DANIEL
A tale of courage and determination, of love and loss
Based on a true story
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Vicky Adin
Copyright Vicky Adin 2011
Published by AM Publishing NZ at Smashwords
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The author asserts the moral right to be identified as
the author of this work.
Published as ebook November 2011
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval systems, or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the author, with the exception of a book reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
To order copies of the print book please contact Vicky Adin
vickya@kiwilink.co.nz
www.vickyadin.co.nz
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Contents
1 Liverpool, England, 1842
2 Manawatu, New Zealand, 1995
3 At Sea, 1863
4 Manawatu, 1995
5 Auckland, 1863
6 Waikato, 1864
7 Foxton, Manawatu, 1870–1872
8 Foxton, 1873–1875
9 Auckland, 1998
10 Foxton, 1880
11 Halcombe, 1881
12 Foxton, 1882–1884
13 Foxton, 1886–1890
14 Foxton, 1893–1895
15 Auckland, 2009
16 Foxton, 1896–1897
17 Foxton, 1900–1904
18 Auckland, 2010
19 Foxton, 1910–1913
20 Foxton, 1914–1917
21 Auckland, 2010
22 Foxton, 1922–1926
Afterword
Timeline
Bibliography
About the author
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On ancestors:
Without them, we are nothing; without us, they are forgotten. V Adin
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***
Chapter One
Liverpool, England
16 September 1842
“We commit the body of our dearly departed brother Samuel Adin …”
Sarah stood forlornly beside the open grave with Daniel, a mere babe of five months, in her arms. Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. Elizabeth, just six years old, clung to her mother’s skirts, sobbing. Despite it being a lovely autumn day, the light soft and warm, Sarah hardly noticed. A few leaves fallen from nearby trees skipped and stumbled their way over the ground in the gentle breeze. They, too, went unnoticed.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …” The minister’s voice droned on in the outskirts of her mind.
Samuel’s sister Mary and her husband John Meyers, the local registrar, stood beside her along with others from the estate, yet Sarah saw no one, saw nothing beyond the plain wooden box holding her husband. The men stood with heads bowed, caps in hand; the women clutched their shawls tightly around them, handkerchiefs at the ready. After throwing the obligatory handful of dirt, they dispersed quickly with a quiet word: “Sorry, love, ’e were a good bloke, your Samuel.”
The hollow sound of the sexton shovelling earth onto the coffin shook Sarah back to reality. Sweeping away the tears on her face, Sarah bobbed towards Elizabeth, wiped the child’s nose and hugged her fiercely, hoping to quieten her sobbing.
“Come along, love,” said Mary gently.
The women of the neighbourhood stood in their doorways, nodding knowingly. They spoke soft words of encouragement as she passed. Life would be different from now on, they knew.
Mary, unhappy with the thought of Sarah returning to her empty home alone – just around the corner in Luke Street – led them to her front door in Warwick Street.
“I’ve set up a bassinet in the front room for Daniel, my dear. Go lay him down. I’ll put the kettle on and make us a cup of tea. Come into the kitchen when you’re ready.”
Elizabeth, quiet now, hovered nervously at the bottom of the stairs waiting for her mother to say something. Instead, her Aunt Mary spoke kindly.
“Run outside and play, Lizzie. There’s a good girl.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Elizabeth obeyed without argument.
Closing the door to the front room softly behind her, Sarah laid the sleeping Daniel in the cot. Lifting her bonnet from her head, she unwrapped her shawl, setting them both on the chair near the window. As she stared blindly through the lace curtains sad thoughts, wistful thoughts, happy thoughts about her life with Sam drifted through her mind.
They had been so happy when Samuel had been made coachman for a local squire not two miles up the road. He had rushed home that day and, putting his arms around her waist, swung her round in a circle. She laughed and cried and hugged him as he told her the news – but before that things had not been so good.
Has it really been seven years since that day when Samuel had stormed out of his da’s house in a fit of temper? she thought. All that fighting and shouting, and now both of them are gone, so what good has come of it? But Samuel loved me. Right from the moment he picked me out of the bramble hedge, he loved me.
“That’s what I must remember.” Sarah threw her head back, eyes closed, reliving the moment. Her words echoed in the empty room.
“That wonderful day when we first met.”
Goosebumps moved up her arms. She shuddered as she recalled his first look. The powerful feeling had stayed with her through all these years. Samuel had treated her like someone who mattered. He had been the only one who had …
She clearly remembered the first day they met in Derbyshire, back in ’34, and every word spoken. The day had begun sunny and clear as Sarah, carrying a basket of cheeses on her back, trudged her way to the Bolsover market. She met a farmer trying to shoo the cattle over to one side on a narrow stretch of road to let her pass. In amongst the pushing, shoving and bellowing one cow lashed out, kicking another. It sidestepped into Sarah, knocking her to the ground. Throwing away the straw he had been chewing, the farmer rushed to where she lay.
He held out his big work-worn hands. “Aye. I’m that sorry, lass. Let me help you. Are you hurt?”
“No, sir, I’m a’right.”
Quickly she scrambled to her feet, brushed down her skirt and pulled bits of bramble away from her stockings. As she straightened her cap she tilted her head to look at the stranger. A man with solid shoulders and strong arms, some ten years older than her twenty-two, stared back. His sharp, blue eyes missed nothing. The look that criss-crossed between them spoke of eternity yet only seconds had passed before he raised his hand to pull a bramble from her hair.
Sarah recovered first, suddenly embarrassed, bending down at once to pick up the fallen cheeses.
“Here. Let me.” The man bent down at the same time. “I’m Sam Adin, by the way. What’s your name?”
“Sarah. Sarah Green.” A soft blush warmed her face as their hands touched over the same round of cheese.
“Turn around then, Sarah Green, and I’ll load these straight into the basket.” He lifted the basket onto her shoulders, talking all the while.
“Where’re ye from, lass? I don’t remember seeing you around here before.”
Taken as she was by this farmer, she answered straight away. “I’m from Market Drayton in Shropshire originally. Only been over this way a few months.”
“What you doin’ away from home, then?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Decided to try something new. My folks worked for the brewery.”
A look of surprise crossed Samuel’s face. “What made you come up to Derbyshire?”
“Me ma sent me to a cousin of hers who works in one of them factories in Manchester, but I didn’t want that so I moved on.”
“Well, those cheeses didn’t come from no factory.” Samuel turned one of them around in his hand, inspecting it. “Where are you living now?”
“A few mile down the road – at the Bakers’ place. Old Ma Baker has taken a fancy to me some and lets me take them little rounds of special cheese she makes to the markets.” Sarah grinned with glee.
They walked the rest of the way to the market side by side, heads nodding in unison. At the market Samuel went off to the stock area, she to the stalls. In the bustle of people, they lost sight of one another but not before they had agreed to meet again at the end of the day.
Sarah fell in love with Sam that very day. As the weeks and months passed they met again and again; their love deepened. She couldn’t wait to sneak off in the evenings to meet Samuel, giggling like a child; the thrill of seeing him was so great. They would meet in the woods or meander through the fields holding hands, listening to the gentle lowing of the cows, or wander arm in arm along the banks of the stream. Sam was so gentle, so loving.
She blushed as she recalled his soft touch and the way her body responded when his fingers traced the line of her jaw, down her neck to her throat and further down her bodice. Such thoughts aroused her even now. She tilted her head to one side, exposing her neck, moaning softly as her body remembered the way he kissed her, the words of love he whispered in her ears.
A whole glorious, loving year had passed before the idyll came to an end in the following spring.
She would never forget that terrible day when Samuel took her to meet his family in Stanfree – his father, Samuel Senior; his mother Elizabeth; and his youngest brother Joseph. His sister Mary made the tea in a large, black teapot and offered her fresh baking.
During a lull in the conversation Sam announced, “My Sarah and I are getting married. She’s expecting so I’m going to have to leave here to find work in Manchester.”
The silence was palpable and uncomfortable; many long, slow seconds passed before his father exploded.
“What do you think you’re doing? Getting that chit of a girl up the duff? She’s nothing. You’re ruining all our plans.”
“Whose plans?” Samuel felt surprisingly calm. He knew his father wanted him to marry the neighbour’s daughter so they could extend the farm, but plans change.
“You’re the eldest.” His father could not contain his anger. “It’s your duty to me to do what I say and build on what I leave you.”
“Don’t talk to me of duty.” Samuel gritted his teeth.
His father ignored him. “I didn’t spend all my time ’n money so you could read ’n write ’n do sums and suchlike for you to waste it on some common serving wench. Why, she’s not even proper country folk like us. What do she know?”
“Don’t you speak ’bout her like that.” Samuel, angry now, stood up. His chair crashed to the floor.
His father took two strides across the room and snatched the door open, his voice strident. “It’s my house ’n I’ll do and say what I like. I decide who comes here and who don’t. You …” he ordered, pointing to Sarah, “… get out.”
“If she’s not welcome in this house, then neither am I.” Sam let out a deep sigh, lowered his voice and turned to Sarah. “Wait for me outside, love. I won’t be long.”
Sarah quickly slid out the door, glad to be free of the tense air that pervaded the room, and waited behind the large oak tree as the argument raged inside. Samuel and his father were quarelling and shouting at the top of their voices. Some terrible, unforgivable words were spoken.
Then silence.
Sam appeared only minutes later with a bag over his shoulder. Without a word, he grabbed her hand. She needed to skip and run to keep up with his big, angry strides. As they reached the main road they met a man with his horse and dray heading south.
“Hello, Tom,” said Samuel, removing his hat. “Can we hitch a ride with you, please?”
“Course ye can, son. Hop on the back. How far are you going?”
“As far as possible.”
Sam’s churlish response effectively ended the conversation. Tom just shrugged his shoulders and drove on. For many miles they travelled without speaking, Sam deep in thought, Sarah patiently waiting for him to sort out his feelings. Finally, they reached a fork in the road.
“Gotta drop you here, friend.” Tom pulled up the horses.
“Righto, Tom. Thanks. Would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this trip to anyone.”
“None of my business.” With a shrug Tom flicked the reins. “Walk on.” Soon the sound of the turning wheels faded away.
“What we goin’ to do now, Sam?” asked Sarah.
“Don’t fret. I’ll take care of yer,” and Sam put his arm around her shoulder. “We’ll go to Manchester. I’ll get a job of some sort.”
“How long will it take us to get there?” she asked nervously.
“A few days, a week maybe. We walk some; we hitch a ride now and then. Does it matter?”
“No,” she admitted reluctantly. “I suppose not, but if we are sleeping rough or begging the use of a barn, no farmer’s wife is going to take me in if she thinks we aren’t wed.”
“Well, Sarah Green. I’ve been thinking.” Stopping in the middle of the track, he dropped his bag and turned towards her. He took her hands in his. “Will you marry me? Right here and now in this great open place, with only the birds and bees and God as our witness? We can say we is married to the world. Who’s to know right or wrong?”
“Oh yes, Sam. What a wonderful idea. Oh, Sam. I do love you.”
“And I love you, my sweet girl.”
Sam took her in his arms and kissed her deeply. On tiptoes she lithely reached up wrapping her arms around his neck. She could feel his body responding. Stumbling through the long grass, fumbling with clothes already awry, they celebrated their union under the trees.
They made their way to Manchester as Samuel had promised. Only a few months later, on a midsummer’s day in June, even before the baby was born, came the news that the old man had died. Samuel was convinced it was his fault.
He hurriedly returned to the farm where he learnt Joseph had married the girl next door. Joseph would inherit the farm. His ma had wept bitterly that day knowing she had just lost her eldest son, too. Mary told him there was nothing he could have done then and nothing he could do now. Samuel left, never to return.
Shortly after, in the autumn of 1836 their baby was born. Sarah remembered how Sam had rushed into the room, gathering her and the babe into his arms. He held them as though they were the most precious porcelain on earth. He was ecstatic; his eyes glistened with pride.
He had gently lifted the baby into his big arms saying, “I would like to name her Elizabeth, after my mother.”
Nothing was too good or too much trouble for his two girls, as he used to call them. They had little then, living in one rented room in a ramshackle lean-to affair at the back of a warehouse. After Elizabeth was born, events moved so fast Sarah felt swept off her feet again.
Samuel searched in vain for better work but Manchester was a hard city to find work in for a country-raised man. Factory work was readily available but after a short stint inside one of the tightly packed cotton mills, with the heat and noise and stench of stale bodies, he could stand it no longer. He despaired of finding something more to his liking when a letter came from his sister Mary offering a home.
My dear Samuel,
My husband, Mr John Meyers, has been offered a position in Liverpool as the Registrar of Births, Marriages and Deaths – a highly respected position, which he has accepted. His role entitles him to a house larger than we need, and knowing of your troubles, my dear brother, I explained your situation to my dear John. He and I agree that we would like you and Sarah and baby Elizabeth to share our home for as long as you need.
I hope this small gesture will be accepted.
Please let me know of your decision.
Your loving sister,
Mary
If Samuel was embarrassed by the offer he was prepared to put it to one side to give his girls the best life he could. He quickly accepted Mary’s proposal, moving soon after to Toxteth Park in Liverpool. Within a short time, Samuel found his job with the squire. By working hard he was soon promoted to coachman, his country life and skill with horses proving an invaluable asset. Life was good then.
Five wonderful years passed. They finally moved into a place of their own in Luke Street, their future spread out before them, when Sarah fell pregnant again. Sam was so very happy and solicitous. She smiled as she remembered how delighted he’d been when their second child was a boy, born on 18 April 1842.
Samuel was ecstatic. “I name him Daniel Sampson Adin.”
They were happy then …
The sound of Daniel crying woke Sarah from her reverie. “Oh, Samuel. What am I going to do without you?”
Samuel had complained about a headache when he rose that fateful morning only two days before. Not an hour later, he grasped his head yelling in agony, rose from the table, staggered and collapsed on the kitchen floor.
Nothing could have been done, so the doctor said. It was a brain haemorrhage.
She picked Daniel up, nestling him against her cheek and murmured gently, “My little angel. You and Elizabeth are all I have left of your da now.”
“Cooee,” called Mary, breaking into her memories. “Are you ready for that cuppa yet, Sarah?”
“Coming, Mary,” she answered, carrying Daniel along the corridor to the kitchen.
“Sit down there and see to young Daniel.”
Mary threw a fresh handful of tea into the teapot and poured in the boiling water, covering it with the cozy. Taking two cups from the Welsh dresser, she filled the cups, handing one to Sarah who sat nursing Daniel in the rocker by the coal range. Mary settled comfortably on the old carver chair at the end of the table.
“I know you’ll need to think about what you want to do, my dear, but I just wanted you to know that you and the children are always welcome here,” Mary told her gently. “You are a blessing to me and John. You may stay as long as you like.”
Sarah felt the tears of relief welling in her eyes. She had hardly thought about what might happen to her now that Samuel was gone. Suddenly she realised the future was secure.
“Thank you, Mary. You have been so kind to Samuel and me. I would be grateful.”
***
Chapter Two
Manawatu, New Zealand
1995
“Well I never.” Len, the youngest of Daniel’s grandsons, took another drag on his roll-your-own. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be.” Libby searched amongst the papers spread around the table. “There are some things I haven’t been able to find out, but one thing’s for certain – Daniel’s father, Samuel, came from Derbyshire. Here, see this.” Libby handed across a list of names and dates.
“And all the time we thought he came from Liverpool.”
“Daniel did. Or at least he was born there,” Libby explained. “There are still gaps. Probably always will be, but the facts speak for themselves. Samuel was born in the summer of 1801, in the tiny village of Lea. There were nine children in all. Mary was the eldest by two years. Samuel was the second child and firstborn son. Another daughter and son were born in Lea. Then in 1804, the family moved to an even tinier hamlet, Stanfree, near Bolsover, where the last five children were born.”
Looking around she saw the eager faces of the some of the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Daniel, the first of the New Zealand line. Libby leant over, pointing out the places on the map.
“What sort of farm did they have, Libby?” Len, now in his sixties, was keen to hear what they knew.
Libby smiled. Trust them to ask that question, she thought. Only dyed-in-the-wool farmers would ask about the farm rather than the people.
She was prepared. “I don’t know what sort of farm they had in Lea, but more than likely a tenant farm. The one in Stanfree was a dairy farm, and they certainly owned the land in later decades. They did quite well, by all accounts. The family built the house somewhere around the 1890s. Here’s a photo of the house in 1930 and again when we were there, showing the alterations. But I’m getting ahead of myself.”
The descendants of Daniel Adin sat around the kitchen table drinking tea just as they always had done. Different houses, different locations, but the tradition of storytelling around the table remained the same.
For Libby, it had started twenty-two years ago in the kitchen of the ‘homestead’ at Bainesse near Palmerston North when Daniel’s great-grandson, Ben, took her as his new bride to visit his nana. Every Sunday various members of the family would come to gossip the day away. It was a big room. In modern terms it would be called the family room; to them it was the heart of the home.
The room, warm in winter or stiflingly hot in summer because of the coal range, always smelt of fresh baking, roasting meats or soup simmering in the black iron pot. The old kauri table with its enormous turned legs dominated the room. Ruinously painted green and covered with a plastic cloth, it sat surrounded by assorted wooden chairs and school forms. The long, rolled arm couch sat squashed against the wall behind the table. In the far corner sat Nana’s armchair. Mix-and-match Crown Lynn crockery lay scattered across the table amongst some of their best English bone china. At the far end, the enormous double-door cupboard, with deep drawers and pullout flour bins, served as the pantry. Cluttered with miscellaneous vases, jugs, bowls and plants it hosted the large jar of lollies that generations of children had enjoyed.
Everything was old and well worn but cosy. Cushions and rugs were haphazardly thrown on the chairs. Hand-crocheted antimacassars and covers were everywhere – even on the sugar bowl and milk jug.
It was into that household – where his widowed nana lived, along with Aunt Ruby and the uncles Charles and Len – that Ben had introduced Libby, and it was in that same room and around that very table that she had first heard the stories of Daniel, the founding father of this large and complicated New Zealand family.
Libby remembered looking at the photos on the walls, asking about people she would never know but who formed the roots to her new family, listening to the stories of people long gone. Laughter rang around the table as yarns were told; roll-your-own cigarettes lit one after the other, the acrid smell of match and smoke filling the air. Another pot of tea made. Sometimes they’d talk well into the evening, sharing supper before going home.
There seemed to be so much history wrapped up in just a few dates and destinations. Yet it was obvious some stories were still to be told – or not to be told. Deeply held secrets lay hidden amongst the laughter. Libby had been fascinated. For years she listened to the tales, often asking Ben to clarify a name or place. Bit by bit she started to write down the details, putting families together and tying in dates, but years passed before she turned her hand to searching official records, digging back into Daniel’s history while on a trip to England. Now, many more years and many kitchen tables later, it was Libby’s turn to tell the story.
“Let’s wind back. With only vague leads, it was quite difficult to get started. I won’t bore you with all the details about searching census records and microfiche files, and dusting off heavy tomes in records offices. Going through them line by line, month after month and year after year, to try to find one name to lead me to the next step.”
“No, she won’t,” Ben interrupted before she could say any more. “Don’t get her started on that hobby horse, or she’ll go on for hours. But one story worth the telling is the day she went to the Matlock records office.”
Libby related her trip to the records office located in a very old building previously used as a courthouse or council room but recently restored and freshly painted white. Set back on an expanse of green, it had gleamed in the sunshine. “The lady in charge was a bit stiff upper-lipped as she showed me where to find the records to start with. Full of instructions about being quiet, using the gloves provided to handle some of the records and how to mark the place where I had taken down a file. I was almost too scared to touch anything.” Libby realised she was wandering.
“Anyway, that’s where I unearthed all this information. On my first day I soon found Samuel’s birth certificate and records for his mother and father. I didn’t bother to look for all of Samuel’s brothers and sisters, except I do know the youngest boy, Benjamin, died when he was about fourteen months old.”
Elaborating on the fact that the father’s name was also Samuel, she differentiated between them by calling one Sam Senior and the other Sam Junior. Libby pointed again to the map. “Samuel Senior was born in 1771, here in Alfreton. Not far away at all.”
By lowering her voice and leaning forward she had everyone sitting on the edge of their seats. She told them of her frustrations at not finding the right links when she returned the next day armed with a list of questions and how she had just about given up hope when she found two wills. The first one turned out to be his brother Joseph’s. Shortly after, she found a list of property titles. Her enthusiasm was infectious.
“The second will was the catalyst, though. In that old-fashioned place where everyone spoke in whispers and revered the history it held, this stranger from down under had the temerity to break the silence with a loud, whooping noise. I jumped up from my seat and ran about saying, ‘yes, yes, yes,’ as I went to get more records to search.”
Libby laughed at the memory. Everyone had stopped to look at her. There might have been only half a dozen people in all, since the place was so small, but they made it very plain an unwritten law had been broken.
“I clapped my hand over my mouth, mouthed sorry to the dowager lady behind the desk and quickly sat down again to read the tiny written words on the screen in front of me. It was the Last Will and Testament of one Elizabeth Adin.”
Libby paused, allowing the tension to build. “Not Sam Junior’s mother as I had expected, but a generation further on – Samuel’s daughter – Daniel’s sister!”
Everyone began speaking at once. They had heard a rumour about a sister, but nobody knew her name or where she lived. Cambridge, they thought. But that didn’t add up, they said. Another pot of tea was made and copies of the wills passed around to be marvelled at. The old-fashioned script writing and terminology was a bit hard to understand but everyone had to have a look. Questions were asked about some of the other names mentioned. What could they mean? Speculation ran riot around the table.
Once they had settled down again, Ben continued with the story of their visits to several cemeteries mentioned in the records and their not finding anything of real interest until they got to Bolsover. Around the beautiful old church with its spire and clock they searched among the numerous headstones with a growing feeling of despondency. So many were broken, missing or unreadable. How would they find anything here?
“All of a sudden, Ben called out to me. I knew he had found something important by the tone of his voice. I hurried over to where he was to see him staring at Samuel Senior’s headstone. It was set against the back wall behind the church, hidden under the trees. The inscription was hard to read as the concrete was very dark and stained by the weather.”
“I was quite overwhelmed,” Ben said quietly. “It was all very emotional, standing there beside the headstone of my great-great-great-grandfather.” Ben counted back on his fingers. “Six generations from him to me. It was so, um …” He paused, thinking of the right word. “… real. No longer shrouded in stories and myth, he really existed. It put everything into context somehow. And his wife Elizabeth is buried with him.”
Close by they quickly discovered several more family headstones; some were the sons and daughters of Samuel and Elizabeth, others were more removed. The headstone for Daniel’s uncle, Joseph, and his family was broken, but on finding the damaged section they propped it against the plinth.
Libby handed around more photos describing how they checked the dates and began piecing together a story.
She sat back, surprised they had talked for so long without interruption. This family was usually very garrulous. Getting a word in edgeways had been something she’d had to learn over the years, but everyone seemed really keen to hear what she and Ben had to relate.
“We went in search of the property in the records at Church Road, Stanfree. By chance, Libby spotted the sign half-buried under ivy growing on one of those stone walls. On the corner was an old stone house. As we went round to the front porch, we saw the name Oak House Farm over the doorway, just like in the photo, and rapped on the door.”
There was no answer so they wandered around the back to where a rather tired and weedy looking vegetable garden lay within the ancient stone wall that had once separated the house area from the farm.
“We knocked on the back door to ask what they knew about the family,” explained Libby. “Finally, a frail old man came to the door. When we said who we were, he invited us in to meet his wife. It was very dark inside with a low ceiling. The coal range burned brightly, bits of brassware, tankards and miniature horseshoes decorated the exposed beams and mantel, and an old scrubbed wooden table took up the middle of the room. They offered us tea and, just like we do here, we sat around the kitchen table and talked.”
“As it turned out, they knew very little,” said Ben. “They knew about the family and confirmed the house was once owned by the Adins.”
The couple at last remembered a neighbour was related somehow. Ben and Libby were soon sent a short distance to the yard of Yew Farm, another Adin property. Etched into the concrete lintel of the brick outhouse was the name: Vernon Adin Dicker. His mother was Joseph’s granddaughter. She’d handed the family name down as his middle name.
“We spent a couple of hours with the man and his wife,” continued Ben. “They told us many a tale about the area. Stories about the farm, the restrictions the European Union had put upon farmers like him, how badly the coal company had treated them when part of the house had collapsed, and they showed us schoolbooks from when there had been a local school. He’d have kept us talking for hours if he’d had his way.”
He’d even taken them to see his herd of cows – all thirty of them. Beautiful, very well cared for animals, each with a name. Ben had wondered how he made a living from so few cows, even with the EU subsidies.
But the upshot was the man knew nothing about Daniel or about any branch of the family being in New Zealand.
“In fact, he wasn’t sure there were any Adins left at all in Derbyshire. Some in Bournemouth, and one in America, maybe, but all too far removed and tenuous for us to follow,” finished Ben.
Libby showed a few more photos, as she expanded on the story that Joseph’s son George and then George’s son, another Joseph, had been local councillors. The family had once been quite important wealthy landowners it seemed. George had built the smart white house they saw in one photo as well as the row of terraced houses she’d found titles for.
“We’re famous,” she announced, “with a street named after us. Adin Avenue.”
Another photo showing a street sign in Shuttleworth, a similar village a few miles down the road, joined the circuit.
Chas, studying the copy of Elizabeth’s will, was confused. “It says here she lived in Chesterfield. Libby, didn’t you just point out it’s near Bolsover where this family lived? If she lived in Derbyshire how come Daniel was born in Liverpool?”
“We don’t know the answer for certain but we’ve got some ideas,” Ben cut in.
Libby simplified what she’d found. “Elizabeth was born the same year Samuel Senior died, in 1836. Census records say she was born in Manchester. Daniel was born some six years later. In the gap, the 1841 census was taken. It showed Samuel Junior back at the farm in Stanfree – alone. No wife, no child – just him, his mother and his brother Joseph. The same census shows Sarah Adin with Elizabeth, aged four, living in Liverpool with Mary and John Meyers, Samuel’s sister and her husband. We know Samuel returned to Liverpool because he died there only five months after Daniel was born. Unfortunately, Daniel doesn’t show on any census records at all. I’ve no idea where he was living between the time he was born and the time he left England. I can find his mother and his sister but not him. He was with the 12th (Prince of Wales’s) Royal Lancers for a couple of years, but I couldn’t find any official records of what he did while in the cavalry either. Can’t have been much – it was after the Indian Mutiny in 1860 and before the Boer War.”
“What about the mother?” asked Ruby.
“There’s very little about her early life, other than it seems she was born in Market Drayton, Shropshire, around 1811. I can’t find a marriage certificate for her and Samuel, but her name Sarah Adin, née Green, appears on Daniel’s birth certificate – along with her ‘mark’, which indicates she was illiterate. She married a John Winter in 1850 and became a publican, but now’s not the time for that story.”
***
Chapter Three
At Sea
July to November 1863
The ship rolled gently as it glided through the water, the steady breeze filling the sails. It was high summer, the weather at its best on this mid-July morning. Twenty-one year old Daniel, about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, filled his lungs with fresh sea air. Leaning on the rail thinking about his decision to leave England, Daniel watched as the ship, Helvellyn, set course for Auckland, New Zealand. Its master, Captain Dalison, could be seen on the quarterdeck talking to the first mate proudly staring up at the square rigging. They had initially sailed from Gravesend around the English coast to Dartmouth to collect the ship’s surgeon, Dr Asham, but now they were truly on their way heading out to open sea.
Below, the passengers set about their day as the morning light seeped through. The ship was not due in Auckland until sometime in mid-November but already, after only days into the voyage, passengers were forming into groups. The children ran around excited at the start of the journey, long before boredom would set in. Daniel smiled as two young boys chased each other.
“Morning, Daniel.” A voice broke into his recollections.
Daniel turned to see Old Joe walking towards him with a gait that spoke of his previous life upon the high seas. Joe was an old-timer from the California gold diggings back in 1849. He had sailed these waters more often than most, and knew them well, so he said, but having made himself enough money he had given away the sea and settled in New Zealand some years ago. He was returning after a final visit to sell off some land he still owned in Scotland.
“Hello, Joe.”
Joe finished filling his pipe as he eyed Daniel up and down.
Daniel tried to see what Joe was seeing – a young man of slight build, taller than average, certainly several inches taller than Joe, with a strong face and large, square hands. He hoped Joe liked what he saw.
Sucking on his pipe to make it draw, Joe asked, “How are you this bright morn, lad?”
“Just watching those kids reminded me of my young days and got me thinking about me ma,” replied Daniel as he ran his fingers through his wavy brown hair.
“Good thoughts or bad?”
“A bit of a mixture really,” Daniel shrugged.
“You got any other family?” asked Joe.
“A sister, who lives with an aunt and uncle and does a little teaching - and a stepfather who couldn’t wait to be rid o’ me.” Daniel sighed, his blue eyes fixed firmly on the horizon.
As he looked at Daniel’s profile, Joe decided to lead the conversation away from obviously unhappy memories. “You started to tell me about your army service afore but we never finished the conversation.”
Leaning on the ship’s rail facing out to sea away from Joe, Daniel remembered, “Yeah, I was with the 12th Lancers for a while.”
“I could tell you were military of some sort. Drilled into you.”
Daniel turned around putting his elbows on the rail, leaning back so he could see Joe better. “I quite enjoyed it in some ways, especially the horses.” He smiled at the memory. “The drill sergeants were tough blighters, though. We were all puffing and panting by the time they’d finished. Always doing some sort of drill: rifle drill, marching drill, riding skills, repairing lances, grooming our horses, cleaning our uniforms, kitchen duties – whatever they could dream up to keep us busy. Physical training camp they called it. Bloody hard work is what I reckoned. Me and some mates decided to take time out and, well, we got ourselves into a bit of strife.”
Joe’s dark brown eyes sparkled with laughter. “Why does that not surprise me? What happened?”
Daniel shrugged. “Got drunk one night and missed curfew. Was hauled up before the officers and got punishment drill: double time with full packs twice a day and our booze ration cut for the next week.” He grinned as he admitted his misdemeanours.
“So, what happened that you’re on this boat and not wi’ your regiment?” Joe asked between draws on his pipe.
“Couldn’t keep us down, could they. Once we were off punishment we went out and got drunk again. That’s one thing I can say about my stepdad; he bought my discharge, so I got out clean. I suppose I shouldn’t complain about him too much. He were good to Ma, it’s just we never got on. Winter by name and winter by nature. After my last bit o’ trouble, he told me to clear off and not come back.”
Joe, his face weather-beaten and deeply bronzed by the sun, stroked his beard. “I don’t know whether to feel sorry for yer or take yer fer a fool fer being stupid, but it’s a good story. In my younger days, I were a bit of a rebel so’s I can understand what could drive a boy like you.”
“Yeah? Anyway, I’m away from it all now. I read somewhere a parcel of land’s promised for every man who fights the Maoris. So, I thought, why not? What have I got to lose? Maybe my destiny is on the land.”
“Maybe it is, my boy. It’s a new country, there for the taking. Opportunities aplenty for them with a bit o’ nous and willing to work. Me, I got a little farm with an inn and store, about half a day’s ride south of Auckland. Real handy these days, as there’s lots of traffic, what wi’ the war and all.”
“That sounds grand, Joe. Bit of a business man, I see.”
A voice carried to them. “Come along, children; time for your morning lessons.”
Turning his head, Daniel saw the parson and some of the mothers trying to round them up.
Daniel smiled. “Ma always insisted on us doing our lessons since she’d had none herself. Almost too insistent sometimes, but she had promised my da, she’d said, so I’d better get used to it.”
Joe drew on his pipe, exhaling some smoke before answering.
“Learning is important, lad. Don’t ever wish that away.”
“I don’t,” he agreed.
Daniel’s thoughts drifted to the evenings when his ma would light the lamps and make a pot of tea. They would sit around the kitchen table listening to stories about the big house and the people who came to visit. He remembered her laughter, the stories she told about his father and what little she knew of his grandfather. He often thought it funny she would never talk about her own family, though. Never mind how much prompting he and Lizzie gave her, ‘No,’ she would say, ‘there’s nothing to tell. I left home so young, younger than our Lizzie here, that I know nothing about what happened to them.’ Her side of the family was now lost forever.
“I hear tell there are over a hundred passengers on board?” Daniel said, abruptly changing the subject.
If Joe was surprised he didn’t show it. “Probably right. Standard for this sort of tub. There’ll be around twenty up there in first class,” he said, pointing to the deck above with his pipe. “Another dozen in second class, and the rest, like us, ’ll be in steerage.”
“One day I want to be up there in first class. I bet it’s posh.”
Joe was more pragmatic. “Maybe so, but they’ll get there the same time as we do. An’ they have to put up with the same sort of weather, an’ the fresh food don’t last no longer neither. So it don’t make no difference.”
Joe knocked his pipe out on the rail, put it in his pocket and pulled out his harmonica. “Time for a song or two now, I think.”
His roughened work-worn hands wrapped themselves around the instrument. As he did a few quick trills up and down, a group quickly formed around him, some sitting on barrels, some on the deck, wherever they could perch. Daniel, who loved to sing, happily joined in, sitting cross-legged on the deck. The rest of the morning was spent in idle chatter and singing songs. Daniel’s melancholic thoughts were temporarily swept from his mind by the companionship around him. There would be plenty of time to think about his past – and his future – later.
* * *
On the first Sunday of the journey the passengers gathered on deck for prayers. It would become a regular event. The time when Captain Dalison, standing high above them looking resplendent in his uniform with its braids and buttons, would give them news of the week.
The news was not good: during that first week a man named Copeland had died of consumption. Daniel watched as the sailors made preparations for the burial, some sewing the body into sailcloth as others set up a plank, with one end across the rail and the other end balanced on a barrel, lashing it into place until needed. In the late afternoon the passengers and crew gathered to lay him to rest. The sailors lined up on either side of the body, the grieving widow and her children standing at a respectable distance behind the barrel. The other passengers stood in loose groups where they could, heads bowed, while the parson read from the Bible. With the final blessing two sailors stepped forward and unlashed the ropes. They pushed the plank further over the rail, lifting the end so the body could slide into the water below.
His bereaved wife gasped, clutching her two young children to her tightly in an effort to contain her grief. The whole process took no more than a quarter hour.
A few of the women stepped forward to comfort her, helping her below again. The remaining passengers moved respectfully to one side before disbanding to talk quietly in groups, the event leaving their spirits dampened.
Daniel joined Joe at the rail. “I didn’t know sailors were so religious.”
Joe started to fill his pipe, tamping down the tobacco. “They’re not. Superstitious more like. Did you notice the sailor who stitched up the body putting the last stitch through the nose?”
“No. Really! Why?” Daniel was shocked.
Joe winked. “To make sure the person is really dead, o’ course. It’s been known for the person to be woken from the dead, so to speak, by doing that. It’s become a ritual amongst some sailors now, like, to make sure first. Once the body be dead, they want to make sure his spirit goes to rest and not come back to haunt the ship, so they do a proper service.”
A week passed. The Helvellyn continued its journey south towards the Bay of Biscay, a wide concave sweep of water stretching around the western coast of France and along the northern coast of Spain. Between this land mass and the inconsistent prevailing westerly winds sweeping in from the Atlantic, ships had a long, 300-mile lee shore to negotiate. Unbeknown to the passengers, it was a treacherous piece of water that could easily becalm a ship, leaving it stranded or forcing it to seek shelter, delaying the passage by days. This information the captain withheld in the hope that the passage would be without incident, as it turned out to be.
Time passed slowly, especially for the men. Frequent arguments broke out over very little. A game of cards or two-up would often end in a fight sooner or later. Nothing serious, with no one ending up in the brig, but enough to unsettle the day. The monotony was broken for short periods by sights the passengers had never dreamed possible. Adult and child alike were in awe of their first sightings of albatross or dolphins or shoals of flying fish that leapt from the water and seemingly flew through the air.
Another month passed. The monotony of the journey was not broken again until the ship crossed the equator. The crew was soon instructing the passengers on the traditions of the crossing. The children were enthusiastic, but for the adults it was more important to know that the journey was a quarter over. Nevertheless, excitement is contagious, and soon everyone joined in the fun and hilarity.
“What’s this all about, Joe?” Daniel was watching as some of the sailors came out dressed up in fancy dress: dried mops for hairdos, one with a trident in one hand, others with cloth wrapped around their waists and slashed into strips.
“I told you sailors were a superstitious lot. Neptune is the old god of the sea and is always looking out for greenhorns – them as don’t know his ways, not having passed this way before. Neptune has to be welcomed aboard. So you either have to do a forfeit or make payment – alcohol is a good one. Real good.” Joe nudged Daniel pointing to one of the officers standing by the rum barrel.
Daniel nodded. “Wonder how we can get a cup or two without paying any forfeit,” he asked enviously. “What happens next?”
“It’s called a ‘world turned upside down’ as we pass from the north to the south. For a short while power goes to the underdogs. The captain there, he has to hand authority over to Neptune during the ceremony. Usually it’s the oldest or most experienced sailor what has the honour of being Neptune. He’s got to be respected by his mates, mind you, ’n know his stuff. New hands will be ‘tried’ in a mock court …” Joe demonstrated the quotation marks with his fingers, “… insulted and humiliated, and then sentenced.”
Daniel laughed. “I’m not sure I want to know, but go on, tell me. What happens?”
“Being shaved by Neptune’s barber is one of the sentences. Not pleasant, I can tell ye,” Joe said, shaking his head. “The shaving ‘cream’ is often a mixture of tar and oil and, if they don’t like the fellow, chicken shit too. Another sentence is the ducking stool.” Joe pointed to the rigging. “They swing a stool to the yardarm over there, tie the fellow on it and duck him in the ocean. The more duckings he can take, the louder is the boasting after, but he earns the respect of the old salts. Officers can avoid the ducking stool by paying the forfeit to the sailors in alcohol. Makes for a merry old time, I can tell ye.”
Daniel watched the escapades from a distance. He had no desire to be ducked. The mock court was held and sentences passed. Great hilarity prevailed. Laughter and curses in equal measure could be heard, despite the sailors being hard on their own.
They were gentler on the passengers, especially the children. Their ‘punishment’ was to try to catch apples floating in water barrels without using their hands.
For the men there was a contest of who could knock the other person off the slippery pole first.
Daniel joined in about the time the rum and ale was being generously passed around and more food rations given out. From seemingly nowhere a band was put together with a fiddle, harmonica, some spoons and an upturned barrel for a drum. Everyone partied, danced and sang, kissed and hugged, and drank until they fell asleep where they were – including Daniel, slumped against the ropes controlling the sails, taking him to a life he could never have dreamed of.
* * *
From then on the days melded into one seemingly endless day broken only by long, restless nights. Joe and Daniel would sometimes talk with the doctor as he kept a wary eye on his charges.
“If no infectious disease breaks out,” Dr Asham explained, “we won’t be quarantined – something to be avoided if at all possible. It’s much better if I can keep everyone healthy. Pity about the man we lost early in the voyage, though.” He rubbed his chin as if in deep thought. “But couldn’t be helped. He’d begun the journey with consumption, hoping that the fresh air would help and he would live long enough to set up a new life for his family. But it was not to be. Now I’ve another death. Mister Thomas Finn, already ill when he boarded, died this morning. He’ll be buried tomorrow.” The doctor shook his head.
“So how are the rations holding up, doc?” Joe eyed him warily, wondering if such a direct question would raise his ire, but the doctor seemed proud to tell him.
“I’ve been checking them regularly, and there’s still plenty of tea and hard biscuits and some butter and cheese remaining. I’ll release the dried peas and rice soon. It should make a good soup with some prunes and raisins added. There’s always salt pork and other meats stored in the barrels strapped below decks but very little in the way of fresh food now, I’m sorry to say. Most of what we had was either eaten at the Neptune celebrations or has gone off. We ditched some of it overboard, unfortunately. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am to join the captain for lunch.” Raising his hat to the two men, he strode off purposefully.
Days later a passing ship was of great interest. Joe and Daniel were among the people crowded against the rails watching its approach, waving as it got closer.
“They’ll be out wi’ the flags soon.” Joe shielded his eyes from the bright sun.
“What’re they for?” asked Daniel.
“Sending messages, boy. We won’t be able to get close enough to talk to them so if they can hold the boats long enough, the captain will use the flags. Tell them about the weather we’ve been through so’s they know what to expect. He might tell them about the two burials, so as the folk back home’ll know and the officials can keep the records.”
“What a magnificent sight these ships make when in full sail.” Daniel listened as the ship creaked and groaned, ‘talking’ to them as it came round into the wind to shorten sail and hove to.
“That they do, son. That they do.” Joe watched as the northbound ship approached.
The first mate barked orders to the bosun. Immediately, deck hands scrambled up the mast to alter the sails; the slackened ropes just as quickly coiled below. It was not long before Daniel could see a lone figure on the bow, signalling. The rapid movements fascinated him but all too soon the ship sailed by, and the Helvellyn continued its journey under an endless blue sky on an endless blue sea. The vastness of the ocean could be very frightening to those used to solid walls around them and solid earth underfoot, but not to Daniel.
Boredom was uppermost in their minds, and people sought whatever small distraction they could. Daniel enjoyed watching people, often catching a glimpse of the cabin passengers on the upper deck taking a stroll: the ladies with their parasols up to protect themselves from the harsh sun; the men standing about in groups talking and smoking – very overdressed considering the summer weather.
From where he stood, Daniel could see one young lady who had set up her easel to paint the scene before her. He watched the young men crowd around her, vying with one another for her attention, not that she seemed particularly attracted to any of them. Interesting lives the others live, he thought.
In steerage, the space was cramped and foul with stale air. Each day they were allocated fresh water for drinking but it was severely rationed. What was left over could be used for washing but there wasn’t ever enough. The smell of stale bodies was soon added to the oppressive heat but so far, at least, the passengers were healthy.
Daniel preferred to spend most of his time on deck. It was far too hot below, the nights almost unbearable. He enjoyed looking up into the night sky, studying the myriad of stars, or watching the phosphorescent light displays as the bow split the waves. One night the clouds obliterated his view of both, making him restless. The captain had told him the land to their port side was called the Cape of Good Hope. He hoped it would live up to its name, but it was not to be.
In the early hours of an October morning a powerful storm struck without warning soon after they had rounded the cape at latitude 44 degrees south. Daniel and the others were soon wishing for the calm, sunny weather they had considered so monotonous, quickly learning there was nothing quite so terrifying as being below in a storm.
The passengers in steerage bore the brunt of the bad weather. The hatches were battened down in an attempt to keep the crashing water out. Tossed from side to side and shut below in the fetid air, there was no let-up in their misery. It was dark, wet and foul. Fear built up like a living beast, spreading its curse as it grew. Children wailing and whimpering added to the tension.
Hour upon hour the passengers hung on to whatever they could to keep their balance, not knowing from one minute to the next which way the ship was going to move. Would it pitch up and down or roll from side to side? At times they thought it would tip over. At other times, anything loose sloshed along the deck to gather in a heap at one end, including anyone who had lost their grip at the moment when the ship rose to face the gigantic waves and crashed down again on the other side. Screams and curses rent the air. There was little conversation, each of them fighting their fears silently.
Mothers clutching their children huddled on every available bunk, desperately trying to calm their terrified youngsters. Many were seasick adding to the putrid detritus washing back and forth along the deck. Yet, in amongst all this mayhem, miracles still happened: a baby girl was born just as the storm abated.
Daniel felt exhausted. Hours of hanging on to something solid, lack of sleep and a general malaise had weakened his resolve. He admired the courage the women had shown through it all and was grateful he only had himself to worry about.
Most of the passengers cautiously regained their sea legs, managing to move about again. Whilst they put their backs into cleaning up the mess, their spirits were low. Strong winds and rolling seas followed them for the remainder of the journey. No longer was the air full of excitement. The conversation now was all about how to survive the remaining weeks.
At long last, a voice carried down to them from the crow’s nest. “Land ahoy! There she is.”
On the 11th of November 1863, New Zealand came into sight. The relief at having finally made it erupted into excited chatter and laughter. The passengers crowded around the rails, staring into the distance to catch a glimpse of the land they had travelled so far to see.
Joe pointed out the sights to Daniel. “Them islands are known as the Three Kings. Many a ship's been lost there when they got too close with the wind in the wrong direction. Shortly, we’ll see the cape at the far north of New Zealand.”