The Best of Sisters (10 page)

They had reached New Zealand and the port of Wellington in North Island at the end of October and, to Bart’s surprise, he found that he had entered a world where it was springtime, even though he had left London in midsummer. With little money, he had to find work and somewhere to stay while he made provision for his assault on the goldfields. Eventually, after footslogging around Wellington for a day, he had seen a sign in a taproom window advertising for a potman. He had been hired on the spot, without any request for references, but it did not take him long to realise that he had been taken on mainly for his burly physique and uncompromising attitude. His main job had been breaking up the fights that had frequently occurred between
customers who were the worse for drink, and tossing them bodily out onto the street.

He had slept beneath the counter, washed himself at the pump in the yard and hoarded every penny that he had earned, hiding it in a leather pouch under a loose floorboard. It was in the taproom that he had met Tate, a young man from Bermondsey, south of the river, who had spent most of his life since leaving the orphanage dodging the law and earning his living by bare-knuckle fighting; his broken nose, half-closed left eye and cauliflower ears were a testament to his prowess or lack of it. On the day in question, Tate had been involved in a brawl, although for once it appeared to Bart that it had been none of his making. Tate had been sitting at a table, drinking a pint of beer and minding his own business, when a couple of Irish miners had started an argument that had escalated into a fight, with punches flying in all directions. Bart had waded in to drag them apart and had received a blow on the nose for his pains that had brought blood gushing from his nostrils. Tate had leapt to his feet and, with the skill learned in the back streets of Bermondsey, he had laid out the two Irishmen and a few more besides. When the bleeding from his nose had been staunched, Bart had bought Tate a pint and they had started talking about London and home. With neither close friends nor family, Tate only seemed to miss his local pub
and a plate of jellied eels. He had, he said, arrived in Wellington more than six months ago, and had found himself work labouring on the docks. He had been endeavouring to save stake money, intending to get a passage to Port Chalmers in South Island where he would hire a bullock team and cart and head for the goldfields of Otago. But, he had said, grinning ruefully, there had been distractions: drinking, gambling, and a man had certain needs. He had winked, tapped the side of his nose and gone on to extol the virtue, or rather lack of it, of a certain barmaid in a hotel in Cable Street. He had even offered to introduce Bart to her or one of her equally accommodating friends. Bart had been tempted, but he had shaken his head and stuck to his decision to save every penny towards his stake.

During the next few weeks they had become firm friends, and eventually, in the second week of December, they had scraped together enough money to buy a passage on a vessel bound for Port Chalmers. When they had arrived in Dunedin, they had come across many men similarly inclined, all intent on heading for the goldfields. Determined not to waste any more time, they had used most of their stake money to buy provisions and canvas to provide a shelter against the elements. Tate was all for buying a couple of old nags from a livery stable, but Bart had argued that it would cost too much; they
would need digging tools, tents and food when they reached their destination. Although Tate grumbled, he had eventually given in, and they had set out on foot to make the long and arduous trek to Queenstown, Fox Camp and fortune.

It was now nine days since they had left Dunedin and, by Bart’s reckoning and the rough map that he had purchased in Port Chalmers, they were very close to Fox Camp. Swatting at the sandflies with his cap, Bart scrambled to his feet, looking about him and taking stock of their position. Last night, having followed the course of the Kawarau River for many miles, they had turned away from its tumbling turquoise waters and had entered a wide gorge dissected by shallow, bubbling creeks that merged into another body of water that Bart reasoned must be the Arrow River. Now it was light, Bart caught his breath as he gazed up at the steep-sided gorge, clad with dense, green, native forest, and above that, like some sleeping prehistoric creature, the saw-toothed mountains of the Crown Range, tipped with snow, white and sparkling in the sunlight. Who could have imagined any country like this, he thought, breathing in the wine-cold air, so fresh, sweet and clean that it made him light-headed. What stories he would have to tell Eliza when eventually he had the time to put pen to paper.

Bart’s empty stomach contracted in a loud rumble and he licked his dry lips; it was time to eat, then they must break camp and set off, taking advantage of the early morning cool. He glanced down at Tate’s booted feet sticking out of his canvas cover; there were gaping holes in the soles that were stuffed with leaves to keep out the damp. Looking down at his own boots, Bart pulled a grim face as he saw his bare toes sticking out where the uppers had parted with the soles. If they had to trudge much further, they would end up barefoot as well as starving.

‘Ho, Tate, rouse yourself, you lazy bastard.’ Bart picked up a pebble and tossed it at the canvas shelter.

‘Hey, what?’ Tate’s tousled head popped out from beneath his covers. ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s morning and we’d better get going if we’re to reach Fox Camp by nightfall. I don’t fancy another night being bitten to death by bloody sandflies.’

‘Well, don’t just stand there, you lazy sod, get a fire going and make us a brew. I’m parched and me belly’s empty.’ Tate got to his feet and stretched. ‘Here, give us the billycan and I’ll fetch the water.’

Bart reached down, picked up the can and tossed it to Tate, who stumbled off towards the river. With the aid of a handful of tussock grass, his tinderbox and the kindling that he had kept
dry in his shelter, Bart soon had a fire snapping and crackling, sending plumes of smoke into the azure sky. He sat back on his haunches. The majestic scenery that surrounded them was eerily silent; it felt as though he and Tate were the only two living beings left on the planet. He could feel the sun’s rays gaining in strength as it rose higher in the sky and his clothes had begun to steam. It might be Christmas Day, but everything was so different here compared to the grey streets of London, the turgid waters of the Thames and the teeming populace that he had to pinch himself in order to make sure he was not dreaming. It hurt! He was wide awake and, once again, his throat constricted as he thought of Eliza. This was the first Christmas that they had spent apart; he could only hope and pray that the old bugger was being kind to her. He scrambled to his feet, sniffing. He was a grown man and he would not cry, even though his heart was hurting like a bellyache after eating green apples. He could hear Tate’s heavy footsteps crunching on the stones as he trudged up from the riverbank.

‘It’s your turn next time, mate,’ Tate said, hooking the handle of the billycan on the forked tree branch over the fire. ‘What’s up with you then?’

‘Bleeding smoke,’ Bart said, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes. ‘I stink like a dead rat that’s been
flung on a bonfire. The first thing I’m going to do when we get to Fox Camp is to find a hotel and have a hot bath.’

‘Me, I want a nice hot barmaid with big titties and thighs like pillows.’ Tate grinned and pointed to the river. ‘There’s plenty of cold water down there if you want a bath.’

‘Seems like you need it more than me. It would cool you down a bit.’ Bart reached for the flour sack. ‘Be serious for a moment, Tate. There’s just enough flour to make some damper for breakfast and that’s it. There’s enough tea for one brew and no sugar left. I’m telling you, we’ve got to get there today or we’ll starve.’

‘You worry too much,’ Tate said, squatting down on his haunches by the fire. ‘We’ve come this far, ain’t we?’

As the sun plummeted in a fireball behind the mountains to the west, Bart and Tate finally arrived on the outskirts of Fox Camp, exhausted, footsore and weak with hunger. They trudged between ranks of canvas tents and wooden shacks. The billowing smoke from hundreds of campfires hung in an aromatic cloud above them. Bart sniffed appreciatively at the tempting aroma of frying bacon, damper baking on hot stones and the scent of freshly made tea. As they made their way towards the main town, they attracted little or no attention other than a casual,
impersonal glance from the bearded, mud-covered figures intent on preparing their supper. Mongrel dogs wandered in and out between the shelters, more intent on scavenging for food than barking at strangers.

Having reached the main street, Bart and Tate paused for a moment, taking in the scene. Fronted by wooden boardwalks, shaded and protected from the elements by canopies and awnings, the street was lined almost entirely by single-storey buildings. What struck Bart forcibly was the noise and bustling activity. He had grown accustomed to the silence of the wilderness and it was something of a shock to hear raucous laughter, raised voices and music emanating from the open doors of hotels and bars. The rumbling of cartwheels and thudding of horses’ hooves on the packed mud road throbbed painfully in his head. The street was crowded with miners, seemingly intent on having a good time as they lurched in and out of the bars. Lamps burned in shop windows, the stores being open to all comers even though it was Christmas night. He studied a board outside the Provincial Hotel advertising the cost of dinner and a bed for the night. He put his hand in his pocket and his fingers closed round a few pennies, all that was left of his savings. ‘How much money have you got, Tate?’ Bart counted the coins in his palm. Not enough there for
dinner, let alone a bed and a much needed bath.

Tate shook his head. ‘Bloody hell, they must have struck it rich here if they can get away with these prices.’

‘I’ve got enough for a bag of flour, some tea and maybe a bit of bacon, but that’s all.’ Bart pocketed the coins. ‘We’ll have to pitch camp outside the town.’

‘Maybe not.’ Tate held out his hand. ‘Give us your money, old chap. I feel lucky tonight.’

Bart hesitated, following Tate’s gaze as he peered into the hotel lobby. ‘You ain’t going to gamble away my money.’

‘Have you got a better idea?’

The coins were heavy and cold in Bart’s pocket and his fingers touched the cowrie-shell necklace that he had bought for Eliza. He wouldn’t be much use to her if he died of cold and hunger; reluctantly, he parted with all but three of his pennies, dropping them into Tate’s outstretched palm.

Tate dropped his pack at Bart’s feet and strolled into the hotel lobby. ‘Meet me here later.’

This could be the worst decision of my life, Bart thought, as he hefted the two packs onto his back. If he loses, then we’re done for. There wasn’t much he could do about it now – their lives depended on the turn of a card or the toss of a dice. Bart walked to the nearest store and bought a pound of flour, a poke of tea and a half-
pound bag of sugar: at least they would have some sort of meal. Not much, but something to keep body and soul together. He walked slowly back to the hotel. Tobacco smoke wafted out of the open door, together with the malty smell of beer. His mouth was parched – a pint would go down well at this moment, but he hadn’t even a farthing left in his pocket. He dropped his packs on the boardwalk and squatted down beside them with his head in his hands.

‘Hello, dearie, down on your luck are you?’

Looking up, Bart saw a shapely ankle peeping out beneath the hem of a scarlet taffeta skirt and a waist corseted so tightly that he was certain he could span it with his hands. As he jumped to his feet, his eyes rested momentarily on milk-white, twin globes protruding above a low-cut bodice. He had to drag his gaze upwards and found himself looking into a pair of mischievous blue eyes beneath sandy brows. He pulled off his cap, clutching it to his chest. ‘How do, ma’am.’

A chuckle bubbled up from her throat so that her breasts shook, seeming to be in imminent danger of popping out of her bodice. She cocked her head, smiling. ‘It’s Daisy, love. Daisy Dawkins.’

‘Bart, Bartholomew Bragg from London.’

‘Well, Bart Bragg from London, you look as though you could do with a drink.’ Daisy tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

‘I’d like nothing better,’ Bart said, shaking his head. ‘But you was right the first time. I’m broke, Daisy.’

She eyed him up and down. ‘Just arrived, have you?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘Then I’ll buy you a beer, my lad. And when you’ve struck it rich you can remember Daisy Dawkins was the first to lend you a helping hand.’ Giving his arm a companionable squeeze, she led him into the lobby of the Provincial Hotel and through to the bar room where she perched on the edge of a barstool, signalling to the barman. ‘Two pints of your best, Jim.’

‘Right you are, Daisy.’

Bart pulled up a stool, eyeing Daisy curiously. She was obviously very much at home in these surroundings. Back home he would have called her a loose woman, but despite her worldly air, he sensed a touching, underlying innocence in her that reminded him forcibly of Eliza. Her silver-blonde hair was piled up on her head in a halo of curls, and to him she looked like an angel.

‘Well then, love, tell us your story,’ Daisy said, taking a swig of her beer.

Bart drank deeply. He didn’t want to tell this beautiful creature that he had killed a man. He hesitated. In the far corner of the room, he could just make out Tate’s dark head bent over a hand
of cards. From the hunch of his shoulders, Bart guessed that his lucky streak was not proving so good after all.

Daisy laid her hand on his knee. ‘Is he a mate of yours, dearie?’

‘We travelled together from Wellington.’

‘Gambling and prospecting don’t go well together. I seen whole fortunes change hands in a night.’

‘We need stake money,’ Bart said, trying not to stare at Daisy’s breasts. He could feel the alcohol going straight to his head, and a stirring in his loins that was almost impossible to ignore. It was months since he’d had a woman and then it had only been a quick coupling with a prostitute in a back alley off Ratcliff Highway. It had satisfied a need, but had been a simple business transaction. Although his spirit yearned for a deep emotional attachment, he was only too aware that he would not find what he was seeking in the back streets and brothels. His work on the river and caring for Eliza had left little time to go looking for a respectable young woman with a view to courting her. Raising his eyes, Bart saw that Daisy was sipping her beer and smiling at him in a knowing way. He felt his cheeks flame beneath his whiskers and he looked away quickly.