by Sarah Lark
Friday snuggled up to Gwyneira, who scratched her absentmindedly. Suddenly she had an idea.
The dog, of course! Gwyneira would go to Lyttelton tomorrow to take the dog back to the sheriff so that he could return her to James when he was released. She would then be able to ask the man if she could see James in order to talk to him about Friday. After all, she had taken care of the dog for almost two years now. Surely the police chief would not deny her that. He was a good-natured fellow and could not possibly suspect a relationship between herself and McKenzie.
If only that didn’t also mean a separation from Friday. Gwyneira’s heart bled at the thought. But there was nothing for it. Friday belonged to James.
Naturally, Gerald got upset when Gwyneira declared that she planned to take the dog back the next day. “So that fellow can start stealing again as soon as he gets to Australia?” he asked snidely. “You’re crazy, Gwyn!”
Gwyneira shrugged. “Maybe, but she belongs to him. And it will be easier for him to find a decent job if he takes the dog along.”
Paul snorted. “He’s not going to look for any decent job! Once a scoundrel, always a scoundrel.”
Gerald was about to agree, but Gwyneira just smiled.
“I’ve heard of professional gamblers who, later, came to be very decent sheep barons,” she remarked calmly.
She set out for Lyttelton at the crack of dawn the next day. The way was long, and it took even the vigorous Raven five hours before she finally trotted onto the Bridle Path. Friday, who had trotted behind them, looked completely spent.
“You can rest in the office,” Gwyneira said in a friendly tone. “Who knows, maybe Hanson will even let you go straight in to your master. And I’ll take a room in the White Hart. Paul and Gerald won’t be able to get into much trouble in one day without me.”
Laurence Hanson was just sweeping his office when Gwyneira opened the door to the police office, behind which lay the prison cells. She had never been here, but she felt tingling anticipation. She would see James in just a moment. For the first time in almost two years!
Hanson beamed when he recognized her. “Mrs. Warden! Gwyn Warden! Now isn’t this a surprise. I hope I don’t owe the pleasure of your visit to any unfortunate events? You don’t want to report a crime, do you?” The officer winked. Apparently, he believed that to be next to impossible—a decent woman would always have sent a male member of the family. “And what a beautiful dog little Friday’s become! How about it, little one, do you still want to bite me?”
He bent over to Friday, who approached him trustingly this time. “What soft fur she has. Really, Mrs. Warden, you’ve taken first-class care of her.”
Gwyneira nodded and quickly returned his greeting. “The dog is the reason I’ve come, Officer,” she said, coming straight to the point. “I heard that Mr. McKenzie’s sentence has been commuted, and that he’ll be released soon. So I wanted to bring the dog back to him.”
Laurence Hanson wrinkled his brow. Gwyneira, who wanted to request to be admitted to James’s cell right away, stopped cold.
“That’s very laudable of you,” the officer remarked. “But you’ve come too late. The Reliance pushed out to sea this morning, headed for Botany Bay. And following the governor’s orders, we had to take Mr. McKenzie aboard.”
Gwyneira’s heart sank. “But didn’t he want to wait for me? He…he surely did not want to leave without the dog.”
“Are you all right, Mrs. Warden? Is something the matter? Do sit down; I’d be happy to make some tea.” Concerned, Laurence pulled up a chair for her. Only then did he answer her question.
“No, naturally, he did not want to leave without the dog. He asked me if he could go get it, but of course I couldn’t allow that. And then…then he predicted that you would come. I never would have thought…all this way for this rogue, and you’ve even grown fond of the dog! But McKenzie was certain. He asked for a delay; it would have broken your heart, but the order was clear: deportation on the next ship, and that was the Reliance. And he couldn’t pass up this offer. Oh, but wait! He left a letter for you.” The officer went to look for it straightaway. Gwyneira could have strangled him. Why hadn’t he mentioned that right away?
“Here it is, Mrs. Warden. I take it he wants to thank you for looking after the dog.” The police chief handed her a simple, unopened envelope and waited expectantly. Clearly he had not opened the letter earlier because he had expected her to read it in his presence. However, Gwyneira did not do him that favor.
“The…the Reliance, you said…are you certain that it has already set sail? Couldn’t it possibly still be waiting in the harbor?” Gwyneira slid the letter, seemingly without giving it much thought, into the pocket of her riding dress. “Sometimes there are delays pushing off.”
Laurence shrugged. “I didn’t look. But if so, it wouldn’t be waiting on the docks but anchored out in the bay somewhere. You won’t be able to get out to it, except maybe in a rowboat.”
Gwyneira stood up. “I’ll have a look for myself, Officer. One never knows. Before that, though, thank you very much. For…Mr. McKenzie too. I think he knows all you’ve done for him.”
Gwyneira left the office before Hanson could even register what she had said. She swung up onto Raven, who had been waiting outside, and whistled for the dog. “Come on, we’ll go look for it. To the harbor!”
Gwyneira saw as soon as they reached the docks that they had missed it. No seaworthy vessel lay at anchor, and it was over a thousand nautical miles to Botany Bay. Nevertheless, she called out a few questions to one of the fishermen hanging around the harbor.
“Has the Reliance already sailed?”
The man cast a glance at the perspiring woman. Then he pointed out to sea.
“You can just see the back of it there, madam! It’s sailing straight ahead. To Sydney, I think.”
Gwyneira nodded. With burning eyes, she stared at the retreating ship. Friday nuzzled her, whining as though she knew exactly what had happened. Gwyneira petted her and pulled the letter from her pocket.
My beloved Gwyn,
I know you will come to see me before this unfortunate trip, but it will be too late. You will have to continue carrying my face in your heart. Yours comes to me whenever I think of you, and hardly an hour passes that I don’t. Gwyn, for the next few years a few more miles will separate us than those between Haldon and Lyttelton, but that makes no difference to me. I promised you I’d come back, and I have always kept my promises. So wait for me; don’t lose hope. I’ll come back as soon as it seems safe. If you’ll just believe in me, I’ll come back! As long as you have Friday, she’ll remind you of me. Good luck and Godspeed, my lady, and give Fleur my love as well if you hear from her.
I love you,
James
Gwyneira held the letter close to her and stared again at the ship disappearing slowly into the Tasmanian Sea in the distance. He would come back—if he survived this adventure. But she knew James would see exile as an opportunity. He would prefer freedom in Australia to boredom in a cell.
“And we didn’t even have a chance to go with him,” Gwyneira sighed, stroking Friday’s soft fur. “All right then, come on. Let’s ride home. We won’t catch that ship now no matter how hard we swim!”
The years passed on Kiward and O’Keefe Stations with their usual symmetry. Gwyneira continued to like the work on the farm, just as Helen continued to loathe it. Yet more and more of the farm work fell to Helen, who only managed thanks to George Greenwood’s active help.
Though he had hardly ever had a friendly word for Ruben when he was there, and though it must long ago have become clear to him that the boy was not cut out for farm work, Howard O’Keefe could not get over his son’s disappearance. He was to have been the heir, and Howard had been convinced that Ruben would someday come to his senses and take over the farm. Besides, he had gloated for years over the fact that O’Keefe Station had an heir—unlike Gerald Warden’s magnificent farm. But once again Gerald was co
ming out ahead. His grandson, Paul, was facing his takeover of Kiward Station with great pride, while Howard’s heir had been missing for years. Again and again, he pressured Helen to reveal the boy’s location. He was convinced that she knew something, because she no longer cried into her pillow every night as she had the first year after Ruben’s flight. Instead, she seemed proud and confident. Helen never said a word, no matter how he pressed her, and he did not always go about it gently. Particularly when he came home from the pub late at night—where he might have seen Gerald and Paul leaning proudly on the bar, negotiating with some local businesspeople about something that Kiward Station needed—he was compelled to vent his rage.
If only Helen would tell him where the boy was hiding out. He would ride there and drag him back by his hair. He would rip him away from the little whore who had fled not long after him and beat the word duty into him. Howard balled his fists in anticipation just thinking about it.
For the time being, he did not see much sense in keeping up Ruben’s inheritance. It would be the boy’s job to rebuild the farm when he returned. It would serve him right if he had to re-fence the farm and repair the roofs on the shearing sheds. At the moment, Howard was looking to make money quickly. That meant selling the promising new offspring in his flock rather than continuing to breed them himself and running the risk of losing them in the highlands. It was just a shame that George Greenwood and that snotty Maori boy he thought so highly of and always wanted to shove down Howard’s throat as an adviser didn’t see it that way.
“Howard, the results of the last shearing were completely unsatisfactory!” George said, expressing his concerns to his problem child during one of his last visits. “Barely average wool quality, and rather dirty to boot. And we were doing so well! Where are all the first-class flocks you’d built up?” George tried to remain calm—if for no other reason than the fact that Helen was sitting next to him looking haggard and hopeless.
“We sold the three best breeding rams to Lionel Station a few months ago,” Helen remarked bitterly. “To Sideblossom.”
“That’s right!” Howard crowed, pouring himself some whiskey. “He was determined to have them. In his opinion they were better than anything the Wardens were offering for breeding animals!” He looked over at his interlocutor, expecting praise.
George Greenwood sighed. “No doubt. Because Gwyneira Warden naturally holds on to her best rams for herself. She sells only her second tier. And what about the cattle, Howard? You’ve bought more. And yet hadn’t we agreed that your land won’t support—”
“Gerald Warden makes good money with his cattle!” Howard repeated his age-old argument truculently.
George had to force himself not to shake Howard. Howard simply did not understand: he was selling valuable breeding stock to buy additional food for his cattle. He then sold them for the same price the Wardens got, which seemed like a lot at first glance. But only Helen, who knew her farm was approaching the edge of ruin just as it had a few years before, comprehended how little profit that actually generated.
Even George Greenwood’s savvier business partners, the Wardens at Kiward Station, had given him cause for concern lately. True, both the sheep and cattle breeding operations were flourishing the same as ever, but beneath the surface, tension was mounting. George first noted it when he saw that Gerald and Paul Warden no longer brought Gwyneira into their negotiations. According to Gerald, Paul had to be introduced to the business, and his mother was supposedly more of a hindrance than a help.
“Cut the apron strings, if you know what I mean,” Gerald explained, pouring whiskey. “She always thinks she knows better, which gets on my nerves. How do you think Paul will feel, who’s just getting started?”
In talking with the two of them, though, George quickly discovered that Gerald had long since lost track of the sheep breeding business that took place on Kiward Station. And Paul lacked understanding and farsightedness—not surprising in someone who was barely sixteen. When it came to breeding, he had fantastical theories that flew in the face of all experience. He would have liked to start breeding with Merinos again.
“Fine wool is a good thing. Qualitatively better than down-type wool. If we only crossbreed with enough Merinos we’ll get a new mixed breed that will revolutionize everything!”
George could only shake his head at that, but Gerald’s eyes lit up as he listened to the boy, unlike Gwyneira, who was livid when she heard about it.
“If I let the boy take over, everything will go to the dogs!” she ranted when a concerned George sought her out the next day and reported on his conversation with Gerald and Paul. “Sure, he’ll inherit the farm eventually; then I won’t have any more say. But until then, he has a few years to come to his senses. If Gerald would only be a little more reasonable and influence him accordingly. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. My God, the man once knew something about raising sheep!”
George shrugged. “Now he knows a lot more about whiskey.”
Gwyneira nodded. “He’s drinking his brains away. Pardon me for putting it that way, but anything else would be sugarcoating it. I desperately need support. Paul’s crossbreeding notion isn’t the only problem. In fact, it’s the least of them. Gerald is in good health—it will be years before Paul takes over the farm. And even if a few sheep go to him, the business can compensate for it. His conflicts with the Maori are more pressing. They don’t have anything like a standard age for a legal adult, or they define it differently. Regardless, they’ve now elected Tonga their chief.”
“Tonga is the boy Helen taught; am I remembering that right?” George asked.
Gwyneira nodded. “A very bright child. And Paul’s archenemy. Don’t ask me why, but they have been at each other’s throats since they were in the sandbox. I think it has to do with Marama. Tonga had his eye on her, but she’s adored Paul since they lay next to each other in the cradle. Even now, none of the other Maori want anything to do with him, but Marama is always there. She talks with him, tries to smooth things over—Paul doesn’t realize what a treasure he has there! At any rate, Tonga hates him, and I think he’s planning something. The Maori have been much more secretive since Tonga started carrying the Sacred Ax. Sure, they still come to work, but they don’t work as hard, aren’t as…harmless. I have the feeling something is brewing—though everyone thinks I’m crazy.”
George considered. “I could send Reti. Perhaps he could find out something. They’re no doubt more talkative with each other. But enmity between the leader of Kiward Station and the Maori tribe by the lake could end in disaster. You need the workers!”
Gwyneira nodded. “What’s more, I like them. Kiri and Moana, my housemaids, long ago became friends, but now they hardly exchange a personal word with me. Yes, miss; no, miss—I can’t get anything else out of them. I hate it. I’ve been considering talking to Tonga myself.”
George shook his head. “Let’s see what Reti can do first. If you undertake any kind of negotiations behind Paul’s and Gerald’s backs, you won’t improve matters.”
George Greenwood sent out feelers, and what he found out was so alarming that he rode back to Kiward Station just a week later, accompanied by Reti this time.
This time he insisted that Gwyneira take part in the conversation with Gerald and Paul, though he would have much preferred to talk with Gerald and Gwyneira alone. Old Warden insisted, however, on calling his grandson in.
“Tonga has filed a lawsuit. In the government office in Christchurch, but it will ultimately go to Wellington. He’s invoking the treaty of Waitangi. Pursuant to which the Maori were damnified upon acquisition of Kiward Station. Tonga is asking that the deed of ownership be declared null and void, or at least that a compromise be reached. That means either a return of land or compensation.”
Gerald gulped his whiskey down. “Nonsense! The Kai Tahu did not even sign the treaty back then.”
George nodded. “But that does not change its validity. Tonga will demonstrate that the tre
aty has always been invoked in the interests of the pakeha. Now he’ll ask for that same right for the Maori. Regardless of what his grandfather decided in 1840.”
“That ape!” Paul raged. “I’ll—”
“You’ll shut your mouth,” Gwyneira said sternly. “If you had never started this childish feud, there never would have been a problem. Do the Maori stand a chance of pushing it through, George?”
George shrugged. “It’s not out of the question.”
“It’s even rather likely,” Reti joined in. “The governor is very interested in having the Maori and pakeha get along well. The Crown knows the value of keeping conflicts here within certain limits. They won’t risk an uprising over one farm.”
“Uprising is giving them too much credit! We’ll grab a couple of guns and smoke the brigands out,” Gerald said, working himself up. “This is the thanks you get. For years I’ve let them live next to the lake; they could move around freely on my land, and—”
“And have always worked for starvation wages,” Reti interrupted him.
Paul looked as though he wanted to pounce on him.
“An intelligent young man like Tonga could most certainly spark an uprising; make no mistake about it,” George said. “If he incites the other tribes, he’d start with the one next to O’Keefe, whose land was also acquired before 1840. And what about the Beasleys? Even not counting them: do you think people like Sideblossom pored over treaties before they pulled the Maori’s land out from under them? If Tonga starts looking at the books, he’ll light a fire. And then all we need is a young…” he gave Paul a look, “or an old hothead like Sideblossom to shoot Tonga from behind. Then all hell will break loose. The governor would be doing the right thing in supporting a settlement.”
“Have suggestions already been made?” Gwyneira inquired. “Have you spoken with Tonga?”
“He wants the land on which the settlement lies—” Reti began, which immediately set off protests from Gerald and Paul.
