Smith stared at Mette for two minutes, one finger resting on his cheek, then made a decision. “Arrest her. She doesn’t even know who the baby belongs to. I don’t believe anything she says. We’ll take her to Invercargill and sort it out there.”
As Mette stared in horror at Mr. Smith, his companion said something Mette had heard before, but never in respect to her own self.
“Mrs. Hardy, I’m arresting you for the kidnapping of a female child in Dunedin on Wednesday, April the twenty-seventh. If you have anything to say in your own defence, please say it now.”
9
Brunton’s Station
Otara Station, where Mrs. Brunton took Frank, had become a centre of operations since the sinking of the Tararua. Women bustled around preparing food and packing it in boxes, which they left in a wheelbarrow at the door to the kitchen for Mrs. Brunton to take to the searchers and survivors. As they walked up from the beach he could see it was a large, prosperous sheep station. There were worse places he could find himself, after the horror of the wreck.
He still had his money belt with eight pounds he’d made from the current crop of horses, but he’d lost his boots, his jacket, and his bag — the new one he’d bought from Kirkcaldie and Stains with his profits from the previous trip. The bag had contained a change of under clothing and the supply of food he always carried him: hard tack, barley sugar and tins of sardines.
He’d replaced the bag with the burden of a baby he knew nothing about. No one had stepped forward to take her off his hands, and there was nowhere he could leave her. Everyone in the district was working hard, searching for bodies and lost objects from the ship, or hoping, by some miracle, to find a survivor clinging to a piece of wreckage.
The women at Otara Station were sympathetic and helpful. They’d put together a bag of food for him, one that was more appetizing than his usual fare, and added tins of condensed milk for the baby and some Dutch rusks he could use for pap by soaking them in a little of the condensed milk, or dry if the baby seemed to be getting new teeth and wanted to chew on something. They’d loaded an old haversack with hard cheese, bread and newly harvested apples and pears and he thought he could manage a few days on that, bolstered with some replacement tins of sardines and hard tack.
Charles Brunton, Mrs. Brunton’s son, a large, jovial man with larger feet had given him an old pair of boots, comfortably stretched Bluchers, the nails in the soles almost worn away. He told Frank he purchased himself a new pair of boots for the farm every year, and saved the old ones for any of his workers who might need them, and whose feet were the right size. Sometimes a farm hand who didn’t fit a pair would stuff them with newspaper, knowing that he was getting a better pair of shoes than he could afford himself.
Mrs. Brunton had found a dress and a soft blanket for the baby, and slipped Frank a flask of brandy for emergency use; if he couldn’t get her to sleep, he was instructed to dip a twisted corner of a handkerchief into the brandy and let her suck on it.
“Always worked for my little ones,” said Mrs. Brunton. “Never had a bad night’s sleep from any of them, and the boys all grew up to be hard working, honest young men. Look at Charles! He’s a Justice of the Peace and a farmer, and he works very hard.”
Frank thought about Grace Burns, who had rubbed laudanum on her baby’s gums to terrible effect, and decided he would not give the brandy to the baby. He might have a nip or two himself, however.
He shared an evening meal with the family and farm hands, and was sent to the shearing shed to find a place to sleep. Mrs. Brunton recommended that he climb up to the loft and find a spot between the few bales of wool that remained there, shearing season being over for the year.
By then he was exhausted. The shed was full of shearing equipment with few spots to sleep, so after a quick look around he took her advice and climbed the ladder to the loft above the back of the shed; gaps at either end let in a cool breeze and dispersed the lingering scent of lanolin and the faint stench from the boiling down shed nearby. He found a space between two bales of wool, sat down and laid the child beside him. Her eyes opened immediately and she watched him, seeming to wonder why they were there. After two minutes, she made a complicated move, rolling onto her front and raising herself up on her knees. Then she moved one leg and flipped around on her bottom, and said softly, “Mama?”
“Mama’s not here, but we’ll find her soon, don’t worry,” he said, remembering the frozen woman on the gate, floating in on the waves with the child held tightly in her arms.
She looked at him trustingly, and raised her arms towards him. He picked her up and circled the limited space, talking nonsense, telling her about Sarah Jane, and how one day they might be friends. She listened with her thumb stuck in her mouth, saying mama every now and then; eventually her eyes closed and her head flopped forward onto his shoulder.
“I’ve always been good at boring women to sleep,” he said, patting her on the back. “Now, let’s get you down. Stay asleep all night, if you don’t mind. I’m as tired as hell.”
He made a nest for her with some straw and flopped down beside her. It occurred to him that she must have a name, and that he should try to find out what it was. Or give her one for now. How old was she? Older than Sarah Jane, who could not say mama, although she had mastered an m sound with her lips closed and much concentration. Sarah Jane could not do what this child had just done, either: move from her back to a seated position in three awkward moves. She must be older than six months, although she was the same size as Sarah Jane. Nine months, perhaps. His knowledge of what babies could do began and ended with Sarah Jane. Mette’s sister, Maren, had several children, and all he knew about their development was that one minute they were babes in arms, the next minute they were running around the yard playing British Bulldog or leap frog.
The child — whatever her name was — was lying on her back with her arms above her head, like someone who’d been told to bail up by a robber, her head turned to one side, her lips slack. He watched her, trying to think of a name for her, and remembered the book he’d seen Mette pull out on the ship, one she’d read before. Was it The Old Curiosity Shop? He couldn’t remember. But what was the name of the heroine in that book? Mette had told him about the young girl, sniffling and brushing away tears when she died. Little Nell. That was it. He didn’t like the sound of that one. How about something similar but stronger? Helen, for Helen of Troy? The face that launched a thousand ships — appropriate. Or Eleanor? That was more like it. Eleanor, after Eleanor of Aquitaine, the crusading queen of England and France. He took a swig of brandy and lay back and thought about what he was going to do to get this child to safety, and to get rid of the burden of carrying her around.
He was awoken in the night by a sharp, pointed pressure on his chest like someone had stabbed him with a blunt knife. He rolled away and sat up, ready for a fight. The baby was next to him, standing, cooing at her accomplishment. She’d used his chest to push herself to her feet.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. What time was it, for god sakes? “You thinking of going somewhere?”
She took a tottering step forward and then stopped, her arms windmilling, her face a picture of concentration. He watched, grinning. “Persistent little thing, aren’t you?”
She took another jerky step forward, and then another; he realized with horror that she was heading for the drop at the edge of the loft, about to step into space.
He edged towards her, trying not to frighten her. She looked at him proudly, and rocked forward.
“Eleanor. Don’t move.”
He thought he saw her raising her eyebrows quizzically; Eleanor? Don’t be silly. He tried again.
“Nelly. Stay still. Don’t move.” She turned her head towards the drop in front of her, concentrating on her next move.
“Helen…”
As her knee moved upwards he lunged forward, catching her dress as she was about to disappear, swinging her hard against the ladder. She hung beneath him, her b
ottom lip quivering, before he managed to drag her back up. The quivering lip turned into sobbing. “Come on, Helen,” he said, having decided Helen worked best for him, because of the similarity to hellion. “You’ll wake everyone up.”
He circled the small space again, holding her against his shoulder and patting her back until she calmed down. She’d fallen back to sleep when he heard a sound from below: the creak of a door opening. Keeping in the shadows, he peered over the edge of the loft. A man had entered and was easing the door closed, crouching and looking around the shed as he did so. Obviously, he wasn’t there for honest purposes.
He put Helen back in her nest and squatted beside the top of the ladder. Whoever it was appeared to be searching the shed, peering around the machinery and checking over his shoulder like he didn’t want to be seen. A shaft of moonlight lit up the intruder suddenly, and Frank realized he was holding something in his hand — a wrench or an axe, by the look of it. He watched for several minutes, growing more suspicious, and then quietly pulled the ladder up into the loft and onto the floor. As he dragged it away from the edge, it scraped against the boards with a loud screech; the intruder spun around and looked up in his direction. He moved back quickly, but was sure the intruder had seen him. He looked familiar, but Frank was not sure where he had seen him before.
He had not brought his revolver with him on the trip, but the intruder didn’t know that.
Sounding as confident as he could, he said, “Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot your knee out.” He always found it best to be specific when he threatened anyone. For some reason, telling someone you were going to shoot was not as convincing as telling them where you were going to shoot them.
The intruder said nothing, but retreated slowly out of the shed, his eyes fixed on the darkness of the loft. As he backed through the open doorway he was briefly illuminated in the moonlight — a flash of fair hair and the upright stance and squared shoulders of an ex-soldier: the man he’d seen coming up the gangplank of the Tararua as he escorted Mette to the train. At the time he’d assumed the man was with the mother and child ahead of him — Helen and her mother, as he now believed. But if that were the case, and if he was looking for the child, why hadn’t he said anything? It wasn’t as if Frank was reluctant to give her up. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, and he was not aware that the child was here with Frank.
He propped the ladder along the edge of the loft, and fixed it in place with four bales of wool. The ladder would give way if anyone tried to climb over it; the barrier would also prevent Helen from using her newfound walking skills to step into the abyss. He lay back beside her and closed his eyes, not sleeping, worrying about what had just happened. An attempted robbery, or something else? He wasn’t worried about himself. He could handle a man like that. But with Helen in the way he’d be more cautious, and therefore more likely to be caught out.
It was barely daybreak when the sheep station came to life the next morning. He lowered the ladder and carried the drowsy Helen down to the farm kitchen, where the women were bustling around, looking like they’d been up for hours. An elderly man sat in one corner supervising them. He had a blanket over his lap, and was obviously in poor health.
Mrs. Brunton poured him a cup of strong tea from a pot that was warming on the hob, and handed him a plate. “Help yourself to breakfast from the sideboard, Sergeant. Be quick, because when the men arrive the food will go in a flash. Give the baby to Mary. She’ll feed and change her while you’re eating.”
He’d forgotten about the changing part. “Do you have a spare napkin I can use for the baby? I think she’s done something in the one she’s wearing.”
“I’ll get you a fresh one. I don’t think you’d be able to master the tuck we use to keep the towel in place. Just fold it into three, put it between her legs, and pull the pilch over it. That’ll keep it in place. I’ll give you an extra pilch as well. I have a knitted one that I used for Charles when he was a baby.”
“And how often do I need to change her?”
“Whenever she’s dirty.” Mrs. Brunton smiled. “My goodness, Sergeant Hardy. Don’t you pay attention to your wife when she’s changing your daughter?”
He had to admit he hadn’t paid much attention. Who knew it was such hard work to care for a baby?
“Sit by my husband, if you don’t mind.” She indicated to the man in the corner. “He needs to speak to another man who doesn’t spend his life with sheep. I’m off to the beach in a few minutes and he gets lonely when I’m gone all day.”
Frank pulled a chair up beside Mrs. Brunton’s husband and introduced himself.
“Your wife and son are doing a wonderful job with the survivors.”
He nodded, his face sad. “Yes, I’d like to be out there with them myself, but as you can see my health is not good. I was about to leave for Christchurch to speak with the doctors at the hospital there, but unfortunately I’ve had to delay the trip.”
Charles Brunton arrived while Frank was still eating, stuffing himself with bacon and sausages to prepare his body for a few days of near starvation. Charles Brunton was a young, sturdy farmer, with the ruddy cheeks of a man who spent most of his time outdoors. He helped himself to a plate of sausages, eggs and fried bread, and sat down next to Frank.
“I’m off into Fortrose with my wagon this morning. Would you like to come? You can catch the coach to Bluff later today. You’d be there before midnight and there are hotels at the port. You might even get a berth on a ship going back to Bluff from Fortrose, if you could tolerate that.”
“Thank you. I’ll ride with you to Fortrose and see what I can find.”
“I need to load the wagon first. You can help me with that.”
“Are you taking in more food for the searchers and survivors?”
Brunton stopped chewing and took a swig of tea. “Not this time. I’m taking in some coffins. I have a carpenter here, and he spent the day yesterday putting five together. He’ll keep making them as long as they’re needed. They’re burying the survivors out on Slope Point, near where the ship was wrecked. On my father’s land, actually. They’re calling the spot Tararua Acre.”
With the coffins loaded, Frank took freshly fed and changed baby from Mary and joined Brunton on the seat of the wagon. Helen settled on his knee like she belonged there, but Frank pressed a rusk into her hand to keep her occupied. The trip promised to be bumpy and slow along the rutted dirt road to Fortrose he could see stretching before them, especially when he compared it to the speed of the mail coach he’d once driven. Of course, the coach had been pulled by a team of Percherons, and the wagon made do with a pair of bullocks who moved at roughly the same speed as an old man walking at his fastest. His fingers itched to have a whip and two large horses in front of him. Add Mette to the picture and it would all be wonderful. He couldn’t wait to see her again, and not just because he wanted to rid himself of the burden of the child.
As they entered Fortrose, Helen threw away the now soggy rusk, sniffing sadly. He turned her towards him and spoke nonsense until she settled down again, letting her tug on his beard, and bite his finger.
“Looks like I’m a bit late,” said Brunton. “There goes a load of bodies heading out to the burial site now. I should have gone right there instead of coming to Fortrose.”
Frank glanced up, but the wagon with the bodies had disappeared. “Are there more bodies stored somewhere?”
“They’re keeping them in the goods shed on the jetty. Are you looking for someone?”
Frank thought of William Sampson, floundering in the water and begging for Frank’s help to climb on the gate. Had he survived, or had he drowned? Come to that, what had happened to Hinton, or to McNab, the third man he’d not yet identified. Chances are they were all dead, and had taken the secret of the gold to the bottom of the ocean with them.
“There are three men I’d like to know about. Hinton, Sampson and McNab. I was following them in relation to the gold robbery last year.”
> Brunton shook his head. “Don’t know about Hinton or Sampson. But William McNab was at my place yesterday. He came in after dinner and I sent him out to the small storage shed to sleep. He was gone this morning.”
“Someone came into the shearing shed in the middle of the night. But he seemed to be looking for something and he had an axe or a wrench in his hand.”
“Hmm. Fair haired fellow? About my age?”
“That was him. Did he ask you anything strange?”
“He asked if anyone else was staying here, and I told him the sergeant who’d rescued the baby was out in the shearing shed, so he should keep away from there as the baby would need her sleep. He said he was looking for his sister.”
So the third man - McNab - was the man who had come into the shearing shed last night. He was probably reacting to “sergeant.” If he was the criminal who Frank now thought he was, he’d be wary of anyone with the title of sergeant. But what had he come to do in the shearing shed? And why was he carrying a weapon? Had he talked to Hinton or Sampson, and therefore had heard that Frank was after them? That was the only possible explanation.
At least he now knew what the third man looked like, and that he was alive. The next thing to do was to discover what had happened to the other two suspects.
He said goodbye to Brunton, who was heading for the general store to get himself a drink, and walked around the small town, keeping an eye out for either Hinton or Sampson, but not expecting to find either of them walking around. He was sure they were both dead.
A group of police officers had just arrived from Invercargill on horseback and were eating a quick meal outside the general store. They had several pack horses with them as well as their own mounts; no doubt they would be searching for valuables along the coast before the hoards of scavengers arrived to scoop everything up. There must have been several mail sacks on the ship, and he remembered the captain saying they were carrying silver bullion, although that would have gone to the bottom. He wondered how the captain had fared. Drowned, no doubt. He’d said he intended to stay on the ship until the end, and the end had come so suddenly he could not have survived.
Come to Grief Page 8
