by Lois Mason
The trio sought shelter on the leeward side of a shanty, huddled on the dirt for rest. Abigail’s small mouth pursed sharply—she would not show how upset she was.
Ned looked at Rob. “We’ve tried everything. What d’ye think?” He pulled his beard thoughtfully. “It doesn’t look good, does it? Anyway, with this wind, I’d better take the horses up out o’ town. They’ll be nervy with all this rubbish flyin’ about. D’ye want to come, or is there anywhere else ye think ye should try?”
Rob was looking intently at Ned, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. Suddenly it cleared and his eyes darted, wide and bright, towards Abigail. “That’s it!” he slapped his thigh. “How stupid of me to forget. Give me your father’s photograph again.”
She handed it to him. She was just about to re-clasp it to her neck, defeated in their search.
Avidly he looked at it. “Aye. I was right! The beard...” he pronounced enigmatically to the bewildered pair.
“But Papa hasn’t a beard!” she exclaimed.
“Right. And how does he shave?”
“At the barber’s.”
“And the Upper Dunstan has the only barber for miles! I tried to find one this morning. Come on!” He pulled Abigail, still trying to follow his reasoning, to her feet.
“Ned,” he ordered, “you tend to the horses. Do you remember the soddie back on the road? Take them there. ’Twill be sheltered. We shall rejoin you shortly.”
They leaned against the wind, and once more walked hastily down that street. The barber’s tent was hidden behind the bakery, a timber construction with a wide-fronted facade. No wonder they had missed it. Reuben Haggitt’s nameplate swung precariously from the tip of a tent-post and Mr. Haggitt himself was sharpening his cutthroat on a strop as they walked up.
“Afternoon, sir. I can just fit you in. Next customer’s in ten minutes,” the tall, lean man said to Rob.
Her husband hesitated, then thought that he might as well kill two birds. Abigail watched as he climbed the high, brown leather barber’s chair. His face was soon a good, soaped-up lather. The waiting was agony.
Freshly shaven as he paid for Mr. Haggitt’s services, he asked if he knew a Samuel Wright.
“Sam Wright!” the barber ejaculated. “ ’Course I know him! Though I haven’t seen him, mm, let me see ... Oh, for about a fortnight.” Then he glanced towards Abigail. “Now, don’t tell me!” he exclaimed. “You’re Sam Wright’s daughter! Little Miss Abigail? You have the hair for it! Aye, you must be she,” he guessed.
“Aye, I am,” she responded excitedly.
“Oh! Won’t he be pleased to see you! Now, just you go straight along to the Baldwin boys’ tent. End of street, west, third tent from the end on the right,” he instructed. “Ask for a little Californian, Abe Sloane. I heard he’s just arrived in town. He stays with them when he comes in. He can tell you where your father is.” He looked up at the sky. “Don’t like the look of this wind, sir. You’d be best getting up there this minute before the roofs start flying!”
Abigail could hardly contain her excitement as they hastened according to the barber’s directions.
The Baldwin boys were three lumbering lads, whose moleskins barely met the tops of their elastic-sided boots—Ben, Jack, and Frank. It was hard to tell which was the eldest. They all bore their weathered tans and bushy mops with equal similarity. And all sported thick, dark beards that gave them a roguish appearance. They were back in town for a ‘rest’, before pushing off again in a new direction, having staked more than favourably at Conroy’s Gully up in the Carrick Ranges. Resting was what they were now doing, stretched out on their pallets, a bottle of porter to each hand. One held a copy of The Otago Witness and was regaling the others with items of news.
Abigail heard him read, “They’ve caught O’Malley. About time...”
“We’re looking for Abe Sloane,” Rob interrupted him, calling above the whine and moan of the gale.
“Abe? Hey, Jack! Yer know when Abe’s comin’ back?”
“About half an hour. But you know Abe.”
“Yeah!” chipped in another. “Could be an hour, mister. He’s never on time. Hello! Brought yer missus?” The three youths were immediately on their feet when they spotted female beauty. They bowed awkwardly and mumbled, “How d’ye do?” One waved his porter and asked if she would partake of their hospitality.
Rob interjected abruptly, “Thank you just the same, but I think you’ll have enough, coping with this wind shortly. My wife’s looking for her father, Samuel Wright, and we think Mr. Sloane may be able to help us. We’ll wait yonder, by the sod hut nearby, and come back after half an hour. Tell Mr. Sloane we seek him and to stay here until we return.”
He nodded to them, and, planting his wife’s arm firmly on his own, guided her at a fast trot back down the street towards the hut he had spied, removed from the calico tents and shanties about a hundred yards and on a small rise above the road. This further delay only exacerbated Abigail’s impatience all the more.
The wind, increasing by the minute, gave impetus to their speed and it was no time before they rejoined Ned out of its blustering force, at the sheltered side of the mud-brick dwelling. The horses huddled against its wall, disliking the blast as much as they. The home was unoccupied, but they thought best not to trespass. However, when the air became an ochre fog of swirling dust clouds and bits of calico, canvas awnings, shreds of timber, and even head-splitting sheets of iron joined the flotsam whirling dangerously airborne, they quickly sought its shelter.
It was one of those summer storms. But this time the wind, a virago in velocity, channeled down through the gorge leading up to The Junction about twenty miles upriver, gaining in turbulence to unleash the full vent of her fury on the one thing blocking free passage—the township of Upper Dunstan.
Abigail cowered beside Rob—for, despite his assurances that they were in no danger, safe inside the solid little home, it would not have surprised her if they too were suddenly sucked up by the squall to join the countless remnants of homes now battering the soddie’s walls. Every tiny crack whinnied with the persistent draught.
“Thank the Almighty we found this place,” Abigail, frightened, whispered to Rob.
Her husband nodded as he pressed her close. “I don’t fancy our chances outside. We’ll have to remain here until the storm breaks. God knows if Abe Sloane will still be there. I doubt that the tent will hold in this.”
“How long do you think ’twill last?” Abigail asked dispiritedly. She cursed the elements that were now obstructing her in the final leg of her search. To be so close to Papa, yet so far! It was not fair.
Rob looked at Ned. “Hard to say, Mrs. Sinclair,” the man answered. “Sometimes an hour, sometimes a night. Haven’t known a wind this fierce before. ’Tis to be hoped ’twill break soon—before dark anyway, else we shall be here for the night. ’Twould be impossible riding in this weather.”
At that moment a family—a man, his wife holding a baby tight to her bosom, and two ragamuffins—burst through the door.
Rob stood up at once. “Begging your pardon, sir! We took shelter in your home—the door was unlocked. I trust you will not take exception to our intrusion?”
“Nay,” grunted the man, “ ’tis naught to me. The house is deserted. Belonged to Eddy Schmitt ... He died of dysentry last week. Our tent fell down. Can’t get it up in this.”
Abigail recoiled and instinctively removed her hands from the sofa, though it was too late now if she were to catch the disease. She prayed that time might have killed the germs.
They were presently joined by three more, all diggers, and with the same idea of seeking refuge from the destructive forces. Now it was a crush and the atmosphere stank with odours of tobacco, liquor, perspiration and stale mud. Nevertheless, good cheer reigned. Songs, suitable to the presence of ladies—for even the drunkest of the diggers acknowledged a need for decorum—and not bawdy ditties, kept morale high. The infant was the only person objecting loudly.
Its mother put it to breast and its mewling ceased immediately.
Again the timber door blew in. A short, leathery man, hatless, burst into the room.
“Which one of ye’s lookin’ for Sam Wright?” His dark eyes commanded the group, now silently observing the stranger. Abigail noticed how few teeth were left in his head.
Rob stood up, Abigail eagerly beside him. “We are,” he called to the man. “Do you know where he is?”
The man squinted, spat on his palms and rubbed the dirt off on to his moleskins. Then he took out his cutty pipe and lit up.
“Aye,” he said, his words like the plop of gruel on a slow simmer, “I know where he is. Follow me, I’ll take ye there.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Abe Sloane used words sparingly. A grunt, gesture of hand or head, or a look from his beady eyes told more than sentences in half the time. It was as if he were loath to part with his pipe to enunciate more clearly.
By these means, with a terse comment punctuating his gesticulations, they fathomed that it would take nearly an hour’s ride by dray to reach Abigail’s father. In case it was dark when they returned with Mr. Wright, Rob decided that Ned should ride with the horses back to Manuherikia if the gale broke before nightfall. They would return by the regular coach service.
The winds were already waning as they climbed into Abe Sloane’s cart, but even so, Abigail still had to screw up her eyes and hold her cloak fast about her. She could hardly contain her happiness. Papa was found! Within the hour she would see his dear, kind face and watch his laughing brown eyes light up at the unexpected reunion with his daughter. In her mind she imagined his surprise, savouring the delicious warmth of it. She could take him with her, back to Billy. Sadness sobered her excitement as she realized the weighty cares of imparting the news of Mama’s death.
The small dray drove into the brunt of the winds, now sufficiently appeased for the calico town’s occupants to view damage and make repairs. It looked a hopeless task. Everywhere the storm’s wrath had touched and few buildings were unaffected by its fury.
“Oh, those poor people!” Abigail exclaimed to her husband, pointing to a group, one of many, trying to make a roof again from the frayed remnants of calico.
Sympathy passed over Rob’s face. “They’ll be battling most of the night, I should think,” he commented.
“’Tis almost improper for me to be so happy, Rob,” she turned her shining eyes to him, “in the face of this desolation. But nothing could squash my joy now.”
“My dear Abby! ’Tis most understandable and there is no need to chide yourself.” He smiled affectionately at his wife. “I’m almost as affected as you in anticipation of this happy moment! Then we shall persuade your father to return with us. ’Tis good to see you so happy.”
“I wonder how he fared with his diggings?”
“We could ask Mr. Sloane, but I doubt he’d hear us with the noise of this wind. I think he may be a little deaf. His horse most certainly is, else ’twould be bolting. ’Tis not bothered by it in the slightest!”
Abigail laughed. “By the look of him, he’s more than deaf—the poor old creature. He’s well past his prime! The horse, I mean, not Mr. Sloane.”
The grip on her hand tightened as her husband chuckled. “He plods steadily and that’s the important thing.”
Now the dray slowly descended the long track leading to the punt. They were to cross the Molyneux. The ferryman considered it safe enough to punt across, but just the same Abigail closed her eyes tight, clutched her St. Christopher with her free hand and prayed fervently that the swift moving waters would not claim them. Rob’s assurances that they were quite safe were not heard. All she wanted was to reach the other bank safely.
They did. But she never knew how, feeling only the shake of the cart as the wind blew it and the lurching of the waters beneath. By a miracle of Providence the dray wheeled bumpily off the punt and climbed to the terrace high above that river.
North-west they followed it, still in sight of its treacherous teal currents. Time and again Abigail clutched her husband, shutting her eyes when she dared not look to the side of the cart as it teetered precariously on narrow passes high over lethally steep ravines.
It was just over the hour when Abe Sloane halted his nag and turned to them.
“This is the spot. Your father’s tent is over yon,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth, indicating down the steep hillside with his pipe.
Abigail’s hopes and impatience gave new energy to her body. She knew only the direction his cutty pointed. She was off like a kingfisher in a headlong dive down over the snowgrass mounds.
The cliffs edge cut short her flight. Distraught, she swept her eyes back up over the tussocks. Not one living creature, human or otherwise, was to be seen. There were signs of recent occupation; not far from where she stood a small black circle of charcoal marked a cooking-spot.
Her husband and the little man caught up with her as the tears of frustration seized her, and she wept silently into Rob’s flannel shirt.
Sloane scratched his weathered, balding pate. “Can’t understand it, sir. He was here yesterday morning when I left him. Can’t make head nor tail o’ this. There’s one thing he might have done...”
“Aye, man! Tell us!” Rob prompted irritably.
The old fellow sucked on his pipe, and his answer came exasperatingly slowly, “Up river. Another five minutes. We’ll soon find out.”
“Tells us a lot,” Rob whispered to his wife, pecking her on the cheek and drying her tears with his bandanna. “Keep your spirits up, lass! I feel we’re getting closer now, by the minute.”
It did not seem so to Abigail. Further away, she would have said. So it was back into the cart for more of that hair-raising journey until, this time, signs of life were easily discernible.
Three small tents were pegged out not far from the track, and close by, in the shelter of one side of a tent away from the wind, three men sat huddled about a smoking camp-fire.
Sloane halted his dray again, telling his passengers to stay where they were. Disappointedly, Abigail saw that not one of the diggers bore any resemblance to her father; they all looked up curiously at Sloane’s passengers. Mining had taken its toll—all of them had sunken cheeks, thin, hard bodies, deep hollows about the eyes, and well-worn faces.
Rob and Abigail heard their driver greet the men in his American fashion. “Hi, Fred! You heard where Sam Wright’s gone? Daughter’s in the cart,” he pointed his pipe back over his shoulder.
“Sam? Nay...” one of the men drawled but he was cut short by another.
“I heard he had a letter from his missus yesterday, went back to Dunedin this mornin’. Over Rough Ridge by now, I shouldn’t wonder. That Sam’s daughter? A pretty piece, eh chaps?”
“Who’s the man?” the third muttered.
“Her husband. So you can put your eyes elsewhere, Tom Scruggs!”
“Stay for a cuppa. Bring your friends over,” Scruggs croaked, his tongue hanging to the side of his mouth.
“Nay, we have to be back before dark. I’ll not drive this track at nightfall. Ye’ll not find me at the bottom of the Molyneux like some we know!”
“Have it your way. Next time ye turn up, bring some o’ Mother Riley’s scrummy!”
Sloane hinted a laugh. “Will do,” he raised a gesture of farewell. “See you then.”
He had no need to convey his news. Both Abigail and Rob had heard every word, and dejection was written all over the girl’s face. Rob tried to comfort her but she was almost inconsolable. She knew they must find her father some time. But when? How much longer was this search to continue?
The most galling revelation was that they had missed Papa by a hair’s breadth. And how were they to seek him out from the thousands in Dunedin?
Mama’s letter ... It must have been the last she had written to Gabriel’s diggings, telling him of their plans and the arrival date of the Argus. A letter sent very speculati
vely, for not having heard from Sam in all the time he had been gone, she had never known whether any of hers reached him.
So he had received it after all. It had taken nearly three months to find him.
The winds abated as they nearly reached Upper Dunstan, enough to hold some sort of conversation with their driver, for Abigail was thirsting for news, any news, of Papa.
“You know my father well, Mr. Sloane?” she called to him.
He did not turn about, for to take his eyes from the track, even for one minute, could prove lethal to them all. Instead, he half-turned his head so that his voice travelled sideways. “We were at the Tuapeka when the Dunstan news came through. We teamed up and made our way here.”
“Oh? When was that?”
“Late August. Bitter winter, ’twas. Nought to eat. We lived on pigs and parrots.”
Abigail shuddered, “And you’ve been here ever since?”
“Nay, spring thaw flooded our claim. Went over the mountains to the Arrow. Good finds there! Your father saved my life.”
“Did he?” she asked incredulously. “How?”
“Scurvy. We both had it. Plenty of gold, but ye can’t eat it. No fresh fruit or vegetables. Lost my teeth from it. Your father carried me the last five miles to the Dunstan on his back. I could have died, too weak to even ride a horse. Bought lime juice at the Dunstan.”
