The Luminaries (93 page)

Emery Staines was yet to make a strike in Hokitika. He had not yet found a patch of ground he liked well enough to stake, or indeed, a company he liked well enough to join. He had amassed a small ‘competence’ in dust, but the pile had been collected variously, from beaches both north and south of the river, and from small
gullies
on the far side of the Hokitika Gorge: it was an inconstant yield, of which the greater portion by far had already disappeared. Staines tended towards profligacy whenever the time and money spent were his very own: he far preferred to sleep and dine in the society of others than to do so alone in his tent beneath the stars, the romance of which did not endure, he discovered, past the first experience. He had not been prepared for the bitterness of the West Canterbury winter, and was very frequently driven indoors by the rain; with poor weather as his excuse, he drank wine and ate salt beef and played at cards every evening, venturing out the next morning to fill his handkerchief anew. Had it not been for his agreement with Francis Carver, he might have continued in this haphazard way indefinitely, which is to say, following a two-part pattern of excess and recovery; but he had not forgotten the
conditions
of his sponsorship, under which he would shortly be obliged to ‘throw down an anchor’, as the diggers termed it, and invest. 

On the morning of the 18th of June Staines woke early. He had spent the night at a flophouse in Kaniere, a long, low clapboard shanty with a lean-to kitchen and hammocks strung in tiers. There was a damp chill in the air; as he dressed, his breath showed white. Outside, he paid a halfpenny for a plate of porridge, ladled from a steaming vat, and ate standing, gazing eastward to where the ridge of the high Alps formed a crisp silhouette against the winter sky. When the plate was clean he returned it to the hatch, tipped his hat to his fellows, and set off for Hokitika, where he intended to make an appointment with a gold buyer preparatory to purchasing a claim.

As he came around the river to the spit he perceived a ship make its stately approach into the neck of the harbour; it glided into the roadstead and seemed to hover, broadside to the river, in the deep water on the far side of the bar. Staines admired the craft as he walked around the long curve of the quay. It was a handsome three-masted affair, none too large, with a figurehead carved in the shape of an eagle, its beak wide and screaming, its wings outspread. There was a woman at the portside rail: from this distance Staines could not make out her face, much less her expression, but he
supposed
that she was lost in a reverie, for she stood very still, both hands gripping the rail, her skirts whipping about her legs, the strings of her bonnet slapping at her breast. He wondered what preoccupied her—whether she was absorbed in a memory, a scene recalled, or in a forecast, something that she wished for, something that she feared.

At the Reserve Bank he produced his kid pouch of dust, and, at the banker’s request, surrendered its contents to be examined and weighed. The valuation took some time, but the eventual price offered was a good one, and Staines left the building with a paper note made out for twenty pounds folded in his vest pocket, against his heart.

‘Stop you there, lad.’

Staines turned. On the steps of the bank, just rising, was a sandy-haired man, perhaps fifty in age. His skin was very
weathered
, and his nose very red. He sported a patchy week-old beard, the stubble of which was quite white.

‘Can I help you?’ said Staines.

‘You can answer me a couple of questions,’ said the man. ‘Here’s the first. Are you a Company man?’

‘I’m not a Company man.’

‘All right. Here’s the second. Honesty or loyalty?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Honesty or loyalty,’ said the man. ‘Which do you value higher?’

‘Is this a trick?’

‘A genuine inquiry. If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Well,’ said Staines, frowning slightly, ‘that’s very difficult to say—which to value higher. Honesty or loyalty. From a certain point of view one might say that honesty is a kind of loyalty—a loyalty to the truth … though one would hardly call loyalty a kind of
honesty
! I suppose that when it came down to it—if I had to choose between being dishonest but loyal, or being disloyal but honest—I’d rather stand by my men, or by my country, or by my family, than by the truth. So I suppose I’d say loyalty … in myself. But in others … in the case of others, I feel quite differently. I’d much prefer an honest friend to a friend who was merely loyal to me; and I’d much rather
be
loyal to an honest friend than to a sycophant. Let’s say that my answer is conditional: in myself, I value loyalty; in others, honesty.’

‘That’s good,’ said the man. ‘That’s very good.’

‘Is it?’ said Staines, smiling now. ‘Have I passed some kind of a test?’

‘Almost,’ said the man. ‘I’m after a favour. In good faith—and on your terms. Look here—’

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a nugget, around the size of a short cigar. He held it up, so that it caught the light. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’

‘Very nice,’ said Staines, but he was no longer smiling.

The man continued. ‘Picked this up in the Clutha Valley. Otago way. Been carrying it about for a month—two months—but I’m wanting to turn it into land, you see—got my eye on a patch of land—and the land agent won’t touch anything but paper money. Here’s the problem. I’ve been robbed. Got no proof of my own
identity. My papers, my miner’s right. Everything’s gone. So I can’t bank this nugget on my own accord.’

‘Ah,’ said Staines.

‘What I’m after is a favour. You take this nugget into the bank. Say it’s your own—that you found it, on Crown land. Change it into paper money for me. It wouldn’t take you half an hour, all up. You can name your price.’

‘I see,’ said Staines, uncertainly. He hovered a moment. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘you might simply explain your situation to the fellows inside. You might tell them that you’ve been robbed—as you’ve just told me.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said the man.

‘There are always records,’ said Staines. ‘Even if you don’t have your papers, they’ll have other ways of tracking who you are. The shipping news and so forth.’

The man shook his head. ‘I was on an Otago certificate,’ he said, ‘and I never came through the customhouse when I arrived. There’s no record of me here.’

‘Oh,’ said Staines—who was beginning to feel very
uncomfortable
.

The man stepped forward. ‘I’m telling you a straight story, lad. The nugget’s mine. Picked it up in the Clutha Valley. I’ll sketch the place for you. I’ll draw you a bloody map. My story’s straight.’

Staines looked again at the nugget. ‘Can anyone vouch for you?’ he said.

‘I haven’t gone waving this about,’ the man snapped, shaking his fist. ‘Where would be the sense in that? I’ve been robbed already; I won’t be robbed again. There’s only one soul on earth who’s touched this piece besides me. Young woman by the name of Anna Wetherell.
She’d
vouch for the truth of what I’m telling you; but she’s in Dunedin, isn’t she, and I can’t stand about waiting for the post.’

The name Anna Wetherell meant nothing to Staines, and he registered it only dimly as he considered the best way to withdraw. The man’s story was not at all convincing (it seemed obvious to Staines that the nugget had been stolen, and that the thief, fearing capture, was now attempting to cover his tracks by employing an
innocent third man to turn the evidence to untraceable cash) and his countenance did not reassure. He had the weary, bloodshot look of a man long since ruined by drink; even at a distance of several paces, Staines could smell yesterday’s liquor on his clothes and on his breath. Stalling for time, he said, ‘Land agent, did you say?’

The man nodded. ‘There’s an acreage I’m keen on. Arahura way. Timber, that’s the business. I’m through with chasing gold. I had a fortune, and now it’s gone, and that’s the end of the game as far as I’m concerned. Timber—that’s honest work.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Crosbie Wells,’ said the man.

Staines paused. ‘Wells?’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ said the man. Suddenly he scowled. ‘What’s it to you?’

Staines was remembering the strange injunction that Francis Carver had given him at the Hawthorn Hotel in George-street, one month prior: ‘Just for today,’ he had said, ‘my name’s Wells. Francis Wells.’

‘
Crosbie
Wells,’ Staines repeated now.

‘That’s it,’ said Wells, still scowling. ‘No middle name, no
nickname
, no alias, nothing but plain old Crosbie Wells, ever since the day I was born. Can’t prove it, of course. Can’t prove a d—ned thing, without my papers.’

Staines hesitated again. After a moment he put out his hand and said, ‘Emery Staines.’

Wells transferred the nugget to his other hand, and they shook. ‘Care to name your price, Mr. Staines? I’d be very much obliged to you.’

‘Listen,’ said Staines suddenly. ‘You don’t happen to know—I mean, forgive me, but—you don’t happen to know a man named Francis Carver?’

For he still did not know the full story of what had happened on the day before he left Dunedin—where Carver had gone that
afternoon
; why he had chosen to assume an alias; why he had afforded such importance to a small chest containing nothing but five
unremarkable
gowns.

Wells had stiffened. He said, in a voice that was newly hard, ‘Why?’

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Staines. ‘Perhaps it’s of no consequence. I only ask because—well, about a month ago, a man named Carver took on your surname—just for an afternoon—and never told me why or what for.’

Wells’s hands had balled into fists. ‘What’s Carver to you?’

‘I don’t know him well,’ said Staines, taking a step back. ‘He stood me some money, that’s all.’

‘What kind of money? How much?’

‘Eight pounds,’ said Staines.

‘What?’

‘Eight,’ said Staines, and then, again, ‘Eight pounds.’

Wells advanced on him. ‘Friend, is he?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Staines, stepping back again. ‘I found out later that he was a con—that he’d served ten years, with labour—but it was too late by then; I’d signed.’

‘Signed what?’

‘A sponsorship agreement,’ said Staines.

‘And he signed in
my
name.’

‘No,’ said Staines, putting up his hands, ‘he only used it—your name, I mean—but I don’t know what for. Look, I’m ever so sorry to distress you—’

‘He was the one,’ said Crosbie Wells. ‘He was the one who took my papers. Cheated me out of a pile in pure. Turned my own wife against me. He took my name, and my money, and he tried to take my life—only the job didn’t come off, did it? I got out. I’m still here. Working for a pittance, and living hand to mouth, and keeping my head down, and looking over my shoulder every moment till I’m fairly driven mad.
This
’—he brandished the nugget—‘is all I’ve got left.’

‘Why do you not bring the law against him?’ said Staines. ‘All that sounds like evidence enough.’

Wells did not reply at once. Then he said, ‘Where is he?’

‘I believe he’s in Dunedin still.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘As much as I can be,’ said Staines. ‘I’ve his address; I’m to write to him as soon as I make my first venture.’

‘You’re his
partner
.’ Wells spat out the word.

‘No: I’m obliged to him, that’s all. He stood me eight pounds, and I’m to make him an investment, in return.’

‘You’re his partner. You’re his man.’

‘Look,’ said Staines, alarmed again, ‘whatever Mr. Carver’s done to you, Mr. Wells—and whatever his reasons—I don’t know
anything
about it. Truly. Why—if I’d known anything, I’d never have mentioned his name to you just now, would I? I’d have kept my mouth shut.’

Wells said nothing. They stared at one another, each searching the other’s expression. Then Staines said, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll take your nugget to the bank.’

Godspeed
crossed the Hokitika bar at the highest point of the tide. It took Captain Carver the better part of an hour to negotiate the traffic in the river mouth, for several crafts were departing, and he was obliged to wait for a signal from Gibson Quay before he could approach the wharf; Anna Wetherell, standing alone on deck, had ample time to take a measure of the view. Hokitika was smaller than she had envisaged, and much more exposed. Compared with the city of Dunedin, which was tucked away down the long arm of the Otago Harbour, and enclosed on all sides by hills, Hokitika’s proximity to the ocean seemed almost fearsome. To Anna the buildings had a grim, forsaken look, made somehow wretched by the strings of red and yellow bunting that crossed back and forth between the rooflines and the awnings of the waterfront hotels.

A sudden clanging directed her attention to the quay, where a ginger-haired man with a moustache was standing on the wharf, swinging a brass hand-bell, and shouting into the wind. He was plainly advertising something, but his litany of recommendations was quite inaudible beneath the peal of the bell, the mouth of which was big enough to admit a round of bread, and the clapper, as thick and heavy as a bar of bullion. It produced a dolorous,
inexorable
sound, muffled by the distance, and by the wind.

The journey from Dunedin had marked
Godspeed
’s inaugural voyage under the command of Francis Carver, who had been so incapacitated by the multiple injuries that he had incurred on the night of the 12th of May that he had failed to make
Godspeed
’s scheduled departure for Melbourne the following afternoon; he had missed, as a consequence, any opportunity to inform Captain Raxworthy that the ship’s ownership had changed. Raxworthy was punctual by nature, and would not suffer the barque’s departure to be delayed on account of a tardy crewman: he had sailed on
schedule
, his own severe headache notwithstanding, and after
Godspeed
left her anchor at Port Chalmers Carver could do nothing but wait for her return. He passed the next four weeks in convalescence, watched over by an anxious Mrs. Wells, who could not look upon his facial disfigurement without despair. The wound had been stitched, and the stitches since removed: it now formed an ugly pinkish weal, as thick as a length of sisal, and puckered at both ends. He touched the scar very often with his fingertips, and had taken to covering it with his hand when he spoke.

When
Godspeed
returned from Port Phillip on the 14th of June, Carver met with James Raxworthy to inform him that his tenure as captain had come to an end. The barque had been sold from under him, and by order of the ship’s new owner, a Mr. Wells, Carver
himself
had been promoted to the captaincy, an honour that gave him the licence to disband Raxworthy’s crew, and assemble his own. The meeting between Carver and his former captain was long, and not at all cordial; relations became further strained when Carver
discovered
that a certain item had been struck from
Godspeed
’s inventory one month ago. He appealed to Raxworthy, who only shrugged: as far as he could see, there had been no breach of regulation or
protocol
in the trunk’s having been recalled. Carver’s fury turned to anguish. He applied to the customhouse, and to all the shipping firms along the quay, and to all the doss-houses in the sailors’ district. His inquiries turned up nothing. Poring over the shipping news of the
Otago Witness
later that evening, he discovered that, besides
Godspeed
, there had been only one departure from Port Chalmers on the 13th of May: the schooner
Blanche
, bound for Hokitika.

‘It’s hardly even a clue,’ he said to Mrs. Wells, ‘but I can’t stand to do nothing. If I do nothing I’ll go mad. I’ve still got his birth
certificate
, after all—and the miner’s right. I’ll say my name is Crosbie Wells, and I’ll say I’ve lost a shipping crate. I’ll offer a reward for its return.’

‘But what about Crosbie himself?’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘There’s a chance—’

‘If I see him,’ said Carver, ‘I’ll kill him.’

‘Francis—’

‘I’ll kill him.’

‘He will be expecting you to pursue him. He won’t be caught off guard—not a second time.’

‘Neither will I.’

The day before
Godspeed
’s departure, Anna Wetherell was
summoned
to the downstairs parlour, where she found Mrs. Wells waiting for her.

‘Now that Mr. Carver has recovered his health,’ said Mrs. Wells, ‘I can turn my mind to less pressing matters, such as the matter of your future. You cannot remain in my household even a moment longer, Miss Wetherell, and you know the reason why.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Anna whispered.

‘I might have turned a blind eye to your betrayal,’ Mrs. Wells went on, ‘and suffered in silence, as is a woman’s lot; the violence brought upon Mr. Carver, however, I cannot ignore. Your alliance with my husband has passed beyond the realm of wickedness, and into the realm of evil. Mr. Carver has been permanently disfigured. Indeed he was lucky to have kept his life, given the severity of the injuries he sustained. He will bear that scar forever.’

‘I was asleep,’ said Anna. ‘I didn’t see any of it.’

‘Where is Mr. Wells?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Are you telling me the truth, Miss Wetherell?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I swear.’

Mrs. Wells drew herself up. ‘Mr. Carver sails to the West Coast tomorrow, as you know,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘and as it happens I have an acquaintance in a Hokitika man. Dick Mannering
is his name. He will set you up in Hokitika as he sees fit: you will become a camp follower, as was your original ambition, and you and I will not cross paths again. I have taken the liberty of costing all of your expenses over the last two months, and passing the debt to him. I can see you are surprised. Perhaps you believe that liquor grows on trees. Do you believe that liquor grows on trees?’

‘No, ma’am,’ she whispered.

‘Then it will not come as a surprise to you that your habit of drinking alone has cost me more than pennies, this month past.’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Evidently you are not as stupid as you are wicked,’ said Mrs. Wells, ‘though given the scope and degree of your wickedness, this hardly signifies as an intellectual achievement. Mr. Mannering, I ought to inform you, is unmarried, so you are in no danger of bringing shame upon his household as you have done upon mine.’

Anna choked; she could not speak. When Mrs. Wells dismissed her she flew to the boudoir, went to her bureau, pulled the stopper from the decanter of laudanum-laced whisky and drank straight from the neck, in two desperate, wretched slugs. Then she threw herself upon her bed, and sobbed until the opiate took effect.

Anna knew very well what awaited her in Hokitika, but her guilt and self-reproach were such that she had steeled herself against all impending fates, as a body against a wind. She might have protested any or all of Mrs. Wells’s arrangements; she might have fled in the night; she might have formed a plan of her own. But she was no longer in any doubt about the fact of her condition, and she knew that it would not be long before she began to show. She needed to quit Mrs. Wells’s household as soon as possible, before the other woman guessed her secret, and she would do so by
whatever
method available to her.

A gull made a long, low pass down Gibson Quay; once it reached the spit it turned and began climbing on the updraft,
circling
back to make the pass again. Anna pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. By now
Godspeed
had received clearance to drop anchor. A line had been thrown ashore, and the sails were being furled and reefed at Carver’s instruction; slowly, the barque
rolled towards the wharf. A small crowd of stevedores had gathered to assist, and Anna, blinking suddenly, saw that several of them were pointing at her and talking behind their hands. When they saw that she was looking, they doffed their hats, and bowed, and laughed, hoisting up their trousers by the buckles of their belts. Anna flushed. Suddenly wretched, she crossed the deck to the
starboard
rail, gripped it with both hands, and, breathing deeply, looked out over the high shelf of the spit, to where the breakers threw up a fine mist of white, blurring the line of the horizon. She remained there until Carver, calling her name with a curt accent, bid her to descend to the quay; a Mr. Edgar Clinch, acting
proprietor
of the Gridiron Hotel, had made her an offer of lodging, which Carver had accepted on her behalf.