Shepherd's Delight

By Amanda Giorgis

Following on from the success of The Wideawake Hat, Shepherd’s Delight is the second book in the spellbinding Applecross Saga by Amanda Giorgis.

A fictional tale, set against the stunning scenery of New Zealand’s Mackenzie Basin, using true historical events surrounding the European settlers in South Canterbury in the late 1800s.

Someone is looking for James Mackenzie. Our hero is beset by dark thoughts. Worried that his past deception may catch up with him, and depressed by the death of his first true son. But, through thick and thin, his wife Sophia sees the good in everything and everyone, and together they are making a success of their lives at Applecross station.

Visitors come and go, some becoming welcome additions to their circle of friends, and some who give more pleasure when they leave. But, the final and unexpected guest, someone who has been searching for James Mackenzie for a very long time, will be the one who changes things forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Giorgis
• Release date: Aug 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9780473496111

Amanda Giorgis

Amanda Giorgis was born in Somerset, England. She emigrated to New Zealand in 2008 and moved to the beautiful Mackenzie Basin.Amanda writes while looking out onto the flat plains with snow-capped mountains beyond. It is a place where it is easy to find inspiration for stories of early pioneers, who made this unique place their home.She shares her home with her husband, Terry and three rescued huntaway dogs, Nemo, Jess and Ted, some chickens, who are more ornamental than productive, ten acres of wild garden and the dark skies of the Southern Hemisphere.When not writing, Amanda rings church bells and enjoys photography, gardening and finding out about her family history. On lazy days, she gets the knitting needles out.

Book preview

Prologue

Atewhai was frightened of the strange colours in the night sky. The young maori girl wondered if Ranginui, the sky father, was angry with her for dropping the water carrier on the way back from the stream.

Don’t worry, child, said her mother, Hinewai. There’s no need to be afraid. Come, sit, and I will tell you the story of the red lights in the sky. Atewhai did as she was told and climbed up onto her mother’s knee to listen to the story.

Her mother continued, Some people think that the lights are the flickering of the camp fires of the brave explorers, who sailed on past Aotearoa to see if there was a better place to live. They light fires to remind us to go to their rescue one day. But I like the story that tells us about the island we call Rakiura. It was once the home of Te Rakitamau, a chief who wanted a wife. He went to the home of another chief, who had two beautiful daughters and asked for the hand of the eldest daughter. She turned him down, and he was embarrassed by her refusal. But, not to be defeated, he asked the younger daughter if she would be his wife. She could not, however, accept his offer because she had been betrothed to another. Te Rakitamau left embarrassed and red in the face from blushing. The sunsets we see from Rakiura and the red light that goes on into the darkness remind us of his blushes.

So, Whaea, Rangi is not angry with me? asked Atewhai.

Hush, Tamāhine, replied Hinewai. What nonsense you have in your head sometimes!

1. The Delight (December 1855)

Captain James Shepherd pulled his soft-brimmed hat down over his eyes to shield his face from the cold rain coming at him sideways in the gusty northerly wind. His boots felt heavy with mud as he picked his way through the piles of autumn leaves, which seemed to be in the business of hiding dirty puddles of brackish water into which a foot could sink ankle-deep in seconds.

He was not used to this weather at all. Rain, yes, in torrents, but warm rain, turning on like a tap every afternoon and stopping just as suddenly, leaving the dusty roads streaming with ruby red water and steaming like a hot cup of tea.

James thought he would never again be back in the cold, damp countryside on the border between England and Scotland. He had fully expected to end his days in India. He had visions of seeing out his old age in a white painted wicker chair on the verandah, catching up on his bid to read as many books as he could before his eyes deteriorated to the point where someone else would need to read to him. Not that he knew who else would be there to do so.

He was feeling his age today, all fifty five years of it. He was finding it hard to come to terms with old bones and failing eyesight and the British weather certainly didn’t help. He had been a boy, well maybe just about a man, when his father had bought him a place in the 13th Light Infantry, soon to be stationed in Agra, India. He had never intended to become a career soldier. He had always wanted to work with animals, especially with dogs, but he realised now that he had been sent away to avoid the scandal of his affair with a girl from ‘below stairs’. A relationship which he thought he had kept secret from his parents. But, of course, he should not have been surprised when the normal tittle-tattle of the servants reached the other side of the green baize door and into his father’s study.

Army life had not, in the end, been hard for him at all, with only a skirmish or two on the Afghan border to his name before his persistent headaches were diagnosed as being caused by eye strain. His vision was deemed not to be up to the standard required for military duties, in particular, his sight restricted his ability to shoot accurately, so he was transferred back to barracks to see out the rest of his service behind a desk. There he had been issued with regulation spectacles to assist him to read and process the oceans of paperwork, which seemed necessary to run an army, but also seemed to give him an air of the intellectual. It often felt to him that his eyes had to work harder in this role than they would ever have needed to in the field, but it provided him with an easy and safe life, much of it being spent in the officers’ mess, or at endless cocktail parties, where elegantly dressed women tried their hardest to catch him. But none of them, despite their class and sophistication, quite lived up to his first and only genuine love. They were, in the main, shallow creatures, the daughters of generals, or, perhaps the worst of all, the supposedly chaste daughters of chaplains. For some years he had held the title of the most eligible bachelor in camp before a rumour circulated that he preferred, perhaps, the company of men. He did nothing to dispel that story in order to avoid any further unwanted advances. Although he did have to discourage the occasional subaltern who shyly questioned his availability to meet in some dark and secret corner.

And the years had gone by in routines which, though tedious, somehow never bored him. In precious time on leave he never once considered returning to his home. He preferred to explore the Indian countryside and meet some of the local people. There was a general mistrust of the British troops by the native Indian people, but he found that by approaching them with an understanding of their culture, he would often find himself made welcome to eat a spicy hot lunch squatting on the mud floor, pinching mouthfuls of rice, or warm flatbread between his fingers. His mother would have been appalled at the lack of cutlery and etiquette, and in a way, the idea of appalling his mother gave him a great deal of pleasure, after all, it had been her who had insisted on banishing him from home at an early age. By being prepared to do things in the way of the locals, he soon came to be accepted in the small community that had grown up around the barracks.

Almost unnoticed, twenty five years slipped by, and time came for Captain James Shepherd to resign his commission in favour of retirement. His release papers came with a ticket home on a packet ship to Newcastle. He chose not to make use of it. In the latter years of his service he had, with the help of some local men, built a modest house for himself. In the style of a colonial house with wide verandahs and steps up to the raised building, he was proud of his handiwork and saw no reason to relinquish it for a return to, what he remembered, as endless cold days and nights in draughty rooms back at the family seat. He expected his parents and sisters to be as cold as the weather in their reception too.

He had a modest pension and enough saved to live quietly in some sort of luxury. Grandly, he named one of his new rooms as his library and furnished it with all the books he had not had time to read in life so far. At one book a week, he thought he could live to at least eighty four without repeating anything!

His life, though solitary, was never lonely. Friends from the camp would drop by for afternoon drinks on the verandah and children from the nearby village would often call in chattering groups and sit around his feet while he read them a passage from whatever book he was reading at the time. Though they understood very little of what he said, their wide brown eyes would look up to him, mesmerised by the poetry and pattern in the words.

One hot afternoon the children dragged him, kicking and screaming in mock protest, to their favourite swimming hole for a picnic. He barely had time to grab the blanket from the back of his wicker chair to use as something to cover the dusty ground. He could now be found stretched out on this blanket watching as the children jumped and splashed and laughed and screamed as any children do in any part of the world when given the opportunity to play in water.

He dozed in the heat, relishing the sound of happy children playing around him. Strange and exotic birds called from the surrounding trees and bushes, and the constant hum of insects added to the orchestra. Suddenly, the sound changed to agitated cries. He was awake in an instant, sitting upright to see what was wrong. Taking in the situation in one glance, he leapt to his feet, threw off the light jacket that kept his arms from burning in the sun and ran towards the water’s edge. Two small boys were trying valiantly to drag an even smaller girl to the shore, but she was lifeless and too heavy for them to do much more than keep her head above water. James half ran, half dove into the water until it became deep enough to require swimming. As he reached the three, the boys let go of their friend and her little body sunk out of sight in seconds. He took a gulp of air and turned to dive head first into the depths. The water was clear enough to see immediately that her feet were trapped around long flowing weeds. No wonder the boys had been unable to move her. With strong arms he pulled at the weeds, taking them out by their long roots, and with one last tug, the little lass popped to the surface like a cork, followed closely by James, who spluttered and choked with the water he had taken in and the need for a deep breath of air.

It took no more than a few moments to get her to the sandy strip that surrounded the lake like a narrow beach where James, once he had shaken off the worst of the water in his hair and eyes, picked her up like a feather and placed her face-down across his knees. With a slap on the back he waited anxiously for signs of life. A second slap and her little body heaved in a huge breath of air, followed by fits of coughing and spluttering.

Some of the children had been to fetch help and he could now see a man and woman approaching. It was obvious from their anxious faces that it was their daughter who had nearly drowned. Mother scooped her into her arms and retreated to the village without a word, while father gave the Indian sign of gratitude that always reminded James of prayers as a child - hands together, eyes closed. And before James had time to breath in some fresh air in order to respond, they were gone.

There was nothing more that could be done here so he squelched and squished his way home to find a towel and some fresh clothes.

As he came back out of the house rubbing his hair dry with a towel he was greeted by Bert and William, two of his army colleagues who still had a year or two to go in the regiment. They carried gin bottles and a new parcel of books fresh off the latest ship from England. Drinks were quickly poured and the evening continued in convivial mood with smalltalk of army friends and of the newest arrivals of the female variety.

Whether it was the gin, or his unwanted swim that afternoon, but at some point in the evening James began to feel ill. Very ill indeed as it turned out. He remembered almost nothing of his friends anxious looks, nor being taken to the hospital inside the camp. In fact, he remembered very little for the next three days. Nurses came and went, doctors stood over him at times, but he knew nothing of his high fever and burning body.

On the fourth morning he woke to the welcome attentions of a pretty young nurse leaning over him to plump up his pillow. His first thought was that he had reached heaven, and it was a rather nice place to be. It occurred to him that the sense of smell was the first sense to recover, and it was bliss. A mixture of pale young skin, carbolic soap and eau-de-toilette. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. She was as pretty, in an efficient sort of a way, as her scent had indicated.

His fever had broken overnight, though he was still very weak and prone to bouts of shivering, which wore him out beyond any tiredness he had known before. The doctor suspected some water-borne disease from his spell in the lake. He had told his two friends a little about it, but not his part in saving the girl’s life. The doctors told him that they expected him to make a full recovery but suggested that the fever may well recur, something he would have to learn to live with.

It was another week before they allowed him home. It took all his strength to climb the steps to his verandah, and a rest was required in his wicker chair before making the next part of the journey to the library. A nurse came three times a day to tend to him, bringing food, which could be served simply and easily digested. He wondered if he would ever face rice pudding again after consuming nothing but spoonfuls of the milky mess for the first few days.

But, with the care of the nurse and good, nutritious and regular meals, he began to feel human again, and with long periods of sleep, a book always open, but often not read, on his lap, some kind of recovery was made.

One afternoon he was woken by the sound of several steps on the wooden verandah. He opened a bleary eye to see before him a proud and well-dressed Indian man, his beautiful young wife and a small girl of perhaps six or seven. The pretty little girl stepped forward with a plate laden with sweetmeats of all kinds and colours, which she held out to him saying, sank you, sank you. It took him a moment to realise that this was the girl he had rescued.

Her mother stepped forward and silently guided the girl by the shoulders as they withdrew without another word. Her father spoke to James in perfect English, May I sit beside you for a moment, Sahib?

James, somewhat surprised by the cultured language, closed the book on his lap and indicated a chair next to him. The tall, elegant Indian man nodded acceptance and took his place, sitting upright and proud on the edge of the seat. It was obvious from his clothing and demeanour that he was of high birth, not just one of the local village folk.

I came to extend my gratitude for saving the life of my daughter. She is a most precious child, and I cannot thank you enough in words for helping her. Especially, as it appears to have caused you some incapacity too, said the man.

James wondered at his educated words, and the look of amazement made the Indian man continue. My name is Ranbir Salimullah. My family has owned some mines in the north for many generations and they have acquired the wealth to be able to send me to England for my education. I spent some years at a public school in the county of Wiltshire and then studied at Oxford, returning when my marriage was arranged by my mother. My wife has a cousin, who is to be married in this village, so we are staying nearby. Our young daughter does not have an opportunity to swim in the hilly area around our home where the waterfalls are swift and not suitable for bathing, but she wanted to do what her cousins do and did not realise the dangers. It was indeed fortuitous that you were in attendance.

It was my pleasure to be able to help out, replied James, with a tilt of the head, but I only did what any man would have done. It is nothing.

It is indeed not nothing, as you put it, said Mr Salimullah. And I have a gift I wish you to accept in recognition of our gratitude.

As he spoke, he pulled a small red velvet bag with a drawstring made of leather strips from his pocket and handed it to James. It held something weighty, which James cupped in the palm of one hand, as if measuring the contents, before tipping them into his other hand. It caused him to take in a deep breath and exclaim, Oh my goodness, I cannot accept this!

Lying in James’ hand were five jewelled stones sparkling gloriously in the bright Indian sun. Four were obviously diamonds, transparent and cut to perfection, too big for rings, but small enough to make a necklace of some style. But the star of the show was the ruby, big as a walnut, glistening in the deepest red he had ever seen. It was enough to send little red light-devils dancing in the sunlight across the floor of the verandah.

I will be most offended if you do not, said Mr Salimullah firmly. The diamonds are of insignificance, but would perhaps make a nice gift for a lady one day. But the ruby has been in my family for many generations and I am very happy to be able to pass it on to you. It is known as ‘The Delight’, and I would appreciate you continuing to call it that. Of course, you may wish to keep it hidden away for now, until such time as you pass it on to your next generation.

Before James had time to tell his new friend that the diamonds were not insignificant at all, but there was no likelihood of a ‘next generation’ onto whom the ruby could be passed, Mr Salimullah stood up from his chair as if to leave.

Holding a hand out as if to stop James from answering, he said, Now I have tired you out and I must go with one final word of thanks. Please do join us at my wife’s family wedding tomorrow. When that is over we will make our way home to the hills, forever grateful to our brave British saviour. With that, he was gone, leaving James surrounded in coloured sparkles at the faintest movement in his upturned hand.

James had indeed attended the ceremony for a short time the following day, until the heady music and dancing had made him tired. Mr Salimullah accompanied him home, settled him into a chair and made his final farewells.

That had all been some years ago now. James had stayed in India, recovering well from his illness, but occasionally succumbing to the fever again. The jewels had been kept in their drawstring bag without anyone else knowing about them. Somehow James felt it was too private a thing to share, and he worried about leaving such precious items in the drawer of his dresser. Better that nobody knew about them at all and that they stayed in their place in the drawer amongst the old coins, broken pencils, a handful of tattered calling cards, some parcel string, a magnifying glass with a broken handle and all the other assorted detritus of everyday life.

His relaxed and easy lifestyle came to an abrupt end one hot and sultry afternoon, with the arrival of the postboy carrying a telegram from home. Unfolding the crisp brown paper James read, ‘RETURN IMMEDIATELY STOP FATHER DEAD STOP’.

He had over the years become used to his mother’s way with words, never wasting them on anything but the bare facts, but this just took the biscuit. Four paid words in order to inform him of his inheritance of the Shepherd estate. Punctuation marks come for free.

And so he had come to be walking this muddy lane in the Autumn rain. Surveying his estate, finding its boundaries and becoming familiar with countryside he had not seen for more than three decades. His mother had slipped into the role of dowager overnight, taking to her room for much of the time, only drifting down for dinner dressed in her widow’s weeds when absolutely necessary. Most evenings she preferred a tray being taken to her room. James felt like a stranger, made worse by the accusing stares of his sister, Beatrice, whom he barely knew. She had been ten when he left for India. He was pleased that the older sister, Agnes, now the wife of a country squire in Cumberland, did not feel the need to visit for more than the briefest of appearances at the funeral. Of course, he had not been able to reach home in time for that event, another sin for which his mother would fail to forgive him.

The only shred of affection he had found back at home had been from his childhood friend, Ned. Why was it he preferred the company of his commoner friends to his equals? Ned, now the head groom in charge of his father’s fine hunters, had taken him by the shoulders in a giant bearhug before shadow boxing as if they were young boys again. Strong, muddy-brown tea had been brewed in an old copper kettle over the stable range, and the old friends sat down with their battered mugs to catch up on the way their lives had gone since they had shared their formative years. It had not been long before the topic of James’ young sweetheart was mentioned.

Nay, she is dead and buried, my friend, said Ned, shaking his head. After you left, she left the estate too, soon after she went across the river to a big house, I think. I heard tell she caught the influenza, like so many folk that year. She’ll be buried over yonder, maybe. He pointed vaguely across the valley, but could not be drawn on any further details.

James’ walk today had turned into a mission to visit the local churchyards in search of a grave. He didn’t really know why he wanted so much to find her, but it was important for him to do so. His only real love. In some odd way he had hoped to find her in person, he imagined her sitting on her step in a rocking chair, knitting socks perhaps, or sewing some needlepoint. It was a vision he had carried for many a year. He doubted if he would find a headstone, but maybe a wooden cross with a name scratched upon it. He had been to two small chapels so far, walking much further than he had, at first, expected to do. And he was now feeling quite wet through. It would do him no good at all, and a fever may be the result of his adventures, but she was worth it.

The creaking gate was the only sound heard above the rain and he began his systematic search around the churchyard of St Andrew’s Church. Disregarding the family plots where fine stones told of generations of deaths of ‘much loved’ and ‘sorely missed’ folk, he went up and down the rows of more common graves. But the name he sought could not be found. There was nothing for it, he must return home to get out of these wet clothes and warm up in front of the blazing fire in the great hall before another miserable dinner with his miserable family.

One last walk back down the path where the tombstones were far too showy for a girl of her standing. But what was this one, a name caught his eye? A fine granite headstone standing proud amongst the gentle folk, upon which was inscribed exactly the name he was seeking and the following words :-

‘Died after a short illness in the year of our Lord 1843 aged 35’.

But it was what was inscribed beneath those simple words that set Captain James Shepherd on an entirely different mission. One of those moments when life changes direction in nothing but an instant. The writing was small and faded and covered in circles of yellow lichen, and his eyesight caused him to stoop closely to read what it said. He traced his finger over the words as if to be sure of what he had read, leaving a mossy yellow mark on the tip of one of his gloves. But it was with a spring in his step that James set off for home, no longer feeling the rain on his face, nor the soggy nature of the inside of his sodden boots.

2. Red Skies (2nd September 1859)

Red sky at night, Shepherd’s delight, Red sky in the morning, Shepherd’s warning, Sophia chanted the words in time to the bouncing of baby John James on her knee. The child looked back at her mother as if he understood every word, a wee bubble bursting on his lips as he digested his latest feed of milk.

But what, Sophia wondered, did shepherds do when the sky stayed red all day and night?

Everyone in the small community of Marytown, and those who had moved over the hill to live in the basin, were talking about the sky. Night and day seemed to be joined together with light and not just the usual light of day or the glow of the moon. Strange colours danced across the sky, greens and yellows towards the southern horizon with reds and purples overhead.

Reverend Job Nicol, whose wide knowledge of scientific matters would put him at odds with many of his fellow theologians, had read a report of the phenomenon before and was able to explain to his tiny flock of churchgoers in the basin that it was not a portent of the second coming, merely an aurora which caused magnetic deflections in the sun’s rays, rather like the colours seen in cut glass when the light struck it at the right angle.

Despite such logical evidence to the contrary, it was hard for the settlers to see any good coming from such an event. It was not natural or normal, and so it was to be feared. And why did the women find their hair stuck to their hairbrushes like magnets and occasional sparks flew out of clothing as it was removed, or a faint sting was felt as fingers made contact with another surface? None of this could be natural or normal. What demons were at