The Runaway Settlers (10 page)

One Saturday afternoon in July, when Bill had been helping Mr Beechey with some fencing, he arrived home unexpectedly with the
Lyttelton Times
screwed up in his hand. Mrs Phipps was sorting seeds on the kitchen table.

‘What brings you, Bill?’ she said in alarm.

Bill did not answer, but unscrewed his newspaper and, spreading it out on top of the seeds, he pointed to an advertisement topped with a small engraving of a ship.

STEAM TO THE TUAPEKA GOLDFIELDS

The Powerful Paddle Steamer
Prince Albert,
Robt. Spence, Master, will leave the Government Wharf on Monday next (wind and weather permitting), at 4 o’clock p.m., direct for Dunedin Jetty.

For freight or passage, apply to

E. A. Hargreaves, Norwich Quay.

‘I’m going, Mother!’ said Bill. ‘I’m off to get my passage before the
Prince Albert’s
crowded out.’

‘Gold talk!’ said Mrs Phipps. ‘It’s been coming out of Otago for months.’

‘This is the real thing! Listen.’ Bill opened the paper and read the news of Gabriel’s Gully. ‘Mr Millar’s party of seven
obtained in one day 38 ounces and a few penny-weights, and in nine days the total amount obtained by the same party was 127 ounces. Mr Gabriel Read’s party sent in 168
¹
/
₂
ounces!’ He emphasised all the figures triumphantly. ‘I’m rolling my swag to be down among the first.’

‘I don’t hear you asking my permission,’ said Mrs Phipps sharply.

‘I’m seventeen, going on eighteen, and I’m not such a fool as to throw away a chance like this! I told Mr Beechey I’ll not be a farm labourer all my days.’

‘When?’

‘When I saw the paper at his place.’

‘You don’t give yourself long to think.’

‘I’ve thought about it for years, Mother—only waiting for the chance.’

Mrs Phipps could not deny this.

‘Have you thought of the money?’ she asked.

‘I won’t need much. Only a washing dish, and a pick and shovel, and a roll of blankets, and a quid or two to get started—so long as I’m down with the first.’

‘They’ll be in from Dunedin before you.’

‘Mother—give me the money and let me go!’

All of his wages had been handed in, week after week, except for the last few shillings from Mr Beechey which he had now in his pocket. That was the way Mrs Phipps managed the money for all the family.

‘I had meant to buy more calves,’ she said.

‘There’ll always be calves but there won’t always be gold.’

‘A gold rush makes more fools than it makes fortunes!’

Bill lost patience altogether. ‘There’s a ship sailing in the morning, and I’m going—if I have to steal the money!’

‘You won’t have to steal it. I’ll give it to you—but there won’t be any more where that comes from, Bill. Once you’re away, you’ll manage on your own.’

‘Manage!’ cried Bill, jubilant as he saw a wide, beautiful world open up in his imagination. ‘Two weeks, and I’ll be rolling in it! I’ll be hanging the nuggets on my gold watch-chain, and bringing home silk dresses for you, Mother!’

‘And what would I do with a silk dress, Bill? Wear it to clean out the fowl-run? Take that newspaper off the table, you’re messing all my seeds up.’

She went on with her work, while Bill took the new boat, the
Phoenix,
and went off to Lyttelton to book his passage and buy his prospector’s gear.

For weeks afterwards, the newspapers printed encouraging news about Gabriel’s Gully and the Tuapeka diggings. A scrawly letter arrived from Bill to say that he had found a good mate and they were already working on ‘tucker ground’—which meant they were panning enough gold to keep themselves in food. At any moment, as they dug deeper and wider, they would make that lucky strike. But Bill was not much of a letter-writer and no other news arrived.

One Sunday in spring, Mary Ann left early for church with her arms full of bluebells and stocks to decorate the altar. The cob hut was still being used for services, although the new St Cuthbert’s, built by voluntary labour, was growing near to completion. The children followed later, leaving Mrs Phipps to cook the Sunday dinner. Everything was ready when Emma and Jim came running home ahead of the others, singing ‘All things bright and beautiful’ at the tops of their voices. Emma could sing proper tunes now and no longer made up her own songs with one word
at a time. Archie and Jack followed; but there was no sign of Mary Ann.

‘She was talking to people,’ was all the children could

say.

It was not Mrs Phipps’s way to have a good meal spoiled. She dished up the meat and vegetables, and then the ‘spotty Dick’, putting Mary Ann’s share to the side of the fire, and wondering all the time what could possibly have kept the girl. When the meal was over she told the boys to attend to the dishes, and set out to find her.

Following a hunch, she looked into a ferny nook where Mary Ann liked to go when they were out walking; and there she was, sitting on a log with little pieces of leaves and flowers crumbled over her lap. She was so still that a bush-robin pecked at her boot.

‘What is the matter, Mary Ann?’ asked Mrs Phipps, gently putting an arm around her shoulders.

The girl was too miserable even to cry, but she grasped her mother’s hands and held them tight; and after a time the story came out—an old, familiar story.

Mary Ann was loyal and loving, and if she was often sharp with her brothers and sister it was because she was covering her great disappointment about the young man whom she could not follow from Sydney to England. Now at last there had appeared another. He had a good education and charming manners; and they had met often enough at church, or at Mrs Dyer’s place. But today in the gossip that followed the service, from which he was absent, it came out that he had become engaged to a young lady in Christchurch—also of good education and charming manners.

‘And I am a nobody,’ stammered Mary Ann, ‘with no
mansion at home in England, and I’ve never been to school, and I’m awkward in company, and my words don’t come out right when I speak!’

‘Don’t take on so,’ said Mrs Phipps soothingly, but Mary Ann went on:

‘It was the same before. They have “people” in England, but we are no better than labourers without even a father, alive or dead!’

She had touched on the point so sore that Mrs Phipps herself never mentioned it. While the other settlers spoke often of ‘Home’ and looked eagerly for letters when the ships came in, nothing arrived for the Phipps family except an occasional note from Mrs McCracken. Afraid of some mistake or misunderstanding, Mrs Phipps herself had never written to friends or relatives in London; and the children knew they must say nothing about ‘Mr Phipps’. It was only known that they had lived in Australia; and for all anyone knew, they might have had connections with the convicts. Class distinctions were strong in early Canterbury. Many a young man would hesitate before courting a girl who could have convict blood.

‘There’ll be others, my dear,’ said Mrs Phipps. ‘You are so excellent a cook and housekeeper! One day a gentleman will see that these virtues are worth more than family and position. Try to believe in yourself, Mary Ann!’

‘No!’ cried Mary Ann. ‘I shall never dare look at any man again!’

She meant it. But ‘a trouble shared is a trouble halved’, and after that she pulled herself together and went home.

Sitting in the sunshine with her plateful of ‘spotty Dick’ she comforted herself with the knowledge that her own family
would stand by her, even though she would never marry.

The boys and Emma understood very little of this trouble, and yet it filled up the spaces in the household that seemed empty without Bill. They all went out of their way to be kind. This was not easy, for on some days Mary Ann went about her work without a word to anyone, and on other days she broke into fits of temper for no apparent reason.

On one of her ‘edgy’ days, Jim was scolded for being under her feet, when the truth was he had nothing to do. It was a Saturday and there was no school. Mrs Phipps was in Lyttelton with Jack and Emma, selling flowers; while Archie had gone up the hills with Wally to look over the cattle. So Jim took a billy and went looking for George Bloor to go to the Pinnacle. After catching six crabs without trouble, they started a fire going on the beach to boil them up.

George looked up from his stoking with a surprised giggle.

‘Did you put a scarecrow up in the flax?’ he said.

‘What?’ said Jim. ‘What you talking about?’

‘Look there—it moves!’ roared George.

Jim stared. Through the low flax and fern sloping into the gully, a man was coming down. He certainly made queer progress, standing up, bending over, catching at flax-stalks, disappearing, appearing again.

‘Might be after pigs,’ said Jim.

‘Haw! No pigs there, and where’s his gun?’

‘P’raps he’s lost?’ Jim suggested uneasily.

‘He’s drunk more likely! And anyway he’s not lost if he can see us!’

Jim poked some more sticks into the fire and took another look. ‘He’s got wild-looking whiskers!’ he said, ready for a laugh
with George; but the moment he said it he remembered their fear, only a few months ago, of ‘a stranger’. The fear stirred him now, and anxiously he said: ‘D’you think he’s very old?’

‘Old as the hills, to grow all that bush on his face.

George could laugh, and Jim joined in to make himself feel better, for he dared not say that he was quivering inside. The stranger disappeared into the gully and the boys, turning to their fire, saw that the water was boiling. They dropped in three of the crabs and straightened up—just in time to confront the man who staggered out of the bushes looking more like a scarecrow than ever. He was thin and gaunt, and his shirt and trousers were almost falling apart.

‘Jim!’ came a familiar voice.

‘Bill! It’s Bill!’

The ‘stranger’ reeled and sank down on the bank.

‘Fetch me something to eat and drink, Jim!’ he moaned.

Suddenly Jim felt shy and awkward. This new arrival was a brother and a stranger, all at once—a boy when he left home, and they’d taken him for a man! ‘What d’you want to eat?’ he asked.

‘Anything. And milk. Specially milk.’

Jim became charged with importance. ‘You look after him, George!’ He ran home, hoping that Mary Ann’s sharp mood had simmered own; and luckily it had. Within ten minutes she had come with him, carrying milk, fruit, a new-made loaf, butter and cheese and jam. ‘You wouldn’t know him,’ Jim was saying. ‘We thought he was drunk.’ And indeed Mary Ann would not have recognised her brother until she looked into his eyes, for he was quite silent now.

A pannikin of milk disappeared down Bill’s throat. The sweet-smelling, warm bread was snatched from her hands
before she could spread the butter properly. He ate like a starved animal until he was satisfied. Then he rubbed his dry, grimed hands in the sand to clean them. ‘Where’s Mother?’

‘In Lyttelton, with Jack and Emma. Archie’s up the hills.’

‘That’s lucky. I should clean myself up.’

‘Bill, where are your things?’

‘My things? I sold them. Except the blankets—and they rolled over a cliff somewhere. I don’t know where. I can’t remember!’ he said wildly, almost shouting.

‘You’re home now,’ she said quietly. ‘You can tell me everything, for Mother will ask. You sold your things to buy food?’

‘To keep digging. Any moment our luck might change.’

‘And it didn’t?’

‘If we could’ve kept on…’ he trailed off.

‘There must always be an end, Bill.’ Mary Ann was thinking of her own trouble as much as his; but he did not know this. And now Jim, overcome with curiosity, took a turn.

‘How far did you walk?’

‘All the way.’

‘Did you—honest? How long?’

‘Three weeks. A day over.’

‘Thought you had a mate.’

‘He stayed in Dunedin.’

‘What did you live on, then?’

‘Eels and wekas; when I could catch them.’

Now George broke in. ‘What did you catch them with?’ he put in. ‘And how did you cook them?’

The answer was disappointing.

‘I just ate them,’ said Bill.

Only Mary Ann grasped what he meant. He must have eaten them raw! Poor, desperate Bill! She said firmly:

‘Boys, go away and don’t ask so many questions! Can’t you see he’s worn out? Come on, Bill—there’s hot water in the kettle. We’ll smarten you up before Mother gets home. Jim, you can stop here with your crabs.’

‘Crabs?’ said Bill, in a queer sort of way.

Mary Ann had to help him up, and he walked slowly, leaning on her and not even looking ashamed to do so. Jim and George watched him going and marvelled.

‘He didn’t even notice the crabs!’ said Jim.

‘You forgot them yourself,’ scoffed George. ‘The fire’s out, and the live ones got away.’

Jim peered into the billy. ‘Anyway, there’s three good ones. We could save one for Bill,’ he said, feeling very noble and generous and full of pity for his ruined brother.

Bill did not want to talk about the Otago diggings. After a few days, when his strength had returned, he went quietly out to see what work he could find; but Mr Beechey had another man in his place and the harvest was over. It was some time before he found work on the roads.

But nobody was allowed to think that Bill had been cured of the gold fever. He was ready to admit that he and his mate had been green; they were ‘new chums’; but the clever ones had made fortunes and next time he would be among the clever ones himself. One day he heard Emma singing the popular jingle:

Gold, gold, fine bright gold, Wangapeka, Tuapeka, bright red gold!

He thought she was teasing him, and poor Emma, who had no idea that Tuapeka was the place of Bill’s failure, received a hiding before her mother could rescue her.

Although discoveries were made in Central Otago, Bill made no effort to make good his boasting. He had had enough of those dry, harsh hills. There was gold west of Nelson too, but the Canterbury papers did not encourage any interest in this rival province. They wanted gold to be found in their own part of the country. Unluckily the only finds were in ‘West Canterbury’, which was later named Westland. That, too, was
a place for only the toughest people. No one went there except for Maoris and a few explorers, surveyors and prospectors. They wrote of steep mountains, swift and dangerous rivers, bush too dense to squeeze through, and rain, rain, rain, rain. Men were drowned in the rivers and lakes, while others came back as starved and exhausted as Bill had been. And for all that they found only a few grains of gold.

So Bill stayed at home and worked for his living, sometimes in their own garden but more often as a labourer. Jack, who had finished school too, gave nearly all his time to the boat. The
Phoenix
was busy on most days of the week with all sorts of commissions for transporting goods. People in Lyttelton were becoming interested in picnic trips, so Jack saved his money and bought a cutter which could be hired as a pleasure boat. Sometimes he travelled round to the Peninsula bays which were being opened up for timber, or took wheat to Akaroa to be ground. New settlers were coming in, and old farms were being extended. Mr Dyer himself, with a young family to think of, moved to a larger property on the other side of the Beecheys.

Among the attractions of Governors Bay was Mrs Phipps’s own garden. There was a sure sale for everything she grew; and people liked to come in person to admire the masses of gay flowers or to choose fruit for themselves.

More grazing leases were bought, the cattle herd grew, and Archie—who had completed school by the age of thirteen—was always busy with Wally at his heels. It was a steady, busy and generally happy life for the family.

Then in August 1864, three years after the Otago goldrush had begun, exciting news broke in Canterbury.

On the other side of the snowy ranges, from the banks of

a river flowing into the Teremakau, one Albert Hunt sent a sample of gold to Christchurch. And he wrote that he ‘could get the colour in any place’, that he had panned 38 ounces already and that a party of four might make £150 in a week.

Bill read this letter in the
Lyttelton Times
over and over again, as he had once read the
Otago News,
but this time the phrase that circled round and round in his mind was this: ‘I can get the colour in any place.’ In any place! All that coastline, all those numberless rivers and streams; and there was gold in any place!

Bill did not wait for any more information; and his mother did not waste time trying to stop him. He bought a new pick, shovel, dish and blanket-roll and set off by the only route that was open—the old Maori route over Harper’s Pass, known in those days as the Hurunui Saddle.

This time, Bill was among the few hundred men who went ahead of the main goldrushes. Over several months, people in Christchurch were doubtful about Albert Hunt’s claims; and as for the prospectors, they were not very anxious to tell. In any case they could send no letters home unless they met up with some travelling party or a sea-captain to carry them.

Christmas came and went without any word from Bill.

In February there was another burst of news. A ship had arrived in Nelson with about two thousand pounds’ worth of gold, all dug in that wild coast!

Now the people of Canterbury did take notice. Why, this was Canterbury territory; and they should be raking in the profits, not letting them go to Nelson! They would have to build a road to the west, over the shorter route of Arthur’s Pass. But this would take months, and who could wait for that? Certainly not the diggers! Shiploads left for the West Coast from
Dunedin, Nelson, Melbourne and Lyttelton; and thousands of men tramped overland by the old Hurunui Saddle.

At this time George Bloor made another discovery that shocked the Phipps family out of their quiet life.

Very early one morning he was awakened by the howling of his dog. From the direction of the sound he guessed that the dog was off the chain and this was strictly forbidden. To save himself from a hiding by his father, George crept out of bed to tie the dog up again.

The first glow of dawn was mingled with the moonlight to show George what had aroused the dog. Along the road came two men, with swags on their backs, one of them carrying a gun. Between them went eight bullocks.

‘Hello!’ said one of the men with a start, as George came out of the shadows to hold his dog. ‘What’s this—what you prowling about for in the night?’

‘I came to get
him,’
said George, very scared. ‘He ought to be on the chain.’

‘Well, you chain him and get back to bed before you get yourself in trouble!’

One of the bullocks brushed close to George and he found himself staring at a familiar brand mark. Without stopping to think he burst out:

‘You got Archie Phipps’s cattle!’

‘Eh?’ The man was caught off guard, but his mate said smoothly:

‘Yes, we bought ‘em last night. Paid Archie good money for ‘em we did, so as to make an early start this morning.’

George said no more, for his mouth was quite dry with fear. The scared feeling stayed with him all day and he said nothing to his family—in any case he couldn’t admit that the dog was loose. He was not a quick thinker and it took him a long time to sort out the truth in this strange conversation.

He had spoken up, himself, about Archie Phipps’s cattle. And the man had answered that he paid Archie for them. But, if he’d paid anyone, it would not have been Archie, but Mrs Phipps! Perhaps the men did not know that Archie was a boy only two years older than George himself. They must be cattle thieves! There was no doubt about it.

Now, after another worrying night, George went looking for Archie. It took him a while to find him, because he did not want to go directly to Mrs Phipps. By the time the news was out, the men had nearly two days’ start.

There was no such slowness about Mrs Phipps. Although it was late in the afternoon she set off on foot to Cashmere, over the now completed road, to inquire if the bullocks had been seen. Yes, the shepherds told her, they had been driven in the direction of Riccarton and without doubt up the North Road. No one had stopped them, believing the cattle to be honestly bought. The men were probably diggers, aiming to make a few extra pounds by taking fresh meat on the hoof; cattle were fetching a fabulous price on the West Coast.

Mrs Phipps strode home in the summer dusk. The waters of the harbour lay softly like dark-blue silk, and the houses of Governors Bay nestled cosily into the hills beneath her, but her thoughts were angry and determined. As she came down towards her home, she found Archie and Jim wandering up to meet her. Archie was looking downcast about their loss.

‘Are you going to get them back, Mother?’

‘No, Archie!’ Her tone was surprisingly cheerful. ‘We will not waste time chasing after what is gone. Why shouldn’t we follow their example?’

‘You’re not going to steal cattle!’ exclaimed Jim.

‘Shan’t I, Jim? We could soon make up for what’s lost!’

‘No,’ said Jim flatly. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Well then, we shall steal our own before anyone else does. Those men know where the profits are. Why shouldn’t we have our share too?’

‘Where have they gone, Mother?’ asked Archie.

‘Yes—where?’ echoed Jim.

‘To the goldfields! There’s a great hunger for beef, they tell me, and the first to come have the pick of the market; and a beast that’d fetch us seven pounds in Lyttelton will bring four and five times more over there. We’ll have them down from the hills tomorrow, boys, for there’s more to be done on the goldfields than fossicking for gold!’