A Pioneer and a Silk Top Hat

(By Rosaline Redwood)

This is a true story of a pioneer's experience in Southland. Names only have been changed.

The Mataura River, with its widely flowing waters, swirled onwards towards the sea coast, now and then spluttering gleefully as it gurgled around the roots of some forest giant growing at the water's edge. The banks were a riot of tangled green lawyers, twining tendrils in a sticky mass over dense clamps of undergrowth, from which rose the huge brown trunks of the native rimu, towering their dark heads against the clear morning sky. The warm sun scattered spots of brightness, like confetti, through the cool dimness of the underbush, while the birds and insects sang and buzzed in happy harmony.

An inquisitive weka was viewing with interest a new, roughly cut track through the ferns, when suddenly it became affrighted and scurried to the nearby shelter of a dead fern tree, from whence its cheeky little russet-brown head was thrust into view, as a man on horseback rounded the bend.

Tom Mason rode carefully forward, picking his way between the tricky curled roots and stringy brown fern stumps. He had already had several spills, for the track was anything but smooth.

His young, eager face, openly revealed the facts that he was new to the country, and that his very soul thrilled at the unusual glory of the New Zealand native bush. He felt he could hardly be home-sick for smoky London, when his nostrils inhaled this new air so heavily laden with the peculiarly sweet scents of the bush. How much more pleasant the clear, rich music of the bell bird and the tui, than the screeching, jarring noise of the city.

“Here, Dobbin — whoa — whoa!” Tom's firm command startled the animal, as he suddenly drew rein.

The cold waters of the river were rippling in frothy bubbles round the horse's feet, and the thirsty creature eagerly stretched forward his head to drink.

Tom patted his neck and murmured reprovingly, “Well, old chap, you might wait a minute. I expect in another twenty years there will be a bridge here—but in the meantime I guess we'll both have to swim across.” He bent down to feel the rush of cold water against the palm of his hand and added uncomfortably, “It doesn't look too inviting—and it's darned cold.”

Dobbin seemed to understand, and whinnied nervously in response, as he gently muzzled his master's shoulder with a moist, velvety nose.

There was only one way to ford the river and have dry clothes at the other side, and Tom Mason had prepared himself for that way by providing a canvas bag. As he stripped off his clothes he methodically packed each article into the bag, and securing the flap, strapped the lot securely to the horse's saddle.

The tall, silk hat, the height of fashion for masculine headgear in the early ‘fifties, lay forgotten where he had tossed it, on a clump of fern. Glancing round, Tom's eyes fell on it, and a perplexed line settled between his straight brows. The bag was full, and anyway the topper would be ruined if it were crushed inside. Then he had a brain wave—he would wear it. Yes, that was the only thing he could do—he would wear it. He could easily keep his head out of the water as he swam.

Ruefully chuckling as he pictured what he would look like in a full-length mirror, he jammed the hat down over his ears, and blushingly hoped there were no inquisitive Maori maidens in the vicinity.

He tied the reins loosely to the saddle, and urged the animal into the water. With a friendly slap on the flank, and, “Gee up—Dobbin—get along,” the horse reluctantly took the page 22 page 23

(Photo. by R. J. Cowan.)
The Taramakau River, Westland, New Zealand.

plunge. Tom gritted his teeth, and followed suit, cutting long even strokes through the frigid water.

“Looks as if the old fellow was a better swimmer than I—I'm blessed if he isn't half way across”—his thoughts ran on smoothly, while outwardly he spluttered and gasped.

Ten minutes later Dobbin's feet had touched the hard stony bed of the river, near the farther bank, and soon he was wading up the gentle slope in shallow water. Tom watched the deep ripples spreading in wavering circles round the animal's legs, and as he pressed forward he called out encouragingly, “Bravo, old chap. I'll guess your hide keeps out the cold better than mine, though.”

At the sound of the familiar voice, Dobbin pricked up his ears and turned slowly round in the shallow swishing water, then suddenly—so suddenly, that Tom could not grasp what was wrong—the soft neigh ended in a terrified snort, the meek animal eyes were dilated with real fear—and he caught one wild flash of flying spray and heavy lashing legs, and Dobbin had reached the bank, and was floundering desperately and drippingly up the slippery bank on to dry land.

Dazedly the nude swimmer realised that it was his white naked body partly visible above water, and offset with the silk topper of shining black, that was solely responsible for the terrified performance. Dobbin might have recognised the hat—but certainly not the owner.

As he neared the bank, he waded cautiously forward; he simply must get to that horse—all the possessions he had in the world were in the bag strapped to the saddle. At a safe distance Dobbin stood shaking his wet body, but obviously still agitated and alert. Possibly he was puzzled, too, for his keen animal intuition could not mistake his master's voice, but that white creature in the river had inspired the very fear of the devil in him.

“Here, Dobbin, old fellow—whoa! whoa!” came coaxingly from Tom, as he rose right out of the water and crept up the bank. Worse still! The dumb creature's eyes widened again in renewed horror at the full-sized spectacle, and with heels flung wildly in the air he dashed like a maddened thing through the choking lawyers, stumbling blindly over fallen trunks, floundering onwards, and bruising a new track through the dense, untrodden bush.

(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Christchurch-Greymouth Express approaching Arthur's Pass, South Island, New Zealand.

Scratched and bruised, and with a gaping wound at the knee of his fore leg, at last he emerged into an opening, beyond which grew flax and toitoi in wild profusion. The dense bush was left behind, and Dobbin, deciding this was a haven, settled down to crop the long juicy grasses.

Back on the river bank, Tom Mason cursed his foolishness, and his horse, alternately. Here he was, a stranger in a strange country, and miles (for all he knew) from any camp or habitation. Certainly not an envious position. He looked down at his body and remembered he was stark naked. An ironical grin curled round the corners of his mouth as he considered the peculiar humour of things—alone, in unknown bush, and wearing only a handsome silk topper. Funny when one looked at it like that. Not so funny as he examined the bruised ferns and creepers which marked the track his horse had taken. How could he follow with bare feet, and he ruefully stared down at his blue legs and tender feet. “Darn that horse!” he muttered, “If I only had a few clothes, it wouldn't be so bad—I wouldn't mind being stranded in this rotten jungle then. If I want food and clothes I suppose I'll have to follow the brute. Oh darn!” And he glared down again at his white toes.

He had only gone a few chains when his legs were bleeding from many scratches, and sharp woody spikes punctured and blistered his page 24 feet. A venomous little lawyer tendril left a long scratch on his bare chest, showing a blood-red stain against the shivering blue of his body—but he desperately pressed forward. Somewhere ahead, perhaps just round the next bush, was Dobbin—and his clothes.

For hours it seemed, he had struggled onwards, falling often, creeping sometimes, and walking where possible. It was well past midday when he came to the open space where Dobbin had first halted in his mad flight, and his sharp eyes noted the freshly cropped grass, as he eagerly skirted the flax bushes.

He called softly, “Hey Dobbin—Dobbin,” and it was answered by a whinney to the right. Gingerly allowing only his head to be seen over the flax leaves, he called again. This time the dull plop, plop, on the damp soil assured him the horse was trotting towards him. His heart lifted thankfully, and he wanted to shout for joy, but instead he contrived to be cunning. The animal was also cunning, and when within a few paces from where he was concealed, abruptly stopped and sniffed suspiciously.

Tom was taking no risks this time.

With “Whoa—whoa Dobbin,” he sprang from his hiding place and clutched at the dragging reins of the bridle. The next instant he felt them jerked through his fingers, and saw them snap in half as Dobbin reared suddenly—then plunged forward again into the rustling flax and tussocks.

Disgust and dispair settled down on his tired young face, and the extreme cold was causing him to shiver convulsively. He decided he had better keep going on—and on—there seemed nothing else to do, and anyway he was hopelessly lost now, so he might as well follow the animal's tracks. Perhaps by night he might manage it.

Strange he couldn't help thinking of everything that was warm and cosy—thick winter coats lying useless in almost every home—warm blankets that no one wanted except at bed time—glowing fires….

His brain was becoming too fagged to think clearly as the day wore on, and he realised that his condition was becoming serious, but he tried not to think of his exhausted bodily pains, and determined that the feverish dizzy feeling in his head should not have dominion over him. So he struggled, shiveringly miserable, horribly sore, and still wearing his tall silk topper. It had been repeatedly torn from his head in the bush, but he had refused to leave it there—after all, it was all he had.

* * *

The sun was sinking low in a crimson-streaked sky, and the flax bushes had merged into a plain of yellow tussocks, when Tom Mason's fevered spirits rose dully at the sight of a

Mt. Rolleston (7,447 ft.) as seen from the Otira Gorge Road, South Island, New Zealand.

red hairy rump visible beyond a high tussock clump. Even as he looked, an intelligent head rose sensitively as if conscious of some sinister presence. Tom ducked low. Too late—whisking mane and tail of a fastly vanishing horse were all that his bleary eyes beheld when he dared to raise his head into view again.

He placed his cold hand across his throbbing brow, and wondered that his head should burn so, when his body was shivering violently with the cold. He sank down exhaustedly on a tussock, too miserable from his nightmarish hours of scrambling, to care if the tussock's spiky stump felt like a hedgehog, and beyond thoughts for his blistered and bleeding feet. A peculiar peace began to soothe his pain-racked frame. Then he became alarmed—and with an effort roused his numbed senses from the pleasant feeling of nothingness. Perhaps he realised it would be the finish if he didn't make some weak effort to keep moving, and keep the fever, which was taking control, at bay. Dragging himself wearily upright again, he staggered forward towards the bright red and gold bank where the sun had vanished.

The sky was rapidly becoming darker and only a dim outline now showed where the tussocks swayed in a mocking, wavering line. Somewhere an owl hooted out it's hungry “More-pork—More-pork” cry, causing Tom to start nervously and raise his blood-shot eyes from the cutty grass at his feet. He stopped dazedly—was that a fire ahead? Perhaps he was going mad—yes—that was it. Mad people often saw the things their soul most craved for—he was mad. With a cry of anguish he started forward…. His feet seemed to get strangely lighter, then the whispering tussocks grew silent and distant, and he was sinking, sinking lower — lower — away from everything—no pain—nothing mattered—darkness….

* * *

The crackling fire leaped and fell casting queer shaped flares of light on the figures of two men, bending over a third still form.

Tom Mason opened weary eyes, and wondered why the glow of a fire could give such comfort. He stared into the kindly faces of two strangers, where he read relief and curiosity intermingled, and then his eyes centred on the warm grey blanket which enveloped his body, finally passing on in bewilderment to a crushed and torn silk top hat lying in the light of the camp fire. Oh—that hat! Then he remembered!

“All right, mates”—his voice sounded strangely thick and unreal, “I'm not an escaped lunatic, or anything like that—just give me something to drink—and I'll tell you what happened.”

An enamel pannikin was hastily held to his lips….