he could do nothing but hold fast to the canoes which were soon swept into the breakers and tossed about in all directions. After a very severe buffeting he was washed ashore by a huge wave and managed to hold on to a pile of driftwood until the water receded. Exhausted he lay there all night, and in the morning found that he was about a mile south of the river they had attempted to cross. Travelling along the beach with great difficulty, he found the coat Whitcombe had thrown into the river, a parcel of tobacco, some blankets and the canoes. A little further on he saw a pair of boots showing above the sand, and approaching closer was horrified to observe the body of his companion.
Henry Whitcombe was dead . . . . the first known victim of the treacherous Taramakau, the river responsible for the lives of innumerable diggers, who, in endeavouring to pass through its snow-fed waters, met with a similar fate. These unfortunate, and in many cases fool-hardy men, were, in the vernacular of the day, said to have died the National Death, so great was the toll of the roaring rivers of the land wherein they wooed fickle fortune and lost their all.
With his hands Lauper dug a shallow grave above high water mark, and there reverently laid to rest the first Government official to lay down his life, in the execution of his duty, in Westland.
