Chapter 17

Britannia

The Heretaunga, or as Wakefield renamed it, the Hutt River, flowed with an elegant but moody grace through the low-lying plains of the fertile valley. Fed from a dynamic range of hills called Tararua, it meandered in a general southerly direction and flowed into the northeastern end of Port Nicholson. Mostly, it was wide and shallow, and when the sun shone, the water appeared golden, sparkling with an almost majestic, serene quality. During the frequent winter rain the Hutt River changed personality and little could be done to temper its fickle disposition.

Heavy torrential downpours lasted days and the passive river that Wakefield admired so much eventually burst its banks and flooded all the dwellings in the new settlement that lined either side of the single main track running parallel to the river. Brown water flowed freely through tents not washed away, and even through the few quickly erected permanent structures. At times, disconsolate residents waded knee deep through mud and water, watching helplessly as valued possessions transported with loving care across the world perished. Treasured family heirlooms such as portraits, bibles, books and clothes could be seen floating away like flotsam, while those items lucky enough to be saved suffered from mould and mildew and became indelibly water stained. Just as quickly the waters receded, and settlers began cleaning and repairing damage.

Exposed to the savage southerly winds borne from vicious southern ocean storms, the howling gales were numbingly cold. Without compassion, the winds raced up Port Nicholson and struck the fledgling community head on, delivering a chill that thick layers of clothing could not repel.

On advice from his surveyors, this was the location where Wakefield decided to begin building the first settlement, the area they had earlier learned was called Pito-one. Located on the north side of Port Nicholson, it lay at the head of a large, arable valley that slowly narrowed as it disappeared northwards, ingesting into the distant and rugged bush-clad hills. Colonel Wakefield's enthusiasm and eagerness to colonise Pito-one and turn it into a model of British society, blinded him to the practicalities of creating a functioning and feasible township. It had no harbour. The coarse shingle beach was shallow and afforded little prospect of creating a thriving port. With grim determination, the newly arrived colonists, now numbering around two-hundred, endured the hardships, but failed to be inspired by the vision that this settlement was the much-heralded 'Britannia' the Company touted.

The urgency for Wakefield lay in satisfying the increasing number of unhappy, newly arrived colonists who'd still not received title on good fertile land they bought and paid for. None the less, company surveyors were busy surveying one-acre plots of land as quickly as possible. With the addition of a steam-powered sawmill brought from England to process timber, the small settlement grew quickly, although many homes were still made from canvas and were temporary structures at best.

Andrew and Eleanor's temporary home was nothing more than a tent with a mud floor and was draughty and cold. Exposed to the biting southerly winds that raced up the harbour, the canvas walls and roof were ineffective against damp and chill.

Eleanor sat down inside her tent with a heavy sigh and stared at the dirty canvas that protected them only from rain. Unable to thwart the bone-chilling wind from entering, Andrew was constantly tightening the ropes to prevent powerful wind gusts from ripping loose the entire structure. Tears ran freely down her face as she sat facing the canvas, her shoulders heaving in quiet misery. Every now and then a sob escaped and she buried her face in her hands, overcome by the adversity of their situation and ashamed of her weakness. Andrew was with Colonel Wakefield, reviewing Company accounts, unaware of her distress.

"Ellie! Ellie, are you there, dear?" came a woman's voice from outside. "Ellie?"

Eleanor quickly wiped her eyes, recognizing the voice of her matronly neighbour, "Yes Mrs. Moore, coming!" she said, and opened the tent flap to step outside.

"I have something for you, Ellie," Mrs. Moore said with a big smile, handing a small sack to her. "It's flour, the new mill is finally operating and we've been testing the machinery..." Mrs Moore saw Eleanor's tear-streaked face. "Oh, Ellie dearest, what's wrong?"

Mrs. Moore stepped forward, opened her arms and enveloped Eleanor in a motherly embrace as she again burst into tears.

"It's everything... the cold... wet... damp..." Eleanor sobbed. "Everything is dirty..."

Mrs. Moore stroked Eleanor's hair and patted her gently on her back. After a minute or two, Eleanor pulled herself away.

"I'm sorry, I need to be stronger," Eleanor said with resolve.

A handkerchief magically appeared from the copious folds of Mrs. Moore's skirts and she handed it to Eleanor, who gratefully wiped her eyes.

Two young men, labourers, squelched past. Seeing her crying, they slowed to stare at the two women.

"No one said this would be easy Ellie," said Mrs. Moore who bent forward to look into Eleanor's eyes. She held her by the shoulders.

"We suffer at the decisions of men who claim they have our best interests at heart, but have little understanding of what we must endure. And just like little boys, they get upset when we don't pay them attention."

Eleanor returned the look; her bottom lip trembled as she listened.

"And then we must cook and clean for them, in impossible situations."

Eleanor nodded in understanding.

"These very same men who act like children bear great responsibility too. They work hard and toil to provide for us, often in situations we can't. They worry about us, our children and sometimes not enough about themselves, and more often than not, they don't feel the need to share their burden with us."

The labourers slowly walked past again.

"Look at me Ellie." Mrs. Moore insisted.

"Those men, they're staring..."

"Yes, I know, try to ignore them." Mrs. Moore turned and gave them a withering contemptuous look. "When you feel despair, think of your husband and the duty you have to him. It helps."

"Thank you, Mrs. Moore, sometimes I believe I'm selfish and think only of myself and my discomforts, not about others." Eleanor returned the handkerchief.

"Why don't you use the flour and make something nice for your husband, surprise him."

"Thank you, I shall do exactly that," Eleanor replied.

"It appears we are being watched," said Mrs. Moore with a smile as she looked over Eleanor's shoulder.

In alarm Eleanor turned quickly, "Oh, that's Pork-Chop," she said, relieved. "We just bought her."

With small grunts and covered in mud, the small pig stood in the small rickety enclosure and looked up at them.

"I'll give you some food scraps for her." Mrs Moore offered. "Now, I need to return, cheer up, dear."

She leaned forward and gave Eleanor a quick hug, hoisted her skirts and waded with determination through the glutinous mud back to the flourmill.

Eleanor went back to clean her face. She already decided to bake some bread and a pie for Andrew. She felt better and welcomed the timely appearance and comfort offered by her neighbour.