Skylark (26 page)

‘All's well, Lily,' he said. ‘The rascal has been run out of town.'

The article said that a notorious Captain William ‘Bully' Hayes had brought his unseaworthy boat over the bar in a most unwise manner. Four of his passengers were lost overboard in all the pitching and tossing, and drowned. But can you imagine this? That blackguard made no report of the poor lost souls, but tied up at Taupo Quay and spent the night in Whanganui with his lady wife enjoying the entertainment and drinking with the Imperial troops from the 18th. The Superintendent ran him and his crew of roughnecks out to sea in his rotten boat with the order never to cross the bar again. Ha!

I fancy Jack was as happy at the news as Lily. They were both out in the fields in the sunshine again, singing and laughing with the little ones.

I made my special jam roly-poly to celebrate. The centre has raisins and lemon peel as well as the jam. Damson is best.

[Archivist's Note: At this stage in the journal several pages are pasted in. The first is a record of children's names, the list written in Mattie's hand. From the style of names I think we may deduce that the children on the left of the page are Lily's, those on the right, Mattie's. E. de M.]

A letter from Lily to Jack and Mattie

[Undated. Probably late 1867 or early 1868. E. de. M.]

My dearest Jack and Mattie,

I beg you to forgive my silence. Believe me, I have been so busy with two new plays to learn every fortnight, not to mention songs and dances. I am run off my feet!

You will be very surprised to hear where I am. The goldfields at Grahamstown on the Coromandel Peninsula! Jack, you will know it from your time in Auckland. Please do not be angry, this tour is to be a short one and I will be back safely home with the little ones and your dear selves before you know it.

My season in Whanganui was very disappointing. The local militias were not nearly as interested in theatre as the departed English troops were. The locals drink and fight, and will only occasionally listen to a song or two. Where has all the refinement disappeared to?

I have been very disturbed recently. A small item in the newspaper reported that a certain horrid man — you know who I mean — was shot dead up in the islands. Oh how I rejoiced! A great weight was lifted from my shoulders. But then the very next day the report was declared false. Evidently the same horrid Captain Bully Hayes had put the news of his death about, in order to escape from creditors. Down I plunged into fear and trembling again. When will I ever be free? I fear he will turn up at the goldfields, or back in Whanganui. It is like a dark nightmare.

I came to be here in the goldfields by a stroke of good fortune.
What happened is this. While in Whanganui with the Christies, I happened to meet Mr Charles Thatcher. Yes, the Inimitable himself, who was performing at the Royal with his wife Madame Vitelli. The war and all the soldiers about gave him plenty of good material for his ‘locals’. But then Madame Vitelli became ill, poor soul, and not able to accompany him to the goldfields so he asked me to stand in for her! It seems I am to be the simple bridesmaid to all the lady performers in the world while they suffer their little illnesses and confinements. Well, of course I could not refuse the good man. He always needs a woman at hand to give the audience the softer songs (and to prompt him over his new lines, for he is most forgetful when intoxicated!). He has promised two benefits will go to me, and a good percentage of the takings every night plus my board, so I will come back with a little present for you all. What do you say to a piano?

So we set out by ship up the coast to Auckland’s Manukau Harbour — a most frightful voyage, but forgotten now — then by coach to Auckland. Dear, oh dear, that town has gone downhill badly. All the British troops are gone back to Australia and the New Zealand militias, as you know, are down near you fighting the Hauhau. I found not one theatre open, and saw no playbill posted up that night, not even by amateurs. Mr Thatcher and I gave an impromptu at the Odd Fellows, but it was a cheerless affair. All the bright sparks have gone to the goldfields, it seems.

Next day we headed that way too. You cannot believe the mayhem down at the harbour! Every rotten tub pressed into service to take prospectors across to the peninsula. We managed to secure deck passage — standing room only — on a small steamer belonging to a friend of Mr Thatcher’s. Thankfully a short trip, but oh, the arrival! I never saw the like. They have only a small jetty, you see. Boats and ships of all sizes and shapes were jostling for a berth. Our man tied up to a stout little brig that was itself triple-bunking. I had to scramble across three decks before I could reach terra firma! Just as well I have the circus training to keep me steady, or I would have dropped into the water more than once. Mr Thatcher, who has grown fat and was in any case
under the influence, had a dreadful time of it, bruising himself in several unmentionable places.

We are staying at Rose’s Free and Easy, where there is a large hall behind for singing and dancing. Not a very high standard, but miners have never been choosy in my experience. Mr Thatcher and I perform most nights at the Theatre Royal, taking a slot after Mrs Robert Heir, who is a very grand lady with a singing voice almost to rival mine!

Then after a bracket of songs — mine emotional and his local — we pick our way through the mud down to the American on Pollen Street. You never saw such a place! When I think of the rough shanties that passed for theatres down on the Arrow, the American seems a veritable palace. It is seventy feet long and thirty wide. When the Inimitable is performing his ‘local’ songs — lampooning the local dignitaries or anyone else who catches his eye — the whole great room is crammed and buzzing. Six hundred a night pay their shilling! Can you imagine? No wonder Auckland has fallen silent. The American’s great long bar can liquor two hundred thirsty diggers at one time.

It is all very exciting and interesting.

Jack, you might put some money into shares for the Martha Mine or the Waihi. They are calling for investors. Mr Thatcher says keep your brass for travel, but I am not sure. This is a very different matter from the Arrow, where it was every man for himself. The gold here is encased in hard quartz, which must be crushed before the metal can be recovered. Diggers work for a boss who has the money to invest in drilling holes in the rock and installing machinery. Panning is not the order of the day at all, but a noisy activity called stamping. The wretched machines at one end of town go night and day, crushing, crushing, until my head might go mad with the sound. The locals say you get used to it. My ears must be more delicate than theirs.

My dears, here is an extraordinary story. Just yesterday I was walking at the far end of town where there are many mines. Mr Thatcher came with me. At one place the tailings from
a mine up on the hill tumbled down across our pathway. In picking our way across, Mr Thatcher stumbled and fell, badly twisting his ankle. Oh, the moaning and groaning! He is not the easiest man to deal with even though he is very clever and a fine entertainer. Well, as I fossicked for a stick to hold his weight, I spied a gleam in the little stream. What did I spy but several lumps of discarded quartz, with a seam of gold right through! I admit I clean forgot Mr Thatcher and his mishap and scrambled up over the spilled quartz. Several more little rocks rewarded me with the colour. After about an hour I had my scarf bulging with discarded rocks! These stampers are very wasteful. Surely the miners are losing a good proportion of the gold in their haste to get rich. I will bring back the rocks and we will have a grand time breaking them up!

By the time I returned, the Inimitable had found a passerby who helped him home. His ankle is still very painful. He could not perform for several days and he is very annoyed with me. I did not tell him the reason! It is our little secret!

Well, my dears, perhaps I will stay another week or two while the diggers still enjoy my songs. I am performing also in the melodramas and farces. My memory is as sharp as ever so I am useful in the various companies here. Oh, bravo for the gold rushes! They are an artiste’s great joy and good fortune.

The newspaper here says the war down your way has become serious, with some Pakeha deaths. I expect the reports are exaggerated. Our Maori would never turn against us; Matiu is a dear, and all his tribe upriver. They would never hurt a fly. All the same, take good care. I know you are a good shot with a gun, Mattie, and will protect all the little ones if Jack is away.

Please kiss Samuel and Phoebe for me — and Sarah and Bawling Bert too, of course. How are the neighbours behaving? Jack, perhaps it is time to shock them a little and take Mattie to dinner when they invite you.

Your loving Lily (or Miss Ruby Valentine as I am known at the American)

[Archivist’s Note: My ever vigilant editor informs me that there is no verification, in all the extensive bibliography concerning Charles Thatcher the Inimitable, of an accident while he performed in Thames. She suggests Lily is romancing at this stage, wanting to impress her family with interesting deeds. I am reluctant to delete the passage. If Lily is romancing, perhaps it is for a purpose. I am inclined to believe that she feels guilty at deserting her family and wants to divert them from feeling annoyed with her. An interesting insight into her character. E. de M.]

[Archivist’s Note: This section is preceded by a note in Mattie’s hand, which I have omitted as it is somewhat domestic and rambling. In essence, Mattie, having noticed that Jack has lost interest in the readings since Samuel has not reported Jack’s part in the story, has effected a reconciliation between father and ‘son’. Jack was heard to grumble that the ‘women would write all theatrical and domestic events as if they would shatter the world, while ignoring the great and disastrous war in their back yard’.

After a series of delicate interventions by Mattie, Samuel has been persuaded to take up the reins again and report his father’s part in the war against ‘that blackguard Titoko Waru’ [sic]. It becomes clear that Samuel has also quizzed his stepmother, Mattie, about her feelings during the war. Samuel has, I believe, become accepted among the family as a talented writer, one who can be trusted to turn the dramas of the times into ‘a good yarn’.

Mattie has consistently written the name of the Maori leader as Titoko Waru. I have converted this to the now commonly accepted Titokowaru. E. de M.]

Jack looks up from his desk at the knock. The flame of the candle flickers then rises again as the door opens and Matiu enters on silent, bare feet without waiting to be invited. He’s breathing heavily and carries a flax kete filled with vegetables, which he lowers quietly to the floor.

‘Mr Lacey,’ he whispers. ‘Please go away now.’

Jack sighs. Matiu has been trying to persuade him to leave the farm for the safety of Whanganui, or at least Kai Iwi, for the last week.

‘Matiu, we are well south of the troubles,’ he says, also keeping his voice down. Mattie has had a long battle with baby Bert, who thinks the nights are the best times for being noisy. ‘And anyway,’ he adds, ‘your folk are friendly. They wouldn’t turn against us.’

Matiu looks at the floor. ‘Here are potatoes and maize from my hapu. Gift.’

This surprises Jack. He is used to procuring vegetables and meat from the Nga Rauru families further up the valley, but it has always been a strictly commercial transaction.

‘Thank you,’ he says, waiting for the request for horse feed or a bridle.

None comes. Matiu shifts from one foot to the other. ‘Mr Lacey, your army is beaten. Titokowaru is victorious. At Moturoa.’ He clears his throat, nervous at bringing such dire news.

This announcement brings Jack to his feet. He crosses the floor and looks closely into Matiu’s eyes. Perhaps his groom has been drinking. Matiu looks steadily back. There’s a touch of pride in his response which unsettles Jack further. ‘True, boss. No doubt. Many losses. Your troops are retreating now, away from Wairoa. Mr Lacey, please. Go away.’

Tears glitter in Matiu’s eyes. Jack has never known him other than cheerful and hardworking; his wife and little boy friendly; his old mother, on her few visits to the farm, generous with her herbs and advice for ailments.

‘Will your people not protect us?’ asks Jack. ‘Would Titokowaru dare attack those protected by Nga Rauru?’

‘Oh, Mr Lacey,’ says Matiu sadly, ‘you are not noticing what is happening. Our people fight
with
Titoko now.’ He gestures widely towards the east. ‘All up the valley, only old women and children left. We have joined Pai Marire.’

Jack begins to fear that Matiu tells the truth. For some days now there has been no traffic from further up the valley: no cartloads
of produce; no women and children singing as they walk down to the market at Weraroa. ‘Would you fight the Pakeha?’ he asks Matiu. ‘Surely you cannot.’

Matiu draws himself up then. ‘I will never attack you or your family. No. Never. You are
our
Pakeha. All Nga Rauru from Waitotara River will not harm you. But the Nga Ruahine don’t know you, Mr Lacey, and they are coming soon, soon.’ He balls his large fists and then suddenly opens them; the fingers vibrate. ‘I myself will fight with Titokowaru. He is stronger than the Pakeha. He will win. Our tribe has given word to him. Already my cousin’s father is dead from a Pakeha bullet. Your Colonel Whitmore’s militia has killed him.’

Matiu has regained his composure. He stands proudly now. ‘We will take back our land which was stolen.’

‘I bought my land fair and square, you know that.’

‘But many did not, you know
that
.’

Jack is astonished. He has never suspected such feelings from Matiu. Respect is what he has expected, and received, from his groom. Also friendship. This boldness is utterly new. Where has it come from?

Matiu suddenly grins. ‘Our leader, Titoko, has more than one wife. Perhaps you should join him too!’

This is too much for Jack. He raises his hand to strike his groom, thinks better of it, and shoves him out the door. Matiu leaves, laughing.

That laughter chills Jack to his bones. Something fearful is in the air. His easy-going and compliant servant laughing at him! He sits down again at his desk, but now the silence no longer seems peaceful. For some minutes he gazes into the candle flame. Lily is God knows where. On his last visit to Whanganui he could discover no news of her whereabouts. Doctor Ingram has heard nothing. Upstairs his five children and Mattie are sleeping. He simply cannot believe that Mattie could be drawn into this wretched Hauhau business. Or could she?

As if she’s heard his thoughts, Mattie appears in the room,
her glimmering nightdress the only thing visible in the low light. Jack smiles. There she is, though: his wife, so solid and reassuring, her hair loose, her voice quiet, loving.

‘I heard voices. Was that Matiu?’

Jack tells her the news. Mattie nods calmly as if she’s been expecting something of the sort.

‘Well, we must go,’ she says. ‘Matiu would not frighten us without good reason. I think we must go now, tonight.’

Jack gives her a quick kiss. She holds him tight for a moment, smiling. So steady and sure! No question of divided loyalty. No accusations or panic. Together they make their plans. Jack will bring the big cart around to the back yard. Mattie will quietly pack possessions and food, bedding and some few valuables. Also Lily’s trunk. Jack will bury the silver service and a box of crockery in the kitchen garden.

While Mattie is packing, Jack rounds up all the horses he can find in the dark and reins the two leaders to his own saddle. The rest will follow well enough. The house cow and pigs will have to be left to their own devices. Jack speaks quietly to Jess and Tup, the two dogs. They sit beside the cart, eyes gleaming in the moonlight, tongues lolling, watching every move. They will follow whether given permission or not!

Finally Mattie brings the sleeping babies down to the nest she has made in the centre of the cart. Only Bert startles and begins his bawling. Mattie quickly puts him to her breast, tying him there with a shawl so that her hands are free to drive the cart. Jack, mounted on Alouette, has brought his string of horses up behind the cart. His old rifle and his shotgun are at hand behind the saddle. He’ll be close if there are any problems. He raises his hand and she responds in the same way. Without another sound they move away, clopping quietly down the track towards Weraroa, Kai Iwi, Whanganui … who knows where they will be safe?

Jack notices that there are no lights at the neighbouring farms. Has everyone gone, then? Or are they all asleep? No dog barks as they pass. Jack’s farm is the furthest up the valley. Beyond him are only Maori settlements and bush. It’s strange
that no neighbour came to warn him. Perhaps his strange household, or Mattie’s dark skin, has prevented neighbourly good manners? Jack wants to move faster but must keep the slow pace set by the cart-horse. Jess and Tup, trotting at his heels, whine a little. They feel something strange in the air.

Through open fields and patches of bush they move, meeting no one. The dark moonlight reflected off the winding river shows the way. They move quietly through Weraroa. The little settlement seems deserted! On though the dark they clop until, at dawn, they reach the houses of Kai Iwi. Jack breathes a sigh of relief. Here is Woodall’s Redoubt. Whitmore will not fall back this far, surely. They’ll be safe here, and close enough to ride back home to see to the cow and pigs, if things settle down.

Alas for Jack’s hopes. The Imperial troops guarding Woodall’s direct them on to Whanganui.

‘Listen, sport,’ says one bored sergeant. ‘Our orders are to send you on south. Our bloody orders are not to fight unless to protect you colonials. I ask you. We’re the ones trained in warfare but no, the local militias, who get drunk every night and then shoot their own men while aiming at the Maori, are ordered out. God Almighty, what a cock up!’

Jack wants to argue, but is rudely rebuffed and sent on his way.

In the early morning the tired cavalcade arrives at Castlecliff. Here Mattie brings the cart to a halt and beckons Jack forward. The string of horses stamp and fidget. Jack has trouble holding Alouette still while he leans in to listen.

‘Jack,’ says Mattie in a clear, solemn voice, ‘when we reach Whanganui, I want you to treat me as your wife.’

Jack scratches at Alouette’s mane. ‘You
are
my wife.’

‘But not in the eyes of other people.’

The horses have now bunched up and are milling around the cart. Jack speaks to the dogs. ‘Jess! Tup!’

‘Jack,’ says Mattie. ‘Listen to me!’

‘I hear what you are saying, Mattie. But it is not so simple.’

‘Well, we will just have to live with “not so simple”, then. You will introduce me as Mrs Lacey, your wife. After all, Lily is the
“not so simple” part of our life. I am the one always at your side. The mother of the children.’

Jack sees that she is right. No doubt everyone murmurs when Lily disappears. But he so loves Lily! Is so proud to visit with her and hear her sing in the parlours of friends. How can he possibly now introduce Mattie as his wife?

‘Mattie …’ he pleads.

The horses are getting out of hand. The laden cart of another fleeing family is trapped on the road behind them. There are shouts.

‘Promise!’ Mattie is unwavering, her hand pulling fast on the reins. ‘Jack, in all this pandemonium, it will be easier to announce me as your wife. These folk will be busy with their own fears.’

Out of desperation, Jack promises, hoping that somehow he will be able to smooth over the issue. Their strange life all seemed possible — even logical — when Lily proposed it. Without her, it becomes a hopeless tangle.

While Jack seeks pasturage for the horses, Mattie knocks on the door of Mr Dunleavy’s Whanganui Hotel. A Miss Dunleavy answers the door.

‘Dearie me!’ she cries at the sight of Mattie’s laden arms. ‘We’ve no decent rooms left at all, let alone any suitable for babies.’

‘There are three more in the cart,’ says Mattie, ‘and my husband who is seeing to the horses.’ She smiles. ‘If you are busy, you might need an extra groom. He is very experienced. Please could you help us? We can pay.’

Mr Dunleavy appears behind his daughter: a rotund cheerful man, wiping his breakfast from his beard. ‘A groom, eh? Now then, now then, let us see. Would you be willing to set up above the stables, my dear? We can provide board and will make up your mattresses there. One pound five shillings a week for you each.’

‘The babies would be free, of course?’

Mr Dunleavy hesitates.

‘And Jack would be paid for his grooming?’

Mr Dunleavy frowns. ‘You are not in a position, I think to bargain, Mrs …’

‘Lacey.’

‘Oh!’ says the daughter. ‘Jack Lacey, the horse trainer?’

‘My husband.’

The hoteliers glance quickly at each other.

‘Perhaps,’ says the big man, less cheerful now, ‘we will wait for Jack.’

Mattie nods grimly. ‘I would like to inform you that the woman you might see on his arm in this town is his friend — his good friend —
Miss
Lily. I am his wife. These are his children.’

Mr Dunleavy clears his throat. Spits. ‘Might I ask what tribe you support in this wretched war?’ His tone is decidedly chilly now.

‘I am of the Whanganui River Maori, whose kupapa fight with you against Titokowaru.’ Mattie speaks firmly. In truth she has no idea whose tribe she might belong to.

Bert’s bawling has now reached a crescendo and the other babies have joined in. Mattie is suddenly too tired for any more argument. She produces three sovereigns from the purse around her neck and holds them up wordlessly. They are persuasive enough.

When Jack returns without his string of horses, Mr Dunleavy is busy with two other families seeking refuge, and Mattie is settling blankets over nests of hay above the stables. Mattie is right as usual: the interesting news of Jack Lacey’s ‘second’, Maori wife is passed over in the midst of all the panic and overcrowding, the fear and hunger, the daily dead and wounded that overwhelm the citizens of Whanganui.

For a week Jack works as groom for Mr Dunleavy, but he chafes at serving another. By now he has sold all his horses to the militias. A new mounted section of the militia is being formed: one at Kai Iwi under Bryce, the other in Whanganui itself. Everyone is hoping the smart new cavalrymen in their uniforms, their sabres flashing, spurs jingling, will turn the tide.

Jack enrols with Bryce whom he knows, and is happy enough to strut with the others. He receives two shillings and sixpence a day and his rations, uses some of their earnings on a new carbine and sabre, and comes to the loft over the stables now and then to check on Mattie and the children. Mattie suspects he is avoiding
the issue of his ‘wives’ by living with the other cavalrymen in one of the newly erected blockhouses dotted around Whanganui. Often he’s away on manoeuvres at Kai Iwi.

One night, on a rare visit to Mattie, he sits glumly beside her in the hay, not his usual cheerful self at all. He regrets, he says, joining Bryce’s cavalry. ‘The man’s a bonehead,’ he says. ‘Rough with his horses and lenient with his men. Should be the other way around.’ The previous night a few men, Jack among them, were ordered out to ride towards Titokowaru’s pa at Tauranga Ika. They were not to engage in combat but were to report back on activity, on signs of fortifications, numbers of fighters and so on.