through the emerald canopy, and the rutted track opened out on to the bare expanses of the Taeri Plain, criss-crossed with the deep cuts of wagon-wheels. In the distance Abigail could just see billowing clouds of smoke, and she pointed them out to Mrs. Grant.

  “Probably a farmer burning off the bush for new pasture. Aye, it must be. There’s his fence.” She indicated the sod wall ablaze with golden flowers atop it.

  “What a shame! It seems a pity to destroy such beautiful greenery. How pretty his wall is, though!”

  “Aye, ’tis gorse. It does look attractive, but be careful if you are ever near it. ’Tis extremely prickly! No stock would ever go through it. Look! ’Tis Lake Waihola already.” Mrs. Grant showed Abigail the first glimpse of shimmering water.

  Before the coach had reached Clarendon, Abigail had recounted her reasons for travelling alone, and again, she had been cautioned to take care. After the nasty incident not so long before, Abigail knew that it was no idle caution. She was fearful for the next stage in her journey, after her temporary chaperone would have departed.

  Her fears were justified. This time she found herself the only female on the coach. She had made certain of her seat against the flimsy wall, but on her other side was the ruffian who had replaced her initial assailant. She occupied herself silently, engrossed with the passing scenery. The centre flap had now been rolled up, so her vision was less impeded. Despite the crude shelter at her side, the wind rushed through the coach—a dusty, hot, dry wind, for the sun was now well overhead. The grey mists had long been left behind and the Otago countryside basked in a clear, bright day.

  Abigail felt hot, grimy, and very hungry. Her mouth watered at the thought of Mrs. Sergeant’s mutton sandwiches, but she knew she would be sick if she attempted to eat them now. The next stop was Tokomairiro, and she would have to wait till then. There was to be a fourth change of horses and a stop for lunch, plenty of time for a leisurely repast. The other stops had been brief, with time only for a refreshing drink while passengers were set down and more taken on. She prayed that Tokomairiro was not too far away—she had no idea of distances between the short respites. Four hours already, of bone-shaking and tooth-rattling on the hard coach seat, was more than a body could bear! Despairingly, she realized that they were not even half-way to their final destination.

  From Clarendon the road had been metalled, but the force of hundreds of iron wheels from the wagons passing over it, had pushed much of the metal down into the mud. It did serve to stop any bogging, and so far there had been no hitches to their journey, hair-raising though it had been. To reach Tuapeka junction in nine hours involved many rapid changes of horses and a reckless speed.

  It was well after noon when Abigail ate her sandwiches in the shade outside the hotel at Tokomairiro, where the remainder of the passengers had adjourned for their meal and “refreshments”. It had seemed safest to keep to herself, although the hours of silence since Mrs. Grant had departed weighed tediously, particularly since she was forced to listen to such ribaldry and jesting that it raised her blushes.

  After lunch, most of her companions were in more than jovial humour, singing drunkenly and lurching to their histrionic gesticulations. Now the road had petered to a dirt-track again, and the coach swayed perilously up and down the steep winds of the low ranges. There was another change of horses at Round Hill, but to Abigail it seemed hours before they were on the descending slopes. The rapidity of events that followed was stamped for ever in her memory.

  First, there were two shattering claps of thunder. But that was impossible. There was not a cloud in the sky! Next, a stampeding of horses, wild shouting, and more shots Fired in the air; everywhere were choking, swirling clouds of dust. Over all the shouts and cries came one coarse demand.

  “Stand! Bail up!”

  A cold shudder transfixed Abigail. She clutched her seat, expecting Cabbage Tree Will to fulfil his boast of outrunning any challenger. But the coach skidded to a halt, and there was hardly time for terror. A rough arm had swept her up, a firm hand pressed her mouth, and she was hurtling through space. Her fall was cushioned by tussock, but it did not prevent her, and her attacker, from rolling over and over into a bushy hollow beside the road.

  She pulled her hoops hastily down from over her head, knowing that more than the broderie anglaise trimmings on her drawers was on full show. Vainly, she attempted to scream, but a strong hand was nearly suffocating her.

  “Hold your tongue! Do you want us both killed?” The crude command was spat in her ear. “Lie still, and don’t move!”

  Numbly Abigail obeyed. Her limbs were broken, she was certain, they were throbbing with excessive pain. If only she could cry out her plight! It was useless—the hand was a leaden clasp. Then she saw why she could not scream. Four brigands, in assorted states of dress, but each wearing buckskins with long leather riding boots, and heavy holstered belts, were now pointing an array of pistols and carbines at the remaining occupants of the coach, who were lined up outside it.

  “Bush rangers!” sputtered the ruffian, locking her even more tightly against him.

  She hardly knew which could be the worst fate. From where she was, she could hear everything the robbers were saying.
Her eyelids fluttered; this was surely a dream! A strident whisper forced the brutal reality upon her.

  “None of your vapours now, madam. They won’t do you a bit of good. Keep still.”

  The bushranger with the red neckerchief appeared to be in command.

  “This coach is in our hands now. There’s no use resistin’—get back there, or ye’ll get a blast from this!” He waved his gun towards a man hedging out of line. “Which one of ye’s Robert? Winderslea’s son? There’s a score of twenty-five years to settle with yer family. We’ve been a long time waitin’ for this moment!”

  Not a soul moved.

  “Lost yer tongues, eh? Well, we’ll soon see about that! Get back in the coach. Number Two, take the driver’s seat!”

  With guns levelled at their heads, the men had little option. They were followed in by one of the other thugs, brandishing his weapon. “Number Two” leaped into the driving position, picked up the reins and whipped the team into action. The remaining two followed on horseback, leading their henchmen’s horses. There would be no escape for the hapless victims in the meanwhile.

  As she watched all her possessions trundling away, Abigail felt the pressure on her released. Angrily, she confronted her aggressor.

  “Well, what do you do now? If you think I can move, you are much mistaken. Do what you will then, and have it over.” Eyes closed, she steeled herself for her doom.