New Zealand at Last

Time did not stand still. For the family in England, and unbeknown to Francis, their greatest effort was put into preparation for their voyage to New Zealand. Mama, Papa, brothers, and sister all knew that satisfaction in their life could come only when they had settled at ‘Brandon’ in New Zealand. Francis too worked on and on, gaining happiness in what he achieved, and so it can only be left to imagination when that day in February 1852 the family—with the little two-year-old brother whom Francis had not seen—sailed into Wellington on the ship William Hyde.

A stay of more than one night was unthinkable, and early the following morning they travelled in the little coastal schooner bound for Whanganui. Francis, who could not leave the farm or his animals for too long, awaited them at Whanganui. After three long years, his family would be reunited. The weather was just perfect, as it had been for Francis’s arrival so long ago to make his home in the bush. Thankfulness must without a doubt have been with them, that the long hazardous trip was at last over without loss of life to them.

The meeting, the trip up the river, followed by the trip of six miles in the wagon in such wonderful surroundings, in the company of their almost-stranger son and brother, was not recounted in words for later generations. Perhaps then we can try to imagine the arrival at their new home—cosy and complete, if primitive—with flower garden and vegetables in plenty. A little distance away, the young orchard showed up as the apple trees hung with many different sorts of apples, some already rosy red while others large and green. The branches were propped up to hold the heavy crop. Even the cows were in sight with a gentle mooing—as their milking time had been delayed—seeming to welcome them.

The boys and their sister must have rushed here and there in the half darkness, to investigate the new home, while parents and older son tried to pick up ties of kinfolk and ready the meal prepared so much earlier.

Day followed day. The excitement of the new home to all of them was endless. Every hour of the day, new and interesting discoveries were made, and Francis was able to explain names and habits of the birds, trees, or anything else to them. An immediate love grew between older brother and little Alexander, now three years old. The little one was an attractive child to look at, but immediate attention was gained by his interest in everything—particularly the birds, trees, and insects—and the questions he asked. Usually in those early days it was Francis whom he followed, and Francis who would stop and explain what he wanted to know.

Alexander was now fifty-one years of age and Sarah forty-six. James, who came next to Francis, was fourteen years and although he had before the separation been a constant companion of his older brother, as yet had not been able to reconnect. He remained quietly in the background as though a piece of his earlier life had been lost. He watched and listened to every detail of what was said.

Next came Henry, aged eleven years, and he was in contrast rather a rowdy youngster who loved to romp and play with the dog, or groom the old horse before leaping onto its back and riding around the home field without either bridle or saddle.

In a day or two, it was he who milked the cows, set the milk in the wide milk pans, and skimmed it after twenty-four hours settling, and happily began the task of butter making. In the little dairy he stood by the round steel churn, rotating it by means of a wooden handle until separation of butter from the buttermilk. Then came what he termed the best job of all—washing and squeezing all traces of buttermilk from the butter, and with the finely ridged butter pats, working in the salt to taste before weighing it to pound pieces and patting them into the usual oblong shapes.

Annie Maria came next in this family, aged seven years. She was rather thin with pretty fair hair and blue eyes. Although she was the pride of her parents and family, she was completely without selfishness and was everyone’s helper, whatever the task.

Five-year-old William could always count on Annie to share goodies or help him over rough patches. He had neither the strength nor the independence that each of the rest of the family had. The greatest surprise was always the friendliness and deep intelligence of Alex, the three-year-old. He usually came forward with a jar or box with his collection of curiosities and could explain what Francis had told him about them word for word. His questions continued day after day, when he was not away on his own searching for hidden livestock.

The family worked hard, and it became Annie who would wait for him to bring in his finds for identification, but so very often she had to refer him to Francis. Francis had explained and shown the family much of their own land but had purposely reserved one thing for an exceptionally good day.

That day came, and he took them on a very special walk. During the previous year and with Koro’s help, he had spent a great deal of time cutting the track—much of it single lane—upwards to a lookout point from where they could get a wide panoramic view of not only their own property but also out across part of the town of Whanganui and to the coast where the shipping arrived. The track wound through dense undergrowth in places and at others emerged trailing under some of the huge white pines that grew here.

Everything was at its best. Many of the vines and trees were still massed with sweet-smelling flowers. Others had lost flowers and had crops of scarlet berries, while still others, like the Panax varieties, had bunches of dark purple berries. The Karaka trees, massed with dark shiny leaves, already had many vivid orange berries as large as acorns, while the musk-scented flowers of the Rangiora seemed to come from every direction. The beauty of greens was everywhere. The young Rimu trees cascaded their lovely frondy branches like waterfalls, the giant Pungas flapped their magnificent fern leaves in the breeze, while many of the giant trees showed the pedestrian only a severe-looking trunk, keeping the beauty of leaves and foliage at great heights.

Koro had painstakingly helped cut this track through the undergrowth and up the hillside—very steep and hard going in places—so here and there he had cut two or three steps or fixed a flat-topped rock at the side of the pathway.

Francis on that day led the parade with young Alex high on his shoulders. Papa followed closely, while in single file came Mama, William, James, Henry, and Annie. There was little talk that day as they trudged up the steepness admiring as they went, and now and again a question was fired at Francis, who seemed to have an endless supply of information. There was a generally accepted deep admiration for their adult brother who had alone carved out this home, but both Mama and Papa found it difficult to think of this mature man as their eldest boy.

One by one they at last stepped onto the small plateau of the hill and, puffing and blowing, came to rest. Some leaned against rocks while others just sat down to look at the countryside. Papa found a convenient stump of a tree that had been cut down to give a better view. Slightly to the eastern side of the knob was a huge jutting rock. The top was almost flat but it rounded out into a beautiful curve before falling away below.

Mama and Papa were the first to sit on the rock edge, but they soon moved about to get the different views of the countryside. Then it was Henry and James’s turn, and it was while they sat and lightly traced marks and fissures with their fingers that Henry fossicked in his pocket and brought out his pocket knife. Opening it, he ran his finger along the edge before carrying on with his lifelong habit of carving. Usually it was his name or initials that were engraved—but not this time. He cut first through a light mossy growth, then into a softer sandy outer surface and then with all his might cut the figures 1852 to make immortal the year of their arrival.

As he worked, it seemed the age of the rock resisted him, so that he had not much more than a scratch. Papa and Francis, after their examination of the countryside, moved over to see what James and Henry were doing. Finally, Henry asked Francis to help with a wedge-shaped rock. They managed to cut deep enough to be able to read the figures 1852, and added his initials also. That was one hundred and twenty years ago now, and when all who climbed the hill that day have long passed on, that rock remains with the initials and date, proclaiming that historic moment on the rock. Neither weather nor years have been able to obliterate it.

Photo of Historic Rock

The descent after that mindful incident was much more disorderly and noisy. Perhaps, having accomplished something of purpose, they were jubilant. The older boys hurried ahead—even Annie was close on their heels. Mama, Papa, and Francis, with little Alex again aloft, walked more leisurely, chatting as they went, and still getting to better know each other.

Long before they reached their home amidst law and order, a view glimpsed from between branches had at first puzzled them—and then they knew. There was Koro sitting on a log near the doorway and outside fireplace with a full flax kit beside him. As they came closer, Francis was delighted to find the kit was full of freshly dug kumara. The five children surrounded him in wonder. They had already been told of the tattooed faces of the Māori people, but this was not altogether quite what they had expected. Their eyes were fixed on his tattooed face—and the happiness they saw there.

Photo of Brandon in early years