CHAPTER IX
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No Sunday in the Bush.
CHAPTER IX.
"Gold! yellow, glittering gold!"
Timon of Athens.
IT was a common remark, that there was "no Sunday in the bush;" but the saying was hardly appropriate, seeing we always "knocked off work" as that day came round, and most of us then donned some new, or, at all events, clean clothes.
Of course there was no church; if there had been one, some of us would, I think, have attended the service: to be sure there was the missionary station, some twelve miles off down the river, but we never went there for that purpose, having a vague idea that we might not be over welcome, and that the missionary and his family looked upon us white men as a bad lot, and reprobates.
I remember that one of my men called at this mission station one Sunday afternoon, coolly stating that I had sent him for some medicine, and naming an
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arcanum which all the while the bad rascal had need of on account of his own irregularities.
Considering the character I should acquire by the above little deception on the part of my too clever sawyer, it is hardly to be wondered at that the good folks at the mission station should fight rather shy of Mr. Edward Crewe, jumping, doubtless, to an unmerited conclusion and judgment from hearsay.
I one day chanced to meet Mr. Christian on the river in his canoe, journeying from up country homewards. We had a long talk on things in general; indeed, I thought him very pleasant and agreeable, and I was quite unconscious of the "smart trick" my Yankee sawyer had played upon me, only hearing about it some months after, when he had left my service. I was more inclined to think my missionary no bad fellow, as it was said of him that in early life he had occupied himself, and with great success, in the cultivation of the wild avenaceous cereal, sometimes otherwise spoken of as "sowing wild oats." Before parting he earnestly begged of me that I would, as a favour, read carefully a certain portion of Saint Luke's Gospel: of course, I promised I would do so, and equally of course I forgot the chapter he named, and never did. Sometimes
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Some Sunday in the Bush.
we forgot the run of the day of the month, or rather week; and on the arrival of a vessel from "town," we were found keeping a Saturday or a Monday for the first day of the week.
At this period I was fully three years and never "at church." Do not be horrified, good people; perhaps I was not so much the worse for such absenteeism as "awfully nice" respectably black-coated Sunday folks would suppose.
To return to our Sunday at the mill. Very often it was anything but a season of rest, and when out pig-hunting, the day became eminently one of extreme toil. Two or three of us would start off in the morning, taking some bread and meat tied up in paper, and the parcel slung over the shoulders of one of the party. Coats were, as a rule, left at home on these expeditions, as an encumbrance and superfluity. After tramping many miles over steep fern ranges, through flax swamps, and the tangled forest, and when at length killing our game, perhaps ten or fifteen miles from home. If the pork was worth anything, we did not return light: truly, I can vouch for it that our pikaus became apparently heavier and heavier as we trudged to our destination.
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One memorable Sunday, a most momentous day truly if reckoned by the after-results to myself.--Do you believe in luck, dear reader?
I don't; I define luck and its results as the sequence of events over which men have control, only they don't know it.
Do you desire power, or riches, or the love of woman?
I do, all three, and what has come my way of these blessings has not "dropt from the clouds," but has rather resulted from carefully following such well-known rules as are helpful, in attaining a consummation of one's hopes, a kind of "taking fortune at the flood."
Truly, there must be perfect and infallible rules--if we only knew them--by the observing of which we could become, as it were, gods, having a prescience of the future. Somewhat in a fog, and tangled all such knowledge certainly is, as yet, wanting illumination and the patience of coming generations to elucidate.
On that eventful Sunday above mentioned I set off in an idle kind of manner, hoping to replenish our larder with a little fresh pork, also, having an eye to business, I wanted to see how certain kauri logs
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Herod, not the Tetrarch.
were located; and if the next fresh was likely to bring many down to the boom.
Herod alone was with me, not the Tetrarch, only his namesake, in the shape of a strong, very bad-tempered, and brindled-coloured hound.
We took the track that led to the forest, following, for the most part, the course of the creek, and only crossing at available places, to cut off the bends where the meanderings of the stream, had we not avoided them, would have added many more miles to our road. When we arrived at the edge of the forest, which is about seven miles from the mill, I sat me down to have a rest and "a draw of the pipe," and lacking a better companion to converse with, I asked Herod what was his private judgment with regard to the very cruel and savage doings of his namesake, whom men have called the Great--my Herod wagged his tail. So I continued saying, that perhaps he, the Tetrarch, was not always so bad; indeed, we read of him that when he was a young man, the villagers sung songs in his "commendation," as one who had rid them of a band of robbers. My Herod now, not only wagged his tail, but tried to lick my face; however, I kept him at bay with whiffs of tobacco smoke, which caused him to sneeze
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and pucker up the skin of his face in a ridiculous manner.
Again setting out, Herod and I scrambled on and on for above an hour, along the bed of the creek, now trudging over gravel, amongst which water-worn quartz pebbles formed a considerable portion. Then at times, jumping from stone to stone across to the other side of the stream, hoping there to find the way less rugged. In places I could see reefs of white quartz cropping up through the rock from an eighth of an inch to a foot or more in thickness, and branching off and ramifying in endless mazes.
On either bank there grew a good sprinkling of kauri, interspersed with other forest trees, as the towai, miro, remu, miri, tetoke, hinau, and many others. Then there were the magnificent tree-ferns, one kind growing some forty feet high, called punga by the natives; another sort sending out its giant fronds nearer to ground, was, in years gone by, in time of scarcity, used by the natives as an article of food, this they call mamaku; and yet another giant fern, the pura, one plant of which I brought in after-years to England, also edible, but in this case it was the root and not the stem, a bulbous-looking root, like Brobdingnagian dahlias. Then there was the
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Pig at bay.
nikau, a palm, and the last of all I will mention here, the supple-jack, that stopper to all speedy progression in the New Zealand forest.
Presently we left the creek, and clambering up the right-hand bank, we struck up hill with the idea of gaining the summit of the spur, where I supposed the road would be more free from the tangled undergrowth, and would rise by a pretty gradual ascent until the ridge ran into the great dividing range--the backbone of the peninsula.
We must have been travelling an hour after leaving the creek, when Herod, who was ahead, gave notice, by continued barking, that he had a pig at bay. You may be sure that I quickly "made tracks" for the spot, and there found the Idumean's namesake, barking at a medium-sized swine, who had cunningly ensconced himself between two gigantic spurs of a huge rata, in which position the dog had no chance to get hold; as with back to the tree, and the great roots on each side, the pig stood famously entrenched. Peering over one of the great spurs--which were breast high--I endeavoured, with a long stick, to drive the boar from his fortlet; no arrangements of that sort, however, were of any use, whilst Herod was in front, and from whom the pig
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never took his eyes, but kept chopping and chumping his jaws by way of intimidation; so dragging the dog out of view, I renewed the probing with my stick. when, presently, off the grunter started with Herod at his heels. The bush was very thick, and the pig had the best of it; on they went and I after them down hill to the creek, only a very small streamlet here.
There they are in the bottom! they will cross and up the other side, said I to myself: no, they are going down the creek, hurrah! I am after them, we are all in the creek now, the sides rising very steep, and densely wooded, the trees meeting over head and shutting out the sun, the rocks are rough and slippery, but there is not much water. All this while I had just managed to keep the chase in view, when suddenly both pig and dog disappeared, and I also in my hurry close behind, nearly followed suit. They had slipped along a rocky incline, and then tumbled down a miniature waterfall--some twenty feet high--into a tranquil pool below. This unforeseen header had knocked the wind out of the pair, whom I now saw at the further margin of the pool, looking very foolish. Now was my time, before the swine recovered his wind again, so without much regard to consequences or to clothes, I slithered
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Land.
down by a somewhat better way. To cut short this introduction to my day's adventures, suffice it to say, that I slew the swine, after a rough-and-tumble struggle, during which much water flew about, and Herod not having properly regained his wind, did only a very little barking. I sat down to rest and think of my return to the mill, with the choicest portion of my quarry--a la pikau--on my back. I have fourteen miles to travel, at least, thought I, and up hill some part of the way: out of this will be a breather to begin with; but when I find the track by which I entered the forest the rest will be easy, and not so much up and down. Truly, New Zealand wants rolling. The climate hereaway is splendid, but land for cultivation has to be looked for with patience, and selected with judgment. The flats are often poor, or swampy, and the good soil amongst the hilly or undulatory parts--is patchy--"could be covered with a blanket." The hills in places will grow grass, badly. The swamps contain good land, but to drain them would in most instances take more capital than is usually possessed by a New Zealand settler. Many localities would do famously to plant with trees, such as the Australian blue gum, which will grow well almost anywhere; but that you
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know would not pay this generation. Most of the native timber-trees are slow growers, and, besides, do not thrive unless in the shade, notably requiring heat and moisture. At the edge of the forest the timber is almost always scraggy and badly grown.
Seated on a shelving rock with the waterfall and its clear pool on my right hand, a stretch of shingly beach a few paces across to where the stream overflowed the pool, and ran at the very base of the cliff in my front, at twenty yards to my left the creek narrowed, having somewhat the appearance of an American canon, the cliffs rising precipitous on either side, roofed over with a green canopy of forest. I felt that truly this was a weird and lonely place, where possibly no one had been before, certainly no European: the way to it was only by tumbling down a waterfall, and the way out--well, that I could see as I looked down the miniature canon--would be a cold-bath at any rate; for seemingly the water was deep in places, yet, surely, a road no one would pick from choice, and yet that must be my way "out of this." I cannot clamber up the fall again with a pikau on my back.
What a solitude is a New Zealand forest! not a sound, save the rush of the tiny fall, and the wind
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Finds gold.
gently moving the branches overhead; not a sign of life besides ourselves, save a bush-robin, who, like his namesake in the old country, appreciates the society of man, for, sit where you will in the forest, and one is sure to appear, when with no other object apparently than the pleasure of your company, he will fly and hop round about, looking at you with his head on one side, always, indeed, at what he considers a safe distance; for, although doubtless your society is charming, he declines trusting himself too near.
Mechanically I take up a quartz pebble, an involuntary schoolboy action, though I have no wish to frighten, much less to hurt the little fellow. Turning the stone in my hand, I feel it is a jolly one for throwing, and my thoughts go back, without an effort, to school days at Rugby, and to a cruel pastime we had then of "pecking" at little birds, stoning them along a hedge, a boy or two on each side, till wearied out, the small game was bagged. I do think boys are the most cruel creatures on God's earth. Thus thinking, my eye caught sight of a pale yellow streak on the stone in my hand, and then my heart gave such a bunch. Why, this surely is gold! gold! gold!--
I quickly handled many of the stones about me,
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and found "the colour" in several; but was this pale yellow stuff really the precious metal? As a rough test, from one of the best specimens I had collected, I cut a tiny bit of gold; it seemed about as hard as zinc. It is not mundic, any way, I thought; then I placed the mite of yellow stuff upon a hard stone, and with the back of my knife beat it flat. It is gold! it is gold! as sure as--
I had made a discovery, truly. I now observed the rock that formed the waterfall. The softer portion was worn away, leaving a regular reef of quartz standing out; this I saw was much richer than the loose pebble I had first seen, and I judged to contain 25 per cent. of gold. One thing puzzled me then, and almost made me doubt my luck, and this was the pale colour of the gold, which arose, as I afterwards found, from the quantity of silver with which it was alloyed.
Wading into the pool below the fall, and using a stone for a hammer, I broke off from the reef several huge lumps which appeared to be nearly one-half metal, and were so weighty that I could only with difficulty carry them one by one to the edge of the pool where I had first sat down.
"Why, here are tons of gold!" I cried, aloud.
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Leaves the gold.
Herod wagged his tail, thinking I was making some allusion to him, doubtless. He evidently could not understand why I did not start for home with the pig on my back, nor could he make out what I was after up to my middle in water, to say nothing of the shower-bath under the fall where I had got my marvellous nuggets.
"Herod, old fellow, you have proved a lucky dog," said I, patting him, "and there is wisdom in what you wish to observe. We will return to the mill."
I then proceeded to cut off the pig's head and otherwise despoil him, reserving some thirty pounds' weight of his choicer parts for my back-load home. Truly, it was hard to leave the gold behind, and I had nearly concluded to take as much as I could carry, but I thought better of it, selecting only one very fine specimen weighing about a pound, and that was nearly all gold.
I had a rough and watery struggle down the first fifty yards or so of the creek. In some places I had to wade across holes three or four feet deep, but at length, when clear of the canon, the road improved, although when leaving the stream and striking up the hill-side through the forest, it was a breather,
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and I only made slow progress, and no wonder, with the pikau on my back, and steering a devious way amongst a tanglement of supple-jack, kia-kia, mongo-mongo and the many shrubs and trees of a New Zealand bush. Once on the top of the ridge, I got along better, and presently when I got out of the forest and on the bare fern and tea-tree ranges I sat down to take a spell and think-think how I should turn my wonderful adventure to a good account.
Should I let any of the Europeans at the mill into the secret?
Should I tell the Government and so claim the reward? (If I remember right it was £4000.)
If I told no one, how could I all alone utilize my discovery? And how about the natives, for it was upon Maori land that I had found the gold, and they certainly would never consent to sell either to private individuals or to the Government any portion of this part of the province of Auckland, if they had an idea that there was gold. Then it was clear to me that no Europeans would be allowed to rent the land, and, "dog-in-the-manger like," nothing would ever be done by themselves to develop the resources of the country. But supposing it was fully known that gold had been found in such abundance, who
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Lost in a swamp.
could prevent the migration of thousands of hardy diggers from Australia.
I could arrive at no conclusion as to the best course for me to take, so, getting on my legs, and settling my "swag" comfortably on my back, I again set out homeward.
There are few seasons so conducive to untrammelled and hopeful thought as when walking alone on a road, where, free from distracting surroundings and with greatly unoccupied senses, the mind obeys the will. It is a time when, if you are of an imaginative turn, you can tell yourself stories; if you are mechanical, you lose not the opportunity to "speed your wheels," or to think out correct results relating to pressure or percussion; if again you are a public man and have a speech to make, then is your time to rehearse a telling one; if you are in business and things look a little slack, and money is "tight," take a long walk on an unfrequented road, and ways and means will appear, "in future" perhaps, but still more hopeful and smiling than if you had sat at home.
On and on I trudged along the path that led over the fern ranges to the mill, lost in thought. Mile after mile I lessened the distance, regardless of the
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long and weary road, the pikau on my back, or the coming darkness. I awoke to find myself off the track and in a swamp, with the raupo and flax higher than my head. Herod, like a clever dog, had doubtless kept the path and gone home to his friend Pluto, another dog. I stood still and whistled, thinking that, should the dog return to me, the direction he came from would give me a clew to my whereabouts. Again and again I whistled, but it was no use. Perhaps Herod was out of hearing, or may be, which was more likely, he could not understand what I wanted, or that I could be ass enough not to know my way to the mill by instinct, in spite of the darkness and the fog.
"Ha, ha!" I cried, "this is a joke. Not more than a mile from home and yet cannot find the track! I wish Pluto would bark at Herod on his return, that would give the position of the mill and the road out of this dismal swamp. I have no ambition to pass the night here, I can tell you," I continued aloud, "the track is to the right unless I have turned round, and I am in a jolly state of uncertainty as to that. I will not be caught in this way again, trust me. It all comes of not thinking where one was going."
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Not always follow your nose.
But Pluto did not bark, and the fog appeared to become thicker, and after struggling through flax and toi-toi bushes for some minutes in my endeavours by pursuing a zigzag course to find the path, I came to a pause, remarking aloud as before,
"And who is a fool now?"
"Why, Mr. Edward Crewe is one to be sure," I replied.
Very true; but you really will be a fool if you stay here much longer. My dear fellow, here is a swamp of only say 300 acres: keep a straight line and you will arrive at the edge--somewhere."
"That is all very well," I again replied, in answer to myself, "but how to keep a line in this Egyptian darkness, and through or round these great flax bushes which look all the same, and over which I cannot see."
"Why, follow your nose."
Here the idea occurred to me to reverse my mode of progression, making the above organ come last.
I then proceeded to collect a quantity of dry flax leaves, tying them up into loose balls about the size of a child's head. When I had four made I fixed one to the top of a korari or flax-stalk, and, striking
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a match, set it on fire. I then ran as fast as possible for perhaps fifty yards, when I stuck up and set a light to another, now keeping the two in a line. I no longer followed my nose, but went ahead, looking constantly behind me, and just before my first two lights became invisible, I set another pair a-going, taking due care to preserve my line. At this juncture I came full butt against a cabbage-tree. "Here is my guide-post at last," said I, and, slipping the lump of dead pig off my back, I swarmed up the bole of the Wharnaki, a few feet from the ground, from which quoin of vantage I could perceive a well-known conical hill looming through and above the fog.
This gave me the direction to steer, and by-and-by, much disgusted and somewhat fagged, I gained the track, and then "cooed" once--twice, when a prolonged coo-e! came back in reply from the mill.
