by Lois Mason
She remembered that she still had Mama’s vinaigrette in the little drawstring, black-and-gold beaded reticule hanging from her wrist. The reticule had been safely tucked away in one of her carpet-bags, and she had taken it out for the purpose of holding her handkerchief. She unscrewed the small silver cap and held the bottle to her nose. The pungent odours recovered her all the more.
“You should be right now, my dearest, with nought else to bring up! Take your time. There’s no rush to be off, is there, Mr. Thomas?” Rob assured her.
“None at all. Plenty of hours before nightfall, and we’ve only an hour and a bit to go.”
She turned her attention to the man. “Thank you. This piece of ground here is indeed preferable to your cart. No offence meant, Mr. Thomas, ’tis a fine, sturdy little vehicle, I can see that. It’s just that it and I don’t quite suit each other.”
“No offence, taken, ma’am. Have ye been in these parts afore?”
“Nay. I’ve only recently arrived from Sydney.” It should have been “we”, she realized, but the man appeared not to have noticed.
“I can take ye to Nugent Bracken, providin’ he ’aint left for the Dunstan. Many of the diggers ha’ gone there. Nigh on six thousand on the Tuapeka till the news came of a large field up where the Molyneux joins the Kawarau. The Gully’s but a shadow of what ’twas, ’fore the rush up to the Dunstan. And the same goes too, for the workings in the other gullies around the area. Still, a number of men are left, and Weatherstone’s as busy as ever, thank goodness. I saw Nugent the very day I left for Dunedin to pick up supplies. New hands are still comin’ this way, in need of a shovel or pick-axe,” he explained.
The afternoon sun was relentless, only the breeze cooled. The low manuka scrub afforded little shade amongst the bare hills. What trees had once stood bravely there were now charred stumps, burnt off by squatters and leaseholders in gaining pasture for their sheep.
As the cart came over the last ridge on the final leg of its tortuous journey, it was not the white dots of sheep that could be seen clinging to the edges of the valley on the gentler slopes, but a conglomeration of calico tents, sprinkling themselves on either side of the gully to its upper reaches.
To Abigail, the gully itself looked a honeycomb, with tiny black specks constantly on the move amidst its myriad convexities. The tawny grass ceased at the ransacked gully’s edge, where the richer browns and greys of the paddocked earth commenced. She had almost become used to the jolts and tossings of the small dray, and her uneasiness had disappeared, to be replaced by an omnipresent dubiety, tinged with distrust and fear of the man she had married.
He had spoken the truth when he said that his family was in England. The letter was addressed from Bramham, Yorkshire. It had given little else of her husband’s circumstances, apart from those words now churning over and over in her mind. “Thomasine’s death was at your hands”. Who was Thomasine? And had the man she had just married, killed her?
“Whoa!” yelled Fred Thomas, pulling hard at the reins of his two horses. “There’s Gabriel’s diggings, Mrs. Sinclair.” He turned to her and pointed down into the valley. Above it, and closer to where they were, was a scattering of shanties and buildings. “’Tis Tuapeka Junction ahead. The dray can go no further than that. We’ll try to find Nugent Bracken first. See which way the land lies, sir?”
His tone was deferential as he turned to Rob. Abigail thought her husband must have paid him well for this trip. “Be best if I take you on to Weatherstone with me before dark. Ye’d have the most chance for accommodation there.”
“Very well,” Rob replied.
With very mixed feelings, Abigail watched Gabriel’s Gully draw closer and closer. Was Papa still here? If only he were! Then he could unravel this horrible predicament.
The dray once more ground to a halt just after they had passed through the small township of Tuapeka Junction. “’Tis as far as I can go. We’ll have to walk from here—’tis too steep and narrow for this cart,” Fred Thomas explained.
“Right. Out you hop, Abigail.” Rob’s powerful arms swung her out over the side.
As they followed Fred Thomas through the maze of tents, and on to the narrow track leading down to the diggings, a cry of “Joe! Joe!” went before them, echoed in the throats of the miners.
“They rarely see a comely face out here,” Fred Thomas enlightened. “They’re alertin’ each other to Mrs. Sinclair’s charms. Ye must not mind ’em, ’tis all in good fun and not meant unkindly.” His weathered eyes also openly admired Rob Sinclair’s wife.
Despite her uneasiness about her husband, Abigail was glad of the protection of his arm, embarrassed as she was by the rude stares of the bands of diggers leaning on their shovels and taking a welcome break from their monotonous toil. The going was slow. The ground a quagmire of mud and slush from the wandering water used in washing the dirt.
“Hey, Bert! Where’s Nugent Bracken workin’ now?” Fred Thomas hailed a mutual acquaintance.
“Up yonder.” The muddy man pointed further along the gully. “He’s moved his claim further uphill. Should be there now.”
Abigail’s expectations increased step by step as they ‘picked their way over the drier mounds of dirt up in the direction signified.
They approached a solitary small figure, intent on the task of swivelling his bucket of pay-dirt with a manuka pole. The pole whipped around and the bucket of dirt dumped into a cradle, ready for washing. Fred Thomas called out to the spindly elderly man. “Nugent Bracken! Ye’ve got visitors!”
The man looked up. He was all baggy trousers tied under his armpits; his heavy leather boots and most of his trousers were caked with months of mud. It was impossible to guess their original colour. His small, weather-beaten, wrinkled face regarded them suspiciously, but his apprehension cleared when he saw that there was a young lady in the party.
“Good afternoon to ye, Fred. What can I be doing for ye? First time I’ve visitors in months!”
“These are Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, Nugent. Mrs. Sinclair is seeking her father, a man by the name of Samuel Wright. I knew ye once worked with someone by that surname.”
The old man raised his eyebrows at the mention of the name. He screwed up his dots of eyes and peered long and slow at Abigail’s olive bonnet. But it was not the hat he was so interested in, it was the wind-blown, copper locks beneath its pleated silk brim. The hair was unmistakably reminiscent of a man he knew.
He whistled through his teeth and then, in a voice too deep for his size, declared, “’Tis Miss Abigail! Your father’s joy!”
Abigail’s heart pounded with excitement. Forgotten were those incriminating words in Rob’s letter. This was the first link with her father, and she crossed her fingers that this man might lead her to Papa. Her voice quavered with built-up expectations.
“My father? You know where Papa is?”
Her excitement was dampened by what Nugent Bracken had to say next. “Nay. Not now. He left here nearly four months ago. Our claims are small and the gains are slow. Then news came in August of the Dunstan strike. Well, we worked together for a few more weeks, but your father ... He could see the profit was meagre here. He signed his share of our claims over to me and pushed off in September.”
His words were a brick in her heart. Nugent Bracken stretched out a knotted arm, deeply tanned by the sun and gently touched the girl’s wrist.
“I’m sorry. I know ye almost as my own daughter. Your father talked oft of ye all in those drear, icy nights last winter. He was not one to be warmed by the saloons and tawdry shows, and nor was I. We came to know each other well when nights were hard and cruel, with only a wisp of a fire to warm us and not even that, more oft than not. There was no firewood to be had, only lignite—men were burnin’ claim pegs to keep themselves warm. Nary a scrap of timber, and what wood there was found itself cookin’ a digger’s dinner or warmin’ his frozen fingers.
“He left in the highest spirits, Miss Abigail.” He could not add that th
e girl’s father had lost much weight with the scarcity of food. What food there was for the buying that winter had been at famine prices. Samuel Wright had been almost emaciated when he had left Nugent Bracken.
“Mama had heard nought from him since last February.”
“Aye, ’tis the way of letters from here. Your father wrote every fortnight without fail, as long as I knew him,” he replied.
Poor Mama, Abigail thought. She had grieved for the communication that never reached her.
“Abigail, perhaps we should let Mr. Bracken get back to his job?” Rob, who had stood silently by his wife, interrupted.
“’Tis no matter, Mr. Sinclair. I should go to the Dunstan and ask for Sam. ’Tis for sure he’ll still be there. Dreadful sorry I am, Miss Abigail, your father not being here and all. ’Twould gladden my heart to see such a pretty sight arrivin’ on these dull old fields, were I yer father! Right proud of such a daughter I’d be. Aye, and your father was too. Never stopped talkin’ of ye, he didna’.”
The tears sprang to Abigail’s eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Bracken. You have assisted us in our search anyway, even though Papa’s not here. I’m very grateful for your news of him. ’Tis to be hoped he might still be at this place you speak of.”
“Aye. Ye’re lucky ye haven’t the blizzards against ye, this time o’ the year. Never known it as hot before.” He waved his hand at a persistent bluebottle just settling on his bumpy, squat nose. The fly buzzed annoyingly around the little group.
“Catch up with ye, later, Nugent! How’re the findings here?” asked Fred Thomas.
“Not a lot, but enough to keep a man in baccy and tucker!” the old fellow replied.
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Bracken.” Rob shook his hand.
Nugent watched the trio as they made their way slowly back to Fred Thomas’s cart. He said a quick prayer for his old mate’s daughter, that there would be no heartbreak in store for her when she reached her search’s end.
Oblivious to the gawking curiosity of the diggers, Abigail was lost in disappointment. She had almost forgotten her fear of her husband. Almost, but not quite.
Still without her father, a protector, she was once again compelled to rely on the good graces of the man who had forced himself upon her. And the strength of his arm about her as he guided her along the driest channels, conveyed that he was not shirking his obligations.
When at last they reached the supply cart, Fred Thomas flipped a coin to the scruffy lad he had had the foresight to engage to keep an eye on his goods. The boy walked off, whistling a catchy tune. Abigail recognized its infectious refrain:
With me musha-ringa dah
Ri-tooral-addio
There’s whisky in the jar!
Papa often sang or whistled the “common song”, as Mama had called it, while he worked. The memory did nothing for Abigail’s comfort. She scavenged for her handkerchief in her reticule and modestly dabbed her eyes.
Rob’s arms were about her in a flash, nonchalant about this public display of his affections. Abigail needed comforting and now. What did it matter if it was in front of hundreds of eyes? But the more he murmured and tightened his hold, the more upset she became. He loosened his grasp and took the nonsense of a handkerchief, the silly, lacy speck of material, now sodden with her tears, out of her hand. It was quite useless. He quickly whipped out his large, gaudy bandanna and very tenderly wiped away the tears from her cheeks.
“Come, come, Abby!” He adopted a firmer tone. “All is not lost yet. We shall set out for the Dunstan tomorrow morning. How far is it, Mr. Thomas?”
The man scratched his forehead, pushing his wideawake hat back off his head. “Well ... from here, two to three days by horseback. There’s a coach from Dunedin, but ’tis impossible to reach it from here. Doubt that ye’d get on it, though, if ye did return to Dunedin. It’s booked out for weeks ahead, I believe.”
“We shall try and see what we can do from here then. In the meantime, we’d best find somewhere to sleep tonight,” Rob said assertively.
“Weatherstone’s Gully ’tis!” replied Fred Thomas.
“Aye. I’ll sit in the back this time with Mrs. Sinclair.”
“Of course, Mr. Sinclair, I understand perfectly. Here, give us a hand to move these sacks of flour, then ye’ll have more room.”
So they were off again in that hateful little conveyance, and this time Abigail’s husband was at her side, with a powerfully strong arm cradling her from the shocks.
Fortunately he could not read her thoughts or, she surmised, his countenance might not have been as stalwart as it was at present. There appeared little evil in those constant, firm steel blue eyes.
Was she in mortal danger from the man? Was each minute drawing her closer to some grisly end? Her imagination was reaching beyond reason.
She was secure enough at present with Fred Thomas up front, but what of the times when they might be alone together? She shuddered. Such situations must be avoided, she must ensure she was always within calling distance of some unwitting person who might rush to her aid if needed.
Papa must be at the Dunstan, she thought. He was her only salvation in extricating her from this overbearing man, who was even now bending his ruggedly handsome face to peer under her bonnet.
“Abby, you must not fret. We’re going to do all we can to find your father. You know that, dearest.” He brought his free hand to her cheek and stroked it lovingly. But at that moment, it was not for her father she was fretting. “Your eyes are jumping like a candle in the wind. Here, let me kiss them to stillness,” he persisted.
Trembling, she felt his touch of lips as they brushed her eyelids. They were deliciously far from murderous.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Weatherstone had mushroomed into a vigorous calico town in the midst of the Tuapeka diggings. A shabby, tawdry place by day, it pandered to the needs and desires of the varied, restless population out on the fields surrounding it.
As the dray rattled down into the flatter basin of the town, nestled in a gully close to Gabriel’s, Abigail could see that the buildings were of a similar quality of impermanency to those of the town she had stayed in the previous night.
So it was to be another set of crude sleeping arrangements again.
In the lingering dusk of the very late afternoon, the town was in the throes of preparing for evening. Larger marquees and shaky timber-boarded frontages proclaimed their attractions in bold, tarred letters. At a glance from the higher track, Abigail could now make out, ‘The Trocadero Dance Parlour’, ‘McNab’s Hall of Wrestling’, ‘Wing Lee—High Class Launderer’, and ‘Le Port d’Or’ which, by the numbers already congregating around its pulled-back flies, looked like a drinking saloon.
Closer to the town could be discerned the banks, hotels and boarding-houses, and shanties of all sizes and materials. A combination of calico and dismembered brandy and gin cases seemed to be popular.
The noise and shouting of the crowds carried on the still air as the dray approached the outskirts of the town and joined the other traffic of horses, drays, carts, and bullock teams. Fred Thomas turned to them and shouted, “We’ll try McNamara’s Establishment. Choicest for the lady!”
Rob showed that he concurred with the driver’s decision and they were plunged into the thick of the main street crowds. Then Fred Thomas turned his snorting pair of chestnuts off into a narrow backwash leading to an alleyway adjacent to the main street. Here, amid the smaller shanties and tents, one building stood out, Its broad timber facade declaring it to be ‘Mrs. McNamara’s Establishment’ in huge flourishing italics, with smaller block letters below advertising its qualities—‘Clean and Decent for Gentlemen and Ladies’.
A widowed Irishwoman was its proprietress and she conducted her boarding-house and staff with an iron will and calculating nous. Whilst not averse to a nip of ‘medicinal’ brandy or gin in the privacy of her own room, she allowed no liquor on her premises, and thus achieved a modicum of respectabilit
y—something rare in such a town. Her respectable establishment, however, never lacked custom, being much sought by the quieter and more genteel of the diverse peoples who passed this way.
When Mrs. McNamara, her black and red crinoline billowing around her, sailed out to greet her prospective customers and spied Abigail, still sitting primly in the cart, her doors were immediately opened for them.
“Aye! ’Tis a fine room I have for ye, to be sure. Come inside this instant and rest your weary bones!”
Rob lifted Abigail out of the hard wooden contraption. She was relieved to see the last of it, now that Fred Thomas had served his part in conveying them hither.
She shook the man’s hand and expressed her gratitude to him.
There was little to distinguish the structure of this accommodation house from that of the ‘Golden Haven’, apart from a more copious use of scrim for the walls in disguising the tin partitioning. This residence also had the advantages of a floor—squeaky and rattling though the boards might be. The corridor and room to which Mrs. McNamara led them attested to her religion, with holy pictures adorning the walls.
“There ye be, sir and madam! ’Tis a nice, comfy little room as ye can see. Y’ understand about no liquor on my premises, now? ’Tis the cause of many evils, and nought of it will I have under my roof!”
Rob nodded and Abigail wondered what Mrs. McNamara would make of his hip-flask.
Disturbed and turmoiled though her feelings were at this time, she could not stop her peals of laughter as soon as the woman was out of hearing. At least she hoped that she would be out of earshot; sounds carried here.
