The Disenchanted Soldier

by Vicky Adin

  Emma wasn’t laughing. “He has a point, Charlie. The amount of money you spend down there alone is enough to buy her the most expensive of bonnets. But let me tell you, there’ll be trouble in this house if I catch you with eyes on anyone else.”

  “Aw, Em, as if I would?” Daniel looked the all-innocent but they both knew he liked to flirt with women almost as much as he liked his beer. Emma’s defiance appealed to Daniel, and his eyes sparkled with anticipation. “I were just telling you what he said, that’s all. I’ve only got eyes for you, my Em.”

  “You keep ’em that way, too.”

  “I tell you summat else. The men are saying they’re not happy about their wives going into the polling booths where there could be strangers and rough men. You could get jostled and pushed by those who don’t agree with it. Or worse. Feelings are riding high, I tell ya.”

  “That might be so, but I’m prepared to take my chances. Nothing is going to stop me having my say.”

  Deciding not to argue with her, Daniel changed the subject. “Right now, you should be more worried about this report in the paper. It says the river is running high in Woodville and high floods are expected. That’ll mean the road’ll be under water again. Better get yourself prepared and put some things up high. Could be here by tomorrow.”

  They set about readying the property. The routine had become almost second nature. Most winters were spent ensuring their possessions were not lost or damaged through flooding. Although the water had, up until now, lapped at the door and not swept through the house, neither was prepared to take the risk, knowing how strong the river currents could be. Daniel avowed the floods were getting worse. He wished he could do something about getting another place, but they would have to weather it out for a few more years yet, until there was more money.

  “Come along, Lizzie, help me here.” Emma bustled about lifting clothing, bedding and furniture. After checking William and Henry were asleep and in their beds not under them, as Henry was wont to do, they began stacking and hanging items from pegs on the walls, or pushing them into the cubbyholes in the roof space, on top of wardrobes and into cupboards for safekeeping.

  “Young Chas, go move the horses and cow to the higher paddock,” said his father, lighting the Tilley lamp. “And when you’ve done that you can help me stack the firewood and take more inside.”

  Putting on their hats and coats, Daniel and young Charlie stepped out into the dark, wet night.

  The floods came and went without any noticeable damage but the ground was soggier than normal. It took days before it drained away completely. This time the coach had been delayed by two days, unable to travel the road south until the water receded. Flooding meant Daniel’s work was harder. Clearing the drains took longer – filled as they were with heavy, tangled debris and torn branches – before the roads were passable again.

  The winter weather finally ended and a fresh spring dawned bringing a new bounce to Emma’s step, as it did every year. The months leading up to Christmas were Emma’s busy time. She scrubbed and cleaned and aired the whole house, planted out her garden and planned for the upcoming festivities. Her enthusiasm was so infectious the Christmas season became Daniel’s favourite time of the year too.

  September brought the results of the massive third petition the suffrage women had presented.

  “Votes for women approved by narrow margin,” he read out. “What do you think about that, our Emma? You can vote in the November elections. They passed it twenty to eighteen. Just needs the governor to sign it now to make it legal.”

  “Can I vote, Pa?” piped up Lizzie.

  “No, my sweet. Not yet. You are only eleven. You have to be over twenty-one.”

  ‘What’s voting?”

  “Enough, Lizzie,” said Emma. “Don’t interrupt when adults are talking. I’m glad to hear that, Charlie, at last. They fought hard to get women recognised as sensible and intelligent human beings. And I’ll be one of the first in the queue.”

  Daniel grinned. “Figured you might be.”

  “Well, this new Liberal government of ours is looking after people like you and me. Better work conditions, providing people the financial support they need when they get old or sick. By voting I can tell the government whether I agree or disagree with them. Tell them what I want them to do for me and mine and what I think is right.”

  “Sounds to me like you been listening to some propaganda.”

  “It’s all right for you, Charlie. You’ve always had the right to vote, even if you don’t always bother. I’ve had to learn.” She paused, noticing he rubbed his bad arm. It still ached badly in the damp and cold weather, but he would never admit he’d been too drunk to ride; he got angry when anyone mentioned it.

  “How’s your arm?”

  “It’s fine. Stop fussing.”

  The upcoming elections were of particular significance to Emma and the other women of the town, and created a hive of activity, as new clothes were made and new hats purchased.

  Now the time had come, the day would be one of great celebration.

  “Allow me, madam.” Doffing his hat and extending his arm to Emma, Daniel escorted her down the path towards the dray for the important outing to the polling booth. Their smiles were as broad as their faces at the silly formality they were playing out.

  Matching his tone, Emma rested her hand on his arm. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

  Once seated on the dray, she straightened her skirts and opened her parasol. The children clambered onto the back as Daniel took his place beside her, picking up the reins. “Walk on,” he said, and with a gentle flick, the trip began.

  As they got closer to the town, the streets filled up with carriages of all kinds, people on foot and riders on horseback. Instead of the boorish behaviour many had expected, most people had turned the day into a celebration. The place had an air of gaiety about it that was normally lacking. Men escorted their wives, and groups of women gathered outside shops and walked together to the polling booths.

  Emma and Daniel watched people coming and going. After a few minutes inside the hall all the women emerged with large smiles and in animated conversation. The occasion was momentous in more ways than one and far bigger than anyone ever imagined.

  The line moved forward until their turn came.

  “Name?” asked the polling clerk.

  “Emma Adin,” she said with pride.

  “Is your address Wirokino?” the clerk checked, ruling a line through her name on the sheet.

  “Yes.” Emma took the piece of paper she was handed and went behind the screen as directed. The process was repeated for Daniel, and together they placed their papers in the box provided. They emerged from the hall arm in arm to where Lizzie waited with the youngest children. The boys, she could see, were playing on the nearby field.

  “Did you enjoy that, my Emma?”

  “Oh, yes. I did. I feel I’m a real person now. Let’s celebrate. I’d like some tea, please.” Tugging at Daniel’s arm they crossed over to the tearooms. Emma took baby Clara from Lizzie and left Henry with her to mind.

  Once the votes had been collected, the papers reported 84 per cent of eligible women voters had registered to vote – a massive 110,000 – and on polling day over 90,000 had turned out to vote – a greater number than the percentage of their menfolk. The day had been a great success and the Liberal Party was re-elected with a sweeping majority. The womenfolk of Foxton talked about it all through the lead-up to Christmas.

  With five children, Christmas was a noisy and active time, with much laughter and singing, and an overabundance of food. Emma blossomed. Unaware of looming tragedy, she revelled in the endless visiting to be done and delighted in the numerous games the children played with friends and neighbours. It was a time for worship, a time for celebration and a time for reflection, when Daniel and his mates could meet down the pub, discuss the old year and speculate on what the New Year might bring.

  1894

  Telegrams were
still a rare occurrence, but a few days into the new year of 1894 Daniel stood with the latest one in his hands, wondering what dread news this one was bringing. He could see by the look on Emma’s face that she feared the message in the small, folded piece of paper.

  “Who now?” she whispered, her face drained of all colour.

  “Your father.” Daniel’s heart was beating in his throat.

  Her sharp intake of breath had Daniel at her side in two strides but she was rigid and unbending, holding herself as stiff as ice. “Tell me.”

  “He died on Christmas Day. They buried him in the Palmerston cemetery.” Daniel put his arm around her shoulder.

  “When?” Her eyes were bright, and Daniel could see anger simmering beneath.

  “Doesn’t say. I would guess just a few days later.”

  “And she took this long to tell me? I hate her. I hate her.” Emma shook his arm off and started pacing the kitchen floor, repeating the mantra with every turn.

  Daniel waited for the tears, for the expressions of regret, guilt and remorse but none came. Her anger was directed at her stepmother for not informing her. He knew her brother, Henry, had sent the news and better late than not at all, in his opinion, but now wasn’t the time to tell her that.

  He put the kettle on to boil and set the teapot to warm. “Sit down, my love, and let’s talk about this.”

  “Not now. I need to think.” The kitchen was barely big enough to contain her anger and grief.

  “About what?”

  “How I feel.” Emma continued her pacing, her eyes focused on some distant, unseen spot.

  “So, how do you think you feel?” Daniel urged her to talk.

  “Empty. I don’t know. I feel the death of my father should have a great impact on me. I’ve lost something, haven’t I? So why don’t I feel it?” Her eyes blazed as she beat her fists against her thighs in frustration.

  “Perhaps because you said your goodbyes to him many years ago,” Daniel offered as a suggestion he hoped might cool her anger.

  The kettle whistled in the background. He lifted it off the flame and poured the boiling water over the tea leaves in the brown earthenware pot. Slipping Emma’s crocheted tea cosy over pot, he took two mugs from the dresser, set them on the table and poured the tea, haphazardly adding milk and sugar. He took Emma by the shoulders and led her to the chair, coaxing her to sit down before he placed the mug in her hand.

  “Ja. I think you are right, ja.” In times of stress Emma’s accent reverted and she spoke without thinking. “I did say my goodbyes to him many years ago. He ceased being a father to me then. He is like another person, someone I once knew. He has died. I feel sad for him – for those who might still love him, as I would for any other friend – but I feel no loss for myself.”

  Daniel was relieved. He didn’t know what he would have done had she lost her way as she had when her mother died or if she had cried and ranted as she did when Maisy had passed away a couple of years ago. Called for faithful Annie, that’s for certain, even though she was now getting too old to be the regular visitor she had been. These days, Emma visited her.

  Seeing the glazed expression in her eyes, he nudged her back to reality. “How old would your father have been?”

  “What? Did you ask something?” Emma looked at him.

  “How old was your father?”

  “I don’t know for certain.” Emma thought back for a moment or two. “I think forty he say on the ship’s papers when we come here.”

  “When was that again?”

  “1875, I think.” Emma did some quick calculations. “My goodness. Eighteen years ago.”

  “So that would make him fifty-eight. That’s rather young. The wet winter must have taken its toll on him.”

  “Ja. Ja. True. What will happen to them now with just her to care for them?” Emma had never forgiven her father for marrying again and often spoke scathingly of her stepmother.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “My little brother and sister, of course. Who else?”

  “But they are not little any more,” corrected Daniel. “They are adults. Even Clara must be nearly twenty.”

  “Oh. Ja. But Clara still living at home. She still is under her influence, and Fred, my little Fritz; he was always so gentle, so easily led. Did he ever grow up to be a strong man? I don’t think so.”

  The clatter of boots on the gravel outside and the high-pitched voices of children, as the young ones arrived home from whatever adventure they had been on, relieved Daniel of the need to answer her question. Thankful, knowing what he did about Fred, he opened the door for the children and left Emma to see to them.

  1895

  “Charlie. Thank goodness you’re back,” said Emma.

  With some difficulty, Daniel had managed to get the dray loaded with provisions through the flooded tracks. “Hurry with those sandbags. The water is rising fast. Lizzie, unload the supplies quick as you can and put them up high. Hurry, girl, hurry.”

  Emma swept the damp hair off her forehead with her arm and tucked her skirts up so she could move more easily. The April floods were always the worst, and this year was proving no exception. At least they took her mind off her worries about Clara and Fred for a while, especially Fred, who troubled her the most. He’d changed, and though she didn’t see him much, she was sure he was getting in with the wrong crowd since their father had died last year. Sometimes, seeing him was worse than not seeing him. He reminded her how much she missed her brothers and sisters, even after all these years.

  The floodwater spread, moving closer to the house. It would soon reach the back door stoop, but the two front steps would, at least, keep them safe from that angle for a while.

  “The men will be here as soon as they can to help out,” Daniel grunted as he hefted a couple of bags in place behind the back door. “Charlie, unhitch the horse and put him in the high paddock. Then get back here, fast.”

  “Yes, Pa,” Young Charlie whooped, sloshing through the water with glee. This was an adventure to him, Daniel knew, but at least he could rely on the boy to make sure the animals were safe and the dray put away.

  “Lizzie, grab those towels and help me jam them around this door.” Emma rolled and placed the towels as Daniel stacked more sandbags against the door.

  The water continued to rise and despite their efforts, leaked through the barriers, slowly at first, but soon the kitchen floor was awash. With ankle-deep water running through the house, the family was forced to wait on the front steps until the rescue boat arrived.

  “I can take you two at a time across to the other side,” said George as he feathered the oar to hold the canoe steady.

  “Can you manage Emma and the two little ones first?” asked Daniel.

  “Should be all right, as long as they sit still.” George edged the boat closer.

  “Do you hear that, Henry? Clara? You must sit still. It’s important.” Daniel knelt to his two youngest, giving them encouragement. “Ready, Emma?” Taking her hand he guided her into the boat.

  “Careful as you go,” said George. “Step into the middle here and sit down there, missus. That’s right, balance your weight for me. Now, Charlie, can you pass the little ones. Put them on either side. Hold on tight.”

  “Righto, George, all settled. Off you go. Come back for Lizzie and William next. Young Charlie and I will make sure the place is as secure as it can be. We’ll be your last load.”

  George tipped his hat and took up the oars. With strong, even strokes he soon had them across the river and setting up camp in an old house near the flax mill, where they could stay until the flood receded.

  To their surprise they were able to return to the house the next morning. Daniel had taken the boys away to check the paddocks and stock while Emma set about the clean-up. The furniture was taken outside for cleaning, while she, with mop and bucket, tackled the mud that lay on the floors. She’d long since decided getting Lizzie to look after the little ones while she d
id the work herself was easier than anything else. In her frame of mind, she was better left to get on with things anyway.

  * * *

  The year had not been a good one, one way or another. Daniel worried every time he picked up the paper. First, there was that nasty business about that woman, Minnie Dean, who’d killed those children. Made his skin creep thinking about what she’d done.

  Emma often spoke of it. “I can’t understand it, Charlie, I really can’t. How a woman can do that to children is beyond me.”

  “But they weren’t hers, Emma. They were waifs and strays that other women had wanted to get rid of, so you could blame their real mothers as much,” said Daniel.

  “I know that, but she offered to take them in ...”

  “For payment,” Daniel reminded her.

  “Yes, but she was supposed to put them out for adoption. To some loving family who wanted them.”

  Daniel considered she was being rather naive in her assessment of any man wanting someone else’s child, but held his peace.

  “I’m glad they’ve caught her. What will happen to her, do you think?”

  “The papers are talking about hanging,” he said, folding the paper and putting it out of sight. “Whether they will or not, what with her being a woman ... we’ll see.”

  “I don’t hold with killing, as you know, but she deserves it for what she did.”

  Keen to read up about Minnie Dean, who had been hanged in August, Emma had started to read the paper over his shoulder. Daniel was glad he was on his own the day her brother Fred’s name appeared in the papers. Daniel had managed to hide the first report back in May, but he didn’t like his chances of hiding it a second time. He’d said nothing to her about Fred so far, but as the months went by reporters updated the situation.

  Why is the news about the Fohrmann family always bad news? Hasn’t she had enough?

  Emma had been right with her prediction that her brother Fred would get into trouble after their father died. It had taken two years but here he was, along with the two Lukaschewski brothers, up before the Supreme Court in New Plymouth on several counts of sheep stealing.