The Luminaries

might somehow present itself to him in writing. Then his gaze sharpened, and he said, ‘Hang on—Wells!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘This inventory says it was authorised by you.’
    Frowning, Wells stepped forward. ‘Let me see.’
    But Bill pulled the log towards him, away from Wells’s reach. ‘There’s a crate going to Melbourne,’ he said, scanning the entry. ‘It’s been loaded on
Godspeed
—and you signed for it.’ He looked up, suddenly angry. ‘What’s all this about?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Wells. ‘Can I see it?’
    ‘You’re spinning me a line,’ said Bill.
    ‘I’m not,’ said Wells. ‘I never signed that bloody thing.’
    ‘Your money’s in that crate,’ said Bill. ‘You’re sending your colour offshore, while you hop over to Hokitika to cover yourtracks, and when it’s all safe and sound, you’ll sally across the Tasman and make yourself over, tax-free.’
    ‘No,’ said Wells. ‘That wasn’t me.’
    The official flapped his hand, disgustedly. ‘Go on. Keep your bloody nugget. I don’t want a part in any scheme.’
    Wells said nothing for a moment. He stared at the dark shapes of the ships at anchor, the broken needles of light upon the water, the hanging lanterns, squeaking in the wind. Then he said, speaking carefully, ‘That wasn’t me who signed.’
    Bill scowled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t start. You won’t take me for a fool.’
    ‘My certificates,’ said Wells. ‘My miner’s right—my papers—everything. It was all in the safe at Cumberland-street. I swear to you. This man Carver. He’s an ex-convict. Served time at Cockatoo. He took it all. I have nothing but the shirt on my back, Bill. Francis Carver is using my name.’
    Bill shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That crate’s not going offshore . I’m pulling the inventory, first thing in the morning.’
    ‘Pull it now,’ said Wells. ‘I’ll take the crate with me—to Hokitika. Nothing’s going offshore that way, is it? Everything’s legal that way.’
    The official looked down at the inventory, and then back at Wells. ‘I don’t want a part in any racket.’
    ‘You’ll have done nothing wrong,’ said Wells. ‘Nothing at all. It’s only evasion of duty if you send it offshore. I’ll even sign for it. I’ll sign anything you like.’
    Bill did not say anything for a long moment, and Wells knew that he was considering it. ‘I can’t get it on the
Blanche
,’ he said at last. ‘She’s sailing first light, and Parrish has signed off on the cargo already. There isn’t time.’
    ‘Send it on after, then. I’ll sign a transfer right now. I’m begging you.’
    ‘No need to beg,’ said Bill, frowning.
    Wells came forward and placed the nugget on the desk. For a moment the thing seemed to shiver, like the needle of a compass.
    Bill looked at the nugget for a long moment. Then he looked up, and said, ‘No. You keep your nugget, Crosbie Wells. I don’t want a part in any scheme.’

PART SIX

The Widow and the Weeds

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