IN THE KAIPARA.
The next morning after our arrival at Helensville, we go down to the
wharf, close behind the hotel, and embark on board the steamer _Lily_.
This vessel is the only regular means of communication, at present, with
the young settlements lying round the Kaipara. She is a much larger
craft than the _Gemini_, but she is of the same ancient and ruinous
character. One would have thought that, on these new waters, such craft
as there were must necessarily be new also.[4] Such does not appear to
be the case, however, for the steam service on the Waitemata and the
Kaipara is conducted by very second-hand old rattle-traps. Where they
were worn out I know not. Bad as they are, they are considered a local
improvement, for, until quite recently, settlers had to depend on small
sailing-boats, that plied very irregularly.
The Kaipara is a name applied rather indiscriminately to a river, a
harbour, and to a tract of country. The Kaipara river is that on which
Helensville stands. It waters an extensive valley, and, flowing
north-westerly, falls into the Kaipara Harbour, some miles below
Helensville. It is tidal to a short distance above the settlement.
The harbour is a vast inlet of the sea, almost land-locked, since its
entrance, the Heads, is only about three or four miles wide. Opening
from the harbour are sundry great estuaries, resembling the sea-lochs of
Western Scotland. They are the Kaipara, the Hoteo, the Oruawharo, the
Otamatea, the Wairau, the Arapaoa, and the Wairoa. Several of these have
branches. Thus the Pahi, to which we are going, branches out of the
Arapaoa. They are fed by creeks--that is to say, by freshwater rivers,
as one would call them at home. The tidal estuaries are here called
rivers; and the freshwater streams, of whatever size, creeks.
All these waters have the generic name of the Kaipara. The united
water-frontage is said to be over a thousand miles; and nearly two
million acres of land lying round are comprised within the so-called
Kaipara district. Ships of heavy tonnage can get up to Tokatoka on the
Wairoa, to Te Pahi and Te Otamatea, and within a short distance of
Helensville, these places being, respectively, from twenty-five to
thirty-five miles from the Heads. Smaller vessels can, of course, go
anywhere. The Wairoa creek is navigable for schooners and cutters for
more than eighty miles, as well as its tributaries, the Kaihu, Kopura,
Tauraroa, and Maungakahia.
We have come into a district admirably adapted for pioneer settlement.
For nature has supplied water-ways in every direction, and thus the
first great difficulty in opening up a new country, the want of roads,
is obviated. Here, indeed, as we shall find, no one walks to his
township, or rides to see a neighbour, he jumps into his boat and rows
or sails wherever he wants to go.
As the _Lily_ steams down the Kaipara, we get a better idea of the bush
than our previous day's coach-ride had given us. There is no more of the
brown and shaggy gum-land, but, instead of it, such glorious woods and
jungles and thickets of strange beautiful vegetation. Mile after mile it
is the same, the dense evergreen forest stretching away over the ranges
as far as one can see. Here it is the light bush, woods of young trees
that have grown over what were once the sites of Maori cultivation;
there it is the heavy bush, the real primeval forest.
One great feature of the Kaipara tidal estuary is the quantity of
mangroves. Immense tracts are covered with water at high tide, and are
left bare at low tide. These mud-banks are covered with mangroves in
many places, forming great stretches of uniform thicket. The mangrove is
here a tree growing to a height of twenty or thirty feet, branching
thickly, and bearing a dark, luxuriant foliage. At high water, the
mangrove swamps present the appearance of thickets growing out of the
water. When the tide recedes, their gnarled and twisted stems are laid
bare, often covered with clinging oysters. Below, in the mud, are
boundless stores of pipi (cockles), and other shell-fish and eels.
The channel of the river is broad and deep, but often, to save some
bend, the _Lily_ ploughs her way along natural lanes and arcades among
the mangroves. It is a novel experience to us to glide along the still
reaches among these fluviatile greenwoods. We are embosomed in a
submerged forest, whose trees are uniform in height and kind. All round
us, like a hedge, is the glossy green foliage, sometimes brushing our
boat on either side. And we scare up multitudes of water fowl, unused to
such invasion of their solitudes. Wild duck, teal, grey snipe, shags,
and many kinds that no one on board knows the names of, start from under
our very bows. Not gay plumaged birds, though, for the most part; only
now and then a pair of kingfishers, flashing green and orange as they
fly, or the purple beauty of a pukeko, scuttling away into the depths of
the swamp.
By-and-by we emerge into the expanse of the harbour. Once out in it we
could almost imagine ourselves at sea, for, from the low deck of the
_Lily_, we only see the higher grounds and hill-tops round, looking like
islands in the distance, as we cannot descry the continuity of shore.
And now we have leisure to make closer acquaintance with the boat that
carries us.
The _Lily_ is a queer craft. Though old and rickety, she gets through a
considerable amount of work, and is sufficiently seaworthy to fight a
squall, when that overtakes her in the harbour. Not that a gale is by
any means a light affair, in this wide stretch of water. When one is
blowing, as it sometimes does for two or three days at a time, the
_Lily_ lies snugly at anchor in some sheltered cove, and settlers have
to wait as patiently as may be for their mails or goods. She knows her
deficiencies, and will not face stormy weather, if she can help it.
Three times a week she visits certain of the Kaipara settlements,
returning from them on alternate days. The arrangement is such that each
township gets--or is supposed to get--one weekly visit from her. She is
a boat with a character, or without it, which means about the same thing
in the present instance. She has also a skipper, who is something of a
character in his way.
The Pirate, or Pirate Tom, as he is indifferently called, is a gentleman
of some importance locally, for he is the channel of communication
between the Kaipara settlers and the outside world. He is a man of
ferocious aspect, black-bearded to the eyes, taciturn, and rough in
demeanour. In his hot youth, he is credited with having borne his part
in certain questionable proceedings in the South Sea, and hence his
appellation.
Freights run very high on the _Lily_, and it is by no means certain how
far the Pirate may be concerned in keeping them so. He is apt to be
captious, too, as regards the transit of cargo, and will refuse to do
business if it is his whim, or if any particular individual happen to
offend him; for he is lord paramount over the river traffic, and well
does he know how to turn that to his own advantage. Apparently, he
considers that he does you a personal favour if he carries you or your
goods, and you have to keep on his good books, lest he should not
condescend to do either.
Besides the playful way in which he manipulates the commerce of the
district, Pirate Tom has another mode in which he adds to his gains. At
some of the river townships and stations there is no hotel, or store,
where liquor can be obtained. The only immediate facility that settlers
and bushmen at such places have for procuring it, is such as is afforded
by the boat. The Pirate is always ready to dispense the vile compounds
he call spirits to all comers--sixpence per drink being his price, as it
is the established tariff of the colony. It is held to be manners to ask
him to partake himself, when any one desires to put away a nobbler; and
the Pirate, being an ardent disciple of Bacchus, was never yet known to
refuse any such invitation. He also sells, at seven shillings a bottle,
the most atrocious rum, brandy, or "square" gin.
To assist him in the management of his craft, the Pirate has under him
an engineer and a Dutch lad. The former of these has, of course, his
special duties; the latter is cook and steward, sailor, landing-agent,
and general utility man. He goes by the name of "The Crew." To beguile
the tedium and monotony of constant voyaging, "The Crew" is wont to
exercise his mind by conversation with such passengers as there may be.
He is of a very inquiring disposition, and asks leading questions of a
very personal nature. Seeing that I am a new-chum, he begins to ask me
my name, age, birthplace, who my parents were, where I formerly lived,
what I did, what my cousins and aunts are, their names, and all about
them, and so on, a series of interminable catechetical questions on
subjects that, one would think, could not possibly have any interest for
him. This would be gross impertinence, were it not that "The Crew" is
perfectly unconscious of giving any offence. He only asks for
information, like Rosa Dartle; and this questioning is his idea of
polite sociability.
Among the points of interest about the _Lily_, the most noticeable are
the engines with which she is supplied. These are fearfully and
wonderfully contrived. How such rusty, battered, old-fashioned,
rough-and-ready machinery can be got to work at all, it is hard to say;
but it does. Of course the engines are continually breaking down, or
bursting, or doing something or other offensive. But whatever may
happen, the Pirate and his two aids consider themselves equal to the
emergency, and make shift to tinker up the mishap somehow. Such unlooked
for examples of misapplied force are constantly occurring, the
consequence being that repairs are as often called for. Thus it is that
the engines present a very extraordinary and uncommon appearance. Report
has, perhaps, added somewhat to the truth, but numerous legends are
current in the Kaipara about the _Lily_, her engines, and her captain.
These amateur artificers are not in the least particular as to the
materials they use for effecting their repairs, nor are they given to
considering the relative differences of the metals. On one occasion,
rust had eaten a hole through the boiler, and leakage ensued. Promptly
they set to work, and soldered the lid of a biscuit-tin over the weak
place. Then the boat went on as usual.
Once again, so it is said, something or other gave way--some screw, or
cock, or lever failed to act. The boat became unmanageable, could not be
stopped, or slowed, or done anything with. In short, she ran away. But
Pirate Tom was not to be imposed on by any such feeble tricks. He
immediately steered the _Lily_ slap into the nearest bank and tied her
up to a tree. Then the three went on shore, with a bottle of rum and a
pack of cards, and sat down at a respectful distance to await the
progress of events, and to enjoy a game of cut-throat euchre.
The engineer bet Pirate Tom a note--colonial for a sovereign--that the
engines would blow up, and the latter laid on the chance that the rebel
craft would spend herself kicking at the bank. After churning up the
mud, plunging at the bank, and straining at her tether for an hour or
so, the _Lily_ quieted down, all her steam having worked off. So the
Pirate won and pocketed the engineer's note; and then the party
adjourned on board again, to resume their ordinary avocation of
tinkering up.
In the log of the _Lily_ there is supposed to be an entry, which would
seem to indicate that the Pirate is not invariably so lucky as on the
last-mentioned occasion. It is his rule never to spend any more money on
repairs than what cannot possibly be avoided. There was an unsafe
steam-pipe, which might easily have been replaced at a trifling cost;
but, of course, the Pirate would spend nothing on it, and relied on his
own usual resources. One day the steam-pipe burst, when a number of
passengers were on board, and a woman got her legs scalded. After that,
the Pirate found it absolutely necessary to get a new steam pipe; and
was, besides, heavily mulcted in an action brought against him by the
injured lady. The entry referred to probably runs like this:--
L s. d.
To a new steam-pipe 0 10 0
To fine and costs 3 12 6
To damages awarded to Mrs. ---- by the Court 5 0 0
To doctor's fees for attendance on Mrs. ---- 4 0 0
On the whole, Pirate Tom did not take much by his economy on that
occasion. But the lesson was not of any lasting use. He will go on in
his old way, and will take his chance of accidents.
The defects of the _Lily_ do not cause us any annoyance, on this
occasion of our first voyage aboard of her. She is on her best
behaviour, for a wonder, and neither breaks down, nor bursts up, nor
runs away. We steam over a great stretch of the harbour, noticing here
that strange effect, when the distant land seems to be lifted above the
horizon, and to have a belt of sky between it and the water.
Then we pass into river after river, proceeding up each some miles, to
the townships, or stations, where we have to call, then descending into
the harbour again, only to go on to the entrance of yet another river.
The scenery is very varied, and there is much in it to attract our
regard. Sometimes we pass below lofty bluffs, by wild rocky shores and
islets, sometimes along great stretches of mud-bank or mangrove swamp.
The land on all sides is a primitive wilderness for the most part. Range
after range sweeps and rolls away, while ravines and gullies and basins
open upon the rivers, with tumbling creeks or graceful cascades pouring
through them. One might suppose that some giant of yore had ploughed out
this country and left it. A newly-ploughed field must seem, to an ant's
vision, something like the contour of this to ours.
The land is richly wooded. Here and there we see the heavy bush, mammoth
trees soaring up, overhung with creepers and ferns; but the heavy bush
is chiefly at some distance from the waterside. What we see most of here
is the light bush; dense thickets of shrubs, and smaller trees,
resembling our remembrance of the denes and copses of England, or Epping
and the New Forest.
To us new-chums it seems absurd to call this bush "light," but we can
see that it is so by comparison with the primeval forest, where the
tree-trunks run from ten to forty feet in girth. Once upon a time, when
they numbered millions, the Maoris inhabited these shores pretty
thickly. They preferred to be near the water, as settlers do now, for
the same reason of convenience in communication, and also because fish
was a chief article of their diet. All the land near the rivers has been
at some time under their cultivation, and the light bush has grown up
upon it since.
So late as fifty years ago, the Ngatewhatua tribe, who were lords of the
Kaipara, were very numerous; but were then nearly exterminated in a war
with the Ngapuhi of the north. Still, numerous as they may have been
then, they could not have held the immense tracts here under
cultivation. That must date from a more remote period. But the places
where their villages stood, in the early part of this century, are now
buried under such a wealth of scrub and shrubbery, as to show very
clearly how rich is the soil and how fruitful the climate.
We see at last what we have long been looking for, hitherto to no
purpose, namely, Maoris and their habitations. Brown, gypsey-like people
they appear in the distance, wearing ordinary clothes like Europeans,
only dirty and ragged usually. Here and there we pass a cluster of their
whares, low down near the beach--brown huts of thatch-like appearance,
for they are made of raupo grass. Some of them are very neat, with
carved and painted doors and fronts. Near them is usually some fenced-in
cultivation, and possibly a rough-grassed clearing, on which may be a
few cattle or horses. There are always pigs and dogs visible, and brown
naked children disporting themselves on the beach, where canoes are
drawn up, fishing nets spread out, and a scaffolding erected to dry
shark-meat upon.
Few and far between are these evidences of the native race, and few and
far between, also, are evidences of the new nation that is supplanting
it. Frere, the statesman, speaking of Spain, said--he loved it because
God had so much land there in His own holding. If he could say that of
Spain's bare sierras and bleak barrancas, what would he not have said of
this land, whose splendid woods and forests clothe the hills and fill
the glens with verdure.
Here and there we lie off some settler's station, a white wooden
homestead, perhaps with a few outbuildings beside it, perhaps alone;
round it the pastures won by the axe and the fire, a mere bite out of
the boundless woods behind. At such places "The Crew" paddles ashore in
the dingey, or possibly a boat comes off to us, bearing two or three
bushmen, who, may be, think that the opportunity for getting a nobbler
ought not to be suffered to pass by.
We have three or four townships to call at, places where the Government
has set aside a certain tract of land for a future town. A township site
is cut up--on paper--into allotments, which are sold, or kept in the
Land Office until wanted. From what we see of the Kaipara towns, they
are very much in embryo as yet. Te Otamatea, for instance, is a single
house and nothing more. This is our ideal of a bush settlement; it is as
it should be--not too much humanity and crowd. The house, a rambling,
wooden building, is of a good size though, being an hotel and store.
Round it are several hundred acres of grass. Sometimes it is very
festive, for a large Maori kainga is not far off; and at Te Otamatea a
race-course has been made, where the annual races of the Kaipara
districts are held.
Altogether, we like Te Otamatea, with its beautiful situation and lovely
views, better than Port Albert. This is a sort of bloated Manchester or
Birmingham of the district. No less than six or seven houses are
visible close together. If you count barns and byres, and such more
distant houses as are visible from the steamer's deck, there must be
over a dozen. It is horridly populous. Moreover, one sees here, so
strongly marked, that uncouth rawness that attends incipient
civilization. Nature has been cleared away to make room for the art of
man, and art has not yet got beyond the inchoate unloveliness of bare
utilitarianism. The beautiful woods have given place to a charred,
stumpy, muddy waste, on which stand the gaunt, new frame-houses.
Gardens, orchards, cornfields, and meadows are things to come; until
they do the natural beauty of the place is killed and insulted. But what
have we to do with sentimental rubbish? This is Progress! Bless it!
Of course we did not expect to get to our destination all in a minute,
for Te Pahi is more than forty miles from Helensville, in a straight
line. We started about five o'clock in the morning, but it is late in
the day before we get into the Arapaoa. By taking advantage of the
tides, the _Lily_ manages to accomplish ten knots an hour. But the going
in and out of different rivers, though we do not go far up any of them,
and the various stoppages, short though they be, make it late in the
afternoon before we sight Te Pahi.
We are coming up the broad Arapaoa, and before us we suddenly see Te
Pahi, a vision of loveliness, "our" township, as we are already calling
it. A high, wooded bluff, the termination of a hill-range behind, rushes
out into the tranquil, gleaming water. Round the base of the bluff, on a
little flat between it and the white shingly beach, are the houses of
the settlement. Four families live here at this time; and besides their
abodes, there are a row of three cottages, called immigrant barracks, a
boatbuilder's workshop, and an assembly hall. The neatest, fairest,
best, and to-be-the-most-progressive of all the Kaipara townships. We
say this "as shouldn't;" but it is so.
The broad, lake-like expanse of water over which we are moving--four
miles across from shore to shore--parts before Te Pahi. It stretches
away to the left in a wide reach, to form the Matakohe, out of which
opens the Paparoa, hidden from sight at this point. Before us, bearing
to the right, is the Pahi river. It is a vista of woodland scenery,
glorious in the rays of the declining sun. Its shores are steep, and
broken into numberless little bays and promontories, all clothed with
bush to the water's edge. Far up, the towering ranges close down and
terminate the view.
On the left of our position the shore is not so high, and we can see a
good deal of grass, with the white homestead of a settler's station.
Beyond is what appears to be a chain of distant mountains. Looking to
the right an exclamation bursts from our lips, for there is the
loveliest view we have yet seen.
A deep, semi-circular bay falls back from the river, bordered with a
belt of dazzling shingle. Beyond and round it rises a perfect
amphitheatre, filled with bush more sumptuous and varied than any we
have gazed upon all day. The range seems to rise in terraces, and just
one abrupt gap about the centre discloses the peak of a conical hill
behind. The whole is a perfect idyllic picture, not to be described in a
breath; for this is the showplace of the Kaipara. It is Te Puke Tapu,
famous in Maori history as the scene of a great battle.
Beautiful as this place is, it would doubtless soon have been marred by
the pitiless axe and fire of the settler, but that it is sacred soil.
The Maoris will not enter it, and they prohibit Europeans from
transgressing within its boundaries. Nor will they sell the land,
although its superb fertility has induced some settlers to offer almost
fabulous prices. For, under those rich greenwoods, caressed and buried
in ferns, lie scattered the bony relics of the flower of Ngatewhatua
chivalry.
So much and more a fellow-passenger tells us, while we gaze at the view,
inwardly wondering whether wandering artist will ever present this
glorious landscape now before us to people at home. But the story must
be reserved for another time, until we are able to do justice to it.
At last the _Lily_ is lying right off the beach of Te Pahi township, and
her whistle is echoing among the woods on the ranges above, scaring the
shags, kingfishers, and rock-snipe on the oyster-beds and beaches. Very
speedily, two or three people appear at the township, and one of them
puts off in a boat to board us.
To him we are shortly introduced by the Pirate, and handed over to his
care, as candidates for a berth in the immigrant barracks. We discuss a
nobbler, which is at once a farewell one with Pirate Tom, "The Crew,"
and the rest of our fellow-passengers, and an introductory ceremony with
our new acquaintance, "The Mayor."
A merry, athletic, thoroughly healthy and hearty Englishman is our
friend, the Mayor, always in a hurry and bustle of business, for his
avocations are startlingly numerous. He is the oldest inhabitant of the
township, and was called the Mayor when he dwelt there solitary, a few
years ago. Now he is postmaster, storekeeper, justiciary,
acting-parson, constabulary, board of works, tax-gatherer, customs
officer, farmer, dealer in everything, town clerk, lawyer, doctor, and,
perhaps, a score of things beside, as they reckon such in Te Pahi.
The Mayor hurries us and our traps ashore in his boat, and deposits us
on the beach. Then he hastens back to the steamer, bidding us wait
there, as "he'll be back to fix us before we can have time to wink."
Half a dozen men and boys--the entire population--stand at a little
distance, regarding us shyly, but inquisitively, with pocketed hands.
Some young children are also apparent.
As we stand gazing about us, and wondering how to make acquaintance with
the group, a little girl comes running up to us. It is always the
superior sex, you see, even in the bush, that make the first advances.
She offers us peaches, the little bright-eyed, sunny-faced thing; and
readily submits to be kissed; indeed, appears to expect it. Then she
prattles away to us in right merry fashion.
The little incident breaks the ice. The group of men come forward and
enter into conversation. Perhaps a trifle constrained at first--for
dwellers in the bush necessarily lose the readiness of people more
accustomed to society--they show themselves anxious enough to be
hospitable and welcoming. They are eager to know who we are, naturally,
what we are going to do, and so forth. When it comes out that we have
advented to join Old Colonial, we are admitted as chums at once, and
formally accepted as free citizens of the soon-to-be prosperous and
thriving town of Te Pahi.
By-and-by the Mayor gets back; and the _Lily_ steams off again on her
way to Matakohe, where she will anchor for the night, returning to
Helensville next day. Old Colonial, it seems, is away up the river
somewhere, but is expected at the township that night, as he knows that
the steamer is due, and that we were likely to come by it.
And now what are we to do? Go to the immigrant barracks, we suppose,
since they are expressly designed for the accommodation of such
new-chums as ourselves. Barracks be hanged! Is it likely that we are to
be allowed to go there while the Mayor has a comfortable house in which
to receive guests? Not likely! Why, others of the citizens are intent on
hospitality as well, and any of the four homes of the place may be ours
for the present, if we will.
But the Mayor is not going to be choused out of his guests; don't you
believe it! What is he Mayor and boss of the township for, he would like
to know, if not to look after new-chums? Besides, on his own sole
responsibility, he has turned the immigrant barracks into a warehouse
for produce, since no immigrants ever seemed to be coming to occupy
them. So, he is in a measure bound to take possession of us, don't you
see? and, by Jove, he means to, what's more!
Then we walk along to the Mayor's residence, and a comfortable,
well-furnished house it is, quite a surprise to us, who hardly expected
home-comforts in the bush. But then the Mayor is a thriving man, and has
a wife to look after him.
A cheerful, amiable lady bids us welcome, with a heartiness as though
she were only too glad to see us, although it would appear as if her
hands were full enough of housework already, without the additional care
of looking after a couple of helpless, unready new-chums. But strangers
are so rare up here, that much must be made of them when they do come;
therefore, the fatted calf is killed, so to speak, and we are regaled in
handsome fashion.
Later, after supper, there is a sudden arrival in the darkness of the
night. We hear a stamping on the verandah outside, and a loud, lusty,
half-remembered voice addressing the Mayor.
"Have they come, I say? Where are they, then?"
The door of the room we are sitting in bursts open, and a burly, bearded
man, rough and savage enough in outward appearance, sooth to say,
rushes in upon us. He seizes our hands in a grip that brings the tears
to our eyes, he shakes them up and down with vehemence, and while we are
trying to make out whether this Old Colonial can really and truly be our
sometime schoolfellow, he exclaims--
"Well, this _is_ good! I _am_ glad to see you! _Now_ we'll have a
splendid time! Now we'll _make_ this old place hum round! Oh, but this
is glorious!"
Thus, and much more; and so, with the true, hearty good-fellowship of
the bush, are we welcomed to our future home.
* * * * *
And now that we have arrived at the scene of our future work, let this
chapter close. No need any longer to pursue our history as new-chums. In
the pages that follow we will resume the story at a further date, when
we have arrived at the full estate of settlers and colonists. Such
thread of narrative as these sketches possess shall henceforth be
unwound off another reel.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 4: It must be remembered that this is ten or twelve years ago
though it holds good down to 1876. Since the railway was made more
colonists have come into the district, and two fine new steamers now ply
on the Kaipara waters.]