Toward the Sea of Freedom (85 page)

Lizzie laughed to herself. Maybe the vines liked gold and she would begin a whole new chapter in the history of viniculture here. Since Kahu Heke had told her about the studying he’d done in Auckland, she had burned with desire to learn more about winemaking. She had ordered books on top of books, and with her slow reading pace, she had enough to read for the next few years at least. And her child would learn to read as well—when it was not sitting at the feet of a
tohunga
listening to the stories of Papa and Rangi and their divine children. Lizzie considered proximity to the Maori village to be more important in the beginning than proximity to Lawrence. She hummed to herself as she tenderly buried the next cutting in the ground.

Suddenly, some movement near the river caught her attention. Two mules were eating on the shore—and two men were unpacking their saddlebags. Lizzie looked around, without much hope though. Earlier in the day, a few Maori women had helped her with the digging, and a few men had panned for gold; the tribe needed winter stores of grain and clothing. But the Maori had gone back to the village more than an hour before.

Lizzie reached for Michael’s old gun, which she had laid down nearby. She had found it in the cabin and taken it with her, primarily to show it to the warriors. The Ngai Tahu, like most of the Maori tribes, possessed enough guns for self-defense. The men had looked Lizzie’s rifle over expertly, cleaned it, and tried it. Then they had given it back to her.

“It works,” said Haikina, “so watch out you don’t kill yourself with it.”

Lizzie had promised to let the warriors instruct her in the gun’s use but had kept delaying. In truth, the gun made her uncomfortable. Now she regretted her negligence. But she did not want to shoot anyone down anyway, just scare them.

She put the gun under her arm, then went down to the river and greeted the men politely. Both men had just unloaded their tents. One was reaching for his gold pan.

Lizzie approached them. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you can’t pan here. This is private property, and the stream is part of it.”

She struggled to make her voice sound firm. At first, the men, both bearlike, looked at her, taken aback.

“Since when is this private property?” grumbled the first man.

Though she was obviously fairly far along in her pregnancy, that clearly wasn’t their first concern.

The second man laughed. “Hey, I know you. Aren’t you Michael Drury’s wife? Old Mike’s supposed to have gotten properly rich. Where’d he find the gold? Here?” He pointed at the stream.

Lizzie shook her head. “Michael panned here and there. He had a claim together with Chris Timlock. But it ran dry. Now . . .” She hated herself for what she had to do now, but if she admitted that she was on her own out here . . . “Now, we’re going to farm here. The land from our old cabin up to here belongs to us, legally purchased from the Ngai Tahu.”

The men laughed.

“As if it was ever theirs,” said the older man.

Lizzie shrugged. “The governor recognized it, as did the justice of the peace and a few lawyers in Dunedin. In any case, my sheep will graze here soon. And as for you two: you can find the next gold mining camp near Lawrence, and there are new finds near Queenstown. There’s nothing for you here, literally.”

Lizzie leaned on her rifle in the hope the gesture looked threatening. Her friends among the Maori warriors achieved a similar effect when they leaned on their spears. But, of course, she was neither humongous nor tattooed.

The men did not back down. On the contrary. The younger, who had recognized her earlier, strode toward her.

“Why are we being so unfriendly, huh?” he asked, smirking. Lizzie now saw how big, strong, and determined he was. “What happened to the celebrated hospitality of country gentlemen and women? Come on, little lady. Invite us in, let us pass a comfortable night, and if we’re convinced tomorrow there’s no gold . . .” Even now, they completely ignored Lizzie’s pregnancy.

“You can just look at the deed to convince yourself this is private land,” Lizzie said with a sharp tone and raised her rifle.

She aimed at the men—and would have felt considerably better if she had known whether the gun was locked and how to shoot a target. Although it did not really matter. A shot would be heard in the village. If she fired, a band of Maori warriors would arrive in short order.

“Now, be nice, Lizzie.”

“That’s Miss Portland to you,” Lizzie replied.

“Still not Mrs. Drury?”

The men came closer. Lizzie breathed deep and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened—so she needed to unlock it. She pulled on the gun’s levers and pulled the trigger again, with success this time. The gun took on a life of its own, recoiling upward as she fired the shot.

Lizzie had to keep herself from dropping the gun. Horrified, she looked over at the men, prepared to see at least one dead on the ground. But they were standing right where they had been—clearly shocked though. She had scared them a little, at least.

“Now, hold on a moment, Miss Portland,” said the other. He sounded almost insulted. “We’ve come here peacefully.”

“Then you can ride on peacefully,” Lizzie spat.

She moved slowly backward, noticing that the men were moving too. They were trying to corner her. She almost had to turn her back to the one to aim at the other.

Lizzie fired once again, which was obviously not a good idea. The men noticed that she had not mastered the gun’s use. They approached briskly.

“We don’t want any trouble, Miss Portland,” said the older one. “Give us the gun and let us do a little test digging on your land. It’d be a good deal for you, too, if we really found gold. What’s that anyway?”

He pointed to the vines, distracting Lizzie a heartbeat too long. His companion leaped at her in the same moment. Lizzie struck him with the gun, but she didn’t hit him hard enough. She stumbled. The man would tear away the gun in a moment, and then . . .

“What the hell is this?” Lizzie heard a loud, commanding voice she recognized immediately. “Rusty Hamilton? And Johnboy Simmons? It’s been a while.” Michael galloped toward them. “Could the two of you please tell me what the hell you’re doing to my girl?”

The younger man—Johnboy Simmons—let Lizzie go and muttered an apology.

“No offense, Michael,” said Rusty, “but the lady threatened us with the gun and—”

“The lady, I’m sure, informed you that you are on her land,” said Michael. “This is Elizabeth Station, from our old claim all the way up to here. So pack up your gold pans and get going.”

Michael dismounted from his gray, ran over to Lizzie, and gave her a fleeting kiss, winking at her inconspicuously. Lizzie played along, saying nothing.

Rusty Hamilton approached him with upraised hands. “But Michael, there could be gold in the stream. What if you’re sitting on a gold mine?”

Michael laughed uproariously. “Now that would be a dream, Rusty, sitting here on a gold mine. But believe me, the Maori aren’t fools enough to sell gold mines for pastureland. And how thick do you think I am? Do you think I didn’t try the stream?”

“And?” asked the man greedily.

Michael shook his head. “It carries a little gold, of course,” he replied. “But so do all the streams, even our old claim down there.”

Rusty and Johnboy laughed contemptuously.

“But this here isn’t Gabriel’s Gully.” Michael smiled. “I swear to you, boys, on my honor.”

Lizzie looked at the ground.

“Well.” Rusty Hamilton seemed disappointed but didn’t appear to be planning any more attempts. “And you’re not going to tell us where you found all that gold you bought this little sheep paradise with, are you? Elizabeth Station. Lovely. Congratulations, little lady.”

Lizzie smiled. She was surprised that she managed to beam at these good-for-nothings as if they were the answer to her prayers.

Michael grinned. “Of course I’ll tell you: from here, go east to my old claim, then southward to a lake that is shaped like . . . like a dead dog. That’s what the Maori called it. What was its name again, Lizzie?”

Lizzie had to stop herself from laughing. She had never heard of such a lake.

“Kuritemato,” she said, improvising.

“There you have it,” said Michael seriously. “At the left front paw, turn westward, and then it’s just a few miles to a stream—a little hidden, lots of ferns around it. You might even find our old sluice box. I just have to warn you, boys. The gold flow ran out.”

Rusty and Johnboy grinned like children on Christmas.

“I don’t see it that way,” said Rusty. “If you ask me, you just found too much to keep looking properly. We’ll take a look anyway. So then, how far is it, Michael?”

Michael considered. “Far,” he said, “about an eight days march. And it’s easy to get lost. There are loads of lakes there.”

“We’ll find it,” said Johnboy, tipping the brim of his hat. “And once again: no harm meant, miss.”

Michael and Lizzie waited in silence until the two men had saddled their mules again.

Michael interrupted the silence with a short question. “What are those?” he, too, asked quietly, pointing to the grape vines.

“Wine,” said Lizzie. “This is going to be a vineyard.”

Michael furrowed his brow. “We’ll need to put a fence around it so the sheep don’t trample the vines.”

“We?” asked Lizzie.

“Let’s talk about it later. We shouldn’t argue until these fellows are gone.” Michael waved at the prospectors.

“Who wants to argue?” inquired Lizzie.

She turned around and went up the hill a ways, back to her vines. One last vine had to be put in place. Carefully, she planted it.

“Admit it: you need me,” said Michael, once the men had finally ridden away. He let his gaze wander over the vineyard and down to Lawrence. The view was breathtaking.

Lizzie arched her brows. “On account of those rats? The Ngai Tahu are already on their way. They heard the gunshots at the village. Soon this place will be crawling with warriors. And I’m going to learn how to aim that thing.” She pointed to the gun. “You couldn’t do it yourself anyway. Or why else all that with the dead dog lake?”

Michael laughed. “I’m increasing my
mana
,” he explained. “
Whaikorero
, the art of talking beautifully.”

“I’d work on my spear throwing first,” said Lizzie, piling earth around her final cutting. “Those two won’t be in such a good mood when they come back.”

“Oh, they won’t be back. With a little luck, they’ll find some gold somewhere on the way. And if not, I sent them in the direction of Queenstown. It would be madness to turn back around instead of working the new finds.”

“And what was with swearing on your honor to them?” For the moment, there was nothing more for Lizzie to do in her vineyard.

“Well, there’s not much you can redeem it for anyway. If I understand you and Kathleen correctly, my
mana
won’t take me very far.”

Lizzie grinned. “But you could always live piously,” she said, “and raise your child with dignity.”

“Does that mean you’ll still have me?” he asked quietly.

Lizzie sighed and changed the subject. “How did you know I’d be here?”

Michael gestured at the land around them. “It’s your mountain, Lizzie. Your
maunga
.”

She smiled. “And you want to let sheep graze on it?”

Michael bit his lip. “It’s not about the sheep, Lizzie. We can make wine—or distill whiskey. I just want to be with you. Because you and the baby—you’re my
maunga
.”

“What about Sean?” she asked.

“Sean is almost grown. He doesn’t need me anymore. And he has the reverend.”

This last sentence almost sounded bitter. Michael accepted that Peter Burton had done a worthy job in his place.

“Is that what Kathleen said?” Lizzie smiled. “Peter will be happy. It’s just a question of who will marry the two of them, the future Anglican bishop or that awful Father Parrish.”

“Don’t dodge, Lizzie,” Michael said. “This isn’t about Kathleen.”

Lizzie turned her face to the heavens in a gesture of gratitude. “That I lived to see this day . . .” she said, somewhat sarcastically.

Michael forced himself to be patient. “It’s about us Lizzie. And about him in there.” He shyly laid his hand on her stomach.

“It could be a girl.” Lizzie pushed his hand away. “One like me.”

“All the better,” said Michael. “I don’t care either way. I’ll take a boy or a girl or both. As long as it comes from you.”

Kahu Heke came to Lizzie’s mind, but she shooed the thought away quickly.

“And I’d like to watch him grow. I’d like to be with the two of you, build a house for you.”

To Lizzie it sounded as if Michael was pleading. She couldn’t be unfeeling.

“And tell him about Ireland,” she teased him. “About his grandpa who made moonshine, and his grandma who prayed grandpa wouldn’t get caught. And how they sent Daddy to Australia because of something to do with Trevallion’s grain.”

Michael nodded seriously. “Exactly,” he said. “Isn’t that what the Maori call
pepeha
?”

Lizzie laughed. “More like
whakapapa
, lineage. But the way you tell it, it’s more like
moteatea
, fairy tales.”

Michael’s face took on its guilty grin. “So, will you let me?” he asked with growing hope. “May I stay with you? May I love you? May I sing the baby to sleep with good old Irish
whaikorero
?”

Lizzie turned and looked into his shining blue eyes. “As long as you never hold against our child what her mother was—or is.”

Michael pulled her close. “You mean a woman with lots of
mana
,” he whispered to her. “It will realize that itself soon.” He kissed her, and she returned his kiss, very slowly, very tenderly: a seal on a promise.

“I’ll get to work on that fence,” Michael said as their lips parted. “For, for the sheep.”

Lizzie rubbed her temples and smiled indulgently.

“The house first, Michael,” she said gently.

Afterword

As always, I have striven for the greatest possible historical authenticity in this novel. My readers can picture the situation in Ireland during the potato blight, as well as the conditions in Wicklow Jail and on British prison ships, knowing they were as I have described them. The
Asia
truly did sail from Woolwich to Van Diemen’s Land, now Tasmania, at the given time, with 169 female prisoners on board. I did, however, stow the twelve men away, and in other respects, my depiction is not quite historically correct: there were no deaths on board—the death rate on deportation ships was considerably lower than one often reads. Statistically speaking, one would actually have traveled much more safely on a convict ship to Australia than on a regular passenger ship to New Zealand or even America. Naturally, the British Crown only deported healthy, mostly young men and women, whereas the old, the sick, and many children would otherwise be on board a normal passenger ship. Though a medical examination did indeed occur, it was only cursory, and no one inspected the hygienic conditions on board. No wonder the weak quickly succumbed to outbreaks. Prison ships were considerably better overseen, by contrast, so illnesses were more quickly brought under control.