Abigail's Quest Read online

  ABIGAIL’S QUEST

  Lois Mason

  It was no place for a woman alone

  The year was 1862. New Zealand was an untamed country through which Abigail had been warned not to travel unescorted. But she felt she had no choice.

  Her only surviving parent, her beloved father, had set out months before in search of gold. He’d never returned, and Abigail knew that her one chance of being reunited with him lay in seeking him out herself.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  “Mama? Abby! How is Mama?” A feverish whisper called from the high iron bed.

  “Sh-sh, Billy. Mama’s all right.”

  But she was not all right. How could you tell that to an extremely ill brother? A brother who had to cling to some hope, anything, to fight the cursed disease that was threatening to take him from her, too?

  Abigail pursed her mouth bravely, choking back the tears, as she gently wiped William’s face with the damp flannel. “You must try to rest. Don’t talk, go to sleep now. The doctor will be here shortly.”

  Her brother needed no encouragement. Weakness, exhaustion and debilitation were masters now. His eyes closed in his moist, inflamed face, glistening in the gaslight glow, and sleep was a temporary release from the pain and delirium. Typhoid ... The disease crept stealthily, struck swiftly. There were some lucky reprieves. Abigail looked at William with a weary, sinking feeling, and her throat tightened. It was unlikely that he would be a reprieve.

  He was too young, too innocent, to leave this world yet, she thought. She cursed his innocence now. Not to know that he should not have taken the unwashed apples, and worse, to have shared them with Mama.

  What a gay, fateful walk it had been for him and Mama! She saw them again in her mind’s eye as she had bidden them farewell, nearly three weeks ago, from the wooden verandah of the boarding-house. William, jaunty in his tapestry waistcoat and serge suit, Mama in her dove-grey silk moiré crinoline, her tartan shawl pulled tight; for, despite the December sun, there was a chill wind straight from the South Pole.

  Even from where she had stood, on the outskirts of the town’s main centre, Abigail could see the hum of frenetic activity down Princes Street. Men on horseback, residents in their traps and buggies, drays laden with goods, yapping dogs racing in and out the crowds of pedestrians thirsting for news. News. News from the boats newly anchored at Dunedin Harbour, from the sailing ships out at Port Chalmers, bringing their hundreds of hopeful passengers, eager-eyed men, living on a bundled swag and a dream. News from the gold-fields. The town throbbed with news—rumoured or true—itself exploding with hastily erected shelters, calico tents, and tin shanties.

  It throbbed silently too. Abigail shuddered. Sanitation could not be worse. The once clear streams now provided foul, contaminated water, and the marshy lagoon near the lower end of the town was an epidemic breeding ground. Mama would never walk with Billy again.

  If only she had accompanied them! If only they had not lingered so long in Dunedin! But Mama had been feeling poorly after the long, rough Tasman crossing, and thought a fortnight’s stay in the boarding house would be necessary to regain her strength. If only ... But it was too late for “if only”. The facts were what mattered. One had to accept these, just as one accepted other things. That she was a girl. That she could not have gone with dear Papa over a year ago. Even bright-eyed, determined girls, who could ride a saddle with the best of men, did not go on that golden aspiration, as her father had, in the spring of 1861.

  One year and four months had passed since he had left. It was too long for Mama. Poor, brave Mama, anxiously waiting every day for some word from her husband now in that “God-forsaken country”. She never could, and now never would, understand why Samuel had suddenly decided to seek their fortune in such a faraway, unknown place. Emily had seen that stubborn, set look in his eyes many years before, when he had lifted her, a “currency lass”, light as a feather, on to the stone wall near Sydney Cove.

  “I promise ye’ll not sew a stitch more, Emily, my lass. Ye’ll be weddin’ me, and that’s an end of it!”

  So Sam, with the copper hair and determined tongue, had been hers. She had sewn more stitches, this time loving, tender stitches. Little muslin, lawn and fine-wool garments, exquisitely embroidered and tucked. Three infant trousseaux in all, for James, Abigail, and William.

  It was beyond Emily’s comprehension that her dearest Sam should suddenly leave his prosperously growing saddlery business in James’ charge, and with gleaming fervour lighting his gentle brown eyes, set sail for New Zealand. Abigail saw why. The excitement, adventure, and optimism of a lucky strike was like a magnet. She had wished she were a boy. She too, had been drawn to the unknown backblocks of that country when the first news of Gabriel Read’s golden find hit Sydney. It was the challenge, the hunt for the rainbow’s end, and it was even more. It was seeing beyond the town you knew, the honest, reliable business, the sameness, year in, year out. It was the world over there. It was Samuel Wright’s one chance for reckless adventure!

  Poor Emily. With blind understanding, she had accepted Samuel’s stubbornness again. Stubbornness, that had brought them together, had now parted them for ever.

  How eagerly Abigail had grasped Mama’s hesitant idea that they should embark themselves to seek him! It had taken little persuasion from James for them to pack their trunk and be on their way. James would stay to look after the business, Abigail and William were to accompany Mama.

  They knew almost nothing of the place towards which they were heading. Only fragments of sensational news had touched them—Maori massacres, battles lost and still more won by the British troops, and two men who had found a fortune in grains of gold on the beach of a river. They knew that New Zealand would be cold. Why, there was even snow and ice in the winter, just like Papa’s country! He had often told them of the ponds that froze, and the fields of snow with their white hedgerows, as they sat around the crackling fire with the scent of eucalyptus pervading their cosy terrace parlour. Abigail could not imagine a white world. None of them, only Papa, had ever seen snow. So Mama had packed their warmest woollen clothes, and thick sturdy blankets into the wooden trunk.

  William moaned, stirred restlessly, and Abigail filled a glass with the cool, boiled water from the pitcher on the high dresser. She barely recognized her own face as she glanced in the ornately carved mirror. She looked drawn, her small brow puckered in rows of tiny furrows. She sighed. The furrows disappeared, but the determined set in her eyes stayed—the same set that had been in her father’s eyes, when he announced he was to seek for gold. Tendrils of hair were escaping from the loose braids around her russet head.

  “Here. You must drink this, Billy.” She held the glass to his lips. At the same time there was a loud knocking at the heavy panelled door. A rotund, florid matronly face with an equally rotund figure appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Sergeant was a formidable proprietress, but Abigail already knew her heart was soft as butter.

  “The doctor’s here for ye, Miss Wright. Shall I show him in now?”

  With relief, Abigail nodded. “Aye. Thank you, Mrs. Sergeant.”

  “Now, ye are not to worry, my dear. Dr. Mackenzie is one of the best in Dunedin. He’ll do all he can for William.” A wave of sympathy passed from her motherly heart to the girl. She had plenty of spunk, she could say that for her. But she was so young, so fragile, to have such responsibilities thrust on her, so alone in a strange land. Abigail was bone china in a world of tin plates and heavy earthenware, and Mrs. Sergeant wondered how long it would take for her to break.

  “Wha’s the wee laddie, my bairn? Och, he’s not so wee! Sit ye up a bit and we’ll take a look at ye! Tongue out, my lad.” Dr. Mackenzie smelled of the carbolic acid he daily used in com
bating typhoid, dysentery, and the numerous other ills attendant in this germ-ridden, migratory, cosmopolitan population.

  Abigail waited by anxiously in the high-backed rocker in the corner of the room. There were some learned “hmm’s” and “ah’s” and mutterings in a broad Scottish brogue, then the doctor turned to her with an enigmatic smile. “Just as I thought. The lad’s throat is considerably improved, and the fever abatin’. Your brother’s bonny, lass. ’Twill be a wee while yet, but he’ll be up and about before this week is through.”

  Her relief engulfed her. The nights and days of anxiety crowded in, and the tears poured out all at once.

  “Tha’ now lassie. Dinna greet. Ye must rest, yeself. Will ye see she does, madam?”

  “Of course. The poor girl has been up every night looking after her brother, and her mother too.” Mrs. Sergeant lowered her voice and spoke in a hushed tone. “She insisted on tending them herself, but I fear ’tis too much for one so young. I’ll make her retire early tonight, Doctor.”

  Abigail composed herself. Her brother would live! She would not be alone. She thanked God her prayers had been answered. She would not break.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  There could not have been a more disconsolate pair, Abigail and William. They were a sad little island on the wicker couch, warmed by the morning sun. Abigail looked at William. At least she still had her precious brother; already the colour was starting to come back into his pinched face. It would be a long while before he would be his normal self again.

  “What will we do, Abby? Will we return home when I’m better? We can’t look for Papa now. I wish I could, but look at me.” He kicked his toe disgustedly in the dust. “’Tis useless!”

  “Oh, Billy, we must not give up now. Mama would want us to find him, I’m certain of it, even though she’s not...” Abigail swallowed, the tears formed in her eyes as words stuck in her throat. She clenched her little fists. She had to carry on, had to show the way for Billy. Defiantly she lifted her small, neat head, and William saw the determination in her eyes. He could not help but laugh.

  “Abby! You look just like Papa used to when he was trying to catch Moonlight. Do you remember? There they’d be in opposite sides of the paddock, Papa with the bridle, and Moonlight, I’m sure for all the world, laughing at him. Oh, they were good times, weren’t they?”

  “Aye, Billy, they were. And we’ll have good times again, I promise you.”

  William was startled. He had never heard his sister so fierce, so resolute, before.

  “I’ve been speaking with Mrs. Sergeant,” Abigail continued. “She says you may stay here, and she herself will tend you until you regain your strength. I shall go and look for Papa myself, whilst you convalesce. We have sufficient money for us to stay only a short while, so ’tis imperative that we waste no time in beginning our search. I am going to the coach company this afternoon.”

  “Abby! You can’t go by yourself! That was why I came with us. Mama said you both needed a male escort,” he said, rather proudly for all of his fourteen years. Then he remembered their immediate situation and bit his lip, moisture welling in his eyes. “Please, you must wait till I’m better. Then we can go together.”

  “Nay, Doctor Mackenzie said ’twould be at least a month. ’Tis the only way, Billy. No harm will come to me, I assure you. You must not worry. ’Tis essential you try to rest as much as you can. You will be in good hands with Mrs. Sergeant. She is very kind.”

  Dejectedly William accepted his lot. The irony of circumstances had reversed their roles, and although Abigail was much older, by six years in fact, he was still the male. It was frustrating that now he was totally unable to fulfil his duties.

  Still, he reckoned, Abigail had made a point, and although it pained him that afternoon to watch her spry little shape, her olive pleated bonnet bobbing in and out of the main street throng as she picked her way through the driest patches in the mud, he earnestly prayed that she would meet with good fortune.

  It was not hard finding Cobb and Company’s booking office. Its name, in bold black letters, could be seen on the side wall of the upper half of the building, nearly half a block away. Cobb and Company occupied the lower half, rented rooms were above. While the booking clerk could not have been more polite, neither could he have been less encouraging.

  “I’m afraid, Miss, you can’t travel on your own. Won’t do at all. Isn’t there some gentleman, who could accompany you? A relation perhaps? ’Tis a very hard journey, and a girl on her own ... There’s the miners, they’re not all gentlemen, you know. Flash floods, bog, coach gets stuck in the mud. Not so likely this time of the year, mind you, but one never knows.” He scratched his head and looked quizzically at Abigail. “And then there’s the bushrangers. All these people from Australia, and not all honest! I’ve heard tell there’s a new gang roaming around Central Otago. Which part did you say you wanted to go to?”

  “Gabriel’s Gully.”

  “Ah, the Tuapeka. The very place! Easy pickings for the bast ... begging your pardon, Miss, the er—robbers.”

  “Please, Mr. Dunwoody, I wish to go and there’s no putting me off! You will sell me a ticket immediately!” She rapped her knuckles on his counter, barely believing her own fearlessness. But a tremulous moth fluttered inside her. The dangers he spoke of seemed very real.

  “Well ... Since you insist, I must. But please consider it very carefully. Should you wish to change your mind, you may bring your ticket back for a refund. This is not the usual case, but I think in the circumstances...” Mr. Dunwoody could never resist a pretty face, especially one as fetching as the hazel-eyed beauty in front of him.

  “Thank you,” Abigail murmured.

  “The coach departs six o’clock tomorrow morning.

  Sharp, mind you! Takes about nine hours, all going well, to reach Tuapeka Junction in the summer. You’re lucky we have not had much rain recently. Takes a lot longer in the wet. Ticket’s three pounds.”

  She took the money out of her small stocking purse, gave it to the clerk, and slipped the ticket inside it.

  Gabriel’s Gully. It was the last place from which Mama had had news from Papa. It seemed unlikely he would still be there, but ... one never knew. No, one did not know! That was the problem. Dear Papa—he could be anywhere by now. But surely there might be some little clue, some person’s recognition, anything that might help her find him? To go there was Abigail’s only hope.

  She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she did not see the tall figure looming in the narrow doorway. She soon felt him though. There was a very nasty crunch on her cheek as she collided with something horribly hard in his topcoat.

  “I say, you should watch where you are going!” The bearded stranger spoke very arrogantly. He was immaculately dressed, in a black suit obviously cut in the latest Paris lines, and he wore a maroon neckcloth tied in a bow under his stiff white winged collar.

  “I? I should watch where I’m going?” Abigail, highly flushed, blurted out, then turned and fled out the door at her boldness.

  She paused outside the bakery and caught her breath. What an intolerably rude man! Surely he could see that her head was lowered and she could not have possibly seen him? And that imperious tone! Who did he think he was? Her cheek was still smarting. Not an apology either. The conceited, ill-mannered—Her heartbeat slowed again as the warm, enticing aroma of newly-baked bread engulfed her. It smelled so good that she decided to buy some for her and William for supper, and to take with her the next day.

  There were no other customers in the dim, warm shop.

  “Och, ye’re lookin’ pale, my dear. Are ye well, my bairn?”

  “Oh, aye. I’m quite well,” Abigail told the well-meaning Scotswoman. “I ... I’ve just had a shock, that’s all.”

  “Would ye care to tell me about it?” The woman’s warmth invited the relaying of her recent clash. Abigail told her everything.

  “Wait a wee while. I’ll just fetch ye the v
ery thing to perk ye up a bit!”

  The baker’s wife disappeared behind a tattered velvet curtain and came back, bearing a tiny etched glass. “Here. Drink this up.”

  The small brandy burned Abigail’s throat, but it quickly warmed and she did indeed feel “perked up”.

  “Och! Those men! They’re all in a dream these days. If ’tis not dreamin’ of findin’ the largest nugget, ’tis a dream of some new business or other. Something for all these folk, lately come upon us, to spend their money! ’Twon’t last, that’s what I say. Aye, but ye ken people always need bread, and ’tis steady enough for Douglas, thank the Lord. He’s a canny one—no quick gains for him. And I’m thankful ’tis his way. Quick gains make quick losses, and can only lead to trouble. Are ye feelin’ better now? There! Those roses are back in your cheeks!”

  Abigail was not sure whether it was the heat from the ovens, the barrage of chatter, or the alcohol, but she was feeling recovered. She was grateful for the woman’s hospitality—the womenfolk of this town were so kindly, even Mrs. Sergeant, who had exploded when she had told her of her plans. She had implored Abigail not to go, said that it was foolhardy. But when she saw the girl could not be persuaded from her purpose, she was kindness itself. She would care for William, give Abigail some hearty food for the journey, and Abigail was not to worry about her brother, he would be in very capable hands. Had she not tended her three, now grown-up with children of their own, many a time in their childhood illnesses? What a blessing was Mrs. Sergeant.

  Clutching the warm bread under an arm, Abigail thanked the woman and turned back down the street towards the boarding house.

  “What of the Maoris, Mrs. Sergeant? We heard such terrible things of their murdering and plundering, yet I declare, I don’t think I’ve seen a single one since I’ve arrived here. Still, I have not been out very much...” Abigail was sitting on the buttoned leather chesterfield in Mrs. Sergeant’s parlour. William was already asleep in the early evening.