At the Rising of the Moon.

Waipawa Mail, Volume LXVII, Issue 44, 23 December 1938, Page 1

At the Rising of the Moon.

A Christmas Story.

It is a pleasing paradox that the Irish, lighters and rebels by heredity and inclination, make the best policemen in the world. If peace can possibly be enforced, they are the lads to do it. It was chiefly Irish soldiers who fought for the “English flag',” as Mr Kipling arrogantly called it, in New Zealand. Then, there being no more wars here, many of them went into the Constabulary, and so, in my young days, most of the civil police, besides being Irish, were also honorably beribboned. It was once my job and my pleasure to have a good deal to do with the police. Delightful it was (being of the blood myself) to hear the Milesian accents that enriched the atmosphere of watch-house and barracks and Police Court. It was the pride and boast of most of the inspectors, sub-inspectors, and senior sergeants at that period, “I’m one of Branigan’s men.” The most excellent survival of the regime of Mr Commissioner St. John Branigan was my good old friend the Inspector, in a North Island town. The Inspector was tall and portly and dignified, and he wore a long sweeping pair of white side-whiskers of the pattern that was fashionable about the time of the Crimean War. Commissioner Branigan was the model for the Force in cut of whiskers as in ethics of service. (“They All Shave like Branigan” was a West Coast diggers’ song). From his fine blue eyes a chivalrous Irish soul looked out. He had been a gallant figure on a troop horse in his time, in the mounted police in Victoria and Otago. There was one Constabulary duty that he hated as St. Patrick hated snakes, and that was the Bush Expedition. He was continually being called upon by headquarters to take a force out into the wet and muddy backblocks to arrest a Maori survey-obstructing hapu, or to put the fear of the law into some Native Bob Roy who scoffed at any idea of paying the dog tax or any other taxes, or to make a raid upon some sly-grog camp. As he was declining into the vale of years, and was subject to rheumatism and sciatica and lumbago, he thought it was full time he was left in town in peace. But he never shirked duty, for all his infirmities. It would never do to let Headquarters think he was growing old. The Inspector heaved a mighty sigh when he read the telegram his chief clerk brought him one warm and wet afternoon, four days before Christmas. Up-country there was a certain fracturer of statutes who was credited with being the most expert illicit whisky manufacturer in all New Zealand. He had a secret plant somewhere in the ranges beyond a far-back township in Waikato and there for years he distilled his potheen with impunity, untroubled by the police. Every month or so he would come down into the township leading a packhorse laden with heavy sacks. He explained that this was the only way he could get his potatoes to market, for the unmentionable Government would not give him a road. It came to be remarked in time that he invariably took his packhorse of potatoes into the backyard of Paddy MeWhat’s public house. And then, rumor said, the quarter-casks of mountain dew that those sacks held were speedily transferred to Paddy’s cellar, whence they were issued later—in necessarily diluted form and with the scientific admixture of an ingredient or two to give the contents the desired bite (a touch of bluestone for the Maori trade, and a blast of Worcester sauce flavoring for the pakeha). The slygrogger had many customers besides Paddy. Many a quarter-cask of the raw brew found its way to the Maori kaingas and bushmen’s camps. Often there were mad drunken scenes on Land Court days. The illicit whisky man was ao stranger to the local policeman, but that officer could never get on the trail of the still. There was lack of the vital evidence. He worked hard, but he was not a born sleuth. He did not even know the real name of the distiller. All he had discovered was that he was a wild Highlander who had been an Armed Constabulary man, and who was popularly known by the name of “Roderick Dhu.” Roderick came by night and was generally out of the township before sunrise. Moreover, the populace seemed to sympathise with the still-owner. So Roderick remained uncaught, and went on brewing his potheen, and Paddy went on selling it as Real Old Scotch or Prime Old Irish, or whatever his customers fancied. It was said that Roderick only lit his fire on misty and cloudy days when the smoke would he lost in the mountain fogs. But one day a teetotal lecturer happened to hear a rumor, and he promptly multiplied it by twenty-four and wrote to the newspapers, and the Commissioner of Police was compelled to make a demonstration and now the poor old Inspector came in for it all. He was ordered to take a detachment and make diligent search for that still in the bush. And that was why the Inspector smote his venerable knee, and called the Blessed Virgin to witness that he was an ill-used officer of the Force.

I heard the story of that still hunt from Constable Larry O’Donoghue; the Inspector had no information to

(By James Cowan)

give, but Larry talked. Larry was the Inspector’s orderly. There were a sergeant and six constables in the detachment, all from the city, for reasons of strategy. All travelled in plain clothes, though Larry bore the Inspector’s sword-case and a bag with his uniform for the purpose of impressing the majesty of the Law upon the countryside when Roderick Dhu had been caught. The expeditionary force reached the little town in the late afternoon, and unobtrusively sought the shelter of one of the two hotels—'the opposition one to Paddy’s—with Paddy himself standing in the doorway in his shirt-sleeves as they passed. The Inspector flattered himself that he had managed his arrival with adroit secrecy. Paddy returned to the bar and informed his friends that the po-lis had come. When the shades of night had well fallen he talked with Roderick in the backyard. The Highland gentleman had managed to let Paddy know that he would he in with his usual load. Paddy gave him one important bit of news, and that was that the local constable, being flusthered by the coming of the Inspector, had decided that the wisest thing for him to do was to go to bed with a bad attack of .bronchitis. So the hunt would have to be carried out by the town police. The two honest gentlemen had a quiet talk which they seemed to find highly amusing; then the pair separated, Paddy to spend a busy hour in his cellar.

The Inspector was just thinking of taking his usual tot and putting his weary bones to bed when a visitor was escorted in to see him in the private sitting-room. The visitor was whiskered to the eyes; he wore a shawl as a muffler, and a. high pointed soft black hat. He entered with a furtive air, and when he had shut the door turned the key in it. The Inspector fiercely demanded to know the stranger’s business. A whispered sentence calmed his ire and he was interested. The stranger u T as the man that was wanted, since that idiot of a constable must go and take sick. He was, in short, an informer! He knew the whereabouts of that still, he said. He had even tasted the whisky—he spoke with the unconeealable Highland "tongue—“and it was ferry pad whusky whateffer, forbye. ” He was a fellow-countryman of the distiller, hut there was a ferry great feud between them, and there was an injury to avenge. That was why he offered now to lead the Inspector straight to the still. But they must keep it dark for fear of happenings; in fact, personal danger to himself —“herself” he called himself. Also, he would like payment in advance.

After some bargaining the Inspector agreed to give him half the informer’s pay right down. When the Caledonian left the room he was five sovereigns the richer for his visit. The police party did not stir outside the hotel all next day, until after nightfall. Then, singly they strolled along to the stable yard, where saddled horses were ready. With an unnecessary amount of secrecy, since everyone in the township knew about it —they set forth, and were presently joined from the shadows by the informer, who was to guide them into the Whisky Hills. They rode on, trustfully and silently. All the Inspector knew of the locality of the still, after much questioning of the sick constable, was that it was supposed to be near the source of the Pikopiko, a stream that flowed from the southern ranges. It was a rough and rocky ride, that night journey up the Pikopiko Valley. The way was through fern and manuka and tall flax; the riders crossed and recrossed the river. Presently they were brought to a halt by the informer, who announced that there was no more track, and that they must dismount and do the rest of their hunting on foot. It was very dark, but there would be a moon, and the party should v r ait until it rose before they went on. So all hands off-saddled and tethered their horses, and sat down to await Paddy’s lantern. In less than half an hour there was a red light like a bush fire over the eastern ranges. The sky glowed, and up swam the jolly golden moon, changing to a cold white globe as it rose well clear of the uneven skyline. Now there was a lamp to move by in the open, Dut the moonshine played strange tricks of light and shadow in the gullies and on the rough hillsides. The guide went ahead with the stride of a Rob Roy on his native heath, but for the city policemen it was a horrible tramp, splashing through the little creeks and winding in and out of the defiles, and through the tangled bush, until the clivil a sowl among them (Larry said) knew whether they were heading east, south, north, or west.

“Where are we, ye villain 1 ?” the Inspector demanded of the guide. “Are we anywhei-e near the still*?” “Och, yes, that we are!” replied the informer. “Just a wee bit turn to the right and then to the left when we cross that piece of watter pelow, and we’ll pe there in a ferry few minutes, whateffer.” “All right, then,” said the Inspector. “Lead on, and the still man’ll find the divils in the dice when we drop on him.” At the foot of the hill, where the still-hunters stumbled through the

fern and over the shin-bruising rocks, there was “the piece of watter.” The creek was black, it looked deep, the banks were soft and muddy. The guide in silence crossed without troubling to take off his boots. The water was up oyer his knees. The Inspector paternally ordered his men to take off their boots and socks and roll their trousers well up, and he passed round his flask of Connemara cough mixture.

“Now, boys,” said the Inspector, “who’s for carrying me across? I want a strong lad.” Indeed a strong lad was needed, for the Inspector was over sixteen stone, he wore a heavy frieze overcoat, and besides his flask he carried a reserve bottle of Connemara mixture, and gripped a blackthorn stick, his life-long treasure from the Old Sod.

Larry volunteered, being the biggest of the party, barring the chief himself. He bent down, and the Inspector, by the combined efforts of the force, was hoisted on to his back. The Inspector groaned and so did Larry. Faith, the Old Man . was no light load!.

Larry stepped into the creek. He waded in slowly, the Inspector clutching him like any Old'Man of the Sea. As the water grew deeper, ?nd Larry went in to his knees, the chief adr dressed him in moving accents:“Larry, me hoy, ye’re a darling! Larry, keep up, keep up, it’ll only be a step or two now. Larry, I’ll have ye made a sergeant for this! It’ll be the best night’s work ye ever did for yerself, mind that now! Hold up, boy, don’t let your knees go, whatever ye do, Larry, me boy!” Larry, struggling like a hero, neared the steep and muddy hank. A few more feet and all would be well. But those last feet! “For the love of Heaven, sir,” he gasped, “ye’ll be choking the life out of me! And take your blackthorn from between me legs, please, sir—you’ll be tripping me up!”Alas, poor Larry. The blackthorn was the last straw. The Inspector made a frantic effort to disentangle it, but too late! The flaps of the frieze overcoat, the butt of the blackthorn, and the Inspector’s grip conspired against the faithful bearer. He staggered, made a valiant attempt to recover his balance, then over backward he went.

A roar came from the Inspector: “Murther! We’re down! He’re The rest of the cry was drowned in the tremendous splash that Larry and his chief made as they disappeared in the black water. The force stood just one moment aghast at the catastrophe. Then with a wild yell they dashed to the rescue. Larry had fallen backward on the Inspector. The poor old man was full of cold water when he was at last released from the frieze overcoat which had come over his head, and from the very wet and angry Larry. The force bore him tenderly to the shore, and there opened that providential bottle for first aid to the nearly drowned. Presently the old man had sufficiently recovered to sit up and deliver some remarks, the general tenor of which — in fact the exact words—Larry remembered to his last day. And all through this wet and tragic scene the Inspector held tenaciously to his blackthorn. Suddenly the Inspector remembered the guide. “Where’s that informer?” he demanded. “Bring the villain here! ’ ’

There was a Gaelic screech from above them. The Inspector and his men saw in the moonlight the black bushranger hat and fierce whiskers of the guide. The Highlander stood on a high rock. He laughed an unearthly laugh that set the moreporks hooting in the bush. As all gazed at him in astonishment he danced a few wild steps and snapped his fingers like pistol cracks. “She’ll be taking leave of ye, whateffer! And ye can get ye back and tell them ye’ve had a nieht with Roderick Dhu! ’ ’

A horrified cry from the Inspector. He jumped to his feet, his blackthorn in his hand. The informer bounded along the rocks, towards the bush, yelling like a band of skirling bagpipes, waving his hat in the air. The Inspector, overcome by the scandalous situation, hurled his blackthorn with all his might. The Gael turned his head at that moment and neatly caught the stick by the butt as it whizzed past him. Waving it round his head, with a wild “Whirroo!” he vanished into the gloom of the bush.

That was the last sight Inspector or constables ever had of Roderick Dhu. The police charged into the bush after him. But they were enmeshed in supplejacks and prickly lawyers and tree roots, and they were speedily convinced that Roderick was uncatehable. They returned to their chief, and sat in silence till full daylight. Then, as they had not the least idea of their whereabouts, mueh less that of the still, they set out in search of a road. They found a track and met a Maori stockman, and discovered they were not in the Pikopiko Valley at all. They tramped in silence into the township. Their poor horses were recovered later on that day. The word went round that “the po-lis is back, ’ ’ but not Roderick Dhu and no exhibits for evidence.

All the police wanted was bed, and there they remained until their clothes were dried, and there was a train for the city.

The Inspector —“decent man, God rest his soul,” said pious Larry—was home with his family for Christinas after all. This was Heaven, in slippered comfort and a gorgeous new smoking-cap. Quite mildly now he could tell of “the black murdtherin’ villain of a Highlandman that went off like the divil went through Athlon#, in standin’ leps, with the Gov-

eminent Five Pounds and me beaut i fill blackthorn stick.”

An old acquaintance of mine, Richard Henry, the Gilbert White of oui Southland Fiordland, once expressed the hope, in a letter, that if there was a heaven for him there would lx

“plenty of ducks there.” He loved them for their trust and friendliness. In a like spirit, I hope that in the Inspector’s island of the blest, I here are plenty of good policemen, all Irish, all six-footers, his old fellowtroopers, and that, in the words ot the gold-digeings song, “They all shave like Branigan.”