Toward the Sea of Freedom (58 page)

“No one gets rich?” asked Lizzie.

Reverend Burton shrugged. “Few,” he answered. “The first to find a new gold source—and the good poker players. For the latter, there’s plenty to make; some rob their fellows shamelessly. But they’re the minority, Miss Portland. The vast majority will leave as poor as they came.”

Lizzie sighed. “Then I’ll drive upriver. Or do you think it would make sense to wait for Michael here?”

Reverend Burton arched his brows. “That depends on whether you’re planning a visit or want to stay with your man. I can also marry you, should you want to share his name, too, and not just his unheated tent.”

Lizzie gave Reverend Burton a cool look. “I have my own tent, Reverend. And I’m not sharing it with anyone.”

Reverend Burton raised his hands in apology. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Miss Portland. Please, forgive me. I had the impression Michael is your man.”

Lizzie bit her lip. “Not in that sense,” she muttered. “It’s just . . . He’s not mine. I, I just care about him.”

Chapter 5

Michael Drury sniffled. He could not get rid of his cold, but he was doing better than Chris Timlock, who was laid up in his tent, feverish and coughing. Michael was well enough to pan for gold, and he needed to. If he did not find at least a few nuggets in his sieve that day, he could not buy anything to eat, and they had finished the last bits of their food the night before. He would have to ride to camp later, but the small amount of gold they had found so far was hardly worth the effort of exchanging.

Michael had thought about going hunting, but he was not good at setting traps, and the small game he had hunted in Ireland did not exist in Otago. No rabbits or hares, only birds with strange habits. The dark-green keas were so impudent that they would steal provisions from the tents. He had only managed to kill one with a sling. It had hardly been worth it, since the small bird hardly had any meat on it. He was better at fishing than hunting—but when he stood in the river all day panning for gold, the fish swam away.

Michael considered whether he should take a break from work to make tea. Chris could surely use it, his own boots were already soaked through again, and he couldn’t risk becoming as sick as his partner.

He was just gathering up his equipment when he heard Chris call him. His friend stood at the entrance to his tent with a rifle in his hand. The men had purchased the weapon with the profits from their first, rather encouraging gold find, but in truth, neither of the two really knew what to do with it. When they had a bit of money for ammunition, they practiced by shooting at trees or bottles, but so far, they weren’t good enough shots to guarantee hitting even an unmoving object.

Yet Chris must have been concerned by something to stand there with the rifle, especially sick as he was. Michael left his equipment and ran to the tent, which stood on a rise. He wanted to be able to survey his claim. So far no one else had the idea of looking for gold in this particular location, but that could change at any moment.

“Someone’s coming up the way,” whispered Chris when Michael reached him. He was glowing with fever, and he coughed as he spoke. “I think so, anyway.”

Michael helped his friend back onto his bedroll in the tent. It was possible he had been hearing things. But from the tents, one really could hear what was going on behind the rise. And now, even Michael heard hoofbeats. He pulled the blankets up to Chris’s chin.

“Do you hear it?” Chris asked.

Michael nodded, grabbed the gun, and went outside. He didn’t intend on shooting, but surely the gun was good for scaring the visitor a bit first. Michael made his way to the path—and he was greeted with cheerful whinnying. Lizzie’s horse recognized him at once. After all, Michael had always spoiled it—though perhaps it was just calling to Michael’s gray horse, which was grazing in front of the tents. The horses had shared stables long enough to know each other well. In any case, Michael immediately identified the whinny as belonging to the Irish Coffee’s workhorse. It strained up the mountain, clearly laden with a heavy load. Beside it, a woman in long skirts struggled through the snow, wrapped in wool scarves and heavy coats.

“Lizzie!” Michael ran to her and took her in his arms. He would never have admitted it, but he had rarely felt as relieved as he did at the sight of her.

Lizzie removed the scarf around her neck and hair and almost would have let him kiss her. It was good to lay eyes on him again, but his appearance confirmed all her fears. The last time she’d seen him so thin and haggard was on the prison ship. Michael’s cheeks were sunken, and his eyes were red with fever. Though he did hold her close, he seemed too weak to swing her around as he often would as a greeting in Kaikoura.

But he did seem truly happy to see her. A weight lifted from Lizzie’s heart.

“What are you doing here, Lizzie? Come in, come in; it’s warmer in the tent. Well, not much, but a little. I can make tea.”

Lizzie gave him her heartwarming smile and then began to unpack the saddlebags. “I thought I’d look for a little gold too,” she said casually. “There was nothing more to do in Kaikoura, so I just hitched the horse and came here. How’re your riches coming along, Michael Drury?”

Michael made a face. “We work hard,” he mumbled, “but now, in winter . . .”

Lizzie nodded. “It’s pretty cold here. What did you say? You have a tent?”

Michael’s and Chris’s tents were nothing compared to the reverend’s. Fundamentally, they consisted of no more than some canvas stretched over four low poles. One could sit upright within but not stand. There were no furnishings. The men slept on the ground, which was provisionally covered with a tarpaulin. Mats and blankets protected against the worst of the cold, but they could not keep the seriously ill Chris warm enough. Lizzie was shocked when she saw him. He lay listless in his sleeping bag, hardly able to offer her his hand.

“Michael, this man has to get somewhere warm,” she said. “First, pitch the tent I brought. It’s small but much more comfortable than this. Down in the camp, I also have a larger one; we can fetch that sometime in the next few days. Oh yes, and see that you find a few big rocks; there are certainly plenty around here. We can heat them up in the fire and then take them into the tents with us. They should warm things up a bit. And bring my bag in. I have cough syrup of rongoa petals.”

“Do you, perhaps, have something to eat?” asked Michael quietly.

Lizzie looked at him, disbelieving.

“I, I was going to ride down today to refresh our supplies. We only just ran out and . . .”

“And you haven’t found enough money to pay the exorbitant prices down there, have you?” asked Lizzie severely. “Michael, what are you thinking? The boy in there is dying, and you wanted to leave him alone while you went to beg for some food? We’ll cook something first, and warm him up—and tomorrow we’ll take him down to the camp.”

“But the claim,” Michael objected. “If we leave it, someone might rip it out from under us.”

Full of the pride of ownership, he let his gaze wander for a while over the idyllic little valley. It was unquestionably beautiful. But was the snow really hiding any gold?

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Then let someone else starve up here. Michael, we can find something like this anywhere. You don’t need to guard it.”

“Anywhere?” Michael said. “I don’t think so . . . We need only make it through winter. In the spring, when the ground thaws . . .”

Lizzie sighed. He was crazy to try to stay. Why did she keep falling for those shining blue eyes and that enchanting voice? She realized it might not even be possible to move Chris Timlock to the camp. The man was seriously ill. If he was to survive, he needed food and warmth. If she brought all of her provisions up here, she could tend to him just as well as the reverend would below.

“All right, fine,” she relented. “But tomorrow you’ll go to camp and try to bring up the wagon. Or make two trips with the horses—with them, you should be able to get everything here.”

“You brought enough provisions to load two horses? What in heaven’s name did you haul out here?”

Lizzie stared him straight in the eyes. “Everything you’re missing here to live a halfway decent life. And now, get to work. I’ll care for Chris.”

“We, we’re going to find gold, aren’t we?” Chris asked with a hoarse voice as Lizzie poured the Maori rongoa cough syrup into his mouth. “In spring?”

Lizzie stroked his hair, soothingly. “Of course we’ll find gold. Don’t you worry.”

“Do, do you promise?”

Lizzie smiled. Clearly, Chris no longer knew where he was or who was talking to him. But he needed encouragement. He was still very young.

“I promise,” she said firmly.

As soon as possible, she would have to find out where the Ngai Tahu were living.

During her first days in Otago, however, Lizzie did not manage to find the local Maori tribe’s village. There was too much to do. She did everything to save Chris Timlock’s life. The young man was soon doing better thanks to Lizzie’s care. Then she and Michael went about making the camp fit to survive the winter. To Michael’s annoyance, Lizzie insisted they build a cabin.

“Michael, it’s only June, and it’s snowing every day. This will last at least three months. You can’t sleep through that in a tent.”

“The people in the camp can.”

Lizzie shook her head. “They’re either sick all the time or warm themselves at the reverend’s stove. Besides, the camp there is lower down, so it’s also a little warmer. And you don’t have anything else to do anyway.”

“I can pan for gold. That will get us something at least.”

Lizzie grabbed her forehead. “Michael, in four weeks, you haven’t pulled even an ounce of gold from the stream. No day laborer would hire on for that wage, not even in Ireland. Especially when you consider you’re ruining your boots in the water and your shovels and spades when you try to dig in the frozen earth.”

“But I can’t build a house alone. And Chris . . .”

Chris Timlock had survived his pneumonia, but he was still sick in bed. Lizzie did not expect him to recover fully until winter was over. Perhaps in spring when it got warmer.

“I can help you,” said Lizzie. “I’m stronger than you think, and I think it will be fun.”

This latter point proved true. Though felling trees and hauling the beams was backbreaking work, Lizzie took great pleasure in fitting beams together and watching her future house go up. They made rapid progress, and after a month, they had a tiny wooden house with just enough room for three sleeping spaces, a fireplace, a table, and chairs. Lizzie partitioned off one corner of the cabin with tent canvas to have a space for herself. In the gold miners’ camp, people whispered about her living with two men, but they talked more about Michael holding on to his useless claim.

The reverend never said a word about their living arrangement, but there wasn’t much opportunity since they rarely made it to camp for Sunday service. Chris only managed the trip on very good days and was near dead with exhaustion afterward. So Lizzie invited Reverend Burton to come for a visit and was happy when he accepted her invitation.

The reverend gave a service for Lizzie and Chris, then drank a whiskey with Michael. Lizzie had brought the cask of Michael’s first batch to Otago, and the reverend was enthused by the quality. She was pleased that he enjoyed the product of their earlier endeavor, but to Lizzie it was important that the reverend see the cabin they’d built and her private niche within. No one was to doubt her honor.

Spring came to Otago much later than to Kaikoura, but when nature finally threw off winter, the land exploded with fertility. Almost overnight, everything became green. Yellow and red flowers arose in the meadows and on the stream banks. These banks woke memories of Ireland in Michael, though here, southern beeches lined the path instead of oaks, and ferns dipped their branches into the water instead of willows. The birdcalls sounded strange, but other things were just like home.

Michael enjoyed the sight of Lizzie’s slender body clothed only in a light dress once she’d peeled off the heavy wool layers that had kept her warm through the winter. Just like the girls in Ireland, she let her hair blow in the wind and beautified their home with spring flowers—and for the first time in years, Michael did not dream of Mary Kathleen’s luscious golden locks but instead of the sunshine in Lizzie’s fine dark-blonde strands. He no longer thought of Kathleen’s graceful movement but cherished Lizzie’s dynamic manner: her lively attempts to induce the horse to haul timber and her careful, gentle way of taking Chris out of the cabin and into the sun.