Through South Westland/Part 2/Chapter 4

by A. Maud Moreland

CHAPTER IV.

THE NIGER HUT

It stands upon the grassy slope,
A ruin, brown and lone;
The door swings on its hinge of rope
With strange and dismal tone,
Whene’er the wandering winds that pass,
Bear with them, o’er the thistled grass,
The darksome forest’s moan.

H. L. Twistleton.

It was indeed a sorry place to spend a night, but I was thankful to get there! We turned the horses loose, and proceeded to light a fire: the chimney would not draw—not, indeed, to be wondered at, for after all it was only a hole, and all the smoke came inside. Then we found there was no tea, that being in one of the abandoned sacks. All we could do was to mix some cream and hot water, and this, with a hunch of bread and butter, constituted our supper. I took the wet wrappings off the cake: it was a ruin, reduced to a mere pudding—and we left it for the next party of rabbiters. At first we thought of Transome riding back for help, but it was now 10 p.m. and he was tired out, and we were both depressed over this tragic ending to a perfect day. So we decided that he should go early next morning, and then turned our thoughts to making ourselves as comfortable as might be for the night.

We found some dry litter; and once upon a time there had been two bunks there, but most of the slats had been used for firewood by the rabbiters. Transome settled himself on the floor in his bag, and was asleep in a few minutes; fortunately the sleeping-bags and rugs were dry. I collected some slats lying about, and repaired one bunk, which stood just below the frameless window-opening.

And now a new cause of disquietude presented itself. All the cattle on the flat had collected round the hut in a wild state of excitement, and their appetite for dry goods seemed insatiable. So harness and everything had to be brought inside—and I just rescued my towel and bathing-dress from a hungry cow; nor would the door keep shut, and a moist nose was constantly pushed in, to be withdrawn in haste after receiving a sounding slap with a stick. Time after time I drove them away, only to find in five minutes the herd was ramping round again—especially one white heifer, which seemed determined to evict us, and tossed her long horns angrily when I sallied out. I lay down on the improvised bunk, but the moment I moved, bang! out fell the bottom! then peace reigned for a little; then the cows came back, wandering round and round, trying to get in, and seizing whatever they could find—and my uneasy slumbers were constantly interrupted. Transome seemed to sleep through it all, and at last, towards morning, I too fell into a sound slumber. But gradually there grew upon me the consciousness of something wrong—reluctantly I opened my eyes, and a startling apparition nearly took away my breath: framed by the window against the background of star-lit sky, was a huge, red head with branching horns—a long tongue was in the very act of sweeping up my blanket—the cold muzzle and heavy breath were close against my face. I gave a scream and sat up with a start, and, of course, at that critical point the bottom fell out of the bed again! The enemy hurriedly withdrew his head and made off. The clatter wakened Transome, who drowsily murmured: “What’s the matter now?” and went to sleep again; but I got no more that night.

At 3.30 I got up, and having raked the embers together, was thankful to find the breeze had dropped, and we could have a fire; but all the breakfast I could offer was a little cream and hot water, and some bread. Then I caught Tom (being the faster horse of the two) and tied him ready at the door, and stood for a few minutes looking out.

The sky was very clear, and a cold white light was coming up behind the eastern mountains. It was all so still, The cattle had wandered far away down the river-bed, and I could hear the river making a soft singing to itself—except for an early lark, no other sound broke the utter peace.

I was all alone in this strange, half-enchanted world. The snows on Mount Aspiring looked grey and uncanny in the dusk, but every moment the light was growing. And then the sun rose behind

the dark hills, the snows flushed and faded—the world looked up with a smile of sparkling dewdrops, and a little breeze gently swayed the tall plumes of toe-toe and the flax blades. At 4.30 I awoke Transome, and he started for the homestead. Tom cantered and galloped on a loose rein all the way, and covered the ten miles in less than an hour on none too good a track. Great was the excitement and amusement at the homestead! but they gave the “shipwrecked” man a good breakfast, and Mr. Ross, leaving his hay, rode back with him, armed with three fresh traces and a stout rope.

Meantime, having packed all in readiness, at six o’clock I went down to the scene of the disaster. There lay the Berline quite unharmed; the waters had abated a full foot from its bottom boards; peaceful and blue the river rippled under and around it, and our forsaken goods lay in a heap untouched where we had left them last night. I returned to the hut, and fell asleep; but it was a long morning, and about ten I was thankful to see two horsemen come over the rise, and was soon welcoming Mr. Ross, who seemed to think the whole thing a tremendous joke.

They rested the horses for an hour, then loading two of them (I riding the third) we conveyed all our stuff back to the river. When we came to the ford, Mr. Ross waded in and tied a rope to the forepart of the Berline, and amid much laughing, it was hauled out, while I photographed them at various stages. A few minutes more and the load was adjusted, the two men on the top and I in front on the third horse—we once more got under weigh, with many a groan from the old Berline.

We were almost in mid-stream, when, looking back, to my dismay I saw it was once more in difficulties—a trace was undone, and the horses, expecting the same performance as yesterday, were refusing and getting out of hand, but they had two to reckon with this time. In a trice Mr. Ross was on the Scorpion’s back, caught and fastened the trace, and turned their heads once more across stream; his own wise horse pretending to pull in front gave them confidence, and the Berline emerged on a shingle flat with no further mishaps.

The rest was easy. Two broad but shallow streams were crossed; then we got on a green flat on the far-side of the eastern Matukituki, and found it full of ambushments, old trenches, rabbit-holes, and other fruitful sources of disaster. At times the Berline threatened dissolution altogether. However, we were within sight of our new abode, and with expiring creaks and groans from its much-tried springs, we drew up in front of the door—and the perilous journey was over.

The Old Homestead stood on a little rise, under a group of dark, native trees. Immediately behind the paddocks at the back, the mountain rose in almost precipitous slopes, covered with trees, broken rock, and bracken—the last few hundred feet a series of step-like precipices. Deep ravines hid tumbling waterfalls in their dark depths—the

noise of water came from all sides. But if the mountains were savagely grand, the outlook up the valley was just the opposite.

A smiling stretch of waving pasture between forest-covered slopes, and the blue river—at one point foaming over rapids, and at another sweeping still and deep beneath over-hanging trees; farther up, the scene was closed by the snow-peaks and purple-black crags of more distant ranges.