Here are a couple of brothers whom we made special friends with on the voyage, young hardy Scots; let us see how they get on. We find them at a premium, surrounded by a little crowd of farmers from the Waikato, who each and all seem intent on hiring them. The lads do not wish to part if they can help it; and so, as to get one means to get both, the farmers are all the hotter in their pursuit of them. For these young men are justthe right sort that are most wanted, having the thews and sinews and power of endurance so necessary for a rough life; having experience of sheep and cattle and agricultural work from their earliest infancy; having, in fact, all the qualities most essential and useful to the pioneer farmer. They come of the right race, too, as all the world knows—colonists especially—for honesty, sobriety, and patient industry.
What a change for them—from the inclement sky, the hostile winter, the rugged battle for life they have left behind them with their native Grampians, to this bright clime of everlasting summer, of strange fertility, to these sunshiny isles of beauty and plenty! Well, well, it is not a land of indolence either; the work demanded here is stern and hard and rough; but what a reward may be reaped in the end from earnest and unshrinking toil! No wonder if, in a year or two's time, our friends yonder will write to the dear ones they left at home, in the Perthshire glen, such an account as shall bear witness that they, at least, have found on earth the Peasant's Paradise!
There is hot and excited bargaining going on in the group of which the brothers form the centre. They are a little dazed, and do not venture to speak; but they are canny for all that, and bide their time. Amid the babel of voices that surroundsus on all sides, we catch a few utterances as follows:—
"Five shillings a day, and your tucker!"
"Five and threepence, lads!"
"He'll give you nothing but salt pork; try me at the same wage!"
"And you'll have to live on potatoes and pumpkins with him!"
"Five and six, and as much mutton as you want!"
"Too much, perhaps, and braxy at that!"
"Come, a cottage to yourselves, rations, and five and six a day!"
"Cottage! A tumble-down wharè is what he means!"
"Fresh meat every day with me, boys—beef, mutton, and pork!"
"Yes; and he'll want you to work twelve hours!"
"Better engage with me at five and nine; I'll lodge you well, and feed you first chop!"
And so on and so on, until at last the brothers pluck up determination, and make choice of an employer. So our Caledonian friends begin to gather together their traps and make preparations to accompany their complaisant and well-satisfied boss to his farm on the banks of the Waikato. And an indescribable joy is in their hearts, for theyare to receive six shillings and sixpence a day, and to be provided with comfortable lodging and lavish "tucker" withal; and though, no doubt, they will prove worthy of that high wage to their employer, yet what marvellous wealth it is, compared to the most they could have earned had they remained to toil upon the braes of Albyn!
Of course, very few of the other immigrants get such a wage as that. The two young Scots are the picked men of the crowd. Five shillings a day and "all found" is the ordinary wage for an agricultural, and though some are worth more, new-chums are generally held to be worth a good deal less for their first year. The distich—
"Eight hours' sleep and eight hours' play,Eight hours' work and eight bob a day,"
has been, and is, verified literally over and over again in New Zealand; but the "eight bob a day" cannot be called an ordinary wage. A man must be worth his salt and something over to get it, and will not do so unless labour is scarce and in much demand. Those who contract, or do work by the piece, often make as much and more if they are first-rate workers; and that kind of engagement is preferred by both employers and employés, as a rule.
All sorts of skilled labourers get high wages. Carpenters and blacksmiths will get ten and twelveshillings a day with their keep; and when they have saved a little money, and can go on the job by themselves, they may earn an advance on that.
I have already noticed the great demand that there is for female house-servants, and the high wages they can get. Girls cannot be relied on to stop in a situation very long, as they are sure to receive numerous matrimonial offers; hence there is a perpetual seeking after new domestics. Marriage is an institution that turns out uncommonly well here. There is no such thing as a descent to pauperism for those who will work. By little and little the working couple thrive and prosper, and as their family—New Zealand families run large, by the way—multiplies and grows up round them, they are able to enjoy the comforts of a competence they could never have attained at home. Some settlers, who originally came out, man and wife, as government immigrants drawn from the peasant class, are now wealthy proprietors of broad acres, flocks, and herds; and are able to send their sons to college and their daughters to finishing-schools; the whilom humble servant girl now riding in her carriage, and wearing silk and satin if she list. Such are the rewards that may tempt the peasant here. Difficulties there are in plenty, but they lessen year by year; while comfort and competence are certain inthe end, and wealth even is possible to the industrious.
Occasionally it happens that among a body of immigrants are one or two who are decidedly unsuitable. There is an example among our particular ship-load. Here is a woman, purblind, decrepit, looking sixty years old at least, and, by some incomprehensible series of mistakes, she has found her way out here as a "single girl!" What was the Agent-General in London about, and what could the Dispatching Officer have been thinking of, when they let this ancient cripple pass them? Yet here she is, a "single girl" in immigrant parlance; and work she must get somehow and somewhere, for there are no poorhouses or paupers here as yet. But even she, useless to all seeming as she is, and unable to bear her part in the energetic industry of a new country, will find her billet. A good-natured farmer takes her off, judging that she may earn her keep in his kitchen, and if not—well! he is prosperous, and should be generous too. And so old granny toddles away amid the friendly laughter of the crowd, satisfied enough to find there is a niche even for her in our Canaan.
The great question that of late years has been continually asked of old colonials in England is, what are the prospects afforded by New Zealand tomen of the middle classes? The answer is usually unfavourable, simply because many colonials cannot disassociate the idea of a gentleman adventurer from that of a scapegrace or ne'er-do-well. Secondly, they look at the questioner's present condition; and never take into consideration the power he may have of adapting himself to totally different circumstances. I think this view admits of considerable enlargement, and my experience has led me to believe that many a man, who struggles through life in the old country in some exacting and ill-paid sedentary occupation, might have been benefited by emigration. The colonies have been inundated with ruined spendthrifts, gamblers, drunkards, idle good-for-nothings, who have been induced to emigrate in the belief that that alone was a panacea for their moral diseases. Very very few of them have reformed or done any good, so that colonists are naturally prejudiced against their class, and look upon gentleman-new-chums with great suspicion. Again, some go out who are too delicate or sensitive to stand the roughnesses they are bound to undergo, and these break down in their apprenticeship the first year or two, and, if they can, go home again to speak evil of the colony ever afterwards.
One thing is certain, the educated man has the advantage over the uneducated, and his abler mindwill sooner or later be of use to him, although his physique may be weaker than the other's. The gently-nurtured individual finds the preliminary trials of colonial life very hard indeed—he is heavily handicapped at the start—but there is no reason why he may not do well after a time. Gentlemen-immigrants usually think they may find work of a congenial sort, such as clerking, assisting in a store, or some occupation of the kind in the city. That is a mistake; while yet they are new-chums there is but one thing for them to do—to go away into the bush and labour with their hands. Of new-chums, only artisans are absorbed into the city population as a rule; all others have to look to manual labour of some kind, and generally up-country, for a means of subsistence. All the clerks, counter-jumpers, secretaries, and so on, are either old colonials, or colonists' sons. Very rare is it for a gentleman new-chum to find a berth of that sort, perhaps he may after he has become "colonized," but at first he will have to go straight away and fell bush, chop firewood, drive cattle, or tend pigs. About the best advice I ever heard given to middle-class men, who thought of emigrating to New Zealand, was couched in some such terms as these.
"What are your prospects here? If you have any, stop where you are. But if you have no particular profession, nothing better before you than laborious quill-driving and the like, at eighty pounds a year, and small probability of ever rising so high as two hundred, however many years you stick to the desk, or the yard-measure, then you may think of emigrating. If you are strong and able-bodied, somewhere between sixteen and twenty-six years of age—for over twenty-six men are generally too old to emigrate, I think—I say, emigrate by all means, for you will have a better chance of leading a healthy, happy, and fairly comfortable life. But you must throw all ideas of gentility to the winds, banish the thought of refinement, and prepare for a rough, hard struggle, and it may be a long one, too. You may please yourselves with the prospect of competence, comfort, and even luxury in the distance, but you must look at it through a lengthy vista of real hard work, difficulty, and bodily hardship. Success, in a greater or lesser degree,alwaysfollows patient industry at the Antipodes; it can scarcely be said to do so in Britain.
"Now,Il n'y a que le premier pas qui coûte, and the worst time you will have is at the first; also, it is only for the start that you need advice, after you become 'colonized' you can look out for yourselves. If you have any particular acquaintance with a useful trade, so much the better; if you have not, and can do so,learn one before you go—carpentry, boat-building, blacksmithing, tinkering, cobbling; it will help you through wonderfully. It doesn't matter twopencehowyou go out, whether saloon, intermediate, or steerage, so far as your future prospects are concerned. If you can compass the means, go saloon—the extra comfort on a long voyage is well worth the extra price; besides, you might have some returning colonist as fellow-voyager, whose friendship would prove useful. When you land, bank any money you may have brought with you—whether it be ten pounds or ten thousand, I say the same—and resolve not to touch it, however you may be tempted, for two years at least. Then go about freely, get into the bush away from the city, make friends with every one everywhere, and let it be known that you are in search of work. Very soon you will hear of something or other. Take the job, the first that comes in your way, and stick to it till something better turns up. Don't be afraid of it whatever it is; don't imagine anything will hurt you or lower your dignity in the slightest so long as it is honest. Even if they make you a street-scavenger, remember that is better than loafing. In one year, or two, or three, you will be perfectly at home in the new life, and able to see, according to your abilities, the path that offers you the best prospect of the greatest success. Duringyour new-chum days of apprenticeship you must consider yourself as a common peasant, like the men you will probably have to associate with; don't be disconcerted at that, just work on, and by-and-by you will get ahead of them. You will meet plenty of nice gentlemanly fellows in any part of New Zealand, and they will think all the better of you if you are earnestly and energetically industrious. Lastly, don't run away with the notion that you are going to jump into luck directly you land. Wages are high to the right people, but you are not among those at the outset. You may be satisfied if you do anything more than just earn your keep, for the first six or twelve months."
I think that that is, upon the whole, pretty sound advice for the class of men to whom it is addressed; but I will go further, and point out what advantages the average middle-class "young gentleman" may reasonably look forward to from emigration to New Zealand. In the first place, he may expect to enjoy robust health, more perfect and enjoyable than he could hope for if tied down to a counting-house stool in the dingy atmosphere of a city. He will exchange the dull monotony of a sedentary occupation in the chill and varying climate of Britain, for a life of vigorous action in a land whose climate is simply superb. When he gets through the briars that mustnecessarily be traversed at the outset, he will find himself happier, freer from anxiety, and, on the whole, doing better than he would be if he had remained at the old life. He will "feel his life in every limb," and, remote from the world, know naught of its cares. If he be anything of a man, before ten or a dozen years are gone he will find himself with a bit of land and a house of his own; he will be married, or able to marry, his earnings will suffice for existence, while every pound saved and invested in property will be growing, doubling, and quadrupling itself for his age and his children. There is something to work for and hope for here: independence, contentment, and competence. It is not a stern struggle from year's end to year's end, with naught at the finish but a paltry pension, dependence on others, or the workhouse. The gentleman-colonist we are talking of is working for ahome, and, long before his term of life draws to its close, he will find himself, if not rich, at any rate, in the possession of more comfort and happiness than he could hope for in the old country.
I am not an emigration-tout, and have no interest in painting my picture in too vivid colours, and in these remarks I have transgressed against some of the ordinary colonial views on the subject; but I have done so with intention, because I considerthem not entirely in the right. The colonist says—we don't want gentlemen here, we wantMEN! But he forgets that the unfortunate individual he disparages has often more real manhood at bottom than the class below him. Therefore, the middle-class emigrant must remember the qualities most required in him—pluck, energy, and resolution.
I have met many middle-class men in the colony, and all contrived to bear out the view I have put forward by their own condition. Those who come to grief do so from their own failings and deficiencies. Some growl and grumble a little now and then, and think they would rather be back in England; but, when they reflect upon the condition they would probably be occupying at home in the ordinary course of things, they are forced to admit that they are better off. At any rate, such bitter and terrible distress as overtook so many thousands in Britain a year or two ago, could scarcely fall to the lot of the same people under any circumstances, if they were industrious colonists. But I have digressed inordinately, and must get back to Auckland forthwith.
The barracks are empty at last, and all our fellow-voyagers have found each his or her starting-point in the new life. Our own little party of cuddy-passengers is dispersed as well. Some havegone off to join friends in the country, some are gone on to distant parts of the colony, some have gone this way or that, scattering to work in all directions; only a couple of us are left, and it is time that we should begin to follow the plan we have conceived for ourselves.
Parting with shipmates, with the faces that have been so long familiar to us, seems to have severed the last link that bound us to the old country, the old home, and the old ways. We shall meet with many of them again, no doubt, but then the old "Englishness" will have disappeared, and we shall be at one with those who now are strangers to us, we too shall be New Zealanders. Henceforth all before us and around us is strange and new, an untried, unknown world. We are about to enter on a life totally different to that we have hitherto led, and it is a life that we have got to make ours for the time to come; for there is no thought in our minds of retreat, even if we find the unknown more distasteful than we think. But, courage! "Hope points before to guide us on our way," and, as yet, there is nothing in the prospect but what is bright and inspiriting, surely; nothing to diminish our youthful energy, nothing to daunt our British pluck! The past lies behind us, with its sweet and tender recollections, and with a softened sense of remembrance of those failures and sadnesses and bitternesses that are linked with them. Now our cry must be "Forward!" for a page in the book of our lives is completely turned down, and we may imagine there is endorsed upon it, "Sacred to the memory of auld lang syne!"
I and my last remaining shipmate certainly came out here without any very clear idea of what we were going to do. We came to make our fortunes, of course, after the manner of all new-chums, but as to how we were to set about it, and what were to be the first steps we should take, we had the very vaguest notion.
However, our condition of existence as new-chums sat very lightly upon us. Hope! We were all hope; we were hope incarnate! We felt that we were bound to win. It seemed, though, that the beginning must be made in some fashion that was, to say the least of it, unpleasant, now that we were face to face with the reality. Plenty of work offered, but none of it seemed to be of a particularly engaging kind; and, moreover, the wage offered us was extremely paltry, so we considered. For webelonged to that much maligned middle-class, which, in the chrysalis or new-chum stage, is so greatly contemned by colonists.
But it happened that, long long ago, a certain schoolfellow of ours had gone forth into the colonial world. He was in the sixth form when we were in the first, or thereabouts; but, as his family and ours were neighbours in the old home, there had been enough intimacy between us. It was owing to his letters home that we had determined on emigration. He had been apprised of our coming, so now we were not surprised to receive a message from him through a resident in Auckland. This was an invitation to join him at a distant settlement called Te Pahi, there to make a beginning at pioneer farm work, and see what might turn up.
We found on inquiry that little or nothing was known in Auckland of Te Pahi. It was a new township in the Kaipara district, lying sixty or eighty miles north of Auckland. That was about the sum of what we could learn of our destination, except that there were very few settlers in the Kaipara, and that communication between it and Auckland was not very good. Somewhat later than this date—in fact, to be precise, in 1875—an Auckland newspaper wrote of the Kaipara under the title of Terra Incognita. So that when we decided ongoing there, we felt that we were about to penetrate an almost unexplored country. But we found out what were the means of transit, and prepared to set out without further delay.
Now that we were on the point of starting into the bush, and entering into the realities of our new life, we began to encounter the difficulties of our situation. The first that met us would be more annoying were it not for the ludicrousness of it. It was the baggage difficulty, a thing that took us quite by surprise; for, till then, we had never appreciated the word "transport" at its full meaning. Like most home-living Britons, hitherto surrounded by every facility for locomotion of persons and goods, we had utterly failed to understand that in a new country things are wholly different in this respect. One can get about one's self easily enough; travel can always be accomplished somehow, even if one has to walk; but it is quite another thing to move baggage. In a roadless country, where labour is scarce and dear, the conveyance of goods from place to place is a difficult matter. It can be done, of course, but the cost of it is frightful.
Our old schoolfellow, who, by the way, will be known under the appellation of "Old Colonial" in these pages, had apparently had some experience of new-chums before. His agent in Auckland hadbeen instructed to see to us, and one of that person's first inquiries was regarding our impedimenta.
We had been out-fitted in London by the world-renowned firm of Argent and Joy. There being no experience to guide us, we had placed ourselves unreservedly in the hands of the firm, and had been provided by them with a sumptuous stock of what they were pleased to term necessaries. Altogether, these formed a goodly pile. Our bedroom at the hotel was cram full of boxes, trunks, and portmanteaus; and their contents were now spread out for the inspection of our adviser.
"Good gracious!" was his exclamation when he surveyed our property, and then he mused awhile.
"Look here!" he said suddenly. "I've got some distressing intelligence to break to you. Prepare your minds for a shock. This inheritance is adead horse. Chuck it overboard at once!" And he waved his hand impressively over our belongings.
We did not understand; we thought this was some new kind of joke—which it was, but not to us. We asked for explanations; all that we wanted was to know how we were to get these things up to the Kaipara. Our colonial friend sighed deeply, and proceeded mournfully to expound the position. He told us that we could not afford to possess more personals than were absolutely necessary, and these oughtto pack into one box of easily portable size. In the first place, the freight of our baggage into the bush would cost us something approaching to the expense of our passage out from England. In the second place, we were not going to a house of our own, but were going to work on different farms, and might be moving about a good deal. We could not carry such a cargo about with us, for the cost of doing so would be simply ruinous. It appeared, too, that we could not even keep the things until wehadgot a house of our own to store them in. For, our only resource, with that in view, would be to warehouse them in Auckland, and the expense of even this dead weight would make too large a hole in our possible earnings. Finally, there was hardly anything in our entire outfit that would be of much practical use to us.
Aghast and grieving, we comprehended at last that we should have to rid ourselves of the too heavy burden with which Messrs. Argent and Joy had weighted us, in consideration of that prodigious and ever-to-be-regretted cheque. There was no help for it. An Israelitish dealer, who happily abided in the city, would have to be called in. And it could scarcely be said that he bought our property of us; it was a nearer approach to our having to pay him to take it away.
Our friend contemptuously examined parcel after parcel of things. Dress suits and white waistcoats, broadcloth and doeskin, scarves and gloves, white shirts, collars, and cuffs all appeared to move his derision. He kicked aside a dozen pairs of boots with the remark that—
"There's nothing there fit for this country. Rough-hide and hobnails is what you want."
Certain tweed suits that the fancy of our London tailor had invested with the title "New Zealand Specialities" were, said our friend, only suitable for colonists who intended to settle on the top of the Southern Alps. Various knick-knacks, dressing-cases, writing-cases, clocks, etcetera, were regarded by him as contemptible lumber. Some silk socks he looked upon almost as a criminal possession.
In the end we were reduced to a single box apiece, containing something like the following assortment, several items of which had to be purchased in Auckland. Six flannel shirts, two blankets, two pair moleskin breeches, one light pilot coat, one light tweed coat and trousers (which we wore at the time), some handkerchiefs, some socks, two towels, brush and comb, two pairs of boots, and one pair of leggings, a wide-awake hat, and a few odds and ends. Such books as we had we were allowed to retain, for, although the time for reading is verylimited in the bush, yet, books being a rare commodity, are much prized there.
Of course, there was much merriment among the colonials at our expense, but I think the greatest mirth was excited by our cases of revolvers. These we had brought under the idea that they would prove to be a necessity, imagining that war with the Maoris was the normal condition of things, and that society was constituted something like what Bret Harte writes of in the Rocky Mountains.
We had had to pay a tax of five shillings each upon our pistols before bringing them on shore. We were now told that this tax was a main source of the Government revenue. Again, we were told that the exportation of new-chums' pistols to the United States was one of the main industries of the colony. But our purgatory was over at last, and our splendid outfits had passed into Hebrew hands, leaving a very meagre sum of money with us to represent them. And now we are ready to start in earnest.
Low down in the water, almost beneath the timbers of the wharf, is lying a queer little steam-tub, theGemini, which will convey us on the first stage of our journey. A loafer on the wharf cautions us mockingly to step aboard with care, lest we overset the little steamer, or break through her somewhatrickety planking. She is about the size of some of those steam-launches that puff up and down the English Thames, but she would look rather out of place among them; for theGeminiand her sister boat, theEclipse, which carry on the steam service of the Waitemata, are neither handsome nor new. They are rough and ready boats, very much the worse for wear. Such as they are, however, they suffice for the limited traffic up to Riverhead, and to the districts reached through that place. When that increases, doubtless their enterprising owner will replace them with more serviceable craft.
Punctuality is by no means one of the chief points of theGemini, and it is an hour or two after the advertised time before we get off. There is a good deal of snorting and shrieking, of backing and filling, on the part of our bark, and then at last we are fairly on our way up the river. We take a last long look at the good ship that brought us from England, as she lies out at anchor in the harbour, and when a bend in the river hides Auckland's streets and terraces from our view, we feel that we have turned our backs on civilization for a while, and are fast getting among the pioneers.
On board theGeminiis a face we know. It is that of Dobbs, a sometime shipmate of ours. He is a farm labourer from Sussex, and he and his wifehave come out among our ship-load of emigrants. There is a chronic look of wonder on their broad English faces. They are in speechless surprise at everything they see, but chiefly, apparently, at finding themselves actually in a new country at all.
Dobbs touches his hat, and addresses me as "sir," when he sees me, quite forgetting that we are now in the colonies, where such modes are not practised; regardless also of the fact that I am on my way to just the same life and work that he is himself. The skipper of theGemininotices the action, and grins sarcastically, while he tells a subordinate in a stage-whisper to "just look at them new-chums."
English readers must not suppose from this that colonial manners are discourteous. Far from it. Colonials will not touch their hats, or use any form that appears to remind them of servility, flunkeyism, or inequalities of station. On the other hand, incivility is much more rarely experienced among even the roughest colonials than it is in many parts of the old country, in Birmingham, for example. Apart from that, the new-chum is the incarnate comedy of colonial life. He is eagerly watched, and much laughed at; yet he is seldom or never subjected to any actual rudeness. On the contrary, he is generally treated with extra tenderness and consideration, on account of his helpless and immature condition. Perhaps I may sum up the analysis by saying, that, if polish is lacking to the colonial character, so also is boorishness.
Our fellow-emigrant tells us that he has been engaged as a farm labourer by a settler at Ararimu, near Riverhead, and that his wife is to do washing and cooking and dairy-work. They are to have thirty shillings a week, and they, with their child, will have board and lodging provided for them as well, and that in a style a good deal better than agriculturals are accustomed to in England. They seem well enough contented with things, though a trifle daunted by the strangeness of their surroundings. Dobbs has misgivings as to the work that will be required of him. He knows, however, that the labourer's day is reckoned at only eight hours here, and is much consoled thereby. Very likely we may find him a thriving farmer on his own account, and on his own land, if we should chance to meet again in a few years' time.
There is little or no attraction in the scenery along the eighteen or twenty miles of river between Auckland and Riverhead. Great stretches of mud-bank are visible in many places at low tide, varied by occasional clumps of mangrove, and by oyster-covered rocks. The land on either side is mostly ofvery poor quality, though a good deal of it has been taken up. Here and there, we pass in sight of some homestead; a white verandah-ed wooden house, surrounded by its gardens, orchards, paddocks, and fields. The steamer stops, and lies off three or four such places while her dingey communicates with the shore, embarking or disembarking passengers, mails, or goods. Generally, though, when the river-banks are low enough to permit of a view beyond them, we see nothing but very barren and shaggy-looking tracts, not unlike Scottish moorlands in general aspect. Occasionally there are poor scrubby grasslands, where the soil has not done justice to the seed put upon it; and where cattle, horses, and sheep appear to be picking up a living among the fern and ti-tree.
As we get nearer to Riverhead the stream narrows. This is the point to which the tide reaches. Beyond it the Waitemata is supplied by two creeks, the Riverhead Creek and the Rangitopuni. Here the banks are steep and high, somewhat picturesque, with varied ferns and shrubbery. On the north side the ranges rise into a background of hills.
This is the end of our river journey, as is evidenced by the Riverhead wharf, built out from the bank. Here we land, and are received by twomen, who represent the population of the district, and who apparently are idle spectators. By their advice we shoulder our traps, and climb up some steps to the top of the bank. Right before us here is an unpretending house, built in the usual rambling style of architecture peculiar to frame-houses in this country. A board stuck up over the verandah announces that this is the hotel; and, as the arrival of the steamer is the signal for dinner, every one makes for the open French windows of the dining-room.
Dinner is ready we find, and we are ready for it. Perhaps about a dozen passengers came up from Auckland in the boat, and as many of these as are not at home in the immediate neighbourhood sit down to the table. The party is further augmented by the skipper and his assistants, the wharf-keepers, one or two residents in the hotel, and the host and hostess with their family. Quite a large company altogether, and of very promiscuous elements. The only persons not entirely at their ease are Dobbs and his wife. They find themselves dining with the "quality," as they would have said at home, and have not yet learnt that that word is written "equality" in this part of the world.
At the head of the table sits somebody who is evidently a personage, judging by the flattering attentions paid to him by the daughters of the house,and by the regard with which all but we strangers treat him. It is Dandy Jack, afterwards to become one of our most intimate and cherished chums. As I shall have more to say about him, perhaps I may here be allowed to formally introduce him to the reader.
The first glance at him reveals the origin of his sobriquet. Amid the rawness and roughness of everything in the bush, its primitive society included, the figure of Dandy Jack stands out in strong relief. Contrasted with the unkempt, slovenly, ragged, and dirty bushmen with whom he mostly comes in contact, he is the very essence of foppery. Yet, as we are afterwards to learn, he is anything but the idle, effeminate coxcomb, whose appearance he so assiduously cultivates. Here is a photograph of Dandy Jack.
Five feet six inches; broad and muscular, but spare and clean-limbed. Curly black hair, and a rosy-complexioned face, clean shaven—contrary to the ordinary custom of the country—all except a thick drooping moustache with waxed ends. A grey flannel shirt, with some stitching and embroidery in front; and a blue silk scarf loosely tied below the rolling collar. No coat this warm weather, but a little bouquet in the breast of the shirt. A tasselled sash round the waist; spotless white breeches, andwell-blacked long boots. A Panama straw hat with broad brim and much puggeree. An expression of affected innocence in the eyes, and a good deal of fun about the mouth. Such is the figure we now look upon for the first time.
Dandy Jack is a character; that one sees at once. He is generally understood to have passed lightly through Eton and Oxford, to have sown wild oats about Europe at large, to have turned up in Western America and the Pacific, and to be now endeavouring to steady down in New Zealand. He has a considerable spice of the devil in him, and is at once the darling of the ladies and the delight of the men. For to the one he is gallantry itself; while, to the other, he is the chum who can talk best on any subject under the sun, with a fluency and power of anecdote and quotation that is simply enchanting.
Just at present Dandy Jack has charge of the portage, as it is called, between the Waitemata and the Kaipara rivers.[3]He drives the coach, carries the mails, and bosses the bullock-drays that convey goods between Riverhead and Helensville. And he is rapidly becoming the most horsey man in thewhole of the North, being especially active and prominent in every possible capacity on the local race-courses.
Dinner is over very soon, and a very good one it was, well worth the shilling each of us pays for it. Then we take leave of Dobbs and his wife, whose future boss has arrived in a rude cart drawn by two horses, in which to drive them and their traps over to his place in Ararimu. We ourselves are going on to Helensville in the coach, a distance of about eighteen miles.
The coach partakes of the crudity which seems impressed upon everything in this new locality. The body of it is not much larger, apparently, than a four-wheeled cab, and does not seem as if it could possibly accommodate more than eight passengers altogether. Yet Dandy Jack avers that he has carried over a score, and that he considers sixteen a proper full-up load. On the present occasion there are not more than half a dozen, besides my chum and I. Glass there is none about the coach, but a good deal of leather. Springs, properly so-called, are also wanting. The body is hung in some strong rude fashion on broad, substantial wheels. Altogether, the machine looks as if it were intended for the roughest of rough work.
As strangers, we are invited to occupy the seatsof honour—on the box beside the driver. There are no lady passengers to snatch the coveted post from us. Dandy Jack says to me—
"Of course, I should prefer to have a lady beside me, but, somehow, I'm always glad when there arn't any. It's a grave responsibility—a grave responsibility!"
Whilst we are endeavouring to evolve the meaning of this mysterious remark—it is not until a while later that we fully comprehend it—preparations are being made for the start. Four ungroomed, unshod horses are hitched on, and their plunging and capering shows they are impatient to be off. Our driver's lieutenant, Yankee Bill, mounts a fifth horse, and prepares to act as outrider. Then Dandy Jack, loudly shouting, "All aboard! All abo-ard!" springs to his seat, gathers up the reins, without waiting to see whether every one has obeyed his injunction or not, bids the men who are holding the cattle stand clear, gives a whoop and a shake of his whip, and then, with a jolt and a lurch and a plunge, off we go.
Hitherto we have seen nothing of the settlement, except the hotel and the goods warehouse on the bank above the wharf. These appear to have been shot down into the middle of a moorland wilderness. But now, as the coach surmounts some rising ground, several homesteads come into view, scattered aboutwithin a distance of one or two miles. Beyond the paddocks surrounding these, all of the country that is visible appears to be covered with tall brown fern, and a low brushwood not unlike heather.
As we go lumbering up the rise we are passed by a young lady riding down towards the hotel. Very bright and pretty she looks, by contrast with the rough surroundings. Quite a lovely picture, in her graceful riding-habit of light drab, and her little billycock hat with its brilliant feather. So think we all, especially our gallant Jehu, who bows profoundly in response to a nod of recognition, and turns to look admiringly after the fair equestrian.
Then, upon the right, we look down upon the great feature of the district, Mr. Lamb's flour-mill and biscuit-factory. In this establishment are made crackers that are well-known and much esteemed far beyond the limits of New Zealand. The Riverhead manufacture is known in the South Sea and Australia. The factory stands on the bank of the creek, having water-power and a water highway at its door. It is a large structure, mostly of timber, with a tall chimney of brick. Near it is the residence of the proprietor, and a row of houses inhabited by his employès. The whole is surrounded by a grove of choice trees and shrubs, by gardens and paddocks, evidently in a high state of cultivation. Beyondtower the brown and shaggy ranges, and all around is the uncouth moorland. It is an oasis in the desert, this green and fertile spot, a Tadmor in the wilderness.
Yet when we make some remarks, as new-chums will, about the apparent richness of the land down there, a settler, who sits behind, takes us up rather shortly. He appears to consider Mr. Lamb's estate as a positive offence. "Bone-dust and drainage!" he says with a snort of contempt. It seems that the land about us is considered to be of the very poorest quality, sour gum-clay; and any one who sets about reclaiming such sort is looked upon as a fool, at least, although, in this case, it is evident that the cultivation is merely an ornamental subsidiary to the factory.
But these poor lands are only bad comparatively. Much of the soil in them is better by far than that of many productive farms at home; only our colonial pioneer-farmers have no notion of any scientific methods in agriculture. They have been spoilt by the wondrous fertility of the rich black forest mould, and the virgin volcanic soils. They will continue to regard manuring and draining and so forth as a folly and a sin almost, until the population becomes numerous, and all the first-class lands are filled up.
Fresh from high-dried systems and theories ofagriculture as practised in Great Britain, we are dumbfounded by the tirade against manuring, and the revolutionary ideas which our coach-companion further favours us with. We are evidently beginning to learn things afresh, though this is our first day in the bush.
By the way, I must explain this term to English readers. "Bush" has a double signification, a general and a particular one. In its first and widest sense it is applied to all the country beyond the immediate vicinity of the cities or towns. Thus, Riverhead may be described as a settlement in the "bush," and our road lies through the "bush," though here it is all open moorland. But, in a more particular way, "bush" simply indicates the natural woods and forests. A farmer up-country, who says he has been into the "bush" after cattle, means that he has been into the forest, in contradistinction to his own cleared land, the settlement, or the open country.
Our road lies at first through the fern lands beyond Riverhead, and we soon lose sight of the settlement. We appear to be travelling at random across the moor, for not a trace of what our English eyes have been taught to regard as a road can we discern. The country is all a rugged wilderness of range and gully: "gently undulating," you say, if you want to convey a favourable impression; "abruptlybroken and hilly," if you would speak the literal truth. There is not a level yard of land—it is all as rough and unequal as it is possible for land to be.
The road is no macadamized way: it is simply a track that, in many parts, is barely visible except to practised eyes. Further on, where we pass through tracts of forest, the axe has cleared a broad path; and down some steep declivities there has been a mild attempt at a cutting. Where we come upon streams of any size or depth, light wooden bridges have been built; and fascines have made some boggy parts fordable in wet weather. Such is our road, and along it we proceed at a hand-gallop for the most part. The jolting may be imagined, it cannot be described; for the four wheels are never by any chance on the same level at one and the same time.
When we have proceeded eight or nine miles, Dandy Jack seems to be preparing himself for some exciting incident. Yankee Bill gallops alongside, exchanging a mysterious conversation in shouts with him.
"Better take round by the ford, Cap!"
"Ford be blanked!" answers Dandy Jack.
"The rest of the planking's sure to be gone by this time," continues the cavalier.
"Then I reckon we'll jump it. Ford's two miles round at least, and we're late now."
Our dandy charioteer glances round on his passengers, and remarks—
"Hold on tight, boys; and, if we spill, spring clear for a soft place."
So saying, he plants his feet firmly out, takes a better grip of the reins, and crams his hat well on to his head. We ignorant new-chums sit perturbed, for we don't know what is coming, only we do not admire the grim determination of our driver's mouth, or the devilry flashing from his eyes. The rest of the passengers say nothing. They know Dandy Jack, and are philosophically resigned to their fate.
And now we plunge down the side of a gully, steep and wooded, with a brawling torrent pouring along its bottom. The road runs obliquely down the incline, and this descent we proceed to accomplish at a furious gallop, Dandy Jack shouting and encouraging his horses; his mate riding beside them, and flogging them to harder exertions. Then we see what is before us.
Right at the bottom of the steep road is a bridge across the creek; or, at least, what was once a bridge, for a freshet or something seems to have torn it partially up. Originally built by throwing tree-trunks across from bank to bank, and covering these with planking, what we now see seems littlemore than a bare skeleton; for nearly all the planking is gone, and only the rough bare logs remain—and of these several are displaced, so that uncomfortable-looking gaps appear. Some feet below the level of this ruined bridge a regular cataract is flowing. Across the frail scaffolding—you can call it no more—that spans the torrent, it is clearly Dandy Jack's intention to hurl the coach, trusting to the impetus to get it over. We shut our eyes in utter despair of a safe issue, and hold on to our seats with the clutch of drowning men. It is all that we can do.
Meanwhile the four horses, maddened by the whoops and lashes of our excited Jehu and his aid, are tearing down the slope at racing speed. The coach is bounding, rocking, jolting at their heels in frightfully dangerous fashion. We dare not glance at Dandy Jack, but we feel that he is in his element; and that, consequently, we are in deadly peril. Then the chorus of yells grows louder and fiercer, the swish of the whips more constant and furious. There is a tremendous rattle, a series of awful bumps that seem to dislocate every bone in my body, a feeling that the coach is somersaulting, I appear to be flying through space among the stars, and then—all is blank.
When I recall my shocked and scattered senses,a minute or two later, I find myself half-buried, head downward, among moss and fern. I pick myself out of that, and stupidly feel myself all over, fortunately finding that I have sustained no particular injury. Then I survey the scene.
We are on the other side of the stream—so much I discover—but we have evidently not attained it without a mishap. Not to put too fine a point upon it, we have experienced a most decided spill. The coach has overturned just as it crossed the bridge, and passengers and baggage have been shot forth into the world at large. Fortunately, the ground was soft with much vegetation, so that no one is much hurt; the "insides" alone being badly bruised. There is a confused heap of plunging hoofs, and among them Dandy Jack and Yankee Bill are already busy, loosening the traces and getting the horses on their feet.
The passengers go one by one to their assistance, and much objurgation and ornamental rhetoric floats freely through the atmosphere. Presently, the coach is got on its wheels again by united effort, and it is found to be none the worse for the accident. In truth, its builder seems to have had an eye to such casualties as that we have suffered, and has adapted the construction of the machine to meet them.
But with the horses it is different. Three of them are speedily got on their legs and rubbed down, being no more than scared. The fourth, however, cannot rise, and examination shows that one of its legs is broken, and probably the spine injured as well. It is evident the poor creature is past all further service. So Dandy Jack sits on its head, while Yankee Bill pulls out his sheath-knife and puts the animal out of misery. I overhear our eccentric driver murmuring—
"Woe worth the chase, woe worth the dayThat cost thy life, my gallant grey!"—
Adding, in a louder voice—
"Twelve pounds I paid for that critter; but I reckon I've had the profit out of it, anyhow!"
The horse that Yankee Bill was riding is now unsaddled and hitched up with the others, in place of the dead one. For baggage and passengers are being collected again, and it seems we are going on as though nothing had happened.
It is, perhaps, not strange that no one should express surprise at the accident; but it is certainly singular that no one shows any resentment towards our driver, or blames him in any way. The prevailing feeling is one of simple congratulation that things are no worse. One would think the accidentwas quite a usual affair, and had even been expected. A passenger remarks quite seriously—
"I will say this for Dandy Jack: he always contrives that you shall pitch into a soft place."
They seem about to offer a vote of thanks to this reckless madman, for having overturned us without hurt to any one! It occurs to us two new-chums that our life in this country is likely to be eventful, if this kind of thing is the ordinary style of coaching. And we begin to understand what our driver meant, when he alluded to the grave responsibility of having a lady among his passengers; for his driving is only comparable to the driving of the son of Nimshi.
Before we proceed on our way, the foppery of our charioteer reasserts itself. Of course, his neat and spruce trim has been considerably disarrayed, so now he proceeds to reorganize his appearance. Gravely and calmly he draws brushes and so on from a receptacle under the box-seat, and commences to titivate himself. This is too much. Laughter and jibes and energetic rebukes fall on him thick as hail. At first he pays no attention; then he says slowly—
"Look here! If any one wants to walk the rest of the way, he can do it. I'm willing to split fares for the half journey!"
There is a covert threat in this, and as no one cares to quarrel with the speaker, his eccentricities are allowed to develop themselves without further interference. Then we resume our drive on to Helensville.
For the most part the road passes through open country, but we now more frequently see scrub and bush in various directions. At one place, indeed, for about two miles, we pass through forest. The trees, mostly kahikatea, seem to our English eyes of stupendous proportions, but we are told they grow much bigger in many other parts. Signs of human life are not altogether wanting in these wilds. We pass a dray coming down from the Kaipara, laden with wool, and pull up, that Dandy Jack may have a private conversation with the driver of it. This dray is a huge waggon, built in a very strong and substantial style, and it is drawn by twelve span of bullocks.
Here and there among the fern, usually in the bottom of a gully beside some patch of scrub, we have noticed little clusters of huts. These are not Maori wharès, as we suppose at first, but are the temporary habitations of gum-diggers, a nomadic class who haunt the waste tracts where kauri-gum is to be found buried in the soil. In a few places we pass by solitary homesteads, looking very comfortable in the midst of their more or less cultivated paddocks and clearings. These are usually fixed on spots where the soil, for a space of a few hundred acres, happens to be of better quality than the gum-lands around. At most of these settlers' houses somebody is on the look-out for the coach, and there is a minute's halt to permit of the exchange of mails or news. For travellers along the road are very few in number, and the bi-weekly advent of the coach is an event of importance.
The afternoon is wearing late, and the rays of the declining sun are lengthening the shadows, when we emerge on the top of a high hill that overlooks the valley of the Kaipara. A wide and magnificent prospect lies spread before us. Far down below the river winds through a broad valley, the greater expanse of which, being low and swampy, is covered with a dense thicket of luxuriant vegetation. In parts we see great masses of dark, sombre forest, but even in the distance this is relieved by variety of colouring, flowering trees, perhaps, or the brilliant emerald of clusters of tree-ferns. Right out on the western boundary a line of hills shuts out the sea, and their summits glisten with a strange ruddy and golden light—the effect of the sun shining on the wind-driven sand that covers them. To the north the river widens and winds, until, far away, we geta glimpse of the expanding waters of the Kaipara Harbour. Successive hills and rolling ranges, clothed with primeval forest, close in upon the valley.
About the centre of the broad-stretching vale, we discern a little patch of what looks like grass and cleared land. There is here a cluster of houses, whitely gleaming beside the river, and that hamlet is Helensville—the future town and metropolis of the Kaipara.
The road, from the hill-top where we are, winds in a long descent of about two miles down to the township. It is scarcely needful to say that Dandy Jack considers it incumbent on him to make his entrance into Helensville with as much flourish andéclatas possible. Accordingly, we proceed along the downhill track at breakneck speed, and come clattering and shouting into the village, amid much bustle and excitement. We are finally halted in an open space before the hotel, which is evidently intended to represent a village green or public square, the half-dozen houses of the place being scattered round it.
The entire population has turned out to witness our arrival: a score or so of bearded, sunburnt, rough-looking men, three or four women, and a group of boys and children. A babel of conversation ensues. We, as new-chums, are speedilysurrounded by a group anxious to make our acquaintance, and are eagerly questioned as to our intentions.
Several persons present are acquainted with Old Colonial, and when it is known that we are going to join him, we are at once placed on the footing of personal friends. Hospitality is offered, invitations to take a drink at the bar are given us on all sides. We accept, for we are not total abstainers—or sich!—and are in that condition when the foaming tankard is an idea of supreme bliss.
The hotel is larger and more pretentious than that at Riverhead. It is better built, and has a second storey and a balcony above the verandah. It is furnished, too, in a style that would do credit to Auckland—we particularly noticing some capital cabinet-work in the beautiful wood of the mottled kauri.
And then we are treated to a dissertation on the wonderful advantages and prospects of Helensville, some day to be a city and seaport, a manufacturing centre and emporium of the vast trade of the great fertile tracts of the Kaipara districts. We are assured that there is no place in all New Zealand where it could be more advantageous to our future to settle in than here. And so to supper, and finally to bed, to sleep, and to dream of the wonders that shall be;to dream of cathedrals and factories and theatres rising here, and supplanting the forest and scrub around us; to dream of splendid streets along the banks of the Kaipara, but streets which ever end in rocky wooded gullies, down which we plunge incessantly, behind a rushing nightmare that is driven either by a demon or by Dandy Jack.
The next morning after our arrival at Helensville, we go down to the wharf, close behind the hotel, and embark on board the steamerLily. This vessel is the only regular means of communication, at present, with the young settlements lying round the Kaipara. She is a much larger craft than theGemini, but she is of the same ancient and ruinous character. One would have thought that, on these new waters, such craft as there were must necessarily be new also.[4]Such does not appear to be the case, however, for the steam service on the Waitemata and the Kaipara is conducted by very second-hand old rattle-traps. Where they were worn out I know not. Bad as they are, they are considered a local improvement, for, until quite recently, settlers had to depend on small sailing-boats, that plied very irregularly.
The Kaipara is a name applied rather indiscriminately to a river, a harbour, and to a tract of country. The Kaipara river is that on which Helensville stands. It waters an extensive valley, and, flowing north-westerly, falls into the Kaipara Harbour, some miles below Helensville. It is tidal to a short distance above the settlement.
The harbour is a vast inlet of the sea, almost land-locked, since its entrance, the Heads, is only about three or four miles wide. Opening from the harbour are sundry great estuaries, resembling the sea-lochs of Western Scotland. They are the Kaipara, the Hoteo, the Oruawharo, the Otamatea, the Wairau, the Arapaoa, and the Wairoa. Several of these have branches. Thus the Pahi, to which we are going, branches out of the Arapaoa. They are fed by creeks—that is to say, by freshwater rivers, as one would call them at home. The tidal estuaries are here called rivers; and the freshwater streams, of whatever size, creeks.
All these waters have the generic name of the Kaipara. The united water-frontage is said to be over a thousand miles; and nearly two million acres of land lying round are comprised within the so-called Kaipara district. Ships of heavy tonnagecan get up to Tokatoka on the Wairoa, to Te Pahi and Te Otamatea, and within a short distance of Helensville, these places being, respectively, from twenty-five to thirty-five miles from the Heads. Smaller vessels can, of course, go anywhere. The Wairoa creek is navigable for schooners and cutters for more than eighty miles, as well as its tributaries, the Kaihu, Kopura, Tauraroa, and Maungakahia.
We have come into a district admirably adapted for pioneer settlement. For nature has supplied water-ways in every direction, and thus the first great difficulty in opening up a new country, the want of roads, is obviated. Here, indeed, as we shall find, no one walks to his township, or rides to see a neighbour, he jumps into his boat and rows or sails wherever he wants to go.
As theLilysteams down the Kaipara, we get a better idea of the bush than our previous day's coach-ride had given us. There is no more of the brown and shaggy gum-land, but, instead of it, such glorious woods and jungles and thickets of strange beautiful vegetation. Mile after mile it is the same, the dense evergreen forest stretching away over the ranges as far as one can see. Here it is the light bush, woods of young trees that have grown over what were once the sites of Maori cultivation; there it is the heavy bush, the real primeval forest.
One great feature of the Kaipara tidal estuary is the quantity of mangroves. Immense tracts are covered with water at high tide, and are left bare at low tide. These mud-banks are covered with mangroves in many places, forming great stretches of uniform thicket. The mangrove is here a tree growing to a height of twenty or thirty feet, branching thickly, and bearing a dark, luxuriant foliage. At high water, the mangrove swamps present the appearance of thickets growing out of the water. When the tide recedes, their gnarled and twisted stems are laid bare, often covered with clinging oysters. Below, in the mud, are boundless stores of pipi (cockles), and other shell-fish and eels.
The channel of the river is broad and deep, but often, to save some bend, theLilyploughs her way along natural lanes and arcades among the mangroves. It is a novel experience to us to glide along the still reaches among these fluviatile greenwoods. We are embosomed in a submerged forest, whose trees are uniform in height and kind. All round us, like a hedge, is the glossy green foliage, sometimes brushing our boat on either side. And we scare up multitudes of water fowl, unused to such invasion of their solitudes. Wild duck, teal, grey snipe, shags, and many kinds that no one on board knows the names of, start from under our very bows. Not gayplumaged birds, though, for the most part; only now and then a pair of kingfishers, flashing green and orange as they fly, or the purple beauty of a pukeko, scuttling away into the depths of the swamp.
By-and-by we emerge into the expanse of the harbour. Once out in it we could almost imagine ourselves at sea, for, from the low deck of theLily, we only see the higher grounds and hill-tops round, looking like islands in the distance, as we cannot descry the continuity of shore. And now we have leisure to make closer acquaintance with the boat that carries us.
TheLilyis a queer craft. Though old and rickety, she gets through a considerable amount of work, and is sufficiently seaworthy to fight a squall, when that overtakes her in the harbour. Not that a gale is by any means a light affair, in this wide stretch of water. When one is blowing, as it sometimes does for two or three days at a time, theLilylies snugly at anchor in some sheltered cove, and settlers have to wait as patiently as may be for their mails or goods. She knows her deficiencies, and will not face stormy weather, if she can help it.
Three times a week she visits certain of the Kaipara settlements, returning from them on alternate days. The arrangement is such that each township gets—or is supposed to get—one weeklyvisit from her. She is a boat with a character, or without it, which means about the same thing in the present instance. She has also a skipper, who is something of a character in his way.
The Pirate, or Pirate Tom, as he is indifferently called, is a gentleman of some importance locally, for he is the channel of communication between the Kaipara settlers and the outside world. He is a man of ferocious aspect, black-bearded to the eyes, taciturn, and rough in demeanour. In his hot youth, he is credited with having borne his part in certain questionable proceedings in the South Sea, and hence his appellation.
Freights run very high on theLily, and it is by no means certain how far the Pirate may be concerned in keeping them so. He is apt to be captious, too, as regards the transit of cargo, and will refuse to do business if it is his whim, or if any particular individual happen to offend him; for he is lord paramount over the river traffic, and well does he know how to turn that to his own advantage. Apparently, he considers that he does you a personal favour if he carries you or your goods, and you have to keep on his good books, lest he should not condescend to do either.
Besides the playful way in which he manipulates the commerce of the district, Pirate Tom has anothermode in which he adds to his gains. At some of the river townships and stations there is no hotel, or store, where liquor can be obtained. The only immediate facility that settlers and bushmen at such places have for procuring it, is such as is afforded by the boat. The Pirate is always ready to dispense the vile compounds he call spirits to all comers—sixpence per drink being his price, as it is the established tariff of the colony. It is held to be manners to ask him to partake himself, when any one desires to put away a nobbler; and the Pirate, being an ardent disciple of Bacchus, was never yet known to refuse any such invitation. He also sells, at seven shillings a bottle, the most atrocious rum, brandy, or "square" gin.
To assist him in the management of his craft, the Pirate has under him an engineer and a Dutch lad. The former of these has, of course, his special duties; the latter is cook and steward, sailor, landing-agent, and general utility man. He goes by the name of "The Crew." To beguile the tedium and monotony of constant voyaging, "The Crew" is wont to exercise his mind by conversation with such passengers as there may be. He is of a very inquiring disposition, and asks leading questions of a very personal nature. Seeing that I am a new-chum, he begins to ask me my name, age, birthplace, who my parents were,where I formerly lived, what I did, what my cousins and aunts are, their names, and all about them, and so on, a series of interminable catechetical questions on subjects that, one would think, could not possibly have any interest for him. This would be gross impertinence, were it not that "The Crew" is perfectly unconscious of giving any offence. He only asks for information, like Rosa Dartle; and this questioning is his idea of polite sociability.
Among the points of interest about theLily, the most noticeable are the engines with which she is supplied. These are fearfully and wonderfully contrived. How such rusty, battered, old-fashioned, rough-and-ready machinery can be got to work at all, it is hard to say; but it does. Of course the engines are continually breaking down, or bursting, or doing something or other offensive. But whatever may happen, the Pirate and his two aids consider themselves equal to the emergency, and make shift to tinker up the mishap somehow. Such unlooked for examples of misapplied force are constantly occurring, the consequence being that repairs are as often called for. Thus it is that the engines present a very extraordinary and uncommon appearance. Report has, perhaps, added somewhat to the truth, but numerous legends are current in the Kaipara about theLily, her engines, and her captain.
These amateur artificers are not in the least particular as to the materials they use for effecting their repairs, nor are they given to considering the relative differences of the metals. On one occasion, rust had eaten a hole through the boiler, and leakage ensued. Promptly they set to work, and soldered the lid of a biscuit-tin over the weak place. Then the boat went on as usual.
Once again, so it is said, something or other gave way—some screw, or cock, or lever failed to act. The boat became unmanageable, could not be stopped, or slowed, or done anything with. In short, she ran away. But Pirate Tom was not to be imposed on by any such feeble tricks. He immediately steered theLilyslap into the nearest bank and tied her up to a tree. Then the three went on shore, with a bottle of rum and a pack of cards, and sat down at a respectful distance to await the progress of events, and to enjoy a game of cut-throat euchre.
The engineer bet Pirate Tom a note—colonial for a sovereign—that the engines would blow up, and the latter laid on the chance that the rebel craft would spend herself kicking at the bank. After churning up the mud, plunging at the bank, and straining at her tether for an hour or so, theLilyquieted down, all her steam having worked off. So the Pirate won and pocketed the engineer's note;and then the party adjourned on board again, to resume their ordinary avocation of tinkering up.
In the log of theLilythere is supposed to be an entry, which would seem to indicate that the Pirate is not invariably so lucky as on the last-mentioned occasion. It is his rule never to spend any more money on repairs than what cannot possibly be avoided. There was an unsafe steam-pipe, which might easily have been replaced at a trifling cost; but, of course, the Pirate would spend nothing on it, and relied on his own usual resources. One day the steam-pipe burst, when a number of passengers were on board, and a woman got her legs scalded. After that, the Pirate found it absolutely necessary to get a new steam pipe; and was, besides, heavily mulcted in an action brought against him by the injured lady. The entry referred to probably runs like this:—