The Runaway Settlers (5 page)

‘Again. Coo-ee. COO-EE!’

Quite near, but lifted up a man’s voice shouted:

‘Who’s there? Where a-a-are you?’

‘Here. HERE!’

To and fro they called, giving their position, receiving directions: back there, to the left here, yes, that’ll be right. Then there was a bank miraculously clear of the fern and the tutu, a man’s figure standing on it dark against the sky, two hands outstretched to lift Emma from her mother’s arms and to hand the five others up, one by one. To the friendly voice was now added the friendly face of a young man.

‘Well! What a time you’ve had! But you’re safe in Governors Bay. And allow me to introduce myself: I’m John Dyer.’

‘We’re much obliged, Mr Dyer. And we’re the Phipps family. We’re looking for a cob hut that’s been left empty.’

‘Belonging to Nabob Wilson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh! That’s not far away.’

‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ shouted Jack, and he spun round on his toes for the sheer joy of it. ‘Hurrah!’ cried Bill.

‘I want a drink,’ said Archie.

‘Do you, young fellow? How about fresh milk and hot cocoa? Leave your things here: we’ll go down to my house.’

He hoisted Archie on to his back and strode off down his familiar path. Jim clung tight to his Dick Whittington bundle and tried to sing; but somehow the tune had come unstuck from the words. As for Emma, she lay across her mother’s shoulder as if she were already asleep; but the next moment she jerked upright and pointed. ‘Look, look!’

It was the most beautiful sight in all the world: a candle shining in a window.

An hour later there came from John Dyer’s cottage a procession of people, every one of them filled to the brim with food, warmth and friendliness. The light of a storm-lantern made queer-looking patches on the trees; and the familiar scent of young blue-gums mingled with the unfamiliar scent of seaweed from the nearby shore. First went Mr Dyer, leading a pack-bullock with the blanket-rolls strapped to its back. Next came the boys, putting down tired legs one after the other, stiffly, like toy soldiers. Emma was fast asleep in her mother’s arms. Last of all came a large collie dog.

‘I doubt if you’ll find the place in much condition for living, Mrs Phipps,’ Mr Dyer had said, ‘for it’s been long neglected.’

‘I’ll make a home of it, so long as it’s mine to try,’ she answered smiling, and thinking of the barracks at Cashmere which were beyond anything she could do.

Now they passed beneath some more trees and into a clearing—and there in the moonlight stood the white walls, bare and lonely. ‘Hurrah!’ cried Jack, running forward, but Mr Dyer called him back.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘There’s sure to be rats, and the rats could be fierce. If you’re wise, you’ll let Ranger go first.’

‘Rats!’ echoed Archie with a shudder—they were the only animals he had ever hated.

The door opened with a heavy scraping. The collie did not hesitate for a moment. With short barks and loud snufflings he worked rapidly about the shadowy walls, while the family propped one another up, shivering. At last he trotted quietly out. The rats had escaped through a dozen holes, but they had been scared out of their wits.

Everyone crowded inside and the lantern-light played on the fireplace, the boxes scattered around, the two rough bunks, the litter on the floor. The window was only a square hole covered with glazed calico. The place stank of musty wood, rotting potatoes and the recently departed rats. The boys shrank back to the cool, sweet air in the doorway—but Mrs Phipps only handed the sleeping Emma to Mr Dyer and seized the manuka broom which leaned against the mantelpiece.

‘All we need for tonight is a patch of clean ground,’ she said. ‘We won’t need rocking to put us to sleep, and tomorrow we can put our backs into it. You won’t know it for the same place.’

In one long line, fully dressed, with blankets above and below and folded under their heads, the Phipps family lay down. Comfortingly, the lantern was left on the mantelpiece. ‘I can find my way back blindfold,’ said Mr Dyer, cheerfully wishing them good night. Emma and Jim slept in the middle of the line. Because of the rats, Mrs Phipps kept a stout stick beside her, alongside the wall; and Jack with his sheath-knife handy was next to the door. But even this fear could not keep them awake for five minutes; and fortunately the collie had done his work well.

Not rats, but a bar of sunlight woke Jack in the morning. He edged away from the sleeping Archie and stepped outside.
Every piece of him ached with stiffness and his shoulder reminded him of its old bruises. He moved out into the centre of the clearing and looked around at its encircling trees, at the Sugarloaf towering above, and at Mount Bradley with its squared-off crags, like the Egyptian Sphinx he had seen in a book; and a joyful thought came surging up inside him.

Father will never find us here!

Mr Dyer had left a water-bottle beside the doorway. Jack took a drink, stretched himself fully awake, and began to explore.

The clearing was almost square, sloping gently to the beginning of the fern, where it was steep. On two sides there was a belt of small trees, and on the verge of what must be the stream that flowed from the Sugarloaf was a mass of flax, tutu and tall toetoe grass with swaying golden plumes.

Jack mounted the slope to get a view of the harbour. It gleamed like glass, except where it was rippled by a dinghy with a single oarsman rocking to and fro. By the time it had passed out of sight, Jack had formed his great ambition.

A boat! I must have a boat!

At that moment an angry grunting and snorting burst from the nearby fern. Jack swung round. Glowering at him, with short tusks showing under its quivering snout, was a great hairy iron-grey pig. Jack’s hand went to his hip, and found nothing; his sheath-knife was still lying on the floor of the cottage. He glared back at the boar—and the boar grunted again and disappeared.

Jack raced back down the slope. In the doorway stood Emma rubbing her eyes; everyone else was still fast asleep. He slipped quietly inside and buckled on his sheath-knife; then he took Emma by the hand and set out to explore in the opposite direction.

In the bush that lined the shore, the bellbirds were singing loudly while two woodpigeons, stuffed fat with fuchsia berries, sat lazily on a branch. A track sloped towards the beach. Emma ran ahead with shouts of joy and danced on the sand. Shells were piled in ridges just beyond the tide—she picked them up by handfuls and flung them far and wide. When she came to the little stream trickling into the sea, she felt it with her bare toes, gasped ‘Ooh!’ and splashed on.

‘Ooh!’ she cried again, in a voice high with excitement. ‘Chook! Chook!’

Two brown birds like overgrown chickens stalked out of the bushes to peck around among the dry seaweed. Emma fussed about trying to catch them, but the wekas did not mind in the least, as they were always a few steps ahead. Jack’s eyes were turned to the harbour, watching the circles where fish had leaped—they would really be worth the catching! He wondered where the boat had gone. Then he heard Emma.

‘Ooble, ooble, water bubble; ooble, ooble, water bubble,’ she sang.

Yes! Water was bubbling, sure enough, right where she was sitting on a green bank above the sand. Jack lifted her down and she stopped singing long enough to say ‘Ooh! Cold!’ and shake out the wet hem of her dress. She reached out her hands again to catch the ‘bubble’—a clear, delicious spring tumbling out into a hollow which someone had smoothed to hold a billy or a pannikin. Sedges reached across the little pool since its makers had left.

‘Come, Emma—let’s tell Mother we’ve found fresh water!’

‘Ooble, ooble, water bubble,’ sang Emma all the way up the beach.

They found Mrs Phipps, with her long sandy hair already brushed and twisted into a bun, busy laying an outdoor fire. ‘I can’t test the chimney until everyone is up,’ she said, ‘and if they’re asleep on that hard ground, it’s sleep they need.’

The day was solid work. Water was carried and a tripod built over the fire. Mr Dyer came early with his pack-bullock, bearing all the remaining bundles, an axe and a spade, and a billy of beautiful fresh milk.

‘You must come to me if you’re short of anything you need,’ he said, ‘or to the other cottage—I’ll show the lad where to find it.’

‘I’m Jack,’ said the lad promptly.

‘I beg your pardon, Jack! I couldn’t sort you all out last night. About the next cottage: that’s where Mrs Parsons lives. She’s my sister. And Charles Parsons shares the farm with me. I don’t doubt we’ll all be good neighbours.’

‘We’re much obliged to you, Mr Dyer,’ said Mrs Phipps. ‘I trust we shall be the same.’

‘Can I go with Mr Dyer now?’ asked Jack eagerly.

‘And no breakfast?’

‘I’ll soon be back!’ he promised.

Mrs Phipps made hot bread-and-milk in the billy, and Jack, true to his word, was home before his sleepy brothers had finished eating.

It was time to examine the hut. There was a partition at one end which had appeared, in the lamplight, to be the end wall. In that tiny bedroom was a second calico window and two more bunks, made of nothing better than forked stakes driven into the ground to support saplings and a nest of small branches. The sacking which covered them was chewed by the rats, and the mesh was broken in many places.

The open fireplace took up all one end of the kitchen, with chains and hooks for the billies and iron bars on which to rest the pans. There was no furniture except for boxes and packing-cases. ‘All the quicker for cleaning,’ said Mrs Phipps. She had everyone running in and out until the hut was quite bare and all the litter swept into the fireplace. Dry twigs were piled on top, the fire was lit, the green leaves were thrown on to the blaze to make plenty of smoke. Mrs Phipps and the boys watched keenly for any wisp of smoke coming out in the wrong places. But no, the high chimney carried it all clear of the thatch.

Small though it was, the hut was completely sound. The ratholes along the earthen floor had to be stopped up with stones. As for the roof, a few patches of thatch needed renewing, and this had to be done with tussock which was not handy to find; so Jack and Bill, who had thought they were free of flax-cutting, were sent again to the nearby gully to fetch flax and toetoe for temporary repairs.

Archie and Mrs Phipps took out the axe and cut a pile of strong, supple branches to mend the bunks. There was no sacking to be found, but in the gully there was a mass of vine—pohuehue—with dry, springy stalks, which was as good as a wire mattress. The blankets were aired and shaken and laid neatly on top.

Now the boxes were soused in the tide to cleanse them of insects, and dried out in the sunshine before being arranged for table and chairs and shelves. Jack sat cross-legged on the ground plaiting one flax rope after another and enjoying the work. The ropes were slung across and along the room to carry clothes and other belongings, for there were no cupboards or drawers. Pots and pans, cups and plates, all had to be arranged.
‘A place for everything and everything in its place!’ said Mrs Phipps.

In the midst of it all danced Emma, bent on finding the best place for Bibi, but each time the doll had to make way for something else. So Jack made her a tiny flax hammock and hung it in the corner. ‘Lullabye, bye, bye!’ crooned Emma, as she swung the doll in the hammock happily to and fro.

At last Mrs Phipps surveyed the room and could think of only one more thing to be done. She took out her own treasure—the toby-jug that had been a wedding present.

‘Who will find me some flowers? You, Jim?’

‘Me, me!’ cried Emma. She did not know enough words to explain, but she had seen flowers down near the spring. Off she ran with Jim after her. Yes, there was a bush covered with purple-pink spikes—the koromiko. Emma was in such a hurry she would have pulled every flower off short if Jim had not been there to make sure of good long stalks.

‘Why, it’s like a bottlebrush!’ said Mrs Phipps, very pleased. ‘Only there’s no handle coming out at the end.’

She set the toby-jug full of flowers on the window-ledge; and the house became a home.

After lunch, which was of bread and cheese and a drink of milk, Mrs Phipps examined her garden.

Beneath its covering of weeds, the dug ground should be full of potatoes. But what were the bare patches where the ground had been torn up? Had someone been here to rob—Maoris perhaps, who used some digging stick instead of a regular spade? She turned over the patches carefully. Yes, her guess was right: there were no potatoes here. Only where the weeds were undisturbed did she find them, and they were no great crop, even there. There would certainly not be enough to feed them through the winter.

She sat down in the sunshine to rest, feeling disappointed and baffled.

Emma was fast asleep on her new bunk, and Jim and Archie were stretched out on the ground, still weary after yesterday’s wanderings and today’s hard work. Bill and Jack had gone to Mr Dyer to ask for advice on where they might buy some hens. There was no sign of them yet; and Mrs Phipps got up again and went on to examine the edges of the clearing.

Ah! This was better! There were small fruit trees and berry bushes, well placed for the sun. Creepers were already clambering over them, but half an hour’s pulling left the healthy young branches open to the air. Cherries, plums, peaches, gooseberries, and some shrubs that might perhaps be currants.

‘I must make a list of tools,’ she said to herself. ‘And plants, and seeds. This is warm land that will bring the crops early! Only let us get through the winter, and we shall be prosperous here.’

She took the spade again and had turned up a small pile of potatoes, still puzzling, when she heard voices.

‘Mother! Mother!’ called Bill. ‘There’s a Mrs Dobbs that has pullets. You can get them as soon as the hen run is ready. We saw a lot of houses—how many, Jack?’

‘About six!’ said Jack. ‘Mr Parsons goes to Lyttelton in a boat with oars, and a sail. When can we get a boat, Mother?’

‘Hold on!’ she laughed. ‘We must get through the winter first. What I want to know is: who has been stealing our potatoes?’

Jack gave a quick glance at the torn patch of earth.

‘Wild pigs,’ he said promptly.

‘Pigs!’

‘Yes! Mr Dyer said they’re real pests, and you’re to watch out, they might go for Emma or Jim. And besides—I saw the robber this morning.’

Jack told his story, which had somehow been forgotten in all the rush of work.

‘So! We must dig the crop at once and remove the temptation,’ said Mrs Phipps.

‘Now, Mother? Must we?’ pleaded Bill.

She took pity on him. ‘No—I’ll have Archie and Jim help me tomorrow. Today we’ll stack a heap of firewood: all sizes, every kind, and I’ll find out which of them burn the best.’

The owls were beginning to call ‘morepork’ from the hills when Jack gathered his last armful. Most of the big logs were rotten, but his mother needed good sized pieces for that great
fireplace. When he saw a dry branch twice as thick as his arm sticking out from a shrub, Jack pulled.

He might have been hauling on a bell-rope, so quickly came the noise of rumbling and grunting. For the second time that day Jack found himself face to face with a young boar—
the
boar.

Before Jack could retreat, the boar charged. With a bound, catching at an overhead branch with his good arm, Jack swung himself clear, but there was not enough strength in his other shoulder to haul his body up and he had to let go and race around the tree to climb it from the trunk. He sat astride a branch while his angry enemy scraped and backed about among the leaves below.

Should he call out and bring Bill running to help him? No! Jack wanted to settle accounts himself with this robber who had tried to beat him down. He had heard talk of pig hunting among the shepherds at Cashmere and desperately tried to remember. They used dogs, and he had no dog; but he took out his sheath-knife and felt the point. The flax-cutting had not blunted it.

Very quietly he began to ease himself along the branch until it drooped beneath his weight. The boar backed. Jack slid farther: the boar moved again. Had the beast come forward and raised his head, he could have reached Jack’s ankle; but he stood back, waiting his opportunity.

Well then, Jack must be first! He braced himself against a second branch, took a flying leap and landed on top of the boar. Somewhere in the back of his memory he could hear a voice saying:
Take him by the hind leg and turn him over.

Jack grabbed at the leg and held it tightly. But how was he to turn the boar over, while only his own weight kept the
lashing beast under control? Perhaps the boar would get tired first! He held on grimly, grunting like the pig with his own exertion, keeping his left hand on the knife.

Then sharply, suddenly, he rolled off, pulled the boar with him and saw the throat stretched out beneath the snout. He thrust out with all the strength his left arm could muster and drove the point into the skin. The boar gave a violent lurch and kicked him over.

Jack scrambled to his feet and did not wait for more. The pain in his shoulder told him that he would never have the strength to repeat the blow. He ran away from the hideous squealing, back down the slope to the cottage. He must get Bill to come with the axe.

In the glow of the firelight he saw his mother take out the damper she had made for their supper. It was a round of dough shaped like a huge scone, made of flour and salt and water, and cooked on a flat stone among the embers. The damper smelt warm and mellow, but it was poor food after all.

‘Grab the axe, Bill, I’ve caught the robber,’ shouted Jack.

‘The axe?’ said Mrs Phipps, startled.

Jack grinned.

‘You’ll have pork for dinner tomorrow,’ he said.