Chapter Three

Henry Bramwell leaned over the rail of the Mizar. His stomach muscles, sore from constant vomiting, contracted on contact with the metal. If he could have changed places with a fox about to be savaged by a pack of hounds, he would gladly have done so. And had he known how badly he would suffer from seasickness, he would have kept his feet firmly anchored to the soil of Devon, rather than sailing off to New Zealand in search of his sister.

Feeling a tug on his jacket he turned, scarcely able to acknowledge the man grasping him by his collar.

‘Steady there, lad. You’ll have yourself overboard and drowned if you’re not careful,’ the man said in a rolling Scottish burr.

Dully, Henry stared at him. At least, if he drowned, his misery would be at an end. Before he could properly take in the Scotsman’s features he lurched forward and retched until he thought his heart would burst from his chest. Finally, when nothing more was to be dredged from his stomach, he wiped a shaky hand across his mouth, moaning as his knees buckled under him. If not for the strong hands holding him up, he would have collapsed on the deck.

‘Let’s have you over here, then.’

Stumbling ahead of the stranger, Henry allowed himself to be shunted away from the ship’s rail. The Scotsman opened the door to the saloon-cum-officers’ mess and inclined his head at the narrow stairway.

‘C’mon, now, lad, down we go.’

‘I think I’d sooner throw myself over the side and end this torture,’ Henry slurred through lips swollen from stomach acid and salt spray.

‘Hmmph!’ Showing scant sympathy, the stranger climbed down the stairs ahead of Henry, beckoning him to follow. ‘Nonetheless, I feel obliged to save you from yourself, laddie, and if a bit of seasickness makes you want to end it all, then I’m sorry for you. There’s far worse to be faced in this life than a bile belly.’

Henry barely heard him as another bout of nausea surged through him and he retched again. If there was worse to be faced in life than this, he most surely wished he’d never been born. Closing his eyes, he gave a shuddering sigh as blackness surrounded him and all sound faded from his hearing.

 

As he came to, Henry felt the soothing coolness of a wet cloth slicking over his forehead. Through heavy eyelids he saw that he was propped up on a settee in the ship’s compact saloon. The Scotsman sat beside him, damping his forehead.

‘I’m grateful to you, mister,’ Henry said, straining to make himself heard over the monotonous drumming of the steamer’s engine.

The stranger grunted. ‘You should be resting easier soon. The wind’s dropped right back and the tide’ll shortly be high enough for us to enter the Buller River. We’ll be in Westport in no time.’

He dipped the cloth into a bowl of water, squeezed out the excess liquid and handed it to Henry. ‘You’d maybe like to do this yourself, laddie. I’m relieved to see your colour’s a little more lively.’

Running his tongue around his dry lips, Henry grimaced at the sour taste of vomit lingering in his mouth. ‘I thought I’d got over the seasickness. When I came out from England on the Strathnaver I wanted to die for the first week, but then it stopped.’ Folding the cloth into a strip, he held it to his forehead, enjoying the comforting coolness. ‘Never thought it’d come back again.’

‘Aye, well, happen it takes you like that, lad. A proneness to the sickness never leaves. Just comes back fresh every time a body sets foot on the sea, so I’ve heard. Can’t speak from experience. Never suffered from it myself,’ he said cheerfully, holding out his hand. ‘Donald MacKinnon, storekeeper. I’m travelling to Hokitika, where I’ll make my way inland to Stafford.’

Managing a weak smile, Henry shook the man’s hand. ‘Henry Bramwell. You’re the first Scotchman I’ve had any dealings with,’ he added. ‘The ones on the Strathnaver kept much to themselves.’

Donald’s amiable expression changed in an instant. His blue eyes fixed Henry with a steely gaze. ‘There’s no such thing as a Scotchman, lad! There’s Scotch whisky and Scotch beef, but there’s only Scotsmen and Scottish folk. And while we’re about it, I’m a Skyeman — a Sgitheanach — born and bred. If you insist on calling me anything other, then have the courtesy to leave the Scotch with whisky and beef and remember Scot’s the word.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr MacKinnon,’ Henry said, reddening, and suitably chastened. ‘I meant no insult to you.’

‘Aye, well, happen you didn’t. But you know now, and I’m sure you’ll remember in future. And what’s your business here?’ he said, changing the subject cheerfully enough, to Henry’s relief. The last thing he wanted was to get on the wrong side of anyone when he was new to the country.

‘I’m on my way to Charleston.’

Donald raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Aye? Then I hope you’ll not be counting on making a fortune from the gold, lad. The easy pickings are long since gone.’

Henry shook his head at Donald’s dour comment, for the first time taking in the older man’s appearance. He had a lush, curling beard and a head of thick, wiry hair almost the same distinctive fiery red as his own.

‘No. I have a sister living in Charleston,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping to stay with her and find work there.’

‘She’ll be looking forward to seeing you.’

‘She would if she knew I was coming.’

‘You’ve not let her know, then?’ Donald sounded surprised.

‘Couldn’t. We lost touch some while ago.’

‘So, tell me, when did you last hear from her?’

‘Five years ago. Said she’d married a Dr Ainsley and they were living in Charleston.’

‘That’s a wee while ago — she might be anywhere by now. She may have left the country, for all you know.’

‘I’d not thought of that,’ Henry said, disconcerted, wishing the man hadn’t mentioned such a possibility.

Wrinkling his bulbous nose, Donald MacKinnon sniffed and pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket, letting out a sneeze so loud, Henry instinctively ducked to avoid any stray spittle.

‘Sorry, lad.’ Donald blew his nose loudly. ‘Seem to have caught a chill. Now, I’ve a wee bit of business to see to on shore once we dock in Westport. The ship’s sailing again on the same tide so I’ll not be long. That’s if I can find my way without too much trouble. I’ve no doubt the town will have changed yet again because of the floods since I was here last.’ Buttoning his brown tweed jacket, he gave a philosophical shrug. ‘Never seen such a place for having buildings here today, then somewhere else tomorrow. Is there something I can bring you back, lad? It’s a fair trip from Westport to Charleston. Is there something you need for a bit of comfort?’

‘Thank you kindly, but no, sir. Having the seasickness is not something I would care to repeat. I’m going to leave the boat here too, and travel overland to Charleston.’ Rising from the settee, Henry picked up a small swag containing his few possessions.

Donald’s blue eyes glinted with amusement. ‘Suit yourself, lad. But it’s a long, bumpy journey and you may find the coach has already left. With a fair wind, I’ll be in Charleston afore you.’ He chuckled. ‘If not Scotland. And then it’s on to Hokitika and home to Stafford.’

Piqued at the older man’s amusement at his expense, Henry gave him a frosty glance. ‘I’ll be off, then. I want to see the captain about getting some of my fare money back, seeing I won’t be continuing to Charleston on the boat.’

A raucous laugh rumbled up from Donald’s belly. ‘Fare money back? From Oliver Watkins? Then I wish you luck. You’ll not get a penny out of him, Henry my lad. That man could have shown Silas Marner a trick or two!’

Irritated, Henry squeezed past the other man’s large girth. ‘That’s as may be, but I’ll see him anyway.’

Chuckling, Donald slapped him on the back with such force that his breath escaped in a harsh gasp. Henry walked off with Donald’s laughter ringing in his ears, feeling some satisfaction as the laughter dissolved into a coughing fit.

 

Seething with resentment, Henry strode along Palmerston Street, scarcely noticing the smart new wooden shops and buildings, though he wrinkled his nose at the stench coming from an open drain containing offal, night soil and other debris of dubious origin.

After meeting with the Mizar’s captain he’d been furious to find that Donald MacKinnon’s unflattering account of the man’s character had in no way been an exaggeration. Oliver Watkins had laughed when Henry had asked for his refund. And when Henry had said that in that case he’d stay on board after all, and be damned to his seasickness, Watkins had had him thrown off the steamer there and then.

A bitter taste in his mouth at his humiliation, Henry started as two youths jostled past, one on either side of him.

‘Sorry, mister,’ one of them said, brushing Henry’s jacket with the back of his hand.

‘’S’all right,’ Henry mumbled. Then, deciding there was nothing to be gained by brooding, he dismissed the unpleasant Captain Watkins from his mind and looked about him. He thought of his sister, Poppy, thankful she’d taught him his letters and numbers, as he read the words Struthers, Ironmongers above a shop window.

He gazed at the splendid display of forks, shovels, hammers and saws, thankful he had no need for any of them. The money he had left would barely cover the cost of the coach ride to Charleston.

Dipping a hand into his trouser pocket, he felt for the coins, his heart missing a beat when he found they were gone. Rifling in his other pocket, he was dismayed to discover that it, too, was empty. With a wallop to his gut he recalled the two boys who had jostled him when they’d walked by. Scanning the street, he saw only a tired-looking woman with several children trudging along behind her, and a group of men having a discussion further down the street. There was no sign of the boys who had robbed him.

After several fruitless excursions up and down Palmerston Street, he admitted defeat. He’d never see them or his money again.

‘Probably hidden away somewhere enjoying the spoils,’ he muttered out loud. A woman with a tribe of children sent him an odd look, gathered her brood around her and gave him a wide berth.

How was he to find his way to Charleston now? Trudging across to the group of men he’d seen chatting, he explained his predicament and was directed to the police station.

The news the constable gave him only added to his misery. ‘If it was who I think it was, they’ll long since be gone — along with your money. Turn up in town from time to time, do their thieving, then disappear before a fellow even knows he’s been robbed,’ he said, almost with relish.

Mentally thanking the constable for nothing, Henry left the police station as his stomach rumbled, reminding him it had been days since he’d eaten. A delicious smell drew him to a nearby bakery. He stared longingly at the cakes and pies in its window, almost tasting the meat, tender with long stewing …

Maybe there’d be a scrap of food around the back of the bakery, or some bins for the pigs’ swill? Mindful of the cardboard covering the holes in his boots, Henry carefully stepped around the muddy puddles on the street, following his nose to the back of the bakery. But there was no sign of a scrap tin, let alone a stray piece of pie. Just his luck, he thought, about to turn away — but a moment later the bakery door opened and a man clad in a grubby white apron walked out. He flicked a curious glance at Henry. ‘Mornin’,’ he said, and disappeared around the corner.

‘Mornin’,’ replied Henry, staring at the open door. Then, glancing around to ensure he was unobserved, he stepped briskly inside. A tray full of hot steaming pies rested on a bench. He reached out to take one, then hesitated, but his stomach was so hollow he could have eaten a whole cattle-beast without it touching the sides. Snatching a pie, he blew on it and took a large bite, huffing as it burnt his tongue.

‘’Ere! What the ’ell do you think you’re about?’

Henry nearly dropped the pie as the baker strode back into the shop.

‘’Ere, you bloody thief, give me that!’ The baker lunged at him and tried to snatch the pie.

Henry leapt out of the way, determined to keep his precious meal.

‘I’ll get the coppers onto ya!’

And they’d be a sight quicker catching him than the buggers who had pinched his money, Henry reckoned, shoving the baker aside and taking off at a run. Glancing behind, he saw the man chasing him.

A stitch cramped his side as he frantically looked around for a hiding place. He kept running, a hand pressed against his side to ease the needling pain. Rounding a corner, he stumbled down an alleyway and backed into a niche halfway along.

He crouched, ragged breaths burning his throat, fearful the furious beating of his heart would give him away as the baker’s footsteps came nearer. But mercifully they slowed, uncertainly, then moved away.

Hardly allowing himself time to catch his breath, Henry opened his mouth to take a bite of the pie. Then he froze as a half-starved dog, ribs jutting and teeth bared, slunk towards him. The mongrel eyed him, a low, snarling grumble issuing from its mouth, then without warning sprang at the pie. Stunned, Henry watched it run off with his meal.

‘You bugger! I hope that pie was poisoned and you die an agonising death!’ Henry shouted bitterly. He sank to a crouch, then jumped up in alarm as his behind touched on a soft object. He spun around and froze with horror to see a body lying on the ground. It was Donald MacKinnon.

Henry kneeled and rolled the body over. ‘Poor sod,’ he muttered, eyeing the man’s suit and jacket, not so smart now they were muddied and sodden. There was no movement of the man’s chest to signify breathing. He was certainly dead. There was nothing he could do for him. If he told the coppers, he was likely to have one on his tail for pinching the pie. Even worse — what if they thought he had killed MacKinnon? He’d best be on his way before he found himself in a heap of strife.

Hunger pangs twisted his gut, and he had a sudden thought. MacKinnon had said he was a storekeeper, and he looked prosperous enough. He’d more than likely be carrying a purse full of money. What good would it do him now?

His hand hovering over the man’s waistcoat, Henry guiltily recalled how MacKinnon had helped him on board ship. But he was dead now — surely he wouldn’t begrudge Henry a full belly and the fare to Charleston? Having talked himself into it, he jabbed at a pocket — then let out a yelp as the ‘body’ groaned and a hand gripped his wrist.

Henry’s bowels threatened to betray him. ‘Here, I’m sorry, mister. I didn’t mean anything,’ he gabbled, snatching his wrist from Donald MacKinnon’s grip.

‘Help … me … sit up,’ wheezed Donald, raising his head and shoulders. He coughed, a raw rasping rattle deep in his chest, then slumped back on the ground. Henry struggled with his conscience. Surely the man was no concern of his — he had enough worries on his own account. Closing his mind to the man’s plea, he rose to his feet, checking that the alleyway was clear. But despite himself he was soon squatting back down beside the sick man.

‘Here, come on. Let’s be having you.’ Forcing an arm under Donald’s back, Henry heaved him to his feet and dragged the man’s arm over his shoulder.

‘Two young buggers picked my pocket,’ Donald rasped as they made their unsteady way up Palmerston Street. ‘Chased them down that alley and that’s the last I remember.’

‘It’ll be the same pair who robbed me,’ Henry said, with renewed bitterness at the fat spoils the thieving buggers would now be enjoying.

‘In here, laddie, in here,’ said Donald as they approached the front door of a hotel. The glass panel over the door of the substantial two-storey wood and corrugated iron building stated: Royal Hotel, Henry Stannard, Proprietor.

‘They know me here — my tick’s good till I can lay my hands on some funds.’ Donald’s voice sounded a little stronger but his face was pale, and sweat beaded his brow.

 

‘He’s ill. Said you’d help him,’ Henry said to the thickset, bearded man standing behind the bar as he and Donald stumbled into the room.

‘By God! It’s Donald MacKinnon!’ Henry Stannard exclaimed, hurrying over and grasping Donald’s free arm, taking some of the weight off Henry.

‘Up there with him. We’ll put him in the first bedroom we come to,’ Stannard said, inclining his head at a stairway.

Once Donald was safely installed in bed, the proprietor took time to examine Henry. Flushing under the man’s cool assessment, Henry thought of the stolen pie and how near he’d come to robbing Donald — not that he’d have found anything left to take. He was certain the man could see his guilt shining like a beacon.

‘And what’s your part in Donald MacKinnon’s present condition?’

The directness of the question took Henry by surprise.

‘I … I … just —’

‘Out with it, boy.’ Stannard’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Henry’s palms dampened with sweat.

‘The lad saved my hide, Harry,’ Donald mumbled, raising his head from the pillow. ‘Give him some tucker. He can share the room with me. I’ll see you right soon as I’m on my feet.’

His expression less severe, Stannard took a long, appraising look at Henry. ‘Dinner’s not till six,’ he said abruptly.

Two hours away! Henry stared dumbly at Stannard as his stomach spoke for him, emitting a low growl that went on and on.

‘Hmph,’ said the publican, ‘but seeing you’re that hungry I’d better get the wife to rustle up something for you now. Come with me. I’ll show you to the kitchen.’

Thank the Lord for that! On legs as hollow as his stomach, Henry followed the publican down the stairs. He was hungry enough to boil and eat his own boots and it seemed to Henry that the man had the pace of an ailing snail.

‘There’s only bacon and eggs to be had. Far too early for a proper dinner,’ Lizzie Stannard grumbled at him, put out at having her routine interrupted.

‘There’s the coalscuttles to be filled if you’ve a mind to. The coal heap’s out the door to the right. Shovel’s on top.’

Bacon and eggs! Henry licked his lips. The most he’d hoped for was a hunk of bread and maybe some cheese if the hotelkeeper’s wife had been feeling generous. Before she could change her mind he hurried outside and filled the coalscuttles in double-quick time.

‘Anything else you want done, missus?’ he inquired, depositing the last coalscuttle on the hearth.

‘No, that’ll do fine.’ Lizzie looked up from the bacon sizzling in the pan.

Henry was sure she could see how hungry he was and began whistling, a tuneless dirge, trying to look as if he really didn’t care whether he ate or not.

Lizzie’s shrewd gaze softened. ‘Sit yourself down. I’ll bring the meal over to you,’ she said, kindly enough.

Henry knew he hadn’t fooled her for a moment.

A long narrow bench-seat spanned the length of the table. Henry perched on the edge, careful to keep his elbows off the table’s spotless surface.

‘Made of kahikatea — native white pine,’ Lizzie said, nodding approvingly at his hands resting on his lap and not on her table. ‘You’ll not get a cleaner table in these parts. Scrubbed after every meal.’

‘I’ve never seen a cleaner table, missus. I can near as see my face in it,’ said Henry, anxious to please the woman. He was damned if he was going to miss out on his meal by upsetting her with a few ill-chosen words!

A plate full to the edges with bacon, eggs, black pudding and two thick slabs of bread was set in front of him. He cast a quick glance at his hostess, hoping she’d leave him alone. He didn’t want to show himself up by bolting his meal.

As if reading his mind, Lizzie finished scouring the frying pan, dried it and set it on a hook beside the gleaming blackened coal range.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Make sure you scour your plate when you’re finished.’

‘Thanks, missus,’ muttered Henry, his voice thick with anticipation. No sooner had Lizzie turned to walk through the door than he began shovelling food into his mouth — even faster than he’d shovelled the coal into the scuttles.