Skylark (19 page)

Jack stands on the veranda of his pretty new house, looking out with pleasure at the clean fields and neat fences. The property has been well broken in and he has paid a top price for the labour. For a while he had thought of joining the volunteer soldiers recruited to fight against the native uprisings. Those soldiers have been promised land in return for their services. But Jack doesn’t fancy fighting. He will supply horses to the army, but not take sides in the upheaval.

Mind you, he thinks, I will happily fight for this little piece of heaven, if need be. I have paid good sovereigns for it.

His breeding horses graze the river flats in front of the cottage. Beyond the river, hills rise sharply: Jack’s land, but bush-clad still. A fat pigeon flies out of those distant trees, beats its way across the valley and up to the tall totara behind the house, landing heavily on a branch which bends and sways with its weight. Another day Jack would step quietly inside for his gun and bring the bird down: he is fond of a roast pigeon — kereru, his stable-boy calls them. But today Jack’s mind is on other things.

He’s concerned about Lily. Her note, hastily scribbled by the look of it, said that she would come to join him shortly; that she had enough money put away to make the trip to Whanganui; that she would go to Doctor Ingram’s house and wait for him there. But that was months ago. Ten months and five days to be precise. Not
a word since that single short note. Jack fears that the blackguard Bully Hayes has held her against her will; that she is being forced to perform unsuitable songs to rough mechanicals in unladylike public houses or theatres. He can imagine her standing on stage before rude audiences, hungry and cold, charming them with her sweet voice, while her despicable ‘husband’ rakes in the profits. The goldfields, he hears, are home to the most godless specimens of humanity, living in the roughest of circumstances. His Lily must be held as slave to master, or she would surely have managed to break free by now.

Jack takes a deep breath. Waiting here in safety is a coward’s choice. Rescue is called for and he is the only person in this wide world who can save her. Poor orphaned Lily must surely be waiting — praying — for his intervention.

He walks back inside. ‘Mattie! Mattie!’

His maid-of-all-work appears from the kitchen, wiping her floury hands on her apron. She’s a good, willing girl, who has been in his employ since he arrived on the farm.

‘Please prepare my travelling case, and lay out my good travelling suit.’

Mattie’s face falls. ‘You’re going away again, Sir? You were just down to Whanganui last week.’

Mattie has not learned to keep her opinions to herself as any good maid should, but servants are not easy to find, and Jack enjoys her company and her capable country ways, so suffers the lapses in good manners.

‘Mattie, I may be away a little longer this time. I will arrange for feed for the horses to be delivered, and will see that Matiu and Fred have their orders. Can you manage on your own?’

Mattie sighs. ‘Well, I can manage, Sir, Mr Lacey, but it won’t be fun here in this lonely place.’

‘You’ll have the stable-boy and stockman for company.’

‘Oh well, yes, Sir, if you say so.’ Mattie looks less than enthusiastic.

‘And you can ride Jess or use the dog-cart if you need to go into town.’

The maid smiles at this. She loves to ride.

‘Well then, Mr Lacey, I’ll pack your case. Will you wear the brown suit?’

‘I will, and please pack my Sunday shirt and tie and the gold cufflinks.’

Mattie gives him a sharp look at that. ‘May I ask what the purpose of this trip is, Sir?’

‘No you may not, Mattie,’ says Jack, but he says it with good humour and a wink. He watches her neat hurrying footsteps as she leaves him, then goes back outside again to talk to the men.

At Whanganui, Jack seeks out Bill Foley. The circus has been playing at Castlecliff for the last two weeks, with new acts and a much admired animal — an orang-u-tang [
sic
] from Borneo — which is amazingly human in its behaviour and appearance.

The circus master is in the hippodrome rehearsing a new triple horse act. Jack leans on the rail in the shade of the canvas roof, watching as Mr Foley takes the horses patiently through the intricate steps, turning and wheeling them with a light flick of his whip. To one side a couple of lads jump around, clapping and shouting. Jack is surprised that Bill Foley allows it. On a practice slack wire, erected in a space among the seats, Tommy Bird leaps from feet to crotch to feet, to hands and back to crotch. Jack winces to see him hit the wire on such a sensitive part, but Master Bird seems impervious. Surely he is padded? He waves cheerily to Jack without breaking his rhythm.

At last Mr Foley brings the horses to a halt. He rewards each with a pat and a lump of something from his pocket, then motions to the lads to take them away. He’s been aware of Jack watching and now strolls across for a chat.

‘That one in the middle, the one with the dark flash, she’s one of yours, Jack. Fine intelligent filly.’

Jack smiles. ‘Yes, I recognise her. You’ve done wonders. Is she performing already?’

‘Another week or two and she will. She’s steady in rehearsal but shies when the audience cheers or claps. I should have had
you making a noise along with the lads.’

Jack laughs. ‘So that was intentional!’

‘Oh yes. Like getting the soldiers’ mounts accustomed to gunfire. It’s all in the training. All in the patience.’

Jack likes this flamboyant, lively man: would be ready to settle down for a good discussion of horseflesh and training methods, but he is on fire now to get going.

‘Bill,’ he says, ‘I want to get down to Dunedin quickly. You know the coastal ships. Which do you recommend?’

The circus master slaps his whip against his boot with a crack. ‘Jack Lacey, you are not off to the gold diggings, are you? I thought you had more sense.’

Jack feels a flush rise. ‘No, no, no. Horse-breeding’s my livelihood. But I’m after Lily. I think she’s in trouble.’

Bill Foley frowns. ‘Well, that is only more sensible by a slight margin. Our Miss Tournear ran off with that Captain Hayes, I hear. He’s a cheat and a swindler. Leaves a line of unpaid debts behind him in the wake of his unseaworthy boats.’ He twirls the tips of his moustache. ‘She has ruined her reputation in my book, Jack. I’d advise to give damaged goods like her a wide berth.’

Jack coughs to hide his dismay. ‘Now, now, Sir. She’s young. She’s vulnerable. That wretched man can be charming, and she fell.’

Bill Foley laughs out loud. ‘That woman may be young, yes, but she’s as tough as a boot, and resourceful. And talented. She can look after herself. She will have gone to Hayes willingly and with her eyes open, more fool her.’

‘No, Bill.’ Jack’s earnest eyes plead for understanding. ‘She sees the error of her ways and wants to come to me. To settle down. You know what a wonderful person she is. She’ll make a lovely wife.’

Bill Foley shrugs, puts his hands in his pockets and does a funny little clown’s jig around Jack. ‘To market to market to buy a nice wife; home again home again, run for your life!’ He laughs at his own joke and Jack’s embarrassment. ‘Well lad, good luck to you. Take the
Waimarina
down to Wellington, she’s leaving today.
Native owned, but a good clean ship, well run, cheap fare. Then take your pick from Wellington. The fools with gold in their eyes are still heading south in droves. Is she in Dunedin, then? Maria heard the Arrow.’

Jack admits that he doesn’t know. Her only letter suggested she had left the gold diggings for a place called Riverton. Bill Foley knows the town — he’s played the whole country north and south. ‘Buy a good horse in Dunedin,’ he advises. ‘Doctor Shadrach Jones will see you right. His horse bazaar will interest you. You might even find your Lily there!’

Jack is intrigued, but the circus master is walking away. There is Maria, radiantly pregnant, calling him to his midday meal. It’s all very well, thinks Jack, calling Lily ‘damaged goods’. What about his Maria? Isn’t she just the same? Wasn’t Mr William Foley happy to call her wife and have children by her? Why should a circus master be free to take a fallen woman as wife, but he, Jack Lacey, horse-breeder, be frowned upon?

Jack sighs. He knows he must accept wider disapproval if Lily is to live with him. Decent society will frown upon them both if they know that Lily, a travelling singer and actress, has run away from a husband. No matter whether she was properly married or not. He’s hoping that Lily’s knack of changing her name and appearing on stage in the guise of other performers will muddy the trail, will allow her to appear among the farming community as a dignified married woman. Mrs Jack Lacey.

Wiremu Jenkins, master of the
Waimarina
, is a fountain of information on all matters trading and seafaring. He owns two ships, captains this one, and has his whanau run the other up the coast to New Plymouth. It’s a bright, windy day sailing down to Wellington and the brig travels at a good pace. They drop anchor upriver at Foxton to take aboard a load of flax and wool and then weave their way out among trading vessels of all shapes and sizes to run straight run down to Wellington. Captain Jenkins suggests Jack buy a stock of anything going cheap in Wellington to take and sell at a profit down in Dunedin.

‘If you have a bit of ready money about you, you’ll do well,’ he says, his dark eyes crinkling in his leathery old face as he and Jack lean over the rail, the wind raking their hair and clothes. The
Waimarina
heels steeply as she cuts through the swell. ‘You say you’re a horseman. Buy up some cheap pack saddles and bridles. Take ’em with you as deck cargo.’ He glances up at the foresails and shouts an order back to his crew. ‘Tell you what,’ he continues thoughtfully, ‘we could go partners. I’ll put in the same money as you; you do the buying and selling, and I’ll settle for forty per cent of the profit. You reckon?’

Jack laughs. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Captain.’

Wiremu nods. ‘Ae, all our whanau does good business. The gold rush is the best business, but it won’t last. Make hay, is the saying.’

‘Thirty-five per cent,’ says Jack.

The old Maori offers his hand. ‘We’ll both do well on that. A word of advice, friend. There’s a smart feller down in Dunedin. Sells horses to diggers. Go to him. Name of Jones.’

‘Shadrach Jones?’

‘Ae, that’s the one. Finger in every pie. Medical doctor too, I hear. Entertainment business, horses, hotels. Very smart man.’

Entertainment: Jack takes note. Shadrach Jones will be the man to tell him where Lily is.

Jack has paid a carter to bring his stock of saddlery up through the town of Dunedin to the Provincial Hotel. Wind-blown rain soaks his good coat and runs down into his boots. The carter hunched on the seat next to him offers Jack an old sack, which Jack receives gratefully, slinging it over his shoulders and head. He wishes he’d brought his working clothes: the road is muddy, dirt lies heaped on street corners, and people run here and there while the rain makes a misery of everything. Dunedin may be a wealthy, booming town but Jack sees little sign of prosperity. Surely Lily is not here.

Princes Street, up which the carter is attempting to make his way, is crowded with a group of rowdy men, shouting and shoving to get close to a man standing on a barrel who seems to be organising them. Some of the men lead pack-horses, some push hand-carts; all are laden with shovels, pick-axes, sacks of provisions. Many of them seem to be Chinese, a sight which intrigues Jack, who has not come across Orientals before. All are drenched, but nevertheless seem in high spirits. The man on the barrel shouts again and the cavalcade begins, haphazardly, to move, amid much cheering, kissing of sweethearts and whipping of horses.

‘The next overland trek to the diggings,’ explains the carter. ‘Fools, I say. The best is past for Gabriels and the Arrow. Hokitika’s where they should be aiming. Hup! Hup!’ He urges his plodding horse through the mêlée and on into Stafford Street, which is calmer but equally muddy, equally littered. There is the Provincial Hotel, standing like a prince in a pigsty among the hovels, shacks and grubby general stores. The Provincial — prop. S. Jones — is three storeyed; its windows are generous, a neat row of dormers protruding from the roof.
Above the front porch stands an enormous lamp and to one side of the entrance a notice in a window announces the offices of Cobb and Co. In fact, a Cobb and Co. coach stands outside, and four fresh horses are being hitched into their traces. Fine strong horses, Jack notices with approval. This S. Jones clearly does good business.

The carter leads his horse to the rear of the establishment where Jack has asked him to unload, hoping the wares will suit Mr Jones. Jack himself goes firmly up the front steps into the warmth and order of the hotel. No one is at the desk, but he follows the sounds of hammering and sawing. Here, in a large side room — obviously a theatre of some sort — he finds two workmen and a short, plump fellow overseeing them.

‘I’m looking for a Doctor Jones,’ says Jack, trying to look his best but fearing the wet and muddy trip up from the wharf has spoiled his appearance.

‘Well, that’s me, indeed, and at your service,’ says Shadrach Jones. He scarcely comes up to Jack’s shoulder, but exudes such energy and goodwill that his presence fills the room. ‘Is it an ailment brings you, or are you after accommodation?’ Jones smooths his brightly checked waistcoat, rolls his sleeves back down, rubs a hand through his wildly curling brown hair. ‘You have caught me at my renovations, but come in, good man, and let’s get you dry.’

Jack has no time to explain his mission but is bustled into the front parlour and seated before a fire. A maid takes his wet coat and brushes him down while the proprietor brings him a hot toddy. It’s all very pleasant after the long voyage down and the muddy approach. Several other men are sitting in the parlour reading newspapers, or perhaps waiting to board the coach outside. Jones has a word here and there as he brings the drink.

‘Now,’ he says, ‘state your business, for I can see you’re a man used to dealing, and yet we’ve not met, so I assume you are newly arrived. Also,’ he looks Jack up and down carefully, ‘I’d say you were a horseman by your clothes. Am I right?’

Jack has to laugh. He had expected an older, more sober
businessman. This Shadrach Jones is like an actor on a stage. He steps this way and that as he speaks, pats at his pockets, curls his moustache, takes out his watch, glances at it and puts it away again, all the time keeping an eye on the comings and goings in the hotel. He has donned a dark green coat by now, over the yellow waistcoat. He’s as bright as a parrot, and as lively.

Jack mentions his load of horse tackle.

‘Aha! I had you right, no?’ Doctor Jones slaps Jack on the shoulder in delight, then frowns. ‘Pack saddles, eh? Hmm. The demand is not so strong, but we will find a buyer, yes we will. Now I am a busy man, Mr Lacey, let us discuss terms.’

It’s not until later, when the business is concluded, that Jack mentions Lily. He uses her stage name, Rosa.

The little entrepreneur looks at Jack with narrowed eyes. ‘Rosa Buckingham? Of course I know her. Of course. Such a voice. She performed here with her brothers. In my very theatre. I have to admit their bill of fare was not to Dunedin’s taste.’ Jones frowns at the memory. ‘Sailed too close to the wind for my clientele. What business have you with her?’

Jack stammers an explanation of sorts. Obviously Shadrach Jones has not been let into the secret: he still believes Rosa was a true sister to the Buckingham boys. ‘She and I were … close friends … more than close. There was an understanding …’ Suddenly he bursts out, ‘Doctor Jones, I believe she is being held against her will by Captain William Hayes. I have come to rescue her. She has written asking me to bring her away. I beg you, if you know her whereabouts, to tell me. I feel she is in danger!’

Shadrach Jones listens with great interest. ‘Aha! I suspected it, yes I did, I suspected as much. Such a lovely lady — talented, yes. A true soprano voice and yet a beautiful and delightful actress too. I could not believe she would … well, perhaps I should not say.’

Jack urges him to go on. Shadrach Jones pus a finger to his lips; draws Jack into a secluded corner of the parlour, pulling a drape to hide them from the other guests. Jack finds it hard to keep a straight face. Surely this little businessman is overdoing the drama.

‘That talented young woman,’ says Jones in an exaggerated whisper that everyone in the room can hear, ‘was in thrall to the blackguard Hayes. I’m sure of it. Mesmerised by his dark charms. I myself,’ he throws out his hands in mock despair, ‘was taken in by him. Yes, I, Doctor Shadrach Jones himself, was fooled! He left my Princess Theatre for the goldfields of the Arrow, taking stage scenery and provisions,
and
two of my best horses, all without a penny of payment. Not a penny! Promises, promises, and then finally, by the time I sent the constables to fetch payment, he was gone. I would wager he stole your Rosa with false promises in the same way.’ Jones glowers. ‘I have my eye out for that fellow. If he shows so much as a toe in Dunedin, he will be in gaol before he takes one breath!’ He breathes through his nose heavily, then takes out a snow-white handkerchief, shakes it open and wipes his eyes. A theatrical gesture.

‘Is she still with him, then?’ asks Jack, fearing the worst.

Jones sighs, shakes his curly head sadly. ‘I suspect yes. They were in Riverton briefly last year — too briefly. No sooner had I discovered his whereabouts and sent the bailiffs than he was off again. Again leaving debts, I hear.’

‘Off where?’

Shadrach Jones doesn’t know, but suggests Jack visit Conrad Buckingham, a brother to Rosa, who is teaching music in Dunedin. Jack is all for leaving immediately, but Jones will hear nothing of it.

‘No, no, Sir, you must come and see my Princess Theatre first. See where your Rosa performed. It is a stroke of genius! I promise that you, a horseman, will be interested. Come and see!’

Jack remembers that he might hire a horse from this surprising fellow and follows the bustling Jones through a side door and into a barn of a hall, which is filled with the sounds and smell of horses. Stalls line one end of the vast hall; a large, sawdust-covered ring occupies the central section. A handsome bay is being paraded in front of a group of bidders. At the far end, what looks like a construction made from giant boxes is piled to the roof.

‘My horse bazaar,’ shouts Jones over the din of auctioneers and buyers doing business, ‘and also my Princess Theatre!’ He explains that twice a week he converts the space into a theatre; that the ‘boxes’ are actually hinged sections of a stage and behind them are stacked seating and stage scenery. ‘All transformed in ten minutes precisely. Suddenly we have a beautiful theatre, which has hosted the best international talent. The Inimitable Thatcher. Annie Vitelli. The Buckinghams. Even Mrs W.H. Foley! Yes, Mrs Foley. You are right to be surprised, Sir, Mrs Foley herself!’ Shadrach Jones plants his fists on hips, beaming. ‘What do you think of
that
, Sir?’

But Jack is more interested in the horses. Again business is conducted speedily. The doctor might be a loquacious and expansive host, but when it comes to hiring a horse, transactions are agreed in minutes. Jack selects a small, lively filly, tests her paces around the ring, and agrees a price. Then, after promising to return to enjoy the evening’s performance, Jack heads out under clearing skies in search of Conrad Buckingham.