by Sarah Lark
“See you soon, then!” she said cheerfully and retreated inside.
First, Karl opened Frederick Tuckett’s letter. His former employer spoke about a trade deal for a piece of land in Otago. In his opinion, it was an ideal location for the new town that the Church of Scotland was planning to build on the South Island. However, he was angry that the New Zealand Company was practically insisting that he rob the Maori blind.
I think I’ll give up and go back to England, he concluded, or to Australia first. I have an interesting offer there. Would you be interested in coming along and working for me again? You showed great compassion with the families of the settlers who went to Australia after the disaster in Sankt Pauli Village. You could contact them there again.
Karl rubbed his temples. That invitation was quite unexpected! So far, he had considered it delusional to chase after Ida. But with Tuckett, it would be—well, at least it would be an excuse to follow his heart against all reason. And maybe Elsbeth was in contact with her sister and could give him a lead.
Karl spent a few blissful minutes in a daydream where he wandered through a kind of replica of Raben Steinfeld until Ida appeared, beaming, and greeted him as though he were her savior. Then he ordered himself to be reasonable. Ida was married. Karl had no right to disturb her peace.
He set Tuckett’s letter aside decisively and opened Chris Fenroy’s. Three pages filled with compact, slanted handwriting fell out. Karl cocked an eyebrow. He could tell by the handwriting alone that Chris would pour out his heart to him again.
We’ve brought in the first harvest now, he told his friend after a quick inquiry about Karl’s health, and stated that everything was taking its course on the farm and that he and Jane were well. After that, however, he began describing the true situation.
The harvest wasn’t half bad. However, it turned out to be unexpectedly difficult to sell the wheat. It was extremely tedious to drive the loaded wagons across the countryside to Port Cooper, and once I’d arrived with the first load, I saw that the settlement’s needs had already been covered by closer farms. So my grain had to be loaded onto ships and sent to Nelson where the demand is supposed to be quite high.
But of course, I couldn’t go myself, so I had to rely on merchants and agents. They demanded a percentage, and shipping wasn’t cheap either. So the net proceeds were far less than what I had expected, and you can imagine what Jane had to say about that. I promised her I’d finally furnish the house as befits her status, but that turned out to be delusional. There was barely enough money left for the tools I desperately need to cultivate the land. What I need is a team of oxen. The earth here is so hard it’s nothing but drudgery with the horses. And I’ll have to plow more land if the farm is to become more lucrative. Meanwhile, the tussock grass keeps reseeding; I can barely keep up with it. Besides, Jane keeps calculating how unprofitable I’ve been so far. She’s working with some set of theories about markets, infrastructures, and God knows what else. I can barely understand half of it. But according to her, my farm will never make any money without fundamental changes. The founding of a city by the mouth of the Otakaro, for example, and one is already planned. But what am I supposed to do until then? Above all, how shall I deal with Jane? It’s not just that she torments me about the farm; no! Recently, she’s undertaken her own questionable activities. In the beginning, I was glad when she began learning Maori. I thought she might find friends among the women of the tribe. Instead, she’s turning their lives upside down. Almost every week, I have a tohunga here pouring out her heart to me.
Karl paused for a moment. He could imagine quite well how desperate Chris must be.
The chief and Jane, they tell me, are worshipping the gods of money. It would seem that Jane and Te Haitara have founded a kind of manufacturing business, and now the people are supposed to make traditional remedies and amulets in large batches. This work calls for complex rituals, the tohunga say. But Jane says kowhai bark is kowhai bark, no matter which karakia are chanted during the harvest. The chief seems increasingly to agree with her, if you can believe it. And the tribe is making money—more than I am! Besides, I now fear that I may end up alone here soon without any help in the fields or the barn. I think they already come more for the sake of friendship than for the few pence I can pay them. Now that the Maori are able to afford seeds, they’ve been working more land themselves. They also have a new cow and are thinking about acquiring sheep. Only recently, Te Haitara was standing in front of me with an air of importance and said, “Fenroy, I hear that here on Te Wai Pounamu, there is a future in sheep!”
Karl laughed, picturing what Christopher’s face must have looked like, getting advice from this man who only just learned about modern commerce. On top of that, the chieftain was right. Here on the North Island, he could also see that sheep farmers were more successful than crop farmers. As Christopher had said, the plains were covered in tough grass, natural feeding grounds for the ruminants. One didn’t have to do much more than build pastures for the animals or let them graze freely. With properly trained dogs, they would be easy to herd. That way, with little effort, one got milk, meat, and above all, wool, which could easily be shipped to England. Farmers were not just surviving but also growing rich.
What was more, according to everything Karl had heard, the landscape and climate on the South Island were similar to Europe’s most important sheep-breeding areas such as Ireland and Wales. The sheep there would develop a thicker coat than on the warmer North Island, and the highlands offered ideal conditions for the animals to graze freely all summer long. Maybe his friend Chris really should reorient the farm toward sheep breeding. When Karl answered his letter, he would suggest it. But now, Betty was coming back to his table, smiling. She had exchanged her work clothes for a simple blue calico dress.
“I told Celine I know you from my village, so she gave us some pastries. We could go sit down by the wharf and watch the boats. But Celine says you’re not to make any indecent proposals.” Betty giggled. “I told her there was no risk of that because you’ve always been in love with my sister.”
Karl felt a blush creep up his face. “Your boss sounds quite protective.”
Betty nodded. “Oh yes, I’m sure Celine only hired me to save me from a ‘fate most foul.’” Betty lowered her voice shyly. “She came with settlers from France. They tried staying in Akaroa on the South Island, but her parents died, and then nobody wanted her. So she had to do those horrible things to survive. Now, fortunately, she has her café, and when I asked her for work, she gave me a job immediately. I can sleep here too; there’s a room behind the kitchen. It’s very nice. Eric doesn’t have it so good, he—”
“Eric?” Karl interrupted. “Tell me what happened, Elsbeth—I mean, Betty. Did you come here all by yourself? Jakob Lange didn’t change his mind and settle on the North Island?”
Betty shook her head. “No, Father went to Australia with Franz, and the Brandmanns too with their daughter. But I didn’t want to go with them, and Eric—Erich Brandmann—didn’t want to go either. So before the ship sailed, we hid in Ida’s wagon, and they didn’t find us until—”
“In Ida’s wagon?”
Alarmed, Karl stopped walking. He’d been ambling calmly next to Betty down palm-lined streets. Wellington was still small, but it was pretty and clean. It was nestled between forest-covered Mount Victoria and a bay protected from storms and wind.
“Didn’t Ida go to Australia?”
“No,” Betty replied and turned to face the harbor. A ship had just come in, and a few sailors were getting ready to unload it. “We can sit and eat here,” she said. “I don’t know about you, but I like to watch other people work.” She laughed mischievously.
“Betty!” Karl said. “What about Ida?”
“Ida’s in Purau with Ottfried,” Betty told him and sat down gracefully on the harbor wall. She seemed to be enjoying the sailors’ admiring looks. “Ottfried doesn’t want to be a farmer or a carpenter anymore. He wants to buy
land from the Maori and resell it to settlers. Or that’s what I understood, anyway. He has a partner, an Englishman. And Cat’s supposed to translate for them. She used to live with the Maori.”
Karl had to force himself not to pace. “Yes, I heard about Cat. But why is she working with Ottfried? More importantly, tell me about Ida. Is she well? Did she want to go to Purau? And why Purau? Do they have land? Are there even settlers there?”
Betty could hardly keep up with all his questions, but she still somehow managed to stuff a pastry into her mouth as she talked. Karl couldn’t think about eating. He was too agitated.
“I certainly wouldn’t want to live on that creepy pa,” Betty finished. “And if she has to stay there alone with the baby . . .”
Betty closed the bag of pastries reluctantly and announced that she was bringing the rest to Eric.
“He’s an errand boy for a trading post. And when they don’t have enough people around to load the ships, he has to do that too. He doesn’t have an actual place to sleep; he just gets along. But he says he’s saving money, and when he’s sixteen, he can join road or railway crews. Anyway, he says anything’s better than getting eaten by crocodiles somewhere in Australia, and he doesn’t want to live in some one-horse town like Sankt Pauli Village where everybody’s always praying and only speaks German. We prefer the city. Who knows what might still become of us?”
Betty’s news had turned Karl’s whole world upside down. Ida wasn’t in Australia! Of course, he couldn’t just show up in Purau. If he went to see Ida and Ottfried, there had to be a reason for it. But that didn’t matter for now. All that mattered was that she was there on the South Island, only a boat ride away from him. So, he wouldn’t accompany Tuckett to Australia, but instead would look for another job on the South Island. Maybe he would even stop at Christopher’s place first to help with the farm.
Karl grinned as he remained seated on the low wall. Maybe he could just pretend that he was planning to buy land and show up as a customer at Ottfried’s! It was all madness, especially since Betty had mentioned a baby. Yet Karl felt as though a thousand new possibilities had just opened up for him and Ida. His heart danced at the thought of seeing her again.
All at once, his attention was captured by the ship that was to be unloaded. The gangway had been set up, and the cargo was waiting on the deck: fat, bleating sheep. The dockworkers and sailors were ready to herd them off, but a man in a blue harbormaster uniform was trying to stop them. The captain arrived, apparently alerted by his men.
“You better believe I’m unloading them here!” the burly man blustered, taking off his cap and wiping the sweat from his brow. “I was paid for their transport from Sydney to Wellington, and I’m not taking the dumb animals any farther.”
“But the owner isn’t here!” the harbormaster insisted, visibly nervous at the prospect of having dozens of unsupervised sheep wandering around. “Who is he? Maybe we can find him . . .”
The mate looked through a few documents. “The owner is a Mr. Pidgin; I don’t know any more than that. We understand your predicament, harbormaster, but tomorrow we’re loading new cargo, and before then, the steerage has to be cleaned. What do you think it smells like now? The creatures have to go. Whatever you do with them is your business.”
The harbormaster raised his hands. “At least give me another hour or two so I can come up with a pen or a barn where we can keep the creatures. How many are there?”
“A hundred,” the mate replied. “If none have lambed in the meantime, that is. It says in these papers that there are a hundred pregnant ewes. Oh right, and here: payment at receipt via banker’s order. We were supposed to have them show us the banker’s order.”
The harbormaster beamed. “There! There you have it! No banker’s order, no payment, no unloading. You can take the animals with you!”
The captain pulled out a pocket watch. “One hour, harbormaster. I can wait that long, but after that, the creatures are leaving my ship. Why should I care if the seller gets his money or not? So find this Mr. Pidgin, or you can work out something else.”
Karl approached the two men.
The harbormaster frowned. “But if we have to accommodate the animals in a barn somewhere, who’ll pay for that?” He glared at the sheep as though he would have preferred to roast them on a spit.
The captain shrugged. “I’ll leave you the address of the breeder in Australia. You can sell them for him and deduct the barn’s rent from the price.”
“Sell them!” The harbormaster’s voice almost cracked. “Captain Peters, I’m no livestock dealer!”
While the men continued to squabble, Karl took a look at the sheep. They seemed lively and well fed. There was an even, pale layer of new wool on their coats.
“Excuse me,” Karl said to the arguing men, “as it happens, I heard your conversation. Perhaps I can help . . .”
Chapter 51
Finding temporary shelter for the sheep on a nearby farm wasn’t difficult, and the harbormaster quickly organized the animals’ disembarkment. Karl sensed that he was about to make an excellent deal, but he wasn’t sure yet what he would do with the new woolly additions to his family. Should he start a farm on the plains, brokered by Ottie Brandmann? Or should he bring the animals to Chris and negotiate a partnership?
In any case, Karl was in good spirits by the time he left the sheep in a clean paddock and strode toward his hotel. He and the harbormaster had decided that he would write to the breeder, a Mr. Holder, stating his intent to acquire the sheep under the original terms, assuming a fair price had been offered.
But as it turned out, there was no need. The story of the tardy Mr. Pidgin had gotten around the harbor quickly, and on the second day after the ship’s arrival, a dockworker encountered the man in a pub. Pidgin, a farmer from Foxton, turned out to be badly hungover and well on his way to getting drunk again.
“He’s completely broke,” the dockworker told the harbormaster. “He came here with a tidy sum to pick up his sheep. His wife was already fancying herself the newest sheep baroness. But then good Mr. Pidgin knocked back a few pints and went on a gambling spree. And, well, one of those crooks from the whaling station fleeced him good and proper. At any rate, the money for the sheep is gone. But Pidgin’s still there. He doesn’t dare go home. I treated him to two drinks so he’ll stay put until you come over to talk to him about those critters.”
Karl, who had been called in quickly, thanked the man, paid him for the drinks, and had him lead the way to the pub. There, he reached a quick agreement with John Pidgin. The tearful little man was distraught over the loss of his savings, but he was relieved that the breeder wouldn’t prosecute him for breach of contract. He assigned Karl his rights, told him the sheep’s purchase price, and went back to wallowing in his misery. Karl immediately filled the banker’s order and gave the harbormaster the receipt.
“Well then, congratulations!” The man laughed with relief. “What will you do with the animals now? Do you have a farm? You said yesterday that you’re a land surveyor.”
“Not for much longer,” Karl said cheerfully. “As you can see, I’m on my way to becoming a sheep baron. Now all I need is some land to match my status and title. But jokes aside, the sheep, my horse, and I require passage to the South Island. Do you know of a ship that could accommodate us?”
The next ship to Port Cooper left the following week, and Karl used the time to get to know the sheep and, above all, a small black-and-white dog that he bought from the farmer who had housed his sheep. The man’s collie had recently whelped.
“Ain’t purebreds,” the farmer said as he let Karl choose from the chaotic mass of silky puppies. “Winnie, she’s the mum, brought ’er from Ireland. She’s a real collie. But the sire’s some frizzy mutt from the neighborhood. Mixed race, but he got a herdin’ instinct too, or I wouldn’t o’ let ’im have a go. Can’t guarantee for the whelps, but mostly it gets passed on. And you need a sheepdog, tha’s fer sure.”
K
arl understood, and he was quite enamored with the idea of having a dog. As a child in Raben Steinfeld, he had always wanted one, but his family had barely had enough money for themselves, let alone a pet.
Now he let the farmer advise him and chose the strongest male of the litter. The little chap certainly took after his mother and, tiny though he was, seemed utterly fixated on the sheep. Karl had to prevent him from being trampled in his fervor to herd the animals. Since the puppy immediately began following him around, Karl named him Buddy.
The passage to the South Island was as stormy as usual. Karl himself proved just as unaffected by seasickness as he had been back on the Sankt Pauli, but Buddy vomited three times and was reduced to a whimpering picture of misery by the time they reached Port Cooper. Karl was worried about the sheep, but they withstood the passage stoically. The ruminants’ stomachs didn’t seem to be sensitive. They did, however, show their defiance once Karl brought them ashore. In Port Cooper, the tussock grass grew all the way down to the docks, and the sheep immediately began munching on it. Karl and his woozy puppy alone didn’t stand a chance. Karl considered getting on his horse and trying to herd them together, but Brandy was still stiff from the voyage, and Karl didn’t want to overtax him.
While Karl was deliberating, two gray dogs darted over. Their pelts weren’t as smooth or silky as collies’, but they were just as deft and determined when it came to sheep. The two of them had circled Karl’s herd in the blink of an eye, herded them together, and then lay down panting happily, one on either side. Buddy, who had run along raptly, took position on a third side and gazed back and forth intently at his role models.
Karl, on the other hand, was keeping an eye out for the dogs’ owner. He hadn’t missed the fact that the animals hadn’t acted of their own accord, but had been directed by whistling. And then he saw his rescuer. A heavy man, red hair poking out from under his cap, his tattered jacket bearing witness to many hours of sheep farming in wind and weather, approached with a grin.
