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The Auckland-Wellington “Limited” Express, North Island, New Zealand.
The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal booksellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
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I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 20,000 copies each issue since July, 1930.
Deputy-Controller and Auditor-General. 23/3/35.
And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and pure bright air
Their tops the green trees lift.
—Longfellow.
It was M‘Andrew, the old Scots engineer, who sang, in his original kind of hymn, “what I have seen, since ocean-steam began, leaves me nae doot for the machine—but what about the man?” At that time Kipling's maritime hero, who saw predestination in the stride of a connecting rod, could boast of a working gauge pressure of “a hunder sixty-five” and he could dream of “thirty and more” in sea speed.
Even since the “Hymn” was written, the accomplishments of the machine age have excelled any existing estimate of possibilities at that time.
But how has man advanced? In one aspect he has progressed as much as the machine, namely, in the power to adapt himself quickly to new conditions.
Whereas, in the early days of the industrial revolution, each improvement in machinery had to fight against a mass of prejudice, conservative obstruction, apathy and apprehensive hostility, and fear of change was the dominating factor in the psychology of mankind, the attitude of the present century is one of welcome to every fresh gift that inventive genius as applied to machinery can bring.
And there is a rapid and willing realignment of outlook and practice to any new conditions created.
Love of change is the spirit of the new age, as love of settled security was the spirit of its predecessor.
It was a very old-fashioned political economist who declared: “It is doubtful if all the mechanical inventions that ever existed have lightened the day's toil for one human being.” Apropos of this, the addresses given in Wellington in connection with the James Watt Bi-Centenary celebrations are enlightening.
It was shewn that not only had the development of the steam engine through the genius of Watt and his successors contributed to lightening the day's toil for million upon million of human beings, but also that, besides extending its civilizing influence throughout the greater part of the world during the past two centuries, its power for further good was far from exhausted.
On the contrary its power could be multiplied to many times the present efficiency by inventions and adaptions, particularly as applied to the railway locomotive, which would keep it in the forefront of the agencies of mechanical power for centuries to come. In fact, it has been contended that no other power agency affords scope for further improvement comparable with the steam engine.
This is all very heartening to those associated with the railways of the world, for they know that, however much the change of fashion and the variations in industrial demands may bring this or that power agency into prominence, the railways will continue to be the key industry of transport.
In this mechanical age, man and the machine are inseparable. Nor do they desire to be separated, for so natural has become their association, that though the majority of the population earns its living more or less directly from the control and operation of machinery, it finds that the principal aid to the hours of relaxation is again machinery.
Thus man and the machine become partners in an endless and entrancing game of mutual help—man helps the machine by invention, and the machine helps man to further enjoyment of the fruits of his inventive faculty and of his applied personal efficiency in the operation of the machine.
In the conditions existing at the present time I believe opportunities exist for further sound development of our business along progressive lines. Already much has been done, and the record of achievement by the railways of New Zealand in, say, the last twenty-five years, is a most impressive one.
In no industry is experience so valuable as in the Railway industry. Its ramifications and problems are so varied that it is quite impossible to provide wholly for their exposition in text books. In the important field of transport it may reasonably be claimed that the best experience is to be found in the Railway Department—due entirely to the fact, of course, that all other means of mechanised land transport are of comparatively recent development. The Railway Department has at its disposal a wealth of well-informed knowledge, based very largely on the experience of an industrial life-time—more particularly as it applies to members of the service who have served continuously for the best part of half a century, and have followed the evolution of transport in all its aspects.
The habit of careful preparation before innovations are adopted is so engrained in railwaymen that public confidence has been built up to a very high degree. It lies with the present members of the service to maintain and increase that confidence.
Not only do railwaymen understand the problem of railway operation, but also, as the Department provides its own road services, they must as a matter of course, be well versed in the problem of the road, both directly, and indirectly through close association with the various road licensing issues. Railwaymen are also conversant with the various aspects of sea transport. They are directly associated not only with the matter of handling cargo, but also with all that is involved in the safe and satisfactory disposal of large quantities of imports and exports, from the time the cargo is received in trucks until it is clear of bond, if this should be necessary.
These various activities give the railwayman so close an acquaintance with the ramifications of all forms of transport that, individually and collectively, he is probably better able than most to advise and assist in the general transport requirements of the community at large.
There are many new features soon to be introduced in the wide range of Departmental activities which are now associated with every form of transport within the Dominion. I feel that their success will follow as a result of the reception these new features will receive from the public, and the desire of a loyal Railway staff to ensure that the sound position now occupied by the Railways, in their relation to the Public and the State, is still further improved.
General Manager.
The Two Minutes Silence of Tuesday, 28th January, was the most significant and impressive act of ritual ever performed in history.
In the uttermost corners of the earth, men stood, uncovered, to mourn the passing of a kindly English gentleman who was, as well, the ruler of an Empire so vast in domain as to exceed all the dreams of ancient seers.
The countless creeds of the world, its differing political doctrines, all its shades of colour and varying racial distinctions, were represented in the tens of millions who observed that solemn, reverential pause.
The strangest thing of all, however, was the quality of the thoughts of men at this time; the quality which was common to the miner and the peer, the Canadian farmer and the surgeon-commander at Malta, the Timaru clerk and the pearl fisher at Broome, and the Sydney factory-hand and the commandant of an Indian frontier fort. Universal in their hearts was a sense of personal bereavement; a new thing in the feeling created by the passing of a King; sorrow born of affection.
It is worth our while to seek for the springs of this world-wide emotion because most men are quite inarticulate, having difficulty to find the words to explain anything of what they really feel about that mystical entity “The Throne.”
We can remember King George's visit to New Zealand as the Duke of York. The Royal couple saw our country in all its aspects. They charmed all hearts with their kindly interest in our remote and provincial pre-occupations. They took part in all the necessary ceremonial observances with dignity and noble-bearing, and, withal, remained unassuming, friendly, warm-hearted English folk. We know that King George was an efficient midshipman on the “Bacchante”; that he loved horses, was a first-class shot; and loved and lived with zest, in his leisure hours, the life of an English
His Late Majesty King George The Fifth.
Yet when his dangerous illness arrived in 1928 “the people awaited anxiously for news, as if the sick man had been their closest kin.”
After his convalescence this was part of his message:
“I was able to picture to myself the crowds of friends waiting and watching at my gates, and to think of the still greater number of those in every part of the Empire who were remembering me in their prayers and good wishes. The realisation of this has been among the most vivid experiences of my life. It was an encouragement beyond description to find that my constant and earnest desire had been granted—the desire to gain the confidence and affection of my people.”
And he spoke further “of the growing kindliness significant of the true nature of men and nations.”
His devotion to official duty was traditional and known to all; and, properly, and as was due to his noble creed of human obligation, he died at his post.
His son, Edward Viii, rules now in his stead. We, in New Zealand, can say that we know him, too. His visit here will never be erased from our memories. The saga of his impulsive
It is known that, in this changing world, his sympathies are with the forwarding of the social movement. He hates slums, had working conditions, and the awful ills of poverty as much as any platform zealot. When he limited the mourning ceremony to the “Two Minutes’ Silence,” first in his thoughts was the working man who might lose a day's pay with any lengthier period.
His personality is rich in the things which Englishmen (and, the world) most admire, and he shares his late father's omniscience of what concerns his people overseas.
A European observer once said that King Edward Vii was “a person of whom his humbler subjects spoke as if he were a sort of prosperous elder brother.” Of the late King it might have been said that he seemed to be “an important yet sympathetic uncle.” Of our new King the same observer will have to leave out the word “elder” and retain the word “brother.”
There is no doubt that the actual personalities of grandfather, father, and son, our last three Kings, have of their own distinctiveness, a potency of appeal and charm.
But this does not explain the inner meaning of the “Throne” to us. There have been kings in Great Britain for fifteen hundred years, and for three centuries, there has been a single kingship. At the Coronation, the King is still seated on the battered wooden chair first used for Edward Ii. At the death of the King, one of the first things that happens is that the Life Guards prepare to turn out, at five minutes from trumpet call, to suppress any sudden rebellion. The “Armill” or golden stole is still placed about his neck by the Dean of West-minister. A thousand forms of glowing pageantry, and multitudinous quaint old customs and ceremonies attest the age of the institution.
This air of traditional beauty, of the holiness of ancient rite, and of the essential teaching of wisely devised symbolic ritual, adds colour and fire to the feeling about the Throne.
No one goes into the full details of what is meant by the phrase “Constitutional Monarchy.” In true English fashion, we escape any rigidity of definition; not that there would be any
His Majesty King Edward The Eighth.
The King's powers are very real, and few of his millions of subjects know what they are; nor are they much concerned. All that they see, as a rule, is that the King stands at the summit and at the centre of our constitution, as head of our political, social, and civic system.
Mr. Gladstone, that great Liberal leader, wrote, “the acts, the wishes, the example of the Sovereign (Queen Victoria) in this country are a real power. Parliaments and Ministers pass… but she is to them as the oak in the forest is to the annual harvest of the field.”
The Throne has lost in these last two centuries many definable powers. It has gained, however, in mystic significance. The accumulated majesty of the office has increased, as it has come further into the light of common day. The King has no class, and no party. Above all men, he is yet closer to the consciousness of the average man than the most revered Prime Minister. Many of his outward symbols of Royalty are links with the far-off past, but they stand as the visible signs of a precious and continuing heritage of national life.
It is just possible that we in New Zealand are in a position to be better judges of such a conception as is contained in the word “Royalty” than those who live in England. We claim, I think, with some justification to a certain integral sanity in our views of the “Old Country.” We stand midway between the callow disdain affected by some youthful communities and the slavish adoration affected by others. We have made the most courageous and successful pioneer experiments in enlarging the sphere of democracy and have tackled social problems with the zest and lack of respect for authority that were born in us as the plain result of what our forbears thought and did when they adventured out to this end of the earth to seek for better things. But, withal, we have actually strengthened our relationship link with “Home” and used the word in a casual, totally unsentimental way which is often misunderstood by observers. It carries with its use the detached, almost impersonal affection that one finds in a large adult family.
And so I conclude in the words of a great writer of the day, speaking of the English Throne:
“It is not only higher than any other human estate, but of a different kind from any other, for it is the mystical, indivisible centre of national union. It is the point around which coheres the nation's sense of a continuing personality. In any deep stirring of heart the people turn from the mechanism of government, which is their own handiwork and their servant, to that ancient, abiding thing behind governments, which they feel to be the symbol of their past achievement and their future hope.”
The illustrations show the transport progress of the Mt. Cook Tourist Company Ltd., from the days of the stage-coach onwards: From top (left) the stage-coach of the early days; (2) the record load from the Mackenzie Country to Fairlie; (3) the “Beetle” (the first mail-car); (4) the “Beetle” in the snow; (5) the headquarters of the Company at Fairlie; (6) a further stage in progress; (7) a “working bee” after unloading timber; (8) the Hut at “Hell's End.” (See article on page 15).
“The Mount Cook Tourist Company of New Zealand Limited,” is a sonorous and splendid title. It has a ring and an impressiveness which can be easily explained, for its main concern is with the greatest mountain giant of these Southern Seas and the valleys of wonder that lie about him.
In this short sketch, I want to tell of the early days of this big organisation which to-day presents such an imposing spectacle with its intricate network of routes, tourist hostels, de luxe motor services, efficient systems of “land cruises,” array of winter sports and Alpine pleasure grounds. It offers as a commonplace statement that one can leave bustling Wellington one evening and dine in the other-world sweetness of Queenstown the next evening. The magnitude of many of our business undertakings is always a source of wonder to overseas observers who know that the Dominion is not yet a century old, and that our population is less than that of many a single city of the Old World. I instanced some months ago, the U.S.S. Company in the forefront of these, and I make the claim now that the practical achievement of this pioneer tourist company should be a source of pride to our countrymen. Its enterprise should be regarded with gratitude by those who believe that the realm of beauty which is our possession should be seen by the world's sightseers. The Mount Cook Company has been, since the beginning of things, rendering magnificent service in the fight to get recognition for New Zealand ownership of endless treasures of varied loveliness.
Its early difficulties were colossal, and their overcoming has involved strenuous and gallant effort from the beginning of the century. It will take the later retrospective view of history to give to this company adequate recognition for its work in placing our country on the map of the world's leading tourist resorts. I will detail, necessarily briefly, just a few of the stern trials, the heart-breaking obstacles, which its founders had to face. As is always the case when an offensive of this magnitude reaches its objective, a commander has to be discovered,
Mt. Cook (12,349 ft.) from Red Lake, South Island, New Zealand.
I will pause here to say again that no new country was ever so blessed as ours in the standard of character, culture, and high enterprise possessed by our forebears. Moreover, no province had a finer array of early great men than Canterbury. Among its pioneers, none was held in more esteem than the Hon. H. T. Wigley, nephew-in-law of Sefton Moorehouse and Member of the Legislative Council for over twenty years. I like to think that in R.L. he left the “worthy son of a worthy sire.”
The young man's life could have lain in easy places. In 1898 he was in the First Fifteen at Christ's College, the school whose traditions mostly led to the professional career or the spacious and easy going life, particularly in those days, of the pastoralist. But R.L. was a being of another sort. He had a mechanical turn, for one thing, and his first carburettor is
R.L. fought the good fight for the establishment of modern transport with varying fortune, but I suspect that all the time his eyes were turning to Mount Cook. The mountain climbers of those days were fit men long before they reached the foot of the “Sky Piercer.” It was an arduous three days’ journey from Christchurch before they could essay the great adventure. I would like to say here, too, that R. L. Wigley's interest in the mighty peak is not merely that of a commercial entrepreneur. It was a real thrill for South Canterbury when the news flashed through on 12th August, 1923, that he, with guides Milne and Murrell, had made the first (and only) winter ascent of Mount Cook. It was characteristic of the man that his friend and partner, Mr. Charles Elms, all unknowing of the enterprise, heard the news at the Grand National Meeting.
So was evolved the first motor service to the Hermitage.
(Rly. Publicity Photo.)
Those were the days when motoring was a task for heroes. Even when the epoch making Stepney wheel arrived, the high pressure tyres used to burst while changing. However, the Canterbury bred courage of R. L. Wigley knew no faltering. Slowly and steadily, as our illustrations show, the standard of the cars improved. What an event it was when the canvas roofs were fixed, for even in those days, complexions were not proof against the southern sun. Mr. Elms who met the cars with his coaches slowly reduced his trip as the road was made and the bridges built, and the time came when the cars drew up at the old Hermitage shown in our picture. This latter building was abandoned when the glacier broke through, and the new Hermitage came into being. The site was the inspiration of genius. Nowhere in the world of Alpine scenery is there any view so lavish of
(continued on page 49).
The following message to Railway Servants, by the new Minister of Railways, the Hon. D. G. Sullivan, was sent to the Editor of “The Standard,” and appeared in a recent issue of that paper.
I Have pleasure in complying with the request from the Editor of “The Standard” for a brief message to be published in his paper.
The railways are not only the most important of the transport services of the Dominion but one of the greatest of our industries. They provide employment for 15,000 people, and have invested in them some #60,000,000 of the public money.
For some years past it has been fashionable, on the part of some critics, as they turn their eyes from the steam haulage train that has rendered such wonderful service in the past in the development of the nations, to the fast moving motor services on the roads, then upwards to the aeroplane moving rapidly across the skies—to say, “The railways are obsolete: their day is done,” and I suspect that many a railwayman, however proud of his service, however gallantly he may have defended it from the attacks of those promulgating “newfangled notions,” felt in his innermost consciousness that possibly the critics were right, and that one sad day in the future his loved engines and cars would pass into the limbo of forgotten things.
But to-day, the railwayman can lift up his head again, for a new hope dawns on the horizon in the shape of the oil-driven rail-car. The writer recently had the opportunity of taking a trip on one of these cars, and confesses to a thrill of enthusiasm as he recalls the rapidity of motion, the dustless track, the clean, sunny air, the absence of road shocks at intersections, or of competing motor traffic. That hope revives every time I look at the two pictures of the new rail-cars in their bright red, but artistic, paint, sailing along through fields of green, which hang in my Ministerial office, telling me of that new day when the railways will return to their unchallenged supremacy in the Transport world.
Maybe, the mental picture that I have conjured up is overdrawn. But, honestly, I don't think so. I think, however enthusiastic it may sound, that the future will prove it sober and faithful to fact, and if that is so, the railwayman can cast a look of derision at the comparatively slow motor traffic on the roads, and even at the mechanical eagle of the skies, because of its load limitations; and, with the new hope of better things in the domain of science and mechanics, there is, side by side with that, new hope for the public in improved and cheapened travel facilities in all parts of the country, and new hope for our splendid railway staff, in improved remuneration and conditions of work. That these things will synchronise with the coming of the new Labour Government, with its strong humanitarian outlook and concern for those who are rendering useful service, is something that I am devoutly thankful for.
Greetings to all readers of “The Standard,” and particularly to the employees of our great railway service.
There were no braver and no more useful pioneers of civilisation in New Zealand than the early missionaries of the Wesleyan faith, the founders of Methodism in this country more than a century ago. They were not long in following in the footsteps of the great Samuel Marsden, who did not confine his sympathies to the members of the English Church Mission but generously assisted the Wesleyans to gain a footing in North New Zealand and came to their assistance in their early troubles with the Maoris. The names mentioned in this sketch are those of men greatly honoured in the records of our nation-making. They were not only teachers of the new religion to the Maoris, but they were practical settlers of the best class and their stations and cultivations were object-lessons to the tribes among whom they established their churches and schools and farms. The most prominent of all those who planted the first mission when New Zealand was still a kind of No Man's Land was the Rev. John Hobbs. He is honoured in history for his notable share in obtaining the consent of the Hokianga and neighbouring tribes to the Treaty of Waitangi in 1840. He and the famous C.M.S. missionary Henry Williams were in fact the principal men who influenced the Maoris of the North in favour of the Treaty and the British flag.
The story of the “Hahi Weterce” (“Church of Wesley”) in New Zealand begins with the coming of young Samuel Leigh, who arrived at Sydney in 1815, as the first apostle of his church to the Southern world. He worked as a minister in New South Wales, preaching and founding churches, and in the course of his duties he became very friendly with the great English Chaplain of the Colony, Samuel Marsden. In 1818, through the kindness of Mr. Marsden, who had established the first mission in New Zealand, he made a cruise for the sake of his health to the Bay of Islands in the C.M.S. brig Active. One of the first things he saw when he reached the Bay of Islands was a row of smoke-dried Maori heads, for sale; the wonderfully tattooed mokamokai was an item of commerce with the Sydney traders. Leigh was offered the heads, and when he refused to buy them he was told that the owners of the “dry goods” could easily sell them on board other Sydney vessels.
This callous traffic so affected the young clergyman that he went to England and appealed for help towards a Wesleyan Mission in New Zealand, and by February, 1822, he was back in these waters and landed at the Bay of Islands. It is recorded that he preached his first sermon in New Zealand in February, 1822, and it is characteristic of the narrow vision of many of these good men that, as he had found his congregation in the fields planting potatoes on Sunday “he expounded to them the obligations of the Fourth Commandment.” It must have puzzled the aboriginal brain to comprehend such “obligations” so foreign to its thought. However, when Maoridom did at last adopt the Mosaic sabbath it did so very thoroughly, often even to the discomfort and annoyance of pakeha travellers.
It was soon after this that Leigh, visiting Whangaroa Harbour in a whaleboat, was confronted on the beach with an alarming display of a crowd of naked savages yelling and flourishing weapons. He and his companions were in imminent danger of death, they imagined. (It may have been merely the “savages’” form of welcome.) However, he remembered that he had in his pocket a packet of fish-hooks for presents. He called out in Maori, “Wait, I have fish-hooks,” and he threw them over the heads of the Maoris. There was an immediate scramble for the treasures, and Leigh and his crew in the confusion were soon at a safe distance from the beach.
That timely shower of fish-hooks was as bread cast upon the waters. Leigh went back to Sydney, and returning in June 26, 1823, in the ship St. Michael, he again landed on the same beach in the inner part of Whangaroa. The Maoris recognised him and greeted him with cries of welcome and shouts of “This is the man who gave us the fish-hooks!”
The motau-throwing inspiration set the new missionary on a friendly footing among the people of Whangaroa. He established the first station of his church at Kaeo, at the head of the harbour and called it Wesley Dale. There he lived under rough conditions for some months. Then the Revs. John Hobbs and Nathaniel Turner arrived. They were a complete contrast to the delicate, scholarly Leigh; they were the pioneer stuff. Leigh, harrassed by ill-health and by mischievous Maori raids, had to give up the work. Robust frames and a general practical hardiness were needed and Leigh returned to Sydney, and thence to England.
The name of this pioneer Wesleyan is commemorated in coast nomenclature. The township at the beautiful cove called Little Omaha is called Leigh. This pretty and perfectly sheltered little harbour, fringed with pohutukawa groves, was a favourite place for call and rest of Archdeacon Henry Williams during his missionary cruises.
It was in August, 1823, that John Hobbs and Nathaniel Turner came to Wesley Dale, at Kaeo, walking overland from the Bay of Islands; presently they were joined by their wives, brought by the Rev. Samuel Marsden, who always gave the Wesleyans a helping hand. Hobbs was the man for the rough life in the Whangaroa country. He was a competent man with his hands, he was a carpenter, a gardener, a bit of a doctor, a maker of anything from a table to a house or a boat. He and Turner soon had a comfortable timber cottage built, to replace the raupo hut of Leigh, and they fenced the place and made a vegetable garden. But the Kaeo station, which by 1825 was an attractive little oasis in the wilderness, was not left in peace. Intertribal wars blocked progress, and in 1827 the Ngapuhi raided and looted the place, and the missionaries sorrowfully gave up the struggle and with their families abandoned Wesley Dale. They walked across to that haven of refuge Kerikeri, where the Church mission people took them in and tended them in their everkindly way. The home at Kaeo was burned by the looters soon after they left it. On their way across to Kerikeri they met a war-party from Hokianga. It was the Maori way to sacrifice anyone they met when they were out on a blood expedition, but the benevolent Patuone, brother of Tamati Waka Nene, was the commander of the taua, and he stood protectively by them until the warrior band had passed on.
The Wesleyan party returned from Kerikeri to Sydney by the first vessel, but they were soon back, determined to succeed in their crusade. This time they chose the other coast, the West. Hokianga invited them because of the friendly character of its people and the convenience of its great system of internal waterways for travel from place to place. Patuone, that chief who had so befriended them on that alarming encounter in the forest, was anxious that they should plant a station in his territory. So John Hobbs returned to pioneer the land anew. He was joined by the Rev. J. W. Stack. A site was selected at Mangungu, about twenty miles up the great tidal river. Here an estate of 850 acres was bought, with deep-water frontage, a house was built, and cultivations were begun. It was a place of beauty, fertility and pleasant climate, no more kindlier home for a pioneer station in New Zealand. Hobbs and Stack gradually built up their institution, they taught and preached and introduced the better part of civilisation to the Hokianga tribes. The neat buildings and fencing and cultivations were a lesson to them all.
In 1830, the Rev. W. White joined them. The proselytising campaign was gradually extended down to the Kaipara, to the Waikato and to Kawhia. The Rev. James Wallis and his wife arrived in 1834, and he and the Rev. W. Woon and the Rev. John Whiteley were the pioneers of the West Coast stations. Nathaniel Turner returned in 1836—he had been in Tonga—and with him came James Buller, a stalwart Cornishman; he was at that time a tutor to Turner's family, Every year now brought more recruits for the mission work.
In 1838 the new arrivals, by the ship James, were the Revs. J. Waterhouse, J. H. Bumby, Samuel Ironside, Charles Creed, and J. Warren. Mr. Ironside wrote this vivacious description of their reception in the Maori country:-
On the tenth day after leaving Hobart we crossed the bar of the Hokianga River, and anchored safely in the stream, a mile or two below our branch Mission station at Pakanae. The Rev. W. Woon was missionary in charge. Soon after we came to anchor a large boat, manned by a Maori crew, was seen coming to us at a racing speed, the rowers apparently in a great state of excitement, roaring at the top of their voices; ‘Ko Te Wunu! Ko Te Wunu!’
In the stern sat a large-framed stout gentleman, the picture of health and comfort. While yet at some distance from the ship, he called out in stentorian tones, ‘Is that the James?’
“The Maoris were still yelling ‘Ko Te Wunu!’ It was our big friend Mr. Woon come out to welcome us. There had been some joking between the ship's officers and ourselves as to whether we should find anything to eat, or should ourselves be eaten in the strange land. Seeing Mr. Woon so stout, easy, and comfortable, the conclusion was soon unanimously reached that whatever the diet, we should at any rate fare very well.”
In 1840 the Triton sailed up the Hokianga from Sydney; she brought the Revs. T. Buddle, G. Buttle, H. Turton, G. Smales and J. Aldred. All these names are worthy of remembrance; in every case but one their long self-sacrificing toil and the affection with which they came to be regarded give them a permanent high place among the makers of New Zealand. The one exception was the Rev. J. H. Bumby; he did not survive long in the mission field. In 1840, after visiting many places on the shores of the Hauraki Gulf, he was drowned when on a canoe voyage, soon after leaving Motutapu Island for Whangarei. Mr. Creed—always a marvel to Maori and European alike for the wonderful beard he displayed, covering most of his chest like a hairy cuirass—was one of the two missionaries who settled in turn at Karitane, on Waikouaiti Harbour, Otago, where the celebrity Johnny Jones had his whaling station and farms.
Ironside was sent to the South Island also; his station—generally known as the Cloudy Bay station—was at Ngakuta, in at the head of Port Underwood; a narrow ridge separated it from Queen Charlotte Sound. It was he who, when the Tuamarino tragedy, generally known as the Wairau massacre, occurred in 1843, was the first European on the scene after the retreat of the survivors, and he buried the victims of the Ngati-Toa's guns and Rangihaeata's tomahawk.
Mr. Wallis was the first to camp at the station established at Tangi-teroria, that beautiful spot with a name of music on the Northern Wairoa River. But he was soon sent south to Whaingaroa, now Raglan, and in 1839 James Buller was sent from Mangungu to become the permanent minister on the Wairoa among the tribes living along that great inland waterway.
For fourteen years Buller and his wife lived there and reared their family in the heart of the great forest. Buller had learned Maori well, and he was a right proper stalwart for the pioneering of the wilds. The river was the only road, and up and down this tidal highway this missionary travelled with his Maori crew. It was the most lonely of places for a white woman. There a boy was born who became celebrated as Sir Walter Buller, the great authority on New Zealand birds. It was in the bird-teeming bush of the Northern Wairoa that he learned the ways of the wild and acquired with the Maori tongue his Maori-like knowledge of the country's forest life. The Rev. James Buller's book “Forty Years in New Zealand,” tells of those times of pioneering in the most isolated part of the North Country.
He was a mighty tramper in his prime was “Te Pura.” In 1840 he travelled from the Kaipara to Wellington, mostly on foot, by way of Kawhia, Taupo, and the Wanganui River. His business was to arrange for the establishment of his church in the just founded New Zealand Company's settlement, and foot and canoe were the only means of travel. Everywhere the Maoris were most friendly and hospitable. Buller found that even in those places where the people had never seen a missionary there was some knowledge of pakeha prayers and Scriptures, the Rongo Pai had been spread by Maoris from tribe to tribe.
Another great and tireless traveller and teacher was the Rev. John Whiteley, whose New Zealand career began in 1832. His work at his station on the south side of Kawhia endeared him to the Maoris and every pakeha traveller who passed that way in the years before the wars found a welcome under the missionary roof. His tragic end in 1869 is an unhappy chapter in our history. The Ngati-Maniapoto from Mokau who wiped out the pakehas at Pukearuhe Redoubt had not intended to kill the revered missionary whom they met on the road after they had killed the Gascoignes. His death was an unpremeditated act, a killing of which they repented immediately afterwards, for it so affected them that they broke off their expedition southward from Pukearuhe and returned to the Mokau. Their leader, Wetere te Rerenga, and most of the others, had been taught by the man they murdered. Long after the war, when at Mokau Heads, I became acquainted with two of the men who, as young and eager Hauhaus, had been in that war-party. They considered they were within their rights in destroying the Government outpost and its few occupants, the Gascoigne family, it was a legitimate act of war; but they both disclaimed any share in killing their good missionary “Te Waitere.”
There was a missionary of the second generation whom I knew very well and met frequently on his travels among his native friends in the Waikato and North Auckland. No better and wiser and more kindly teacher and preacher ever lived and laboured here than the Rev. William Gittos, “Te Kitohi,” as the Maoris called him. He arrived in New Zealand at the age of twelve with the Scottish immigrants from Glasgow, in 1842; he became a thorough pioneer in the North Auckland bush, and he saw something of the Northern War about Lake Omapere in 1845 when Hone Heke was “out.” He gave up farm life to become a missionary, for which his knowledge of the people, his command of the Maori tongue, and his sympathy with church work qualified him, and in 1856 he began work at the Kaipara, where he continued to labour among the Ngati-Whatua and related tribes until the middle Eighties. Then his sphere of activities was extended, and he became Superintendent of Maori Missions in Waikato and North Auckland until he retired in 1913. He died in Auckland in 1916.
Mr. Gittos was not only a missionary but a pioneer with a practical knowledge of many things useful in wild country where the settler had to do without the services of professional doctors and skilled artisans and tradesmen. He was something of a doctor himself, for he could set broken bones, extract teeth, tend wounds, and on one occasion he amputated a leg to save a man's life. He did all without any thought of compensation; he helped the new settlers of the Kaipara and the adjacent parts in a hundred ways, his reward was their gratitude.
In a recently published book on the Waipu Highlanders, “The Gael Fares Forth,” by Mr. N. R. McKenzie, there are several references to Mr. Gittos's kindliness and his spirit of helpfulness so frequently displayed. In the early days of the Highland-Nova Scotian settlement he walked across from the Kaipara to Kaiwaka, Hakaru and
He [Mr. Gittos] came to our place, and my father and a neighbour were trying to break down a log with a pit saw. Through the saw being badly out of order, they had got the cut so rounded that they could hardly pull the saw. He had a look and said, ‘That saw needs setting and filing very badly; let me do it up for you.’ Then looking at the log, he said, ‘That is no good, anyhow. It is kahikatea [white pine]. Tip it over the side and put a log of that totara on, then you will have something that will last.’ He did up the saw, helped to break down the totara log, and lined out the flitches in one of the halves before he left. He was an absolute wonder. There seemed to be nothing he could not do. He was a living encyclopaedia to the early settlers, and nothing was too much trouble. As soon as he heard of a newcomer, he would be there with advice as to which timber to use for different purposes and which to discard, and he was very rarely wrong.”
The late Mr. S. Percy Smith, Surveyor-General, held his fellow-pioneer “Te Kitohi” in great admiration as the right kind of missionary to the Maoris. Writing of his first surveying experiences in the Kaipara country, 1859–1860, he said: “It would be difficult to find a finer people than the Ngati-Whatua were at that time; they retained all the best points of the Maori character, while the worst had been eradicated by the efforts of the missionaries, the Rev. Messrs, Buller and Gittos. They were strictly honest and honourable in all their dealings, hospitable to a fault, and appeared to me to follow the teaching of the missionaries in a true spirit of Christianity.” There were only five white men living in the whole of the Kaipara in 1859—besides a few temporarily engaged under Mr. Marriner in the timber business—and one of these was Mr. Gittos, whose headquarters were at Oruawharo.
“Te Kitohi's” perfect knowledge of Maori character, his diplomacy and tactfulness frequently smoothed over inter-tribal quarrels, and more than once prevented serious trouble between Maori and pakeha.
Whenever there was talk of fighting in the North Auckland country—the old martial spirit burned up now and again long after the wars—Mr. Gittos, then the head of Wesleyan Maori Missions in North Auckland and Waikato, hurried to the spot to do what he could in the cause of peace. His mana was great to the last. In 1898, when Hone Toia, and his hapu, the Mahurehure, of the Waima, Hokianga, rose in an armed protest against the pakeha laws that affected them, I saw “Te Kitohi” at his peace-making work. He went to meet a war-party, stripped and armed, that made a threatening demonstration against Rawene township, and he addressed them as foolish children; and told them that they could not hope to influence the Government in that way; to resort to arms was to incite Government action that would ruin their tribe. They reverenced him as the friend of their parents and grand parents; his face and voice called up sacred memories. Though Hone Toia, the chief and soothsayer, persisted in his rebellion, until Hone Heke, the Northern Maori member of Parliament, at last induced him to surrender to the Government force at Waima, it was Mr. Gittos's influence and counsel that helped greatly to prevent a tragic little war. On many occasions before and after that Hokianga incident I talked with “Te Kitohi” about the Maori, past, present and future, and came to understand why the people everywhere, even the Waikato—always grieving over the arbitrary confiscation of their best lands—held him in such affectionate regard and respect. He approached them as a friend who could feel as a Maori and enter into their thoughts and sorrows and joys. He was not forever scolding and preaching at them; he could discuss their tribal and family problems, and advise them
(From a sketch in 1827.)
For five years, up to the beginning of the Waikato War, a station at Te Kopua, on the Waipa River, near the foot of that conspicuous volcanic mountain, Kakepuku, was carried on by the Rev. Alexander Reid. A great many of the Ngati-Maniapoto and allied tribes received their instruction from him, and from the Rev. John Morgan, of the C.M.S. at Te Awamutu. Young John Gorst, Sir George Grey's protege, magistrate and manager of the school institution at Te Awamutu, became very friendly with Mr. Reid, and frequently rode across to Te Kopua to ask his advice on problems which confronted him in his Government outpostwork. But Reid's principal service to his church was his work in charge of the training school and farm institution at the Three Kings (Te Tatua), those little volcanic mountains near Auckland. There both Maori and pakeha pupils passed through his hands. In the days before and after the Waikato War, boys from a score of tribes received their secular, religious and industrial training at Te Tatua.
This sketch of the Wesleyan Church's brave enterprise beginning in the period of cannibal warfare in New Zealand, necessarily can cover but the leading figures. There are several books which between them narrate fully the story of the mission; the principal of these are the Rev. Dr. Morley's and the Rev. W. J. Williams's histories, the books by the Revs. James Buller and Rugby Pratt.
Country Cartage Service, Southern Railway of England.
Business continues to improve on the Home railways, and taking advantage of Government financial aid, the four group systems have embarked upon one of the biggest betterment plans ever attempted.
The works scheme now in hand is estimated to take about five years to complete. It embraces new railway construction; track widenings; station improvements; electrification; signalling betterments; and the building of new locomotives and passenger carriages. On our biggest railway—the London, Midland & Scottish—electrification is being put in hand of important lines in the Liverpool area; the Euston terminus in London is being entirely reconstructed; colourlight signalling is being introduced at many points on the London-Crewe-Carlisle main-line; and 369 new steam locomotives and 270 new passenger carriages are being built.
Electrification of the busy tracks between Manchester and Sheffield is being tackled by the London & North Eastern authorities; running loops are being constructed at ten places between Grantham and Doncaster, on the East Coast route to Scotland; and station improvements are being undertaken at York and Doncaster. For the important fish trade of Hull and Grimsby, there is being provided additional accommodation; while 43 new steam locomotives and many new passenger carriages are to be built. On th Great Western line, a new alternative route is being constructed betwen Exeter and Newton Abbot, in Devonshire, to handle the rapidly-increasing tourist business to and from the West Country. North Road passenger station, at Plymouth, and other important stations are to be enlarged; while numerous marshalling yards and goods stations are to be remodelled. By the Southern Railway large sums of money are to be spent on extending the already very elaborate electrified area lying to the south and south-west of London, one of the principal routes involved being that between London and Portsmouth.
Suitably planned and conveniently placed marshalling-yards are essential for the expeditions handling of goods traffic. With the object of facilitating the movement of traffic in and out of Manchester, the L. & N.E. Railway has recently brought into use a new and commodious marshalling yard at Mottram, about 11 miles outside the Lancashire cotton city. The yard is 1 1/2 miles in length, and there are eight reception tracks each capable of accommodating a train of 80 wagons, these tracks being on a falling gradient towards the sorting sidings. The sorting lay-out consists of two groups of ten tracks, each holding 65 wagons. Classification of wagons for various destinations is effected by gravity, and the points leading into the different roads are electrically controlled and pneumatically operated. Two tracks are available for wagons waiting repairs.
In the control tower is a control panel consisting of a row of push-buttons, and an illuminated diagram to indicate the movement of each wagon, or group of wagons. The points are operated by air pressure, controlled from the tower by means of electrically-operated valves, and each pair of points is held during the passing of wagons by means of an electric track circuit, which also operates the apparatus for automatic point operation.
Although on certain stretches of the Home railways steel sleepers have been laid for experimental purposes, generally speaking the timber sleeper is standard throughout Britain. For the treating and preparation of timber sleepers prior to their introduction on the track, each of the group lines maintains special depots. The Great Western Company has just opened a new sleeper creosoting works at Hayes, near London, designed to deal with 500,000 sleepers annually.
The works employ electricallydriven conveyors to bring the various materials together, to pass the sleepers along through the adzing and boring
European railroads continue to engage very extensively in road transport, and throughout the continent large numbers of additional road motors have recently been acquired by the railways, with the idea of further co-ordinating rail and road services.
At Home, about 8,000 motor trucks are operated by the group railways for goods traffic movement. In addition, there are about 12,000 horse-drawn vans employed in city collection and delivery services. The motor wagons used on country cartage services open up areas removed from the railway, and enable combined road and rail services to be given such traffic as grain, potatoes, fertilisers, and feedingstuffs. The wagons run in many cases to a definite daily schedule. In many parts of the country, the railways have concentrated at one particular station “smalls” traffic, which was previously dealt with at a number of neighbouring stations, the traffic now being conveyed between concentration point and destination by road motor. Apart from their own road services, the railways hold all the ordinary shares and the majority of the preference shares of the two old-established firms of road carriers—Carter, Paterson & Co., and Pickfords Ltd. Smaller interests also are held in other road haulage companies. On the passenger side, the Home railways have not entered directly to any
Railwaymen everywhere welcome the return to somewhat better conditions, not only because of the improved financial situation, but also because of the increased opportunities which must now come for individual advancement. Through circumstances over which they themselves had no control, the Home railways have had to slow down staff promotion during recent years. Now, however, things are looking up, and opportunities for individual advancement are again presenting themselves.
Speaking on the question of careers in the railway service, Mr. R. Gardner, Superintendent for Scotland of the L. & N.E. Company, recently told a railway audience that opportunities existed for all who strove whole-heartedly, and were not satisfied merely to wait for something to turn up. Railwaymen would be well advised, he said, to educate themselves so as to be ready to step into any likely opening. Education was the key to success and the railway staff magazines and the technical press enabled the keen employee to keep abreast of activities and developments in the whole field of transport. Destiny, it was pointed out, may sometimes decide our fate, but the far-seeing man took a lot of discouraging.
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People from overseas often display more interest in the history and romance of this country than most New Zealanders themselves exhibit. I have frequently found that the residents of a district know very little of the great and stirring story that belongs to the very ground from which they draw their living. Intelligent tourists, once they gain an inkling of such adventurous associations, are eager to learn more; the historic background gives added interest to the landscape. Sometimes we have visitors from other lands whose forebears were pioneers in New Zealand or fought here in the Maori wars.
The Von Tempsky family who lately spent several weeks in touring the Dominion, combining scenery-viewing with a kind of ancestor-worship, are people with a special concern in the country's history, for they were following up the war-paths of the most celebrated member of the clan, the Major who fell in a bush battle in Taranaki sixty-eight years ago. There was an added interest in that tour through the old fighting grounds in the search for Major Von Tempsky's sword.
That question, what became of the sword which the soldier of fortune carried without its scabbard on his many fighting expeditions, has excited a curious interest. It has been discussed in these pages more than once, and it has been made clear (by the inquiries which I made many years ago from the Maoris concerned) that the pakeha is never likely to see that famous weapon again. It is buried deep in a Maori grave at Parihaka, and Taranaki soil will hold it as long as any Maori remains there. That pakeha-Maori celebrity, Kimble Bent, saw and handled it after the battle; he identified it for the Maoris, and he described how it became regarded as a sacred relic. His narrative of the thrilling scene in the Hauhau camp on the day after the battle is given in “The Adventures of Kimble Bent.”
The historic name of Von Tempsky is not likely to disappear. Besides descendants in New Zealand, there is quite a small tribe in the islands of Hawaii, the owners of a great cattle estate on Maui, founded by a son of the Major. As the recent family visit to New Zealand indicates, they will always regard our Taranaki scene as a kind of family shrine.
The tales of the hard-faring founders of the Highland Scottish-Nova Scotian founders of Waipu and adjacent parts in the North Auckland country are rich in lessons of courage and endurance that are particularly worth recalling in these days of ease and many inventions.
Much has been told, yet there is always something new in the simple annals of these hardy Gaelic nation-makers, as recounted now and again by their descendants. I have just been dipping into Mr. N. R. Mackenzie's book, “The Gael Fares Forth,” the story of Waipu and sister settlements. There is intimate detail here of the life of three generations ago when Waipu was literally hewn out of the forest.
Here is one vignette of the women's self-reliant ways: “A reaping 'frolic’ [a kind of working bee in which all the neighbours joined] was in progress on John McGregor's farm, Waipu Centre. Mrs. McGregor found that she did not have enough bread for such a large party, and she had no flour in the house. (Owing to the difficulty of crossing the Waipu river bar, outside supplies were frequently cut off.) She went to the wheat field, gathered some sheaves, thrashed them, winnowed the grain, and ground it in a hand-mill. When the working party came in to tea, she had an ample supply of scones —made from the grain that had been growing in the field at lunch time.”
“Stalwart men,” the historian recounts elsewhere in his chronicle, “could make a hearty meal with a menu composed of nothing but mashed potatoes and milk—not because nothing else was procurable, but because they preferred plain diet. They despised anyone who was too particular about his food.”
I am reminded here of the letter that an early-days Taranaki resident wrote to England. He described meeting an English labourer who had found a land quite to his liking in fertile Taranaki. He was contented with his frugal fare, milk and Maori vegetable marrow called kamokamo, popularly pronounced “kumikumi.” “Gi'e I kumikum and milk,” he told his visitor, “and I wouldn't call the Queen me uncle—God bless her!”
Probably our “three-meal meat-fed men,” as Kipling described the Colonial, would consider themselves at starvation's door if they were restricted to such a diet for more than a day. Yet we would all be better for this simple fare. I recommend it to some of our tired city men who complain of indigestion after a hearty mid-day meal.
Some of the most stalwart of races are reared on the simplest fare. The Samoans, fine tall fellows and strong and handsome women, live chiefly on fruit and one or two vegetables. The Nova Scotian settlers were and are sixfooters and over. One of that ilk, discussing fit fare for building men, told me that he was reared on potatoes, porridge and buttermilk—the proper food for “pretty men”—good Highland phrase.
Perhaps by comparison with such devices as television and radio-telephony a shadow would seem almost a clumsy thing when it comes to linking places as far apart as the King Country and Lumen Street, Pimlico, which is close by Victoria Station, London.
But the shadow in this instance did more than traverse 12,000 miles of space—it bridged a gap of fifteen years as well.
It was, as befitted one of such capabilities, a heavy shadow; it blurred outlines and distorted contours to such an extent that, being cast by the brim of a man's hat as he stood beneath the lamp on a station platform, it made the wearer of that hat appear rather horribly minus his lower jaw. And I, gazing sleepily from the interior of a railway carriage which had come to rest opposite, was startled into wakefulness by the disquieting feeling that I had seen it all somewhere before, the shadow, the man, and the hat, under circumstances which recalled themselves as vaguely macabre and grotesque.
Dirty brick walls—a low, arched ceiling from which the plaster was flaking and dim electric bulbs that quivered to the thud of distant explosions. A crowd of people, two or three hundred of them, maybe, closepacked and slightly hysterical. Men and women who sang and made tensely facetious jokes in a fetid cellar while the ominous sounds of bombardment drew nearer.
That was the place, the time was October, 1917—a month it will be remembered, in which the Germans did their best by repeated air raids to destroy the morale of the civilian population of London. This particular fragment of the civil population, however, was not, at the moment, in a mood to have their morale destroyed. The entrance to their burrow was below street level, and they had over their heads a concrete ramp, reputedly bomb-proof, which gave access to a taxi garage upstairs. So they cried, “Let 'em all come,” and “Are we down'earted?” and when an extraheavy concussion powdered their shoulders with plaster from the ceiling they sang spasmodically, “Oh, we 'av'nt seen the Kaiser for a 'ell of a time!”
I was fortunate that, being in such a place at such a time, I had my back against the wall and a curb which raised me six inches above the floor to stand on, for the most trying thing about improvised funk-holes during an air raid was the interminable waiting. Long hours of standing, hemmed in with the bodies of one's fellow beings which neither gave support nor allowed one to assume a more comfortable attitude; there was nothing one could do or say or think to relieve the nerve racking tedium.
The crowd in that cellar in Pimlico were, for the most part, of the clothcapped, fur-coated munition worker type, with a sprinkling of khaki and one or two “collar and tie” men, clerks presumably, who, working late after the alarm had been given had become stranded on their way home, by the stoppage of trains.
One of the latter stood not many feet away from me, a tall, delicatelooking chap who was trying without success to read an evening paper. Close beside him—his face shadowed by the wide brim of his hat was a New Zealand Digger.
That shadow, what with the bad lighting and overburdened atmosphere, played queer tricks with the imagination; it seemed at times, quite inconsequently, to deprive the Digger of his lower jaw, and it was from an idle contemplation of this phenomenon that I was roused by a mild disturbance the centre of which appeared to be the tall clerk. His face, in contrast with the pallid features around him was flushed with anger, and while it was impossible for him to move hand or foot more than a few inches he attempted to twist the arm of a little rat-faced man who stood next to him. Under most conditions this would have proved an agreeable diversion to the bored and weary crowd, but here they were too tightly wedged to be able to enjoy a rumpus. Those near at hand had corns to be trodden on and ribs to be elbowed, and the people at a distance, who could not see what was going on, echoed their disapproval accordingly. There were cries of “Cut it out!” and “Put a sock in it!” to which the clerk replied, with a sense of concentrated fury, “He's got my wallet—the little swine's got my wallet!”
From my vantage point I could see fairly well what was happening. The little rat-faced man kept darting his head from side to side, peering at the angry faces about him while he maintained a running fire of protest.
“No, I never—S'help me—leggo me arm guv'nor, that's me bad arm—where I copped a packet at Wipers.”
Here a stout man with a red nose raised a hand which he had miraculously freed from the press. “Leggo his arm Mister,” he bawled, “didn't yer 'ear 'im say 'e was a swaddie?”
“Shyme,’ cried a woman, “to strike a wounded sojer—why ain't yer in khaki yerself?”
“The little swine's got my wallet—!”
The stout man's hand descended and crushed the clerk's hat over his eyes.
“That's the stuff to give 'im!” chanted the woman.
Above the clamour there rose a sound supremely menacing—the “zoom-zoom” of twin engined Gotha bombing planes. The crowd turned white faces in silence towards the
I raised my eyes with the rest, and them because I dreaded the rising tide of panic which that ceiling-ward gaze induced, quickly returned to the erst while actors in the little drama on the floor. The clerk was wrenching at the brim of his ludicrously battered bowler, and the little rat-faced man had half turned towards a flashily dressed woman at his back. I saw him nudge her sharply and something passed between them. Rather foolishly I shouted, “There's your wallet—he gave it to that woman!” and I sensed rather than saw the woman surreptitiously slip the wallet into the side pocket of the Digger's tunic.
Then, because I felt that trivial action could somehow detract from the disaster threatened by the droning engines above, I tried to leave my perch and struggle towards the ratfaced man. Heavy hands restrained me—“Nah then, son,” a man said not unkindly, “nothing's goin’ ter—”
His voice was engulfed by a tearing crash in the street. I had a momentary vision of the crowd swept backwards, like pebbles on a shelving beach, before the lights went out and a second stunning explosion overhead shattered the concrete ramp and rained it down in shards and half ton lumps upon the heads of the crowd. Followed a period of utter pandemonium. Men struggled and fought in pitch darkness, strangling as waves of dust and fumes enveloped them. Blocks of masonry thudded down sickeningly and over all was the bestial inarticulate screaming of panic stricken humanity. It seemed incredible, when torches and hurricane lamps at last came weaving through the wreckage in the hands of brass helmeted firemen, that any one should emerge breathing and comparatively unhurt. But we did, some of us, and were a little shocked to find the harvest moon still shining down in tranquil beauty.
The street had been burst open and rather indecently displayed its bowels of gas and water pipes. Around the edges of the crater, ambulance workers were moving quietly about the silent forms that were being brought up from below.
Presently the stricken area was roped off, the curious and anyone undamaged or not actively engaged in rescue work were removed, and there remained nothing to do but make an effort to get home, which I did, without further sight of either the ratfaced man, the tall clerk, or the Digger.
That then was the story which came flashing back through the years at the sight of the shadow-scarred man on the station platform, and in my half-wakened state I did not reason the absurdity of supposing him to be the Digger of the Pimlico cellar. To me, at that moment, the spectre of fifteen years ago was a reality and since the spectre himself gave no sign that he intended to travel by the train, I leaped to my feet as the guard's whistle blew, and gathering my hand luggage jumped to the platform as the train began to move.
Of course, the instant my feet touched the boards I realised I was behaving like a lunatic. There was nothing in this place but a few scattered lights from the township, and bush, black and mysterious against the stars. Ruefully I watched the cars slipping past and sensed derision in the ruby wink of the tail light, as I reflected that there were no more trains for nearly three hours.
I turned towards the man beneath the lamp, wondering how on earth I could accost a perfect stranger with my fantastic idea, and while I swear I fully intended to say, “Look here, were you in a cellar that was bombed in 1917?”, it seemed at the last moment too ridiculous, and I muttered something about accommodation.
“House just across the road,” he answered, “it's a two-storeyed place with a fanlight over the door.”
“Are you going there?”
“Who, me?” he laughed, “No, I've got some fellows trucking sheep down the yard, and I came over to see if the refreshment room people could let us have some tea. Just having a look at the train while I was waiting—might have seen someone I knew.”
“And you didn't?”
He looked at me curiously, “No,” he answered.
We walked down the platform together and I took heart from his kindliness and ease of manner.
“It's rather strange isn't it,” I said, “that you should have thought there might be someone on the train you knew—I got off it because I thought I knew you.”
And then I blurted out my belated explanations. We had by now reached the station buildings and he halted abruptly beneath the lights.
“Taihoa,” he pushed back his hat and stared for several minutes, “I don't know whether you are mad or I am,” he announced at length, “you honestly know nothing about me except that you think you saw me in that cellar in London?”
I assured him that I didn't.
“It beats anything I ever heard of,” he said, and then feeling in an inside pocket of his tweed jacket produced a worn leather wallet.
“This,” he said, “is one of the things that young chap lost that night.”
“And what else—?”
“Come into the tearoom, and I'll tell you my part of the story.”
“I spent six weeks in hospital after that affair,” he told me when we were settled with cigarettes and cups of tea, “broken leg and a crack on the head from a piece of that bombproof concrete, and it was not until after the first week that I was able to sit up and take notice, and incidentally check over my personal effects. You can imagine the surprise I got when I found this wallet amongst them. At first I imagined it must have been put with my things by mistake—but they assured me it was found in my tunic, so there was nothing to do but go through it and try and solve the mystery—which, by the way, has only just been done by you coming out of nowhere to-night.
“There was a season ticket in the wallet made out to John Sothern, of Streatham Hill, a ten-bob Bradbury, and the photograph of an extremely pretty girl.”
He paused a moment, then—
“Ever had a broken leg?” he asked curtly, almost defiantly I thought. “No? Well, it's a rotten tedious business, but I improved the shining hour by writing to the address on the season ticket and studying the photograph of the girl. And the more I studied it, the more I hoped that John Sothern wouldn't answer. I need not have worried because some days later I received a bulky envelope containing my letter to Sothern and a note from his landlady saying that he had unfortunately been killed on the night of the raid, and would I please send any personal effects I might have of his to an address in Buckinghamshire.
The chap who had given his opponent twenty out of a hundred and run out without laying down his cue, put on his coat, lit his pipe, and started to talk about smoking. “There's some blokes,” he said, “and I know two or three, will smoke for ten minutes. Then they've had enough. Me, I like a smoke to last for two or three solid hours—and then some.” They all laughed. “What's your tobacco, old sport?” asked somebody. “Why toasted Navy Cut No. 3,” he replied. “I say I can smoke it for two or three hours at a stretch—yes, and enjoy every whiff.” Well, lots of men can do that (any number), if they smoke toasted. It contains no nicotine, you see, worth talking about. It's the real Mackay! —doesn't affect the throat, or the heart, either, for that matter. For a pure, mellow, sweet and fragrant smoke there's nothing like the genuine toasted brands—there are just five of them—Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold.*
“I am afraid there is no excuse for my next action, or rather lack of action. I like to think it was the irritation of my setting leg that made me peevish and self-centred, but it wasn't really that. The truth of the matter was, I had become so fond of that photograph that I couldn't bear to part with it. I decided that as poor Sothern was dead it would make little difference if I postponed sending the wallet to his people until I was out of hospital.
“But when I did finally get out and found myself with a week's leave before returning to camp, I felt rather mean about the whole affair, and decided to go down to Buckinghamshire and explain matters.
“Do you know a place called Lutbridge at all,” he asked.
I said that I had played cricket at Aylesbury, which is not far away. He nodded.
“I guess it must look pretty good in the summer, that country;” he said, “round Lutbridge, there's a lot of old trees, elms and beeches, and all the houses have great lawns and flower gardens.
“In November when I went down, there was quite a fog in the City, but at Lutbridge it was no more than a light mist—the trees seemed to float in it, and all through the countryside was the smell of burning leaves.
“The house was about two miles from the station, an old grey stone place with iron gates—imposing enough from a distance, but not so good close up. There were weeds in the drive and the flower beds were full of the dead stalks of asters and rubbish that ought to have been pulled out weeks ago.
“I was just about to ring the bell when the door swung open and I
Photo courtesy W.McD. Baker, M.P.S., Kaikoura.
A view of Kaikoura township, South Island, New Zealand.
He paused, and draining his tea cup, slapped his pockets for a smoke. I offered my cigarette case.
“Dash it,” he said, glancing at the clock, “I'll have to be getting back to those fellows with the sheep.”
“They seem to be doing alright,” I said, listening to the barking down at the loading pens. “Anyway, I can give you a hand if you're late.”
He grinned, “Alright—well, as I was saying, the girl opened the door. She was dressed ready to go out—all in black—it made her look even prettier than the photograph, and I was hard put to it to give an explanation of what I was doing there.
“However, after a second or two, in which I dare say I just stood staring like a big gawk—I managed to say something, and produced the wallet. She did not take it from me, but asked me to come in, and I waited awhile in a big room with a very small fire while she went away upstairs.
“I took out the wallet to have a farewell look at that picture and all my good intentions vanished. After all, I thought, they don't need the photograph, and I do. The girl lived there, or seemed to, and I was going back to London, to camp, and France, and would never see her again. I slipped the photograph out of the wallet just as the girl returned with an elderly couple whom she introduced as Sothern's mother and father.
“I suppose amongst themselves people in the Old Country are as standoffish as they are reputed to be—not mixing with people who haven't the right accent or wear the wrong clothes and all that, but I don't think any Colonial ever had any cause to complain, especially during the War.
“At any rate we all sat down and had tea round the very meagre fire, and they asked me all about New Zealand and how I liked England, and the Army and so on. Not a word about John Sothern until after we'd finished and then the old lady said, 'I believe you had something to give me,’ whereupon I handed over the wallet, not without a twinge of conscience, on account of that photograph. She just passed her hand over it gently and then laid it on the table at her side.
“After a moment's silence she asked if I would care to tell them about the raid, and if I had known John very long, and so on. It must have hurt them deeply when I told them the facts—it all seemed so incongruous —and then old Mr. Sothern, by way of changing the subject, asked me how I had managed at Lutbridge station.
“The taxis have no petrol, and the cabmen don't care to come so far,’ he said.
“I told them I had walked, and then because I felt foolish and ill at ease, I added rather churlishly that I must be walking back again if I wished to get to Town that night.
“At this the old lady cried out, 'But you aren't going to leave us tonight?,’ and the old man cleared his throat and said it was unthinkable. And the long and short of it was that I stayed not only that night, but the whole of my leave as well. They couldn't do enough for me, simply because they felt, in spite of my dubious position, that I was the last contact they had with their boy, although they never mentioned it.
“I was a little disappointed at first when I found that the girl didn't live with the Sotherns. Her home was at the vicarage nearby, but she used to visit the old people every day. She had been engaged to John, and they looked upon her as a daughter, and I got into the habit of walking home with her. More than that, having nothing to do I set to work to put the Sothern's place in some kind of shape; their man had gone to the war and there was only a decrepit old bloke who used to come up from the village once a week, and when the girl saw me hoeing into the weeds and rubbish she put on a pair of gardening gloves and came to help.
“You know how it would be,” he said with a slight laugh, “the War and the rest of the world seemed a long way away during that week; we used to live in a world of our own with the old trees and the sleepy village and the still November days as a very satisfactory background. It came as something of a shock when putting the tools away in the potting shed one evening I realised that I was doing it for the last time.
“We didn't have very much to say to each other, the girl and I, as we walked home together, but when we got to the vicarage I told her about the photograph and asked her if I could keep it.
“I don't quite know what I expected her to do, probably go off the deep end a bit and give me a slating—or freeze up and tell me I was a cad. I don't think I quite expected tears—or the way she ran through the gate and left me standing in the road without so much as a 'good-bye.’
“Next day in the train I wrote her