In the Land of the Long White Cloud (16 page)

The rest of the passengers shared Gerald’s excitement as the lifting fog now exposed a pear-shaped bay to view. According to Gerald, this natural harbor had volcanic origins. The bay was surrounded by mountains, and a few houses and landings were becoming visible.

“Don’t worry,” the ship’s doctor reassured Helen. “Nowadays a shuttle service operates daily between Lyttelton and Christchurch. You can rent a mule when we arrive. You won’t have to hike the whole way like the first settlers.”

Helen was hesitant. Maybe she could rent a mule, but what was she going to do with the girls?

“How…how far is it exactly?” she asked unsurely as the
Dublin
rapidly approached the coast. “And do we have to bring all our luggage with us?”

“As you like,” Gerald remarked. “You can also have it ferried by boat, up the Avon River. But that costs money, of course. Most New Zealanders haul their things over the Bridle Path. It’s twelve miles.”

Helen decided only to have her beloved rocking chair ferried. She would carry the rest of her luggage just like the others. She could walk twelve miles—of course she could. Although it was true she had never tried such a thing before.

Meanwhile, the main deck had emptied; the passengers had rushed to their cabins to pack their bags. Now that they had almost reached their destination, they wanted to get off the boat as quickly as possible. A tumult similar to that of their first day on board reigned in steerage.

In first class, people went about things more coolly. Luggage was by and large picked up; the gentry would be taking advantage of the transportation company that carried people and their baggage to the interior on mules. Mrs. Brewster and Lady Barrington already trembled at the prospect of the ride over the pass. Neither one was accustomed to being transported by horse or mule, and both had heard horror stories about the dangers of the route. Gwyneira, however, could hardly wait to mount Igraine—and for that reason ended up in a serious dispute with Gerald.

“Stay here another night?” she said, amazed, when he indicated they would be taking advantage of the humble but newly opened guesthouse in Lyttelton. “But why do that?”

“Because we’ll hardly be able to unload the animals before late afternoon,” Gerald explained. “And because I have to requisition herders to bring the sheep over the pass.”

Gwyneira shook her head, uncomprehending. “Why do you need help for that? I can drive the sheep on my own. And we have two horses. We don’t need to wait for the mules.”

Gerald boomed with laughter, and Lord Barrington joined him.

“You want to drive the sheep over the pass, little lady? On horseback, like an American cowboy?” The lord found this the best joke he had heard in a long time.

Gwyneira rolled her eyes. “Of course I wouldn’t drive the sheep myself,” she remarked. “That’s what Cleo and the other dogs are for, the ones that Mr. Warden bought from my father. The pups are still little and haven’t been fully trained, but there are only thirty sheep, after all. Cleo could do that all by herself if need be.”

The little dog had heard her name and immediately emerged from her corner. Wagging her tail and with bright eyes shining with eagerness and devotion, she stopped in front of her mistress. Gwyneira petted her and informed her that their boredom on the ship would come to an end that day.

“Gwyneira,” Gerald said, annoyed, “I didn’t buy these sheep and dogs and have them shipped halfway around the world just to have them fall off the next cliff.” He hated it when a member of his family sounded ridiculous. And it infuriated him further when someone ignored or even questioned his directions. “You don’t know the Bridle Path. It’s a treacherous and dangerous trail. No dog can drive sheep over it alone, and it’s not as easy to ride over it as you seem to think. I’ve had pens prepared for the sheep tonight. Tomorrow I’ll have the horses ferried over, and you’ll take a mule.”

Gwyneira tossed her head back imperiously. She hated it when people underestimated her or her animals’ abilities.

“Igraine can cross any path and is as sure-footed as any mule,” she assured them with a steady voice. “Cleo has never lost a sheep, and she won’t now. Just wait, by this evening we’ll be in Christchurch!”

The men kept laughing, but Gwyneira was determined. Why did she have the best sheepdog in Powys, if not in all Wales? And why had people been breeding cobs for nimbleness and sure-footedness? Gwyneira burned with impatience to show the men what she was
capable of. This was a new world! She wouldn’t let herself be bound by the role of the well-bred little woman who followed men’s orders without protest.

Helen felt extremely light-headed when she finally set foot on New Zealand around three o’clock that afternoon. The bobbing landing platform did not seem much steadier than the planks of the
Dublin
, but she stepped across it courageously and stood at long last on solid land. She was so relieved that she would have liked nothing better than to kneel down and kiss the ground, just as Mrs. O’Hara and a few other settlers had unabashedly done. Helen’s girls and the other children from steerage danced and frolicked about and were subdued only with great effort in order to join the other survivors in saying a prayer of thanksgiving. Only Daphne still seemed disappointed. The few houses hemming the Bay of Lyttelton did not meet her expectations for a town.

Helen had already commissioned the transportation of the rocking chair by ferry. Now, her travel bag in one hand and her parasol over her shoulder, she sauntered up the wide access path leading up to the first houses. The girls followed her obediently with their bundles. Thus far they found the climb demanding, but not dangerous or unreasonably difficult. If it did not get any worse, they could still conquer the road to Christchurch. For the time being, however, they found themselves in the center of the Lyttelton settlement. There was a pub, a general store, and a questionable-looking hotel. But that was there only for the benefit of the rich. The steerage passengers who did not want to leave straight for Christchurch could spend the night here in primitive barracks or tents, and many of the new settlers chose this option. A few of them had relatives in Christchurch and had arranged for them to send mules as soon as the
Dublin
had arrived.

Helen entertained a quiet hope when she saw the transport company’s mules waiting in front of the pub. True, Howard did not yet know of her arrival, but the vicar of Christchurch, Reverend Baldwin,
had been informed that the six orphan girls would arrive on the
Dublin
. Perhaps he had arranged transportation for the rest of their journey. Helen asked the mule drivers, but they had not received any instructions to that effect. Though they were supposed to pick up supplies for Reverend Baldwin, and they had been notified of the Brewsters’ arrival, the pastor had not mentioned the girls.

“All right, girls, there’s nothing left for us but to walk,” Helen said, finally accepting her fate. “And we’d better get started so we can put it behind us.”

The tents and barracks that were their only alternative struck Helen as rather shady. Naturally, men and women slept separately, but there were no locks on the doors, and there was no doubt an equal dearth of women in Lyttelton as in Christchurch. Who knew what would get into men’s heads when seven women and girls without a chaperone served themselves up on a silver platter?

So Helen set out with a number of the other immigrant families who likewise wanted to continue on to Christchurch without delay. The O’Haras were among them, and Jamie gallantly offered to shoulder Elizabeth’s things as well as his own. His mother, however, strictly forbade this, as the O’Haras were transporting all of their household supplies over the mountains, and everyone already had more than enough to carry. As the practical woman saw it, in such cases courtesy was a luxury they could not afford.

After the first few miles, Jamie might have come to the same conclusion himself. The fog had lifted, as Gerald had predicted, and now the Bridle Path basked in the warm spring sunshine. The immigrants still found the heat incomprehensible. Back home in England, they would have been facing the first autumn storms, while here in New Zealand the grass was just beginning to sprout and the sun to climb higher. Though the temperature was quite pleasant, the travelers soon broke into a sweat on the long ascent, especially since many of them wore several layers of clothing in order to have less to carry. Even the men were soon out of breath. Three indolent months at sea had robbed even the strongest laborer of his strength. Yet the path grew not only
steeper but more treacherous. The girls cried in fear as they clambered along a crater’s lip. Mary and Laurie clung so tightly to one another that they actually put themselves in greater danger of falling. Rosemary held onto the edge of Helen’s skirt and buried her head in the folds of her traveling outfit when the trail was too frightening. Helen had long since closed her parasol. She needed it as a walking stick, and she no longer had the energy to carry it properly over her shoulder. She couldn’t have cared less about looking after her pale skin that day.

After an hour, the travelers were tired and thirsty and had put only two miles behind them.

“Up there on the mountain, they sell refreshments,” Jamie comforted the girls. “At least that’s what they said in Lyttelton. And there’s supposed to be hostels that offer a nice sit-down along the way. We just have to get up there, then the worst will be over.” With that, he bravely set off on the next leg of the trail. The girls followed him over the rocky terrain.

During the climb, Helen had little time to study the landscape, but what she did see was demoralizing. The mountains looked bare and gray, with only sparse vegetation.

“Volcanic rock,” explained Mr. O’Hara, who had worked in mining. But Helen could only think of the “Mountains of Hell” from a ballad her sister used to sing. When she had pictured what eternal damnation might look like—barren, wan, and infinite—it had been just like this.

Gerald Warden did indeed have to wait until all the other passengers had disembarked to unload his animals. The men from the transport company only just had the mules ready then.

“We’ll make it before dark,” they said reassuringly as they heaved the anxious women onto the mules. “It takes about four hours. We’ll arrive in Christchurch around eight in the evening. Just in time for dinner at the hotel.”

“Did you hear that?” Gwyneira asked Gerald. “We could join them. Although we’d be faster alone, of course. Igraine won’t like trotting behind the mules.”

To Gerald’s annoyance, Gwyneira had already saddled the horses while he was monitoring the unloading of the sheep. Gerald restrained himself from expressing his anger. Regardless, he was in a bad mood. Nobody here knew what to do with the sheep; the pens had not been prepared, and the flock was spreading itself out over the hills of Lyttelton like in a painting. The animals were enjoying their freedom after their long spell in the belly of the ship and were frolicking like young lambs on the sparse grass outside the settlement. Gerald cursed two of the sailors who had helped him with the unloading and gave them strict orders to herd the sheep together and watch them until he had organized the construction of a provisional pen. The men, however, saw their job as done. After insolently remarking that they were sailors, not shepherds, they hurried to the just-opened pub. After the long drought on board, they were thirsty. Gerald’s sheep did not concern them.

Suddenly a shrill whistle sounded that not only made Lady Barrington and Mrs. Brewster flinch in fright, but Gerald and the mule drivers as well. Moreover, the sound had not come from some street urchin but rather from a blue-blooded young lady they had considered until that moment to be ladylike and well bred. Another Gwyneira was making herself known. The girl had recognized Gerald’s dilemma with the sheep and immediately sought help. She whistled piercingly for her dog, and Cleo followed enthusiastically. Like a little black bolt of lightning, the dog dashed up and down the hills and rounded up the sheep into a tight flock. As though guided by an invisible hand, the animals turned to Gwyneira, who was waiting calmly. Gerald’s puppies, waiting in a kennel nearby and set to be delivered to Christchurch, went so wild at the sight of the sheep that the wooden box split open. The six little collies tumbled out and shot immediately toward the flock. But before the sheep could catch fright, the dogs lay down in the grass as though by command. Panting excitedly, their
clever collie faces directed tensely at the flock, they lay there, ready to spring into action if a sheep should wander out of place.