Henry’s mother reached under the bed for the shiny boots once worn by her husband, William Henry Appleton. She dusted them with gentle sweeps of a well-worn cloth, then carried them into the kitchen where Henry was waiting. She presented the boots to him on her open palms, almost as if this was a religious ceremony.
His mother was solemn, but Henry could not help grinning as he accepted the precious boots. He had waited a long time for this moment. He pulled off his old boots and showed his mother the holes in the soles. Then he pulled on his father’s boots and laced them up.
“Perfect,” said his mother softly.
As Henry stood to hug her, his eyes fell on William Appleton’s stopwatch on the wall. He waited as his mother held the timepiece and wound it. Then she blinked a tear from her eye and gave Henry a determined smile.
“Time to go,” she said.
It was Wednesday, September 12, 1866. The trial of the Burgess gang was scheduled to begin this day.
Henry hitched Duke to an open buggy to take them to the courthouse.
For the first time in months they had dressed in formal attire: Henry in his father’s suit, threadbare but recognisably well-tailored, and his mother in the long blue dress with lace and velvet trimmings she had worn as an English lady back in London.
She had chosen this dress when she had said goodbye to friends and family she knew she would never see again. Never.
Henry wondered if she was thinking of them now, as they trotted past the clusters of daffodils which swayed in the breeze alongside the dirt road.
Henry had the reins while his mother read aloud from a letter they had received the previous day. It was from Miriama, who was still in Australia.
His mother looked up from the letter. “She says she’s horrified by the conditions of the aboriginal people in Australia. But she feels the same way in New Zealand.”
She read: “I am landless and powerless in my own country.”
She folded the letter away.
“Nothing personal?” asked Henry, frowning. Nothing about me? After all we’ve been through?
“No, just news,” she replied. She saw the look on her son’s face and added, “Miriama will come back to New Zealand one day, Henry, I’m sure. This is where she belongs.”
“This is where I belong, too, Mother.” He pursed his lips. “I know you want to go back to England. But this is my home now.”
“Even if we lose the farm?”
Henry grunted.
“Let’s wait till after the trial,” said his mother.
Henry grimaced.
* * *
The stately Nelson Provincial Hall had been refitted as a courtroom to accommodate the large numbers of people expected. Henry pulled up next to a dozen other horses and carts.
At the doors, crowds of men and women were milling around, chattering loudly. Henry hitched the buggy and helped his mother step down. A boy ran up with an armful of news sheets and thrust one in Henry’s face. He looked at the heading:
THE MAUNGATAPU MURDERS!!! Vivid details of their crimes and capture! With sketches and maps.
“Disgusting,” said Henry’s mother. “They’re making this into a circus.”
But Henry gave the boy a coin – he was earning his own money these days at the Gazette – and took a sheet.
He caught a glimpse of a heading – The Holdup! Below, a sketch of four highwaymen on a mountain track, next to the Maungatapu rock. They were pointing weapons at travellers with horses.
“I suppose that’s the work of your Johnny Slick,” his mother sniffed.
Henry wondered too. He stuffed the sheet in his jacket to study later.
They pushed through the crowds, up the steps to the main doors. Henry heard people whispering,
“That’s them.”
An official waved them through, into the imposing halls with polished wooden floors that echoed every word. Into the packed courtroom.
Henry took it all in, as if in a dream.
There were boos and hisses from the crowd as Burgess, Kelly, and Levy were escorted in. They were handcuffed but wore civilian clothes, and stood in a specially built raised dock, facing the judge.
Henry looked around for Sullivan. Ah, over there. The big man was sitting with the police and legal teams and was not wearing handcuffs. You’re the worst of them all, Sullivan, and yet you’re a free man because you lied.
Henry remembered how Sergeant Nash had assured Doctor Smith that all four highwaymen would be put on trial, but it was not to be so. Sullivan had turned “Queen’s Evidence”, and he would tell the court his version of what happened in the hills, in the hope that the rest of the gang would be found guilty and he would be set free.
The sound of a gavel. Tap tap tap! The court usher called out: “Silence in court!”
Members of the special jury – twelve local men chosen for their “good standing” – included two farmers, a clerk, an accountant, an auctioneer, and three described only as “gentlemen”. Their foreman was a prominent farmer and businessman, Mr Charles Canning. They shuffled in their seats, perhaps excited to be minor stars in a “celebrity” trial that everyone in town was talking about.
Henry sat next to his mother. He looked around the public gallery and spotted Chadwick.
All the men from my nightmares are here!
The bank manager smirked. And Richard Burgess, of course. He saw Henry and gave him a cocky smile and a wink.
“Don’t look at him, Henry,” hissed his mother.
How can I stop? He’s a murderer and he says he’s my father.
Henry noticed his mother was rubbing her wrists. She always did this when she was anxious. The wounds from the ropes that the Burgess gang used to tie her up had never healed properly.
My mother’s wrists… my own broken leg… we’re lucky to be alive.
Henry shut his eyes and relived scenes from the past few weeks: his ambush by Burgess, Sullivan’s knife, Sullivan’s great fists, Burgess’s invitation to join his “merry men”, the pain as Kelly’s rock struck his leg…
The screams of the gold miners… and the bodies in the forest…
Burgess took the stand, and Henry’s eyes sprang open.
There he was – my father? – standing upright in the dock, head held high as if he were a respected community figure. He was reading from his notes in a clear voice. “The confession of Burgess the Murderer,” he began.
There were murmurs of astonishment from the gallery. Henry shook his head. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.
There was Burgess – my father? – standing upright in the dock. “The confession of Burgess the Murderer,” he began.