Abigail's Quest

by Lois Mason

  They could afford to joke now that calamity was avoided.

  “You’d best change quickly, Abby, before you catch your death,” her husband ordered. He wanted no other man’s eyes viewing his wife’s body so indecently revealed beneath the sopping clothes. He need not have worried. Ned Fogg had wandered discreetly further along, the bank and appeared to be fussing with one of the horses.

  “Aye. Could you unstrap my saddlebag?” she asked him.

  He walked over to Gypsy Dancer, the culprit of the incident, innocently cropping the tussock. He unstrapped the bag and brought it to her, and as she stood up he hungrily gripped each arm, holding her away from him as he fondly scrutinized her. Then he put her from him, “Ned Fogg and I shall stroll upstream while you dry yourself and change.”

  She pulled out a linen towel from the bag, her only remaining dress—the cobalt tarlatan—a cambric chemisette to wear beneath it, and a change of underwear. She had no other outdoor footwear, only a small pair of grey satin rosette-trimmed slippers. Her leather boots were soaked so she had no alternative but to wear the evening shoes, even though they were highly unsuitable in this rugged landscape.

  A glance upriver told her that Rob and Mr. Fogg were not in sight, so she quickly peeled off the sodden garments. The sun was hot and the towel soon dried. She pulled on her fresh clothes and the slippers; her feet were like that four-poster, quite incongruous, and she giggled at the delicate things.

  Fortunately the ground was dry—mud would not spoil them yet. The wet articles she spread over the tussock mounds, hopong they might dry in the sun.

  Lunch was the order of the day. By the time the men had returned she had undone Mrs. McNamara’s napkin and broken the parkin into large chunks.

  “I’ve dressed for lunch,” she quipped. “Even my feet!” She pointed her neat toes from out under the dark blue skirt. The men laughed when they saw the flimsy things.

  “They won’t take ye far out here, Mrs. Sinclair. Ah, but ’tis good to see a dancing shoe, just the same,” Ned Fogg smiled. He was not much older than her husband but at least a head shorter. He produced a pewter mug and scooped some water from the creek. “Would ye care for a drink, ma’am? Pure runnin’ water, good and clear. No better to wet your whistle!”

  “Nay, I drank enough when I was in it! Perhaps later, thank you, Mr. Fogg,” she smiled at him.

  The sun was warming and any trace of chill from that perishing water had long disappeared in its rays.

  “Have you a family in Weatherstone, Mr. Fogg?” she asked. He looked like another digger.

  “Aye, a wife and three bairns. Johnny, Matt, and wee Alice. Bonny they are too!” he added proudly.

  “Where do you live?” She imagined a tough life in one of the tents where they had walked the evening before.

  “I’ve built us a stone cottage, other side of the diggings. Etty takes in washin’ out the back. She’s got a big, sturdy copper and a great mangle. Always plenty of business.”

  “Are you a miner too?”

  “Nay. I’m an Odd Job,” he announced.

  “Odd Job?” She looked perplexed.

  “Aye. And ye’d be surprised the number of odd jobs out here. Helpin’ in the store, deliverin’ the booze, unloadin’ drays, carpenterin’, cuttin’ stones, and takin’ parties like ye over these hills.”

  “Are these your horses?”

  Rob suddenly interjected. He had sat bemusedly, quietly observing his wife interrogate the fellow, but now he felt her curiosity had gone far enough. “My dear, I’m sure Mr. Fogg does not want to answer all your questions,” he rebuked. “A man is entitled to his privacy.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Fogg. I had meant no harm by it, but I admit I am too inquisitive at times,” Abigail apologized.

  “Nonsense, Mrs. Sinclair. Healthy curiosity, ’tis all. I do not mind in the least your askin’,” he assured her. “And as to the horses, Moon Mist and Archer are mine. Your husband arranged to hire his and Gypsy Dancer from Mr. Enderby. He has a run close by. Midnight’s Mr. Enderby’s brother’s horse. He’s in Dunedin for a fortnight.”

  “And Gypsy Dancer?”

  She belongs to his daughter, Emma. She’s a lady’s horse. Emma has had her since she was a foal.”

  “Have they lived out here long?”

  “Well, now,” he drawled, “ye’ve got me there. I know they settled at least four years before the rush. So I suppose that makes it about six.”

  She wondered what life Miss Emma must have led, miles from anywhere, until the calico town of Weatherstone had brought so much of life to that isolated place. Suddenly Rob interrupted her thoughts and pointed in the direction whence they had come. On the horizon of the hill was outlined a number of dark shapes.

  Ned squinted against the sun and scratched his head.

  “Looks like the police!” he exclaimed.

  Indeed it was. Dark blue and white figures came at full gallop down the hillside along the flat to the creek. Their weighty mounts made light work of fording, and the half-dozen of them formed into a still circle close by whilst one dismounted.

  Abigail recognized him as the constable who had spoken to her when she had recovered her bags. He tipped his cap, “So we meet again, Mrs. Sinclair. Mr. Sinclair. Afternoon, Ned!”

  The two men stood up to greet the policeman, looking very hot in his thick royal blue serge.

  “Damn O’Malley,” he swore. “He and his men been at it again—back o’ Weatherstone’s Gully this time. Given us the slip. He’s a crafty, cunning one, him! Word has it they’re headin’ this way. Seen anything of ’em?”

  Both men shook their heads. “Nought but us all mornin’,” Ned informed him.

  “Where are ye off to?”

  Again Ned informed him. “West to the Molyneux, then over the Knobbies to the Dunstan. We’ll make camp shortly after we hit the river. With Mrs. Sinclair we must break our ride early.”

  The constable nodded, banging the dust off his gloves. “ ’Twould be more prudent to camp closer to the diggings upriver.”

  “Aye,” Ned replied, “but ’tis too much for the lady to push on that far. She’s already had a nasty shock. Fell in the creek.”

  The policeman could see her garments laid bare in the sun, and Abigail felt the hot flush of colour rising in her cheeks. There was no time to hide her pretty under-things and there they were, for all to gaze upon! To her shame she could already see some of the men smirking. She bent her head to avoid catching their eyes.

  “Have ye weapons for protection?” the man asked Rob and Ned.

  They affirmed that they had.

  “Well, keep them fast about ye in case ye have visitors!” he warned. The heel of his riding boot dug into the dirt as he swivelled about to remount his horse. The group farewelled the picnic party, and with swords clinking in their white belts and cap pouches they sped off. Abigail prayed fervently for their success in catching the bushranger and his gang. The knowledge that he was about these parts made her very uneasy.

  Rob sensed her nervousness. “Don’t worry, my love. We are well-armed, and if we stay close together, we shall be perfectly safe.”

  His assurances allayed her fears somewhat, but just the same, as she gathered up her still damp clothes and boots, rolling them into a bundle, she kept a wary eye out for any sign of the ruffians.

  However the rest of the trek was uneventful, apart from employing a more cautious approach in fording the broader Beaumont River, and by late afternoon the great Molyneux came into view. Where they hit it was wider and more sprawling than the deep rush it made through the steep gorges further up its headwaters. Now many fingers of its waters sinuously entwined ragged shingle islands and sandy reaches, branching from the fuller mainstream. At sight of it, Abigail felt that she was at last coming into the country of her father. Yonder, miles up these mighty waters, he might even be working his claim this day. Camps of miners, spawned in haphazard conglomerations up on its beaches and banks of its tributaries, w
ere already reaching higher into the mountains.

  Beside the Molyneux, somewhere at the foot of the Lammerlaw Ranges which ran north-westwards, east and almost parallel to the river, Ned Fogg decided they would make camp. The spot was sheltered, and Abigail judged from the time they had taken from the Beaumont fording that they were about five miles on.

  Two small inverted v’s of white calico were soon erected and Ned pulled out his Tetchford’s Vestas and lit a fire to boil the billy. Abigail watched the bright red flash of beak and legs of a black pukeko as it grovelled in a swampy backwater of the river.

  They had swagger’s dinner—damper, chunks of cold mutton and the billy tea. Despite its plainness she ate ravenously, her appetite well-sharpened by the fresh air. As night drew in they were an amicable group around the small campfire with her husband sitting close to her. She drew comfort from his powerful warmth.

  “What about the snakes and spiders, Mr. Fogg?” Back home, she thought, she would most certainly not be sleeping amidst the tussock and matagouri.

  “Ye need not worry, ma’am,” Ned reassured, smiling to himself that yet another Australian had shown her timidity. “There are no snakes nor deadly spiders here, nor in any other part of New Zealand, as I believe. Ye need have no fear about sleeping out, Mrs. Sinclair.”

  “ ’Tis a blessing then. Only bushrangers ... Mercy heavens, ’tis to be hoped they don’t bother us!” she uttered.

  “Aye,” he agreed, “the only monsters lurkin’ here are invented by the Maori.”

  Rob looked interested as he squeezed Abigail’s hand. “Tell us more, Ned,” he asked the man.

  “Well ... There’s the taniwha. He’s supposed to live in the river gorges and eats anyone foolish enough to fall in. Then there’re evil fairies called patu ... ’Tis hard to say the word. Patupaiarehe. I think that’s it. They’ve other monsters, but I forget what they call ’em. They come out o’ the sea and invade the land.”

  “Like a flood, do you mean?” asked Rob.

  “Somethin’ like that. They explain anythin’ evil in nature by makin’ up a story about it.”

  “How do you know all about this?” Abigail queried.

  “When ye’ve lived here as long as we have ... ye get to hear about ’em. I came from England with my parents in the forties. On the John Wickliffe. Father’s a labourer—he had a hand in buildin’ many of the big ’uns in Dunedin.”

  “Do you remember coming out?” she enquired. Papa could recount fascinating yarns of his sea trip.

  “Every bit. I was fifteen then. The ship was wet, storms terrible, and our berths never dry! Took four months to reach Port Chalmers and we were damp all the way. Aye, ’twas a leaky old boat, right enough.” His eyes glazed as he reminisced. It was dark, but a plump moon threw the small trees and bushes into ghostly shapes. Abigail’s face glistened wanly by fire and moonlight. Her husband’s heart reached her though his gripping hand and she returned the pressure on it.

  The fire reduced to embers and Rob offered to collect more firewood. He was not one to leave all duties to their guide; together he and Ned had prepared the camp and dinner.

  “The voyage must have been horrible, Mr. Fogg,” Abigail invited him to continue the conversation.

  “Aye. The pumps were workin’ night and day to get the water out, but they weren’t much good. We were up foc’sle, worst part of the ship for leaks.

  “And the grub! Ugh! Brown, old ship’s biscuits ye’d crack your teeth on, salt junk and a tin of bully a couple of times a month if ye were lucky.”

  He paused, long enough for Abigail to hear the pounding hoof beats. The thudding closed in and Ned’s hand automatically shifted to his belt, where he had tucked his gun.

  “Quick, Mrs. Sinclair. Get into the tent!” he ordered. She did not argue. By kneeling on the floor she could just peep through a crack of the fly.

  There were five of them. Five other shapes facing Ned across the fire. Abigail knew that his gun was no protection against the massed weapons of that wily troop. Numbly she watched the ensuing drama.

  The moon provided light enough for her to see they had another leader this time. Ruby, emerald, and yellow lights were flashing from his vest as he curtly demanded Ned to drop his pistol. Their only defence fell with a dull thud to the ground. She wondered where her husband was.

  “Ye’ve four horses. Who else is with ye?” the man roughly asked.

  “I’m by mesef,” she heard Ned’s brave reply. “They’re for deliverin’ up yon.”

  “Ye don’t need two tents for yesel’. Get aside.” With that he shoved Ned out of the way. The tent fly was rudely pulled back. Abigail trembled as the man clapped eyes on her.

  “Ye liar!” he shouted at Ned and dragged her up by the arm. He pushed her out of the tent. “Who’s this, then?”

  “My wife,” Ned answered. Abigail wondered why he lied. “Me snorin’s too loud for the missus. She likes to sleep alone.” He explained the two tents. O’Malley, for that was who it was, appeared satisfied with the explanation. He turned her towards the last glow of the fire and let the moon shine full on her. She heard his lips smack, and his breath, fast and heavy, heated her forehead. His black eyes lowered slowly as he looked from top to toe.

  “She wouldna’ sleep alone, were she my missus,” he returned crudely. “What’s your name?”

  Ned answered, “Fogg.”

  “I’m lookin’ for someone called Robert. He’s the son of the Earl of Winderslea. Come across the man?”

  Ned burst out laughing despite the precariousness of their situation. “What! Out here! Ye must be speakin’ in jest!”

  Abigail felt O’Malley’s clutch dig into her bones. “Nobody laughs at me. I tell ye, the man’s out here somewhere. I’ve had word, and I mean to find ’im.” His voice deepened angrily.

  “Well, ye can see he’s not here,” Ned’s tone was now obsequious.

  “Aye. And ye don’t look like ye’d have any valuables worth takin’ either. Except...” Abigail felt his eyes leering at her again. Her knees shook. He flung her from him and she fell beside the campfire.

  “Nay! I dinna’ hold with takin’ married women,” he spat in disgust. “Ye can keep yer money, Fogg. Use it to fatten up yer wife. Ye’re a miserable bastard by the look of ’er.”

  Abigail bled for Ned, suffering the brute’s insults silently.

  “I’ll take yer gun though. Looks an honest bit o’weapon, and we can always do with more.” He leaned over and picked it up from Ned’s feet. “Here! Catch, George!” Then he moved again to the bundle at the fire. “Mrs. Fogg, ye can tell yer brats ye had the privilege of the company of Rory O’Malley.”

  He mounted his horse. “What about the ’orses, Rory?” she heard someone call.

  “Nay. Forget ’em. Only hold us up at the moment. Come on. See ye, Fogg,” he shouted facetiously.

  “Not if I can help it,” the poor fellow muttered.

  Abigail’s relief was profound. Suddenly she was surrounded by solicitous male voices, as Rob lifted her to her feet, and Ned rushed over. Her husband’s face was irate.

  “Rob? Where were you?” she asked.

  “Behind the other tent. If that scoundrel had ... I’d a load of shot ready for him,” he said angrily. “Thank you, Ned. You were most brave.”

  “Oh, we’d nought that they’d want. Any other man would ha’ done the same. I’m glad ye stayed low, two men would ha’ been a challenge to that type. They wouldna’ bother an old married couple.”

  “Well, I’m most grateful just the same that your ruse worked. And, Abby, thank God you were unharmed,” he turned her to face him. “Were you hurt when you fell?”

  “Nay. ’Tis just the shock...” she replied faintly. And then she was snuggled into his rough woollen shirt and the beat of his heart pounded in her ear. Slowly she felt her strength returning; she drew back a little and looked at Ned Fogg.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fogg,” she murmured.

  He waved his arm, denying
credit. Abigail had been admirable herself, plucky enough not to have had womanly hysterics. “Beg your pardon, ma’am, for calling ye my wife. I thought it best in the circumstances.”

  “La, sir! Ye saved us all because of it,” she declared. Her heartbeat had returned to normal and she realized how tired she was.

  “Sorry about your gun, Ned,” said her husband. “I’ll try to get another in Teviot.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Sinclair, it wasn’t any good anyway. It didn’t work. ’Twas just for show! Won’t do those men a scrap of good!”

  Rob threw his bundle of kindling on to the fire and flames leaped again. He looked at Abigail standing beside him. By the mellow glow she looked drawn.

  “There’s a pallet in that tent for us.” He pointed to the one where he had recently hidden himself. “I’ve put your saddlebag nearby should you wish to prepare for the night. I’ll fetch you some water from the river.”

  She washed in the wide tin bowl into which he had poured the water, warmed by some hot from the billy over the fire. Her nightdress was at the bottom of the saddlebag, so she decided to sleep in her chemise.

  Her husband reached out a hand to her, and guided her in under his scarlet blanket.

  As his warm arms, bare since he was clad only in underclothes, enfolded her and his heat fired her own, she slipped into the protection of his embrace and felt as if nought could frighten or perturb at this moment.

  Her mind was vacuous with weariness. All that mattered were Rob’s endearments and soft caresses, to which she could make no protest.

  “Abby,” he moaned. “My darling Abby!”