Come to Grief

by Wendy M Wilson

  7

  Night Fires

  The first body came ashore soon after George Lawrence disappeared over the rise on his way to the hut where he’d seen men. To keep himself warm, but also because he was desperate to find someone, anyone, from the lifeboat, Frank had increased his range, pacing along the stony beach from one end to the other — almost a mile, he estimated — clambering up the rocks that ran up to the beach from the reef at the southern end, scanning the reef for signs of life other than fur seals, gannets and gulls, and then walking to the other end, scouring the shoreline, until he reached the cliffs that blocked him from going further now the tide was in.

  He had lost his boots in the water, and was forced to weave his way between the stones and driftwood in his stockinged feet above the high tide mark where the sand was firmer. Half way along he spotted a log being buffeted by the surf. Thinking it was part of the lifeboat, he waded in to check before the undertow dragged it back out to sea; it was one of the crewmen from the lifeboat, his trousers ripped off in the ocean, wearing nothing but his shirt. He dragged the body above the high tide mark and lay it face down on the stones. The time for burial would come later, when the bodies had been identified.

  Before George Lawrence returned, Frank had found three more bodies. One man surfaced between the line of waves, his arms flailing in panic, unable to get himself to the shallow water. Frank waded out as far as he could and yelled to the man to get himself inside the line of breakers. The man had made headway and was within reach when the undertow carried him back out. Frank waited until her came in a second time, looking weaker. This time he said nothing. He looked at Frank, who was up to his chest in the water holding himself steady, and gave in.

  Two more men managed to make it ashore: William Hill, a steerage passenger, and the ship’s head cook, Antonio Micalef. After a short discussion the two went to look for farms nearby. Frank remained on the beach, hoping the boy would, against all odds, come ashore alive.

  He was at the reef end of the beach when George Lawrence returned. They walked along the shore together.

  “You got help?”

  “I was lucky. That hut I saw in the distance was the out-station of a run holding and there were men inside having breakfast. I asked where the nearest telegraph station was, and they said thirty or forty miles away, in Wyndham.”

  The sea washed over their feet and retreated, leaving a child’s shoe. Lawrence picked it up and stared at it blankly. “One of the men offered to ride to the telegraph station. He asked me if anyone had drowned, and I said ‘I’m not sure, but I’m the first ashore.’ Has anyone drowned, Sergeant?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Frank. “I’ve found three bodies. I don’t think any of the crew on our lifeboat survived. They’d be in by now. But two men swam in from the lifeboat that overturned on the reef. They’ve gone to get help from local settlers.”

  “Terrible,” said Lawrence. He tossed the child’s shoe away. “It’s just terrible. I can’t believe I’m alive. Why me?”

  “What did you tell them to say in the telegram? And where did you send it?”

  “To the Union Steam Ship Company in Dunedin. I said to say the Tararua is on the Otara Reef and to please send help immediately.”

  “Dunedin,” said Frank. That would mean several hours before help would arrive, although the shipping office in Dunedin would probably telegraph Bluff. He wondered how far it was to Bluff Harbour from the Otara Reef. No more than twenty miles. It might have been better for the lifeboat to get out past the breakers and head south to Bluff Harbour. With eight men taking turns at the oars, the boat would go that far in seven or eight hours. Bounty Bligh had made it all the way to Timor after his crew set him adrift, almost four thousand miles.

  Eventually, settlers from nearby farms began to stream down through the sand hills with food, blankets and matches. A lifeboat had washed ashore with a large hole in the side, and men with tools and tried to repair it. Someone started a fire on the beach, so that anyone coming from the ship in the dark would have a place to aim for now that night had returned. One of the women gave him a slab of mutton on bread, and a mug of beer, and he realized it was the first time he’d eaten all day.

  “Did you have anyone on the ship?” she asked, as she handed him the food. She was a woman of about sixty with a deeply lined face and steel grey hair, who looked like she’d spent years running a farm kitchen, feeding shearers, making clothes for the family, and bringing up children to be good citizens. The best kind of New Zealand woman. She might not make a show of sympathy, but everything she did would be for the purpose of improving the lives of others.

  “I was travelling alone.” He bit into the bread and mutton and took a swig of beer. “My wife and daughter were with me, but they disembarked in Dunedin. She’s supposed to be meeting me in Bluff.”

  “In that case you should go to Bluff,” she said firmly. “Otherwise, when she gets there she’ll hear about the ship sinking and she’ll be worried.”

  That was something he hadn’t thought of. “I’ll go as soon as it gets light,” he said. “What’s the best way to get there?”

  “Walk along the coast to Fortrose. It’s about ten miles away. From there you can take the daily coach. Or get a horse if you can find one. I don’t think there’s a livery stable in Fortrose, but someone will let you borrow a horse, I’m sure, given what’s happened. If you have any problems, come back here and ask for Otara Station or Brunton’s place. We’ll fix you up with something.”

  Frank huddled by the fire with the settlers, who were chatting quietly. He fell asleep with his head cradled on his knees, but was awoken by the distant sound of screams and voices.

  He raised his head. He felt groggy, and his muscles ached from the effort of swimming ashore from the lifeboat. “What’s going on?”

  Groups of women were clustered at the waterline, crying and holding each other.

  “The ship split in half and it’s sinking. We can hear them screaming out there, but we can’t help them.”

  The screams sounded eerily close, as the passengers of the Tararua begged for help. He felt useless. Even if he could swim out to the ship, he wouldn’t be able to swim back with anyone. He thought of Mette and Sarah Jane again, thankful that they weren’t on the ship, and that he had not run after them in Port Chalmers and forced them to return. What would he do now if they were still out there? He had no doubt about that. He would swim out and do everything he could to save them, even if he died trying.

  He climbed up the rocks, thinking he might be able to make his way out on the reef and get as near as he could to the ship, and then swim the rest of the way. It was low tide and the reef was above water. But as he peered into the darkness, the broken hull of the Tararua slipped out of sight and the screaming stopped.

  A few more people came ashore, mainly men from steerage who were used to hard physical work and were strong swimmers. He paced up and down the beach looking for anyone who might need help.

  He had almost given up, when he saw a flash of light. It looked like a mirror, reflecting off a dark shape on the surface.

  He waded in as far as he could, bracing himself again the pull of the undertow.

  “Is someone there?”

  Above the noise of the ocean he heard the cry of a child, a baby. He knew the sound; he had awoken to it many times.

  “Someone’s out there,” said a voice behind him.

  The cook waded out beside him. “I just pulled a man ashore down the beach,” he said. “He was alive.”

  Frank shaded his eyes. He was sure he could see something. What was it? “How did you get ashore? Were you in a lifeboat?”

  The cook shook his head. “I swam. I’m from Malta. I swim like a duck. I’ve lived by the sea my whole life, on boats, fishing for bream, mullet, sardines…no sharks though. I saw a shark as I came in. A big one. Maybe that’s a shark you can see.”

  “No. I I heard a baby crying,” said Frank. “And I saw a flash of
light. If I swim out to look for it, will you stay on the shore to help me in?”

  The cook nodded. “I’ll be here. Up on the sandhill where I can see the water. I’ll come down when I see you coming.”

  Frank waited, listening, until he heard the cry again. He returned to the beach and dropped his shirt on the sand. Then he waded out up to his waist and dived into the next wave as it crested, staying low as long as he could and pulling himself through the water. He came up on the far side in time to see another wave bearing down on him. He took two deep breaths and went under the second wave. The water was calmer beneath the waves, and the undertow was no longer a factor. He swam for as long as he could hold his breath.

  This time he surfaced out beyond the breakers. The sea was calm, the waves just starting to form, and he trod water, listening for the sound of the baby.

  When it came, it was close, but weak. He tried to push himself up and out of the water, circling, looking for it. Suddenly it was next to him: a wooden gate, bobbing in the sea. A woman lay across the gate on her side, the baby held tightly in her crossed arms, her eyes closed.

  He shook her arm to let her know he was there, but her eyes remained closed. She was wearing a silver bracelet — the shiny thing in the water that he had seen from the shore. His limbs were starting to seize up with the cold, and he knew he should start heading back to shore.

  He shook her arm again, and then edged up onto the gate and tried to pry open her eye. Frozen shut. She was dead, but the child was not.

  The gate dipped under the water, covering the woman’s arm and lapping at the baby. He slipped off and it bounced back up to the surface. The baby was looking at him through rime-covered eyes, held tight in its mother’s immovable arms, but alive. He turned the gate towards the beach and started kicking. If he could catch a wave at the right moment, he could ride in on it. With luck, that would take him to the beach where the cook would be waiting to help them ashore.

  He was lined up, ready to float in with the next wave, when something grabbed him by the ankle. Holding the gate with one hand, he turned, ready to kick the shark on the nose, and found William Sampson floundering in the water behind him.

  “Help me, help me.”

  “I can’t…you’re almost to the shore. Keep…” He took in a mouthful of water, and stopped, coughing. “Swim in with a wave. There’s a man on shore who’ll help you to land.”

  Sampson slipped beneath the water and surfaced, gagging and flailing.

  “Can’t swim any longer,” he said. His voice was raspy and he sounded exhausted. “Give me the gate.”

  Frank gave the gate a push away from Sampson, but it spun back towards him. He grabbed it by one edge and attempted to pull himself onto it, tilting it almost vertical.

  “Help me up, you have to help me up.”

  Frank tugged the gate away from him. “You’ll pull it under and kill the baby,” he said.

  “Who cares? The mother’s dead. Push them both off and let me on.”

  Frank could see a likely looking wave coming. He raised his knees to his chest and kicked hard, shoving Sampson away. “The mother’s dead but the baby isn’t, and I can’t pry it from its mother’s arms out here. I’m going to take the whole thing ashore and pull them apart.”

  The wave was almost upon him. He held the gate with both hands and kicked as hard as he could.

  “Don’t leave me,” said Sampson. He coughed. “Listen, I know who you are. I know what you want. I can help you.”

  Frank ignored him and kept going. The wave was almost on them.

  “I can tell you about the gold…I know where it is…but you have to give me the gate.”

  The wave lifted Frank’s body, and with it the gate and its burden.

  As he gained speed on the crest, he looked back and yelled to Sampson. “Find your own way in. I’m not letting another child die.”

  Then he was flying forward, clutching the gate, looking into the unresponsive eyes of the dead mother with the child in her arms.

  The Maltese cook was waiting for him on the beach. He ran into the surf and dragged in the gate with its two occupants. “I almost gave up on you,” said the cook. “I thought you weren’t coming back. Give me a hand and we’ll take this up higher.”

  Once the gate with the mother and child were past the high water mark, Frank collapsed on his knees, vomiting sea water. The cook knelt by the gate and pulled open the mother’s arms, removing the child.

  “This woman is dead,” he said. “Did you know that?”

  Frank nodded. He was unbelievably weary.

  “You better take this baby to the fire. Warm her up.”

  “It’s a girl?”

  The cook opened the baby’s clothing and peered inside. “I think so.” He handed the baby to Frank. She was shivering, but silent, looking at him closely like her life depended on him.

  “What am I going to do with her? Once she’s warmed up, I mean.”

  The Maltese cook shrugged. “I don’t know about babies,” he said. “Talk to the women. Maybe one of them can take her.”

  “She looks to be about the same age as my daughter,” said Frank. His body was warming up. He picked up his shirt and shrugged one arm on at a time, still holding the child. Then he buttoned it up with the baby inside, in the way he often carried Sarah Jane. She rubbed her nose against his chest and whimpered.

  “Nothing there, sorry.” He dried her hair with his sleeve and turned to the cook. “Thank you for helping me in, Mr…what did you say your name was?”

  “Antonio,” he said. He reached out and patted the baby’s head, smiling down at her. “Antonio Miscalef. Pleased to meet you. And what’s your name?”

  “Hardy, Frank Hardy.”

  They walked to the fire together, not saying much. The baby had settled in against Frank and seemed happy, although she was sucking her thumb ferociously. Mette did not like Sarah Jane sucking her thumb, and pulled it out if she started. But watching the child, he could only think that she found it comforting. And she needed some comfort now.

  William Hill was warming himself by the fire. He saw them coming and ran down the beach to meet them.

  “You found my baby?”

  Frank opened his shirt to show the infant to Hill, deciding not to mention the mother just yet. “Is she yours?”

  Hill touched the baby’s head gently and began to cry.

  “No, no, Eliza, no!”

  Frank clasped William Hill by the shoulder. “She’s alive, Mr. Hill, she’s alive.”

  “But it’s not her, it’s not my…” Hill dropped to the ground in a dead faint. The cook kneeled by him and flicked him on the ear with one finger. “It’s alright, Mr. Hill, we’ll find your baby as well.”

  The woman from Otara Station was at the fire, feeding a man who had just come ashore. She nodded at Frank and continued to wield the spoon. “What have you found, Sergeant?”

  “A baby,” he said. “A little girl. Her mother’s dead. I left her where she came ashore.”

  “Is the baby hungry?”

  “She must be,” he said. “I’ve been warming her up.”

  She reached into a bag at her feet and pulled out a tin and an opener. “Here’s some condensed milk. Mix it with water and give her some in a cup.” She rummaged in her bag again. “Here’s a cup.”

  “Can she drink from a cup?”

  She ran a finger over the baby’s gums. “She has some teeth. I’d say she’s close to a year old. By that age they can usually drink from a cup.”

  He opened the tin, poured the condensed milk into the cup, and topped it up with water. The baby drank it enthusiastically, slopping it down her cheeks. When she finished she started to whimper. He poured another cup.

  “Mrs. Brunton, can you take this baby to your farm when you return there?”

  Mrs. Brunton looked at him with an odd expression on her face. “All my people are already working full tilt,” she said. “They’re cooking for survivors, bringing food to
the beach, finding clothing. And it’s only going to get busier when the police and more searchers arrive. I can’t spare anyone to care for a baby this young. I’m sorry.”

  “What am I going to do with her?”

  “You said your wife was waiting for you in Bluff. Take the baby there and give her to your wife until you can find a relative. Didn’t you say you have a young baby yourself?”

  He nodded. That seemed to solve two problems at once, although he wasn’t sure what Mette would have to say about it. “I’ll do that. I’ll leave at first light. Is there anywhere I can get some sleep, and the baby as well?”

  She finished spooning the soup and put the mug into her bag.

  “I’m walking back to the farm now. Come with me. I’ll find you a spot in the shearing shed, and a blanket. We’ve got a lot of people sleeping at our station already. Perhaps one of them is the baby’s father.”

  He hadn’t thought of the father. But when he did an image resurfaced in his mind: the young woman with the baby coming up the gangplank in Port Chalmers as he took Mette to the train. It was her: the woman floating on the gate was the same woman he had seen coming up the gangplank. And she’d had a young man with her, a young man with fair hair like hers. If he could find that man, his problems would be over, and he wouldn’t have to ask Mette to care for the child.

  8

  Death on the Beach

  A hiss of steam followed by a piercing train whistle penetrated Mette’s consciousness. She sat up in a panic. “My baby — Sarah Jane. She’s on the train. Don’t let it leave.”

  “Don’t worry, miss, she’s here. I have her.” The policeman squatted beside her, a squirming Sarah Jane propped on his knee as if he’d never held a baby before. It reminded her of someone else she’d seen recently holding a baby the wrong way. Who was that? Her brain was too fuzzy to think about it.