The Runaway Settlers (8 page)

The secret hoard of money grew and grew; but just when Jack was almost certain that the boat would be bought for Christmas, the savings came to a stop. The green vegetables were nearly all harvested and sold, when a scorching nor’west gale swept over the saddle to flatten most of the rest of the garden. The green peas dried up; and there were only the beans to sell until the root crops were ready.

The Phipps family had a short lull in their busy days to make Christmas presents for one another. They whittled spinningtops out of wood, stripped the flax and plaited whips, and made quaint ornaments with shells and pebbles. Mary Ann cut up old black stockings to make a golliwog for Emma. It was hard work sewing up the black stuff, when Emma was asleep, by the dim light of the slush-lamp; if only she had Mrs McCracken’s sewing-machine now! But Emma’s delight on Christmas morning repaid her for everything. The golliwog’s round red smile was matched by her own, and she went round all morning singing ‘Boola boy, Boola boy…’

As for Christmas dinner, a young rooster made the main dish and there was a marvellous plum duff, a ‘spotty Dick’, well studded with currants.

For the first time they all went to Christmas service in the cob hut a mile-and-a-half farther up the Bay, just below the ‘church acre’ where the people planned to build a real church very soon. Green ferns decorated the makeshift altar and a
violin played for the carols. Afterwards the families lingered in the warm sunshine and talked, for church was the only social occasion they ever had; and Mrs Phipps met the settlers she had been far too busy to get to know—the Vigers, the Beecheys, the Hodgsons, the Dobbses and the Calverts.

With the New Year, Bill and Jack were in great demand as labourers for the harvest. Several farmers were growing wheat and barley, which must be cut and stacked by hand. The boys brought home their wages, thinking they would go into the hoard for buying the boat; but this time Mrs Phipps said firmly, ‘No!’

‘It’s needed for something more important—even than the boat, Jack.’

‘Mother—it can’t be!’

‘We sweated up there all day in the sun—’ grumbled Bill.

‘And we can’t carry
potatoes
to Lyttelton! We must have a boat!’

‘What could be more important?’

‘Your schooling, boys,’ she said.

‘Schooling!’ Bill said scornfully. ‘I can read good enough—and besides I work with my hands. They reckon I work good.’

‘A bit of brain to guide your hands won’t be wasted, Bill. At least you’ll master enough figuring not to be taken down; and you can hold your heads up anywhere.’

‘But we’re too big for school,’ argued Jack. ‘We’re doing man’s work, we are!’

Mary Ann seized her turn.

‘If we could change places I know what I’d do!’ she cried. ‘I’d give my best bonnet for the chance you’ve got. I’ve seen
myself—serving tea to young ladies who could talk with gentlemen and not give themselves away every time they opened their mouths. He wanted me to go to England—and what if I’d gone, and couldn’t talk to his people? I was too scared. I hate being ignorant, I hate it!’

She stamped her foot, angry with the whole world, and the boys did not dare say another word in protest.

School began as soon as the harvest was over. Mr and Mrs Parsons had a little schoolroom, twelve feet by twelve, in their own small house. Here sat a dozen children at all stages of learning; some painfully drawing their letters on their slates, big boys though they were; others studying mathematics, history, Latin and Greek. They walked or rode from miles away, ten boys and two girls, bringing their copybooks and pencils, and threepence a day for the teacher.

Mrs Phipps sold some eggs and young roosters and bought two goats, which Archie learned to milk. Besides saving money, Mrs Phipps thought this would be better than going to Mr Dyer for milk, since in January he had been married. The wedding was a simple affair. He had ridden off to Christchurch at seven in the morning, leaving Joe Munnings, the young man who worked for him, to straighten up the house, groom the bullocks and take the sledge down to the road. In the evening the bride came to her new home riding in the bullock-sledge as gaily as if it had been a carriage.

Mr Dyer worked with fresh enthusiasm to improve his farm. Impatient with the endless work of clearing the fern, he chose a gentle morning in March to set a match to it. The nor’east breeze carried the fire upwards; he expected it to be stopped by the rocky ledges near the ridge. But Mrs Phipps, seeing the glow high on the hills after darkness had fallen
that day, was uneasy. She had seen bush-fires in Australia, and thought of them with awe and fear; besides, she knew how quickly the Canterbury winds could change.

During the night, the nor’easter did indeed swing round to the nor’west and Mr Dyer awoke in the morning to a strong smell of smoke.

He hurried to a knob near by and saw that the fire was burning downhill through fresh fern, across the property of his nearest neighbour, Mr Beechey. Between the fire and the Bay were a number of houses and also the timber stacked in readiness for building the church. Still, it did not appear dangerous and the green patches of tutu should hold it back. He found Joe Munnings quietly milking the cows, and went in to breakfast, saying nothing to alarm his wife.

When he came to have a second look, he met Bill and Jack Phipps coming up carrying sacks, axes and a slasher.

‘Mother says you’ll be needing us,’ said Bill bluntly.

‘But you can’t see the fire from
your
place?’

‘We can see the smoke and the direction of the wind—that’s enough!’

Mr Dyer went into action at once.

‘I’ll take my horse and go out and warn everyone. We’ll meet—let me see—at the church acre. That’s the way it’s going. Bill, would you find Joe Munnings, and tell Mrs Dyer I’ve gone? Only please take care not to alarm her!’

As he galloped down the hill, Mr Dyer saw Archie Phipps coming up alone. He looked very small, he was only ten years old after all, and Mr Dyer wondered that his mother should let him come. But he could not stop to talk.

The nor’wester was now blowing in strong gusts. With every burst of wind the fire blazed and widened. The settlers
did not need to be roused and were out already when Mr Dyer appeared. There was no hope of stopping it in the fern; and so it was decided to cut back the tutu and scrub in a deep line above the houses. This meant working in the thick of the smoke, where each man could see only the next in the line, and with the stifling nor’wester in their faces.

Soon the women were in action too. Billies of cool water and hot tea, baskets of bread and scones were carried the length of the line. When sparks blew across the unfinished firebreak, the wives took up sacks to beat them out.

Mary Ann brought Jim and Emma with her to Mrs Dobbs’s house, and helped with the baking, for she was quicker at this than anyone else. Jim found himself minding the Dobbs’s baby as well as Emma—a sad task for a boy whose brothers were fire-fighting. Mrs Phipps took a tea-billy up the hill herself. She knew that Archie had gone, without her permission, to join his brothers; but she was not out to bring him home. If he were in the road, the men would send him away. Still, as she handed out pannikins of tea she asked quietly if anyone had seen Archie; and she was about to go down without an answer when she heard a hoarse voice calling her.

‘Mother! Mother…’

Bill was coming out of the smoke with Archie in his arms. He was stumbling, for his eyes were wet and blurred, and Archie lay quite limp, half-suffocated.

Her quick eyes summed everything up at once.

‘Bill—are you all right?’

‘It’s only the smoke,’ he said, coughing.

‘And were you with Jack?’

‘Yes, he’s still there.’

‘You must stay with him; keep together, do you hear? I’ll take care of Archie. I’ve got a broad enough back.’

She was quite determined. As soon as Bill could muster enough strength to lift his brother, she took Archie’s weight across her shoulders and grasped his wrists and ankles.

‘Mother, let me come,’ pleaded Bill.

‘No. You must stay with Jack—when you come, come together,’ she commanded.

With slow, careful steps she descended the hill. She could not stop to rest, because there was no one to lift Archie up again if she did. All the while she gave a silent prayer that Archie would come round safely—and with it, a joy and pride came to her, that her children had all grown sturdy in this hard, clean life.

Nobody saw her coming. She tapped her hardest on Mrs Dobbs’s door with the toe of her boot. Footsteps came quickly, the door opened and Mrs Phipps lost her balance and fell through on to the bare board floor.

‘Mother!’ cried Mary Ann in a fright.

Somewhere beyond her, Emma sobbed: ‘Mumma, Mumma!’

‘Archie,’ said Mrs Phipps, and fainted.

Even in the house, smoke was everywhere except in the bedroom, where Mrs Dobbs had plugged every crack to keep the air clear for her sleeping baby. Mary Ann and Mrs Dobbs laid Mrs Phipps on the bed and Archie on the floor, banging the door shut in the frightened faces of Jim and Emma, who began to bawl loudly. This was no time for explaining anything. It was puzzle enough to know where to begin; but Mary Ann knew that whenever there was a doubt, her mother’s word was law; and her mother had said
Archie.

‘She’ll come round by herself,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s Archie who’s suffocated.’

The two women turned him on his back and gently moved his arms and shoulders to work some air into his lungs. The baby woke and began to whimper. Mrs Phipps stirred at this sound and hung her head over the side of the bed, sighing. The two children outside continued to bawl, and there was hardly room to move.

‘Oh,’ gasped Mrs Dobbs, ‘if only we had some real fresh air!’

She swayed. Mary Ann thought with terror: am I to have them all on my hands? Forgetting everything else she pulled out the cloth that plugged the window-sill and threw up the sash.

Cool, sweet air flowed in from beyond the head of the Bay.

‘The wind’s changed!’ cried Mary Ann. ‘Mrs Dobbs, it’s gone to sou’west! Mother, it’s changed!’

Mrs Dobbs leaned out and breathed deeply. ‘Yes, it’s sou’west—praised be the Lord!’

Archie began to cough. Mrs Dobbs lifted her baby to comfort him and Mary Ann opened the door to her terrified brother and sister. Emma scrambled up on to the bed and cuddled close to her half-conscious mother; and the cold wind blew deliciously over them.

Up on the hill the men saw the smoke curling away to reveal one blackened face after another. They could hardly believe their good fortune. The fire, no longer fierce, began to burn back in a slanting line to where it had first been lit. If the sou’wester held, it would certainly burn itself out.

Bill and Jack sat down to rest their heads on their knees. It
took a long spell before they could think of a fresh worry.

‘Bill,’ said Jack, stretching up, ‘what if it burns down to our place?’

‘How could it? It’s burning uphill.’

‘But if the wind came down again?’

‘We’d soon know.’

‘What’s happened to Archie?’

‘He’s at my place, with your mother, quite safe,’ said a voice, and Jack looked up to see Mrs Dobbs holding out a pannikin of water. He thanked her and drank gratefully, and stood up.

‘I’m off home. I want to see it’s all right,’ he said.

Although common sense told him that the fire could not possibly have touched the house, Jack couldn’t rest until he had made sure. Bill went with him, but as they reached a high point and saw for themselves that the fire was beyond danger, he exclaimed:

‘I don’t suppose I’ll be around here much longer.’

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Jack.

‘What is there for me here? One day I’m a schoolboy, next day I’m a hired labourer. Something happens like this fire and I’m as good as the next man, and better than most. I could make my way anywhere.’

‘Where would you go, Bill?’ Jack wasn’t sure whether to admire his brother’s boldness or to jibe at his boasting.

‘I’m not sure yet,’ said Bill seriously. ‘It might be Nelson.’

A vague connection stirred in Jack’s mind. ‘Nelson? Did they find gold in Nelson?’ ‘Somewhere thereabouts. I’d go if there was a real big strike. Whatever anyone said.’

A weird, high-pitched cry sounded suddenly from the direction of the cottage. Goldfields forgotten, Jack began to run—the haunting vision of his own home going up in flames returning.

But the clearing, the garden, the white walls were exactly as they had been left. Only the two goats strained at their tethers and bleated in protest because it was time for their milking.

Although it was only autumn, there came a burst of winter with a ‘southerly buster’ which raged for six days. No one could go to school, for the dry gullies became rivers, and the tracks were impassable with mud. The roar of the waves and the gale in the trees filled day and night with noise.

Snug and warm with a good stack of firewood and a huge pan of broth always simmering, the Phipps family had spent the third day indoors with their needlework and their lessons. Even Emma borrowed a slate and made letters and drawings which looked like scribbles to everyone else, but were full of meanings for herself. When daylight gave out, books had to be put away. After the meal, the family gathered around the fire.

‘A story now, Mumma!’ said Jim.

‘Story,’ sang Emma, ‘story, story!’

Bill and Jack took out the draught-board and settled down to play, while Mary Ann sat quietly knitting. Mrs Phipps began with Emma’s favourite—the Old Woman and her Pig.

They had reached the point where for the seventh time the piggy wouldn’t jump over the stile, when Archie interrupted from his place by the door.

‘Somebody’s knocking.’

‘Hark, everyone!’

There was a hush, but nothing was heard except the storm
and the crackling of the fire. ‘Who would find their way down here on a night like this?’ said Mrs Phipps.

‘Go on with the story,’ begged Jim.

‘So the old woman went a little farther and she found a butcher—’

Archie turned his head sharply, stretched over and lifted the latch. The door swung open with the force of the wind behind it.

A young Maori woman stood there, wrapped in a cloak of coarse flax, with a little girl in front of her. The woman had a pikau on her back, but whether there was a baby in it nobody could tell. They were like two sodden statues.

‘Why, come inside!’ cried Mrs Phipps. ‘You can’t stand there in this weather. Mary Ann, put the kettle on!’

The woman nodded gravely and pushed the girl before her into the room. Behind them now appeared a very old woman with a tattooed chin and wrinkled cheeks. Water poured from them and over their bare muddy feet. The tiny room was crammed with people.

‘Back children, and let them come to the fire! Never mind the wet—we must get some warmth into you,’ said Mrs Phipps.

The children pressed back to the wall, and Mary Ann pushed the kettle and the soup pan over the blaze, and hurried to the bedroom. The old woman began to speak rapidly in Maori. Mrs Phipps took her hands and drew her to the hearth; the hands were numb and stiff. Shyly the little girl came to the warmth.

‘Boys!’ commanded Mrs Phipps. ‘All to bed! There’s work to be done here. Archie, take Emma, please.’

‘Story! I want the story!’

‘No, Emma.’

‘I’ll tell you the story in your bed,’ whispered Archie as he took her in his arms. At the bedroom entrance they had to dodge Mary Ann who was almost hidden behind an armful of blankets.

The young mother lifted down the pikau. Yes, there was a baby, a sad little thing who barely moved and had not enough strength to cry.

‘Mumma,’ whispered Jim, ‘is the baby dead?’

‘No, but it’s very ill, I think. You must go to bed; we’ll be very busy making it better.’

The boys had to run around the house to their own bedroom entrance, and a gust from the door sent a shiver through the room. Already Mary Ann had begun work on the girl, stripping off her clothes and rubbing her dry. The old woman, with a few quiet words, loosened her own cloak and let the heat from the fire draw the steam away; she moved her arms gently and rhythmically to restore the circulation. The young mother sat without moving, quite exhausted.

‘Let me take the baby,’ said Mrs Phipps kindly. ‘You must get yourself dry.’

‘He’s very sick,’ said the mother.

The baby’s hands and feet were icy but his forehead burned in a hot flush under the brown skin. Mrs Phipps held him to the fire, rubbing him gently, as she had often done with a weakling calf. By this time the little girl had a warm blanket wrapped round her naked body and was sipping her bowl of hot broth. Mary Ann set the teapot to brew and helped the young mother to change. Only when she had taken her cup of strong, sweet tea did she have strength enough to speak.

‘My husband is away at Akaroa,’ said the mother at last.
‘The water washes the houses at Rapaki—our house, many others, full of water. We come here.’

‘You did right to come,’ Mrs Phipps assured her. ‘I have been through Rapaki, but I do not know your names.’

‘This is Mrs Tau, my husband’s grandmother.’ The old woman looked up and nodded at the mention of her own name.

‘You are Mrs Tau, too?’

‘I am Mrs Tau; I am Miria. The girl, Eita—Esther. The boy, Wiremu—very sick.’

‘Wiremu? That’s William, isn’t it? We also have a William! You have milk for the baby, have you?’

‘He will not drink. He will die.’

Her voice was without hope and so was the tone of the Maori words that came rapidly from Mrs Tau. Those old eyes had seen many sorrows. Before the white settlement, the warparties of the great chief Te Rauparaha had come from the north and killed many of their kinsmen. There had even been a long feud within their own Ngai Tahu tribe. Measles and influenza, brought by the Pakeha, had taken many Maori lives. Was it likely that this little one could be saved?

Miria repeated a little of this in English, but Mrs Phipps would have no such talk.

‘Where there’s life, there’s hope. You have milk?’

‘Yes, I have milk.’

‘Then I shall make him wake now, and cry, and when he cries you must force him to swallow. Perhaps he will only swallow a drop. Never mind that: you must make him.’

She slapped the baby hard until his lips parted in a loud wail, then pressed him into Miria’s arms. Miria looked quite bewildered; but a gleam came into Mrs Tau’s eyes and she
began to talk, nodding quickly in approval. Every time little Wiremu’s mouth could be made to open, he could be given a few drops.

Eita slid slowly to the hearth, fast asleep. Mary Ann carried her into the bedroom and laid her in her own bunk. Then she made toast to go with the broth for Mrs Tau, after which the old woman settled herself in the corner and brought out a pipe and tobacco, drying it carefully before the fire. Soon the strong smell of tobacco-smoke drifted through the house. Horrified, Mary Ann glanced at her mother; but Mrs Phipps paid no attention.

When the baby had drunk a little and could be allowed to rest, Miria took food for herself. ‘We others shall not be in bed tonight,’ whispered Mrs Phipps. ‘You must go, Mary Ann.’

‘The girl is in my bunk.’

‘Then you must take mine.’

Mary Ann knew this was no time for argument—although there were no blankets left, and she must sleep in her clothes with her shawls drawn over her.

All night the fire was kept alight and Miria fed with broth, bread and tea. Every hour the baby was awakened and made to swallow; but his cries did not wake the sleepers, not even his great-grandmother propped in the corner. Only when her own children were astir in the morning did Mrs Phipps think it time to send Miria and little Wiremu to lie down. As for herself, the day’s work was beginning as usual.

The storm continued for three more days. Flour ran low, and no stores could be brought in, but there were always potatoes to fill the pot. ‘Ah,’ said Miria, ‘at Rapaki we have dried shark. When we go home, we will send you the dried shark!’

She was no longer weary and hopeless, for baby Wiremu
was almost well. The fever had left him, and his face had puckered that morning into a true baby smile, given to an adoring Emma! Eita chattered and played, and Miria herself was like a big girl, laughing and singing, and delighted that the boys had a draught-board. At Rapaki, all the Maoris loved to play draughts. And could they do stick-games? After Jack had whittled enough sticks from the woodpile they sat on the floor in a circle while Miria sang, and taught them how to clap the sticks together and toss them from one to another in all sorts of ways. How she laughed when the sticks slipped from their hands and clattered down! And then Eita discovered Emma’s doll Bibi, neglected since Boola had come at Christmas-time, and spent hours wrapping her in pieces of rag. Mrs Phipps, who loved to sing at her work, was startled to hear a soft and perfect harmony joining the familiar Old Country melodies. Sometimes there was even a triple harmony when Mrs Tau came in with her deep voice; but mostly the old woman merely sat and smoked.

It was like camping, with the house so full that people were apologising all day for pushing past or falling over one another. But at the first beam of sunshine, every child dashed outside and danced madly on the muddy earth, except little Wiremu who slept in peaceful contentment.

When the tracks had dried out and the creeks had fallen, the Tau family went away.

‘We will come again!’ cried Miria. ‘We send you the dried shark!’