NEW ZEALAND STORIES.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 15, 12 October 1910, Page 48

NEW ZEALAND STORIES.

The Passing of Nat.

A TALE OF THE NEW ZEALAND KAURI BUSH.

(By

H.T.G.)

[The Editor desires to announce that Sew Zealand Stories by Teio Zealand writers, will be published on tin's page regu larly. The page will be open to any contributor, and all accepted stories will be paid for at current rates. Terse, bright sketches of Dominion ~ life and people, woven in short story form, are required, and should be headed “Xeio Zealand Stories.”}

I T does not take long for a new-chum among the Kauri to learn that all humanity gathered beneath the shade of that monarch of pines may readily be classified into two distinct species. First, the Bush Cook; second, everybody else! “Cookey” is unique, ■while the orbinary mortals who depend upon his camp-oven skill may be subdivided into the many recognised varieties of toiling mankind. Nat Fallows was no exception. He was, as usual, the very personification of inconsistency. Though cross-grained and cynical, he thought nothing of sitting up half the night to rub painkiller into the sinews of a lumbago tortured mate. He was uneducated but widely read, bony and wrinkled, yet spry as the best of us. In fact, Nat was ftt once philosopher and—drunkard. His knowledge, as guaged by the public school syllabus, would hardly have sufficed him to gain a primary certificate, but I have known him to clench more than one argument with a quotation from Locke’s “Human Understanding!” Buskin, Bacon Carlyle were his playmates, for he would •pend his leisure hours with well thumbed copies of their works for company, whilst such historians as Froude, Prescott, Napier, and Kinglake were regarded by him as personal friendsl

His past was, of course, a mystery. The Kauri shelters many mysteries! When on rare occasions he let slip a few words concerning the “days gone by,'* our inquiring looks would portray our curiosity, and Nat would hastily change the subject, and not even the tempting bait of a bottle of rum would induce him to refer again to what he had said. Despite his few cantankc-rous ways and his ever ready sarcastic remarks, we all respected Nat, and some of us loved him with that strange affection possessed only by men who carry their lives in their hands as they go forth to earn their daily bread. Nat knew how to use his fists too, and that accomplishment counts for much in bush camps! Woe to the green-horn who wilfully offended our cookey. I have seen his long bony arms shoot out with meteoric swiftness, and his astonished opponent would carry the trademark of Nat’s homy knuckles for many a day, as a reminder that dexterity in the noble art may command respect where social standing fails. Perhaps the best side of Nat’s character was his hatred of any sign of disrespect shown to womankind when we indulged in wild yarns and doubtful conversations'. This rather exceptional trait became almost a mania with him, and though we never quite understood its

cause until the end, we studiously avoided any unseemly reference to the gentler sex when Nat was present, and I think the old fellow appreciated this consideration of his feelings. I do not for a moment suppose that his real name was Nathaniel Fallows, but otherwise the details here set forth to record his romance in real life are correct, for one must believe a mate when he speaks in dead earnest, and when truth rings out in the clear crisp statements, and glances from the mem-ory-searched appeal of tear-dimmed eyes, eyes that may. melt with womanly softness when the past claims the thoughts, but which glare with the rage of the unclothed man of old, when the merest word of chance may scratch the veneer of civilisation and expose the untamed cheler of Unreason lying dormant beneath! Nat had just returned from the Bay, his clothes wet through, and his whole body quivering, partly from the effects of sleeping out for two successive nights in the soaking wet ti-tree, but more as the result of indulging in Murphy’s slygrog whisky, a nameless brand of fiery and tissue-destroying tanglefoot that cost a day's wages per quart bottleful. The old man allowed us to help him into dry garments, but when we offered him

fried damper and billy-tea, he prampOyf refused, for alcohol and an appetite dq not agree. He would not even join us In a game of euchre, for he had “Hewed,* his month’s cheque, and Nat would never “gamble on a mortgage.” “No. boys, I'll turn in,” he said. 'Bunk! is the place for me. 11l turn in, and dream of Edgar Allan Poe, and grave* yards, and the rattlin’ of bones!” “No you won’t Nat,’’ said Cam Joyed, “You come along to the fire first, and get warmed up a bit before you go tq roost.” “Come along now,” added the wartithearted bushman as Fallows showed signs of hesitation. Cam was a sort of leaded in our eamp. He had the happy knackof saying the right thing at the right time, and of doing the right thing at> the right time, too. He led our shivering "coolcey” to our huge earthern fireplace, where a blazing pile of tawa and dead manuka sent out that cheery glow, of warmth so welcome to those in melancholy mood. “Why, ye're shivering like a—like a”—said Joyce, hesitating for a suitable term of comparison. “Like a epileptic blong-monj, eh, Cam?” prompted Nat. as he sank wearily on to the inverted candle box, our only form of seat. Cam threw a bush rug over the old man’s shoulders, and returned to hia game of euchre, while Nat searched in the zinc lining of the wooden chimney, and drew from its niche a favourite pipe—an ancient and blackened clay, dudeen through whose abbreviated stem the owner had drawn many a “Derby” dream of striking the winner of the Melbourne Cup. “Queer. I ean’t co-eree these here footy matches!” he muttered, vainly endeavouring to strike a wax vesta, and his shaking fingers presently sought a live coal for a pipe light. To have lit a. match for him would only have provoked a torrent of abuse, for like most seasoned old boozers. Nat resented any obvious show of sympathy, and only swore In response to persistent offers of help. “Confound you, Morgan, shut the door.” he said querulously, as the one he addressed looked out at the weather* Morgan was an inconsequent youth, a. new hand at the screw-jack and the roll- - ing road; he had once defied Nat. and took a week to recover from the effects thereof.

We finished our hands at cards, and somewhat dismally drew our packingease seats to the fire, whilst outside the howling wind and the beating raid threatened to demolish our frail shanty. The Boss, a decent sort of fellow whose contracts never paid, drew out a bottle, whereat Nat gleefully smacked his lips, but when the pannikin clattered against his teeth, he swore at the palsy. "Thanks, Mister Rhodes,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and glancing round the room as he passed the bottle ■round. He was considering whether on not he would “give us a pitch,” so wd quietly smoked and waited, apparently paying no attention to him. Our policy, of silence was soon rewarded, for after an obvious effort and much fumbling with matches and pipe. Nat began:—■ “Now, you boys, you look melancholic!' I expect its the indigestion, caused by the bad cookin’ during my furlough. X dunno, but I'm thinkin’ maybe it feels like near time that my mortal coil began to shuffle itself off o’ these old bones. Anyway, it’s time my yaarn was spun. Nat Fallows is as dead to the outside world as a defunk morepork, and you chapa see that he remains so. Shut that opening in yer head yer calls a mouth, Morgan. and listen, all of ye, for I don’t expect the chance’ll come again. . . Way back ’in the early days, I wasn’t exactly what ye might call one o’ the Sunday School teacher type of animal, and at one particular time, when Her Majesty’s officials was a little too official and officious for my likings, I found it advisable to seek retirement in the leafy solitude of the bloomin’ bush. Ain't that a poetical way o’ puttin’ it, Cam? The Maoris knew me well. I lister help ’em a bit when they were sick, you know 1 , and in my temperairy embarrysment the kind hearted beggars passed me on front tribe to tribe, and though they knew I was "wanted” for a plain unvarnished case o’ murder, they never even hinted at yielding up my corpus for the sake oo’ blood money. And that’s what many white folks wouldn't have done, neither, The value set on my devoted head waf five hundred quid—Just the value ot k healthy bet at a toney race meeting! But after a bit, -when things toned down considerable enough, I worked my (back to civi lisation, such as it was Ut

those days. You see I had got Kitty’s promise to marry me, and Kitty was vne of them as knows how to keep a promise. She was Colonel Bagot’s servant girl, and the traek of our true love had run smooth enough until the trouble came. . . . What trouble? Now you’re askin'. Well, I suppose I’ll have to let it out at last. To cut the yarn Short, it was a lonely fight in an empty bar-room, a fair an’ square stand-up ding-dong go, but 1 got in an unlucky left-hander which landed his head fair On the brass knob of the fire grate, and the fool died in hospital. Reston, you know. Eh, Mr. Rhodes? You remember the little affair, do you Lord! I’m giving myself away, even now!” The old man suddenly gave a violent Start, and tried to rise, but he was too »eak, and sank back, fainting. But a nip from the bottle revived him, and after a while he continued, though in a somewhat subdued voice: “I may as well finish, now that I’ve gone so far. I think I've had my last spree. Eeels like the time a’ cornin’ to i—Well, well! Never mind that. (Where was 1? Yes, I worked my way back and crawled up at dark, and give ;the old knock on Kitty’s window. . . .

il must shorten up this yarn, it ain’t nice *n the tell in’.’. .. I stole Kitty off at Head of night, like as 1 was one o’ Fennimore Cooper’s Indyuns. But of course (Kitty was ■willin’ to be stole, and ♦tramped right bravely over the ranges •and through the bush with me, her pretty feet sore and tired, and her hair all out of curl from campin’ in the open ,air, for we had to keep dear o' the mein tracks and settlements, as the folk right be askin’ oncomfortable questions. ii “On the third day, when Kitty had jjone all the tramping she wanted to <lo for the rest of hei' nat'ral life, I made (or old Ropai’s kainga, and there my Coloured friends fixed us up with a big Supply o’ tucker and a dug-out canoe, Wind 1 paddled away down the Waipa to Beck round for uttermost seclusion and bliss! I found a likely spot, miles from beaten pakeha tracks, and rigged up * bark whare, and our prospects and kumara beds nourished. Of course we tobeyed the Maori law, and got a tohunga Jto mutter his matrimonial charms over four ceremonial weddin’. There weren’t no cake nor no cards!

“I should have told you that, -Connor, •Che town policeman, had for long been (wanting my fi-ancy to marry him, (.hough he knew that she was my property. So, when Kitty was stole, Con#ior guessed that I had resurrected myjßelf. and what must he do but start to follow up my trail, like the snivelling Jblighter he was. He had old Tewae, the jtraeker, to help him. Remember Tewae, (Mr. Rhodes? You don’t, eh? Why, he Bras the bloodhound who dug young Murray, the sailor, out of the Waitoino jea ves after he’d shot Pemberton for Brgyfying about dividin’ th spoil they'd (Collared out of the East ('oast mail! * “.Well, Connor reckoned on trackin’ pie, and so gettin’ a good healthy murder case, as well a.s a' collarin’ of what be calculated was his girl, and posin’ as B hero of the first water in clutehin’ the languishin’ female from outer the lyillyun's grasp! “And right enough, after months of pimpin’ round, and hidey-go seek, he collared me! I had left our whare early .tone morning to go eel fisliin; and I had a good haul, but Kitty never cooked jthose eels! A cold revolver muzzle against my ear was Chapter the oneth, three days’ trudging in handcuffs to the town lock-up was Chapter the twoth of that little affair, and I wondered what Kitty thought? “I wouldn’t own up to murder, but the jury brought me in ’Guilty.’ The judge thought fit to rub it in to me. ‘A well merited sentence,’ says he. ‘You have evaded justice long enough. May the Lord have mercy on your soul.’ And (then he went to his dinner. “A few days later, Connor bawled through my door that he’d got a week’s' leave of absence, and was off to bring Kitty home, also, that 1 was to have a six-foot drop. He took care, though, (that three inches of kauri boarding lay between us before he chose to cheer me up with this little eppy-tone of news. (But his spite was soon to suffer fatty Ire-generation of the heart, for he didn’t (get away as soon as he had expected to, mid in a couple of days he was forced to carry very different (tidings into the condemned cell—nothing (more nor less than a slap-up reprieve, and my order of release! He sulkily told me that the real murderer had hail • fit of remorse, and had confessed! 1

was staggered a bit, nat‘rally, but collected my wits and said: The Lord’s will be done,’ or some such language ( just to allay my suspicions, you know, and to hide my feelin’s a bit. “When I got away from the jail, 1 set straight off to Kitty, wonderin’, and settled in my own mind that my proxy (they would not tell me his name) was either a lunatic, or someone too scart to commit susanside, so thought he'd get the Government to carry out his little short cut to Glory for him. But that was his business. Mine was home and Kitty. So on I trudged, merrily enough, and building all sorts of castles in the air (‘Chat-oo dee Spain,' as Crapaud calls ’em) about our shiftin’ to the town, and holding our heads up among the folk, and me gettin’ on the School Committee like a respectable city father, and—er —.But when I arrived within sight of our whare, tired and weary, though cheery as a locust, I got a sudden shock on seein’ that no smoke came from the clod chimney. Boys! The very soul seemed to go out of my body when I found that Kitty had gone, and that she had left no sign. Yes. one sign 1 saw the marks of

•her twelve-and-sixpenny boots, leading off on the mountain track, a real dangerous short cut to town! So after a night’s rest, back I goes on the same tramp, hungry, t'irud, and puzzled, but feelin’ sorter relieved to know that 1 was following on Kitty’s track! “I met Tewae the tracker, who told me that some woman, whose name lie had forgotten, had confessed to hitting Reston on the head with a lump of. firewood, that she had followed him up to the pub because he had jilted her, and got him alone in the bar-room, and in a fit of fury had landed him a crack on the head with a piece o’ rata she hauled outer the fire! The Court believed her on oath, of course, and all as in a dream (for Connor and Co. had kept me in the dark) I had got my walking ticket, for things in the justice line then-a-days were not like they are now, you know. Bless me, no. Why, I remember down at Paterangi Bush, old C'apt’n Loram fining a pal o’ mine a bottle o' whisky for bangin’ the Bush Clerk on the cokernut with a rika-stump. and the liquor had to be fetched and lowered before the Court broke up! “But that ain’t my yarn. A sudden

reveal—ntion, an awful thought, of a heroine, a self-sacrificing Kitty—flashed into my mind, and I ran all the way to the cells. As 1 had been directly concerned in the case, I got immediate permission to go in and institoot inquiries. I found that my nightmare of a notion was'all too true, for Kitty had bravely carried out her • cracked-up- yarn, but •woman-like, broke down when she saw me, and told me all about it, and then she put her arms round my neck, and hung on! Boys, I tell ye, the devil came into my soul, and I shut my teeth hard. I gripped Kitty round the waist, and fetched out my sheath-knife. “The warder came first, but I had a strong wrist then-a-days. Kitty’s scream at the blood-flow fetched Mr. Policeman Connor, but I saw him in time, and he dropped with a broken jaw. My course was clear, for the old lock-up boasted no system of high walls and turnkeys. 1 half carried Kitty, for she was too dazed and faint to run, and we made off into the bush.” Nat’s voice grew lower and lower as he recounted his startling life story. He paused, and we re-primed our pipes

in silence. Another “first mate's” nip at the bottle seemed to revive *the old man, and presently he cleared his throat, and in a half mutter went on. “1 must pass over a long time now, how we lived on fern roots and tawlieras, and tucker begged from friendly Maoris; how we hid, tramped, and hid for months and months, till we hit on a retreat away on the West Coast, where a big kauri bush backed the coastline, and where the sea-beaches provided us with plenty of pipis and pa was. By the way, we call that bush district ‘Hokianga,’ now. “My rough cut whare gave us shelter, poor enough though, for the few tools I had begged from old Ropai were not fitted for mansion building, exactly. My poor girl suffered hardships its outer the question to tell of. You can all imagine what she had to put up with! Patience! Why, she twisted maunga-maunga around a stick o’ dry puriri, and rubbed it into dead tawa pulp until she got a fire a’goin’! She was a female Mark Tapley, she was, and never a complaint did she make, no matter how we fared, bless her.

“•Well, as nothing happened to alar us, we soon felt secure enough, and by-and-by welcomed the signs o’ Christmas a’ cornin’ on the pohutukawas. But one morning, just about when Christmas Day would be" sending out the holiday-makers (lucky beggars), a big, white-sailed pleasure yacht came skimming into our bay. We could see that picnickers were aboard, by the cut o’ their clothes. Presently they came ashore, I suppose to see our lonesome hut, which would nat’rally attract attention in that solitary spot. We hadn't time to get away, and, besides, Kitty wasn’t too well anyway, so I had to put a bold face on it, and went out as if I was almighty pleased to welcome the visitors to our abode! Y'ou can imagine my disgust when I saw, all too late, that a laughing lass had ‘snapped’ me with an infernallthree-legged camera she had quickly fixed up. I suppose my wild rigout gave me a sorter Robinson Crusoe appearance.' . Howsomever, this camera affair was dangerous, though on consultin’ Kitty when the yacht had gone and we were at last alone, we decided that only deuced bad luck would bring that photy-g'raph under official gaze. Besides, and this is what was the decidin’ fackter, the main thing was, that Kitty was not fit to take to the bush again just then. So we risked circumstances.

“But circumstances was our enemy. I tell ye, boys, inside of a month, as we were peacefully finishin’ our evenin’ meal o’ roast clams, and yarnin’ about layin' a store o’ tucker for the winter, our blessed whare was surprised and rushed! My wits gathered up the facts in a second, but my heart seemed to drop clean outer my body and my brain reeled, when I saw that no less than seven armed men were coming at us! “But Despair beats numbers. I tore our slab table off its posts and heaved it at their leader, who dropped, and even in my wild fury I recognised the features of the warder I had left for dead in the lock-up. The second man blazed a pistol at me, but his arm was knocked up, and he fell back from a blazin' root that Kitty thrust in his face. How we did it, I can't tell you, but after a mad and desperate scramble, and though runnin’ awful risks from the pepperin’ pistol bullets, we got into the bush unhurt, but just about in fit mood to join hands and take a flyin’ leap over the cliff, and end matters on the rocks below! But the blankness o’ Death is a bitter notion to young folk, and Love seems to cling to Life! Poor Kitty could not travel so I gathered her a heap o’ moss and made her as confortable'- as it was possible in the gatherin’ darkness, and then I went back to re con noiter. Picture my feelin’s when I saw the raiders siltin' round the glowin’ ashes of what had been by Home, and a loved, home too, for there Peace had dwelt, and Love had softened Care! I turned to go back to my wife, but again bad luck followed me, for I lost my way in the darkness of the bush, and daren’t cooee to her for fear o’ bringin’ the men after us. So Kit was left alone, and .when, after a cruel night, I crept along at streak o’ dawn and found the hidin’ place where I had left her, they were both dead and cold!”

Again the old man paused; his voice had died away to a whisper. We looked at him inquiringly, and Rhodes ventured, “Both?” “Yes, both,” and after another long drawn silent pause, “Both Kit and her kiddy! What troubles nre most—l can’t speak any louder, I had to bolt away, for I heard the police startin’ off to look for us, and when immediate danger is at hand, no matter how sick o’ Life we may be, ‘Life is sweet.’ They were only a few yards off, but I got aw.ay, though I hadn’t even time to kiss the dead lips I just said, ‘God rest. . . . !’ I must turn in now, boys. I’m, quite, warm Gam old man. Good night, all!” We helped him to his bunk, and then remained silent, listening to the rain, and thinking. That silence was Kitty’s Elegy! The next morning broke fine and clear and Rhodes woke me up early. “Come here,” he said, and beckoned, me towards Nat’s bunk. I went over, and shook the old man to awaken him, •but suddenly stopped to listen, and then gently drew the bush rug over his faca for Nat had joined his “Kit and bar kiddy!"