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Chapter V. Land Oh!—The Man in the Mud.

On describing to Miss Julia the interview with her father, Harry managed—mad-headed young fool that he was—to give her great offence by some of his remarks on the cruel parent's behaviour, and they had a regular quarrel, which brought this short-lived secret engagement to an end.

As we approached Auckland our sensations were those of intense relief, for the voyage had been by no means enjoyable enough to wish for its prolongation. Our steerage and second-class passengers, who were principally of the small tradesman and artisan class, were longing to see their land. They had forty-acre free grants, and were about to form a special settlement somewhere.

Knowing nothing whatever about farming, it did not surprise me years afterwards to hear that the scheme proved a dead failure, as without such knowledge no man need expect to succeed in pastoral or agricultural pursuits, notwithstanding the assertions of the Emigration Handbooks to the contrary. But to return to ourselves. The excitement was intense when, in the early morning of a glorious day, the cry of ‘Land oh!’ was raised. Not a soul lay long in bed. Everyone was on deck, their raiment showing decided signs of hasty adjustment. Every eye and every glass were directed to the minute spec on the horizon, which was declared to be the land of our adoption. And now we had it in sight, what was our dismay when we beheld the wind drop and the sails lazily hanging from the yards. We had often enough been becalmed on our outward voyage, but never before had we so ardently wished for a rattling breeze. To see that dot in the distance with a world of blue water to traverse before we could reach it—apparently growing no larger—getting no nearer, was tantalising in the extreme, and required one to be almost more than mortal to bear it with equanimity. We felt our littleness, the meanness of our boasted resources in that without the aid of a heaven-sent breeze we could not move this inert mass along. There were among us some perhaps who could survey this state of affairs with a calm indifference, but they formed a very small minority. The rest exhibited every phase of excited restlessness. After having our patience thus sorely tested for a few hours, we again felt the effects of a favouring ‘breeze o' wind,’ as our old boatswain invariably termed it. The sails gradually filled out, a ripple formed over the glassy surface of the sea, and we were again going to New Zealand. The wind freshened, the spec increased, and we were shortly sailing between the islands which add to the beauty of the entrance to the Auckland Harbour—the Great and Little Barriers and the Tiri Tiri. We soon dropped anchor off Rangitoto, with its extinct craters and sloping scrub-covered sides. Here we had to wait for the health officers to board us. They did not keep us long waiting, as, of course, we had been signalled. What was our horror and dismay when, at the conclusion of their interview with page 19 our doctor and captain, the yellow quarantine flag was hoisted. Groans and hisses emerged from nearly three hundred throats. It appeared that from the confused account our doctor had given of the ship's health they had gathered that we, like another ship recently arrived from the same port, had small-pox on board. The abuse that was heaped on our unworthy medico was appalling for the next twenty-four hours. At the end of that period, when we were all in very depressed state at the idea of spending another month on the old tub with Auckland in sight, a trial to which the calm previously described was as a fleabite, the health officers again arrived, and held another consultation with our authorities. The result was that an order was passed to one of the hands to lower the detested flag. The cheers this time exceeded even the hisses on the previous day, our sensations being very similar to those of a man unjustly condemned to a month's imprisonment suddenly getting his sentence cancelled. We soon weighed the anchor, and the wind being favourable, approached the wharf. A lovelier scene cannot well be imagined than that on first entering Auckland Harbour. The North Shore had been but little built on at the time of which I write, about the year 1866. The town of Auckland itself is most beautifully situated on gently undulating hills overlooking the harbour. The houses, all painted white, and built principally of wood, contrasted pleasantly with the greensward which at this time covered many of the less frequented streets.

It was in September when we landed, the month of budding spring in the colony, instead of being associated with the fading leaf as it was in the land we had left. Those who have never experienced it can little imagine the sensations of rapturous delight which one feels on first setting foot on terra firma after a voyage of three months, for such had been the duration of ours. The first sight of land has been made the subject of paintings and verse, but grand as it is, it is as nothing compared to the feeling of it under your feet.

We strolled down the wharf, and found the principal street running up a valley between two hills. Having left the ladies, by their desire, at an hotel where Mr Robinson intended to put up, and hearing that tea would not be ready for some time, that gentleman, accompanied by Harry and I, went for a walk up Queen-street. Our friend amused us by stories of the earlier days, as for instance:

‘You see, boys, where this fine street now is. When I first saw it it was an almost impassable swamp. There were crossings made of manuka fascines, but if you stepped off them you might look out, but to get out was a very different thing. Crossing one of these in the dusk of a stormy evening, I caught sight of a man's hat lying in the mud to the left of me. I gave it a kick to see what like it was, when to my astonishment a gruff and inebriated voice under the hat yelled out in a savage tone, “What th' deuce d'ye mean by hitting me under th' ear. Help me out of this cussed mud, an' if it's fight yer want I'm yer man!” As I could not see for the mud how big the fellow was, I thought it best to make peace, so I replied, “What the deuce do you hide that old turnip of a head of yours under a hat in the mud for? Just for a fellow to break his toes against, I suppose. I believe you have lamed me for life, bad luck to you! And now you want me to help you out, so that you can damage me more. No thank you.” “Oh, hang it, show a little Christ'n spirit an' help a man out, can't you? then we'll go an' have page 20 whiskey round th' corner.” “Ah, now,” said I, ‘I like your conversation and your Christian spirit. If you had said Maori rum you might have staid there for me. Catch hold of this stick!” and I soon pulled him out and got him on his legs. I need not tell you that I was only joking when I inferred that the promise of whiskey influenced me. The poor fool had been imbibing too freely, but his soaking in the mud rendered another nip a necessary precaution against cold.’

After a few similar anecdotes I asked Mr Robinson where he would recommend us to put up during our stay in town. He mentioned a quiet boarding-house in Wyndham-street, which he thought inexpensive and very comfortable, and a place where we should meet decent fellows. ‘Although,’ he said, ‘I am myself staying at an hotel on account of being close to the wharf, for it suits me, as I am off very likely to-morrow to Hawke's Bay, yet it is a mistake for young fellows like you to stay at hotels. It leads to a lot of liquoring up, and you get enough of that in a colonial town without sticking yourself in the centre of it. The infernal habit of “shouting,” as it is called, has got such a hold, that an easy-going fellow, who does not like to refuse when asked to drink, if knocking about town with nothing to do he happens to meet first one and then the other of his old acquaintances, and drink with each, he stands a good chance of being knocked over before he knows it. Now, boys, I don't often preach, but I have seen so many fine young fellows come to grief through this detestable practice, that I must strongly recommend you to follow a plan of my own. It is to make a point of saying no to anyone who asks you to drink when you are not really thirsty. I will drink to please no one, but to quench my thirst I will occasionally take a glass. Ah, you scamp, Frank! I know what that look you gave Harry means. It is, “the old gent doesn't often require to refuse, his thirst is of pretty frequent occurrence.” And you are right, I'll admit, but if I had adopted my plan at your age I should not have required to moisten my throat half so often now. Still, I defy either friend or enemy to say that they ever see me any the worse for it. Afraid of offending a man indeed! What need to mind offending the fellow who would wish you to drink what you don't require just to please him? The sooner you offend him the better, I should say. Would you over-eat yourself to please your best friend? Then, why drink to excess for the fear of offending a mere acquaintance? And now, my boys, to show you are right about my thirst, and also because I can quite believe my lecture has made you thirsty if the walk has not, we'll try a glass of old Seccombe's ale; they sell it here.

‘I think you told me, Frank,’ said Mr Robinson, as we were discussing it, ‘that you were going to your uncle at Wanganui, so you are all right; but Harry, my boy, I wish I saw you in a billet before I leave Auckland, for to turn a fellow like you loose in a new country without a friend near to turn to is risky.’

He meant it well, but Harry couldn't see it.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied, stiftly, ‘I am quite old enough to look after myself.’

‘Well, well, we shall see. You're old enough, I know, but whether you have the sense is another question.’

Harry was about to answer this wrathfully, for his experience with his uncle in the old country had rendered his nature bitter and page 21 morbidly sensitive, and he was constantly imagining offence when real kindness was intended, and forming hasty and erroneous opinions of people's motives. Mr Robinson, however, went on:

‘Now, my boy, look here. I can see you are getting riled, and don't take advice kindly, but I am not goin to let a fellow I like mistake my reasons for taking an interest in him, and jump down my throat if I can help it. I wish to Heaven I had found someone to advise me when I first came out; it would have saved me much that I have now to regret. I ask you again to be guided by an old hand, and take from me a letter of introduction to an old friend at the Bay of Islands, and I'll engage he will be delighted to see you, and give you a billet on his run, and what's more, will remunerate you when you are worth it.’

Harry softened considerably at the commencement of this speech, but, unfortunately, the inference at the end of it, that it would be some time before he was worth any wages, again hurt his dignity and aroused his suspicions. The idea struck him that the old gentleman wished to get him as far away from his daughter as possible.

‘Thank you, sir, for your kind offer, but I prefer remaining in Auckland, so it would be no good my taking it,’ he replied.

‘Well, have your own way. I must tell you that if I hadn't taken such a fancy to you for your behaviour in the scrimmage, I would not have again offered you advice and introductions, which you so indignantly refused on a previous occasion. But notwithstanding your rudeness, my lad, I hope to see more of you, for there is a deal of the right stuff in you, although you foolishly allow a haughty, hasty temper to damage it. I shall expect you both to come in and take tea to-night, as we may not meet again for some time.’

I at once accepted, but Harry said he hoped to be excused as he had several other matters to attend to. We had been strolling up and down, and were again opposite the hotel, where we found Miss Julia and her friend waiting to let us know tea was ready.

‘Come along in then, Frank,’ observed Mr Robinson, shaking hands and saying good-bye to Harry.

‘Papa, have you forgotten to ask Mr Baker in?’

‘No, my dear. He says he cannot honour us with his company to-night.

‘Ah, but I have not asked him yet. He surely can't refuse me, papa,’ said she, gaily, and with a glance which should have made a man do far more than accept an invitation to tea.

Harry, however, was firm so far, although I believe he would have given his ears to have overcome his obstinacy, yet he seemed unable to do so. ‘No, Miss Julia, really I cannot stay to-night,’ he answered.

What a world of trouble often hangs on one little sentence, nay oftener on one little word. Even as he spoke Harry's mood wavered, and he was sorry he had not given a different answer. Now his fate for the next few years hung on Miss Julia's next words. One more repetition of the invitation from her, and he would accept it gladly, and in all human probability he would have apologized to the old gentleman for his rudeness, and agreed to follow his advice, which would have at once given him a comfortable home and trusty friends. On the other hand, if her reply was such as he could not but expect, and, indeed, deserved, there would in all probability ensue years of hardship and friendlessness, taking into consideration his peculiar temperament and inability to resist temptation.