What happened to Ben

. . .as we are the Thirteenth Reinforcements we are doubtless the unlucky ones, according to the superstitious “13”.

Just over a year ago, I travelled across the European farmland that had a hundred years previous reverberated with the sound of mortars and machine guns. I posted here about my great, great-uncle Benjamin Lawn, whose fate was to die and lie buried ‘somewhere’ on the Somme.

On my journey I carried with me a poppy – the symbol that has come to represent the bloodshed and remembrance of the fallen. We in New Zealand wear these on our Remembrance day – Anzac Day – which falls on the 25 April and commemorates our defining moment as a nation at Gallipoli alongside our Australian comrades, although now all battles, including the wars that have followed the Great War are remembered. I had kept this poppy for five months, and carried it across the world for Ben.

Poppy image: Royal British Legion

The poppy, a seemingly fragile flower, nevertheless persevered and came to be the first to bloom again in the mangled farmland: it is a fitting tribute to the fallen. Travelling by high-speed train from Paris to Amsterdam and watching the fields of towering ripe corn shoulder to shoulder in the achingly bright sunshine was surreal: a million light-years away from the horrors that happened here. Seated in plush comfort and sealed behind the train windows meant I could not let that single poppy float to the ground, nor place the poppy anywhere: I kept it safe until we arrived in London later that month, 100 years to the day that Ben was killed.

But what exactly had happened to Ben was something that always eluded me as I wrote To Live a Long and Prosperous Life. Many years ago my mother wrote  to the New Zealand Defence Force, and enquired about what happened to Ben. I remember  seeing the report, and the horror when I realised he had died in the Somme. Yet this report was somehow mislaid and although we both seemed to recall that he was shot, or struck in the head, and that after he was buried the continued bombardment of the area meant his grave was unable to be relocated as all identifying landmarks were obliterated, the frustrating lack of accurate reference material meant that I was unable to write with any accuracy on Ben’s death. Ben’s Army records, now with New Zealand Archives, like other records, does not provide much to confirm or elaborate on his fate.

Papers Past has now filled in the gaps, with further releases of digitised newspapers. For the following excerpts I owe a debt of gratitude to the sleuthing skills of my cousin Peter Walker for providing this information. Peter also contributed significantly to Live Long and Prosper with his research on Ben’s brother John Lawn’s WWI service at Gallipoli.

The first excerpt is from a letter printed in the Greymouth Evening Star on 5th October, 1916. The letter was written two months earlier by Ben on 5 August – he had died on the 27 September. Just one week after this letter appeared in print his parents received notification of his death on the evening of the 12 October and his name was published in the Roll of Honour on Saturday 14 October.

Here, then, is Ben’s final letter home captioned by the newspaper as “Salisbury Plain Camp – A Reefton Boy’s Experiences”:

 

We have been in this camp since Wednesday week. At Plymouth all the people belonging to the place were at the station to see us.   They treated us well, giving buns and tea and plenty of it.  The Mayor of Exeter sent us a big bag of cakes each, with a card on each, on which was his name, and wished us a safe return.   We arrived at camp at about eight o’clock at night, and the first one that I met whom I knew was Andy McIvor. [Ben’s sister Dinah Lawn had married Sim McIvor, Andy’s younger brother, in 1912) When he saw me he said I had no right to be here.  He has not been to France yet.  I have been mess orderly and have not done any drill.  I hope they won’t keep me back from Ralph and all the boys on account of not doing drill.  We were supposed to have been off for the front seven days from when we landed, but owing to an outbreak of measles on our steamer, the Willochra we have been isolated for 16 days.  We had about 150 cases, and as we are the Thirteenth Reinforcements we are doubtless the unlucky ones, according to the superstitious “13”.   We get leave for three days and most of the boys are going to London.  I will, I think go to Cornwall to see Dorothy. [Dorothy James (born 1894), Ben’s cousin, daughter of his aunt Sarah née Lawn]  I expect to get there in about eight hours.   The distance is about 400 miles, and the trains do go some.  We travel at half rates.

We are not tied down so much here as we were at Trentham – we can go anywhere we like within a radius of five miles without a pass.   We can travel by motor, but not by train.   Ralph and I went for a walk and we got into some big fields and lost out bearings, and we did not arrive until ten o’clock at night.  We had to be in not later than 9.30 so we had to go before the commanding officer.  Nearly all my mates have joined the machine gun section.  They wanted me to join, but I think the infantry will do me.

Alas, the Infantry was to well and truly ‘do’ for Ben.

It was not until many months later that word was received about his fate, underlining how the not knowing must have compounded the grief for family and friends back home and how it was that ‘private’ letters and scraps of information were shared by the publication in the newspapers of “OUR SOLDIERS LETTERS” – the collective noun emphasising the sense of the entire community – and country’s involvement in this Great War.

In the first week of January 1917 William Nicholas (14141), who had been a driver for a carter on Buller Road, Reefton when he enlisted, wrote to his sister, (Mrs Rix of Greymouth) from “Somewhere in France”. This was a welcome letter, received nearly two months later, as he had previously been reported killed, instead of just seriously wounded.

Our company came out of the trenches a couple of days before Christmas.   We are billeted in a nice little town, and are having a good time.  Our Christmas dinner was a good one.  It consisted of roast pork, plenty of vegetables, and an ample supply of plum pudding.  All the Reefton boys were together.  Minehan, of Cobden, was with us.  He was not hurt, as you suppose, but is still going strong.  Among our company were Steve Hocking [Blacks Point neighbours of the Lawns, survived the war] and Pal McMasters. The former, having a job at headquarters, is done with fighting for a while.  Anyhow, he deserves a spell.  He has come right through the campaign without getting a smack.  Pal McMasters is in the band.  I have not met Jim Hannah, of Boddytown, but am on the lookout for him.  Our brigade was relieved for Christmas and New Year holidays, after a long spell in the trenches, and it was up to us to enjoy ourselves a little. 

Ben Lawn, of Black’s Point, was not with us. He, poor fellow, was killed while charging the enemy.  A piece of shell struck him on the back of the neck.  His death was sudden, but painless. 

It is a terrible experience to be under continuous fire.   Not much credence can be attached to the words of those who say they like it.   Those who talk that way have not seen much fighting.  I have been in No Man’s Land frequently, small companies having to lie down flat for six consecutive hours on the enemy’s wire entanglements, armed with revolvers, bayonets, and bombs; snow on the ground, and the night bitterly cold.  At present we are in the rear seven miles from the front trenches, drilling and route marching all the time.  There are many casualties from stray shells, but it is preferable to the front trenches.  Building dug-outs, and other kinds of work also has to be done.  Indeed, more men are hit in the fatigue parties than the front-line trench, but it is better for the reason that we can occasionally get to town at night.   One of Fritz’s aeroplanes will come over and discover some working parties; Fritz receives the report, the result being that the big guns are put on the spot.  Of course we do the same.  The efforts of the Huns to bring down our aeroplanes are often watched by our men with hilarious laughter and shouts of derision.  They will fire 200 shells without a hit.   Sometimes we have some close shaves.   Our chaps say, jokingly, that they would like to get a “blighty” – meaning a smack – just mild enough to be sent to England.  But they cannot be taken seriously, if one is to judge by the manner in which they race for cover when the shells are falling.

We are holding a very quiet part of the line now. The Somme advance, made by our boys a while back, was a hell upon earth.  The experience was a rough one.  It was in the very place where we are now that the Australians got chopped up terribly.  We relieved them when we took over these lines.  They advanced and took Fritz’s two front lines.  But Fritz was cunning.  He let a big dam go in the vicinity, flooding the trenches just occupied by the Australians, and as they clamoured out like drowned rats, Fritz turned his machine guns and shrapnel on them.  Even now dozens of them still lie out in No Man’s Land.  We send out parties frequently.  Forming one of these parties, I have had many peculiar encounters with Fritz.  One night we dispatched two Germans sitting on their own wire.  This was done through stealthily creeping along in the stillness of the night.  Our retreat to our own lines was very hasty and accomplished before Fritz in the trenches had time to recover.

Our rations are good. Porridge in the morning and bacon; good stew for dinner, and bread and butter and cheese or jam for tea.   In addition, if desired, plenty of tinned meat.  In the trenches a pair of clean sox are issued to us every morning.  In conclusion, I think we will all be home for next Xmas.   The Germans are beaten.  Lately the French have been giving them something to go with.   I hope to get a look at Paris before my return.  Reefton friends will excuse me for not having time to write.

(Greymouth Evening News, 3 March 1917)

Although Nicholas was nearly 10 years older than Ben it is clear that all the Reefton lads serving knew each other well, as later in the year he again touches on the death of Ben in one of his published letters home. (Nicholas survived the war and returned home in 1919, he died in Auckland in 1959).

Touching the death of Private Ben Lawn, a letter from Private Nicholas to his Greymouth relatives says he was talking to one who was near him when hit. It was during the advance at the Somme that Ben was hit. He dropped and never moved.  The writer does not know whether he was hit with a bullet or a piece of shell, but he was killed outright.  The boys were going to over to take a Hun trench, but on the way Ben was hit in the neck, and immediately sank.  This would be about September 27th.  . . Private Nicholas and his friends are still going strong, the latter wishing to be remembered to all friends.

(Greymouth Evening Star, 28th June 1917)

In September 2016, on the periphery of Hyde Park, under some leafy trees just beginning to lose their leaves in the stifling heat of late summer we stumbled upon a memorial to all the animals who have died in British warfare: from pigeons, dogs, to horses and even elephants, here represented in sculpture by two bronze donkeys, labouring to a carry a small cannon and cases of ammunition. Hugely moving, this memorial signals that so many men relied on their beasts of burden, yet their vital role is often over-looked. I tucked what I had come to think of as ‘Ben’s  poppy’ into bronze of one of the humble little donkeys, and left it there with the cacophony of the traffic wending its way around Hyde Park, and the hub-bub of shoppers pressing down near-by Oxford Street oblivious to the frozen tableau of the donkey, his shoulders straining forward, his head lifted, in eternaldetermination, as he steps up to serve.

An inscription on the wall reads:

“They had no choice”

 

UPDATE:

Recently I learned from a family member who visited that Ben’s medals are in the repository at The National Army Museum Te Mata Toa, at Waiouru.

Benjamin Webster Lawn’s medals. Image courtesy of National Army Museum (New Zealand)

I wrote to enquire about them, and the whereabouts of his ‘Dead Man’s Penny’ which was sent to the next-of-kin of fallen soldiers. I recieved this reply from them:

Dear Cynthia

The medals of Benjamin Webster Lawn are currently on display in our Medal Repository. He received the British War Medal and the Victory Medal. I have attached a photo. We do not have his Memorial Plaque, though.

The medals were donated in 1984 but I am afraid it is not our policy to release details regarding donors.

I would be intrigued to know if anyone knows who had the medals and subsequently donated them.

 

Following in their footsteps – part 4

Whitechapel – Spitalfields

On the final day of our trip, we were due to fly home from Heathrow 9.30 pm.  We had a whole day to fill before then, but of course had to check out of our accommodation first, and store our bags, before setting out to trace the final day of my 4 x great-grandfather Eleazer Hart, but in reverse.

From where were staying in Praed Street it was just a short walk to Edgeware Road Station, where we caught the tube to travel the six miles across to Whitechapel Station on the Hammersmith line. I had found using the tube in London was a great way to get around, although by the time we arrived at Whitechapel it was no longer the ‘underground’.  Having experienced earthquakes in New Zealand the constant rumbles and vibrations of passing trains, even three floors up where we stayed was quite disconcerting. Another thing I wasn’t quite prepared for was trying to find your sense of direction after emerging from the underground. Not to be recommended in the dark as we found out too late in Madrid, but that is another story.

So when we emerged into the early morning autumn sunshine I headed confidently across the Whitechapel Road and then realised we actually should have stayed on the north side. There were stalls and awnings set up the length of Whitechapel Road, selling clothes, fruit and knickknacks, by this time we were by the Royal London Hospital. We had to risk our necks and dash across the road, then figure how to get through the stalls to the footpath beyond again.

Whitechapel Road looking north. ( credit: Google Street View)

We quickly realised that the area was now a Muslim neighborhood, women pushing prams wore headscarves and long skirts or traditional kabuli trousers; one or two in full burka. There seemed to be every skin-colour from milky coffee to ebony, representing a range of countries of origin for the forebears of these people: Morocco, Algeria, Nigeria, Egypt just some of the diversity. This was of course a transformation from what had once been the Jewish quarter, 150 years ago, full of long-established families and new immigrants, from across Europe: Germany, Poland (Prussia) Russia, Spain and Portugal. As Kiwis from a provincial town we felt just a tiny bit out-of-place; some people seemed to stare, but maybe they just thought we were lost tourists.

We were headed to Brady Street, where we had arranged to meet the caretaker of the cemetery where Eleazer Hart was buried. Brady Street was called North Street in the 1850s and before that Ducking Pond Lane. Goodness knows what sort of things used to go on in this area when it was just fields, lanes and trees in the Middlesex countryside; the original name hints of superstition and witchcraft.

Brady Street is a tiny, narrow street, the entrance from Whitechapel Road on one side is marked by a gleaming green glass multi-storied Idea store, and behind that, a Sainsburys supermarket, so incongruous to everything I had read about the historic Whitechapel. As we passed down the narrow street opposite the supermarket came the sounds of laughter as teenagers gathered at Swanlea Secondary School, girls giggling in headscarves and boys racing their friends into the glassed foyer of the school, tucking away their cell phones, late for classes. This link to another blog about Brady Street shows an old map of Whitechapel with a coal depot where the school now stands, another shows a manure works on the site.

The narrow street widens a little, and gives way to brick buildings; lovely old Victorian almshouses and more recent brick apartments overlook the quiet street lined with leafy trees. A high brick wall, with more green trees beyond, is the only sign of the cemetery, passing a more recently built brick apartment building, the passerby will see a driveway and metal gate (NO PARKING) beyond which are tall timber gates. A single gnarled and broken, but well-pruned oak tree has been allowed to remain at the kerb, neatly surrounded with a wooden planter, probably one of the original trees in the area.

Image from Google Street View of the entrance to the cemetery. ( credit: Google Street View)

A small plaque discreetly shows that this cemetery is still revered in the Jewish community. It has been a constant for over 250 years, unlike some of London’s other burial grounds that have been quietly reclaimed as prime building land. The cemetery here was originally supposed to close about the time of Eleazer’s death in 1857, but was given a royal reprieve from the Queen. Because of recent burials in the late 20 century the site is guaranteed to be preserved for at least another 100 years. The cemetery has some important graves including Nathan Mayer Rothschild (1771 – 1836) and his wife Hannah. Nathan Myer founded the British branch of the Rothschild banking dynasty. A list of internments can be found at Cemetery Scribes.

Stepping through the gates we were suddenly surrounded by hush: school was in and the shrieks and laughter subsided. Leaves were beginning to fall, but there were still shade cast by the trees.  Blackbirds were singing high in the trees. Just inside the gate a low wall illustrates how in the mid-1850s an extra layer of earth was mounded in the centre of the burial ground, to allow more burials and raising the ground level by a metre or more.

I quickly found Eleazer’s grave – the cemetery was not large, but somehow I was drawn to the southern side and of course I had already seen photographs of the stone. I was startled to realise that Eleazer’s grave, dug when the extra mound had been added in the centre of the burial ground was actual on the lower, outer area. Was this because he was buried with his wife Sarah, who had died 17 years earlier?

Eleazer Hart’s headstone with the ‘Hands of Cohen’ symbol which shows he was from a male line of Cohanim; traditionally called the ‘priestly tribe’ of Levi.  Researching this symbol and the associated blessing ‘Live long and Prosper’ gave me the title for my book: To live a Long and Prosperous Life

 

‘Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home. . .’

A beautiful, peaceful place, a little oasis of nature in the midst of one of the largest cities in the world, yet it was just us and the long-dead there. As I contemplated the headstone, I noticed a ladybird had alighted and trundled industriously across the pitted surface. ‘Fly away home’ I thought as she raised her scarlet wing-covers and extended her shiny black wings before zooming away – soon we would be flying home too. I felt a little sad remembering how Eleazer had been on his way home too when he died. A new book has just been published featuring beautiful images across the seasons of Brady Street cemetery and another old Jewish cemetery; Alderney Road: make sure you check out Louis Berk’s blog.

We then retraced our steps to Whitechapel Road and made our way through the quiet back streets towards the city, to find the former White Lion Street, now Folgate Street. This is about a mile away, an easy twenty-minute walk. As ever on this trip, I was astounded by how close everything was – somehow living in the Antipodes so far away from these historic places I have a sense of smallness – that somehow all these great places will be great in size as well – but they are quite compact, and the locals stroll about seemingly oblivious to the immense numbers of people in history that has passed the same way. The back streets are full of surprising and impressive street art, something that would have bemused the Victorians in their grimy, smog-laden slums.

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Folgate Street on the corner of Commercial Road: this was the addition to White Lion Street that was built to connect to Commercial Road. The Peabody Buildings in the background were designed as new housing to replace some of the slums that were notorious in the Spitalfields.

White Lion Street used to end where the white building meets the lane (once Wheeler Street, but now part of Lamb Street).

It was from Wheeler Street that Eleazer Hart had an entrance to his Rag Merchant business, with warehouses, access for horse and wagons and to the rear of his house which was at 20 White Lion Street. Folgate Street now has different numbers, so the Hart home was situated at about where 44 Folgate Street is today.

This was a strange experience, walking on the street where Eleazer and Sarah Hart had their family, where my great, great, great-grandfather, the elusive and enigmatic Nathaniel Hart had likely played as a child with his siblings, and where their mother Sarah had died.

Cobbles of the former Wheeler Street under my feet

Their house has gone, replaced with a brick and white plastered building, now probably exclusive and expensive apartments.  But further down this little, very short street there are buildings that were there a hundred years before the Harts moved in: part of Spital Square, where Huguenot weavers plied their trade in silks and satins, including weaving of Queen Victoria’s coronation robes. 

Weaver’s Houses Folgate Street

Folgate Street looking towards Commercial Road

The little pub once called the Pewter Platter (now the Water Poet) played host to rousing addresses given by Chartists: men who hoped to inspire the hundreds of workers who laboured in the Spitalfields to demand the right to vote, it also fed and ‘watered’ people tired and thirsty after a hard days work. It was scarcely lunchtime, but we were tired and thirsty so went in and availed ourselves of their custom, managing to knock back some good ale and good British pub grub: Steve had bangers and mash, and I finished with a Eton Mess.

 

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Towards London Town

Replete from our repast, we staggered onwards. At the end of Folgate Street you are confronted with vast towers of glass and steel, now standing in the place where Eleazer Hart first started his Rag Merchant business along with Joseph Lee in Primrose Street. Modern commerce and history clash. Turn left and walk down Norton Folgate (the A10) and the architecture is amazing; ‘the Gherkin’ (30 St Mary Axe) gleamed in the sun like a fabulous Arabian jewel. It was just another mile (1.6 km) to our destination. I was astonished to realise the heart of the City of London was closer than the distance of my home to downtown Timaru, an easy Saturday morning stroll for coffee.

The Gherkin from Norton Folgate

Further on down Bishopsgate we saw other distinctive buildings such as the ‘Cheesegrater’ and the  ‘Walkie Talkie’ both designed with sloping faces to give unobstructed views to St Pauls Cathedral. I couldn’t help thinking what the former inhabitants of the area would have thought of these astounding constructions, the sheer enormity of them makes you feel very, very small.

‘Walkie Talkie’ building – designed not to obstruct classic views of Old St Pauls.

Once upon a time the spires and domes of the churches were landmarks from which Londoners took their bearings, the chimes of their bells marking the passage of the day. Now these massive glass and concrete buildings dwarf and hem in the modest stone and brick churches, their spires diminished in grandeur and their walls squeezed so close it seems sacreligious. We reached Gracechurch Street and a few steps later could see down Fish Street Hill to the monument to the Great Fire of London, once another tall landmark almost buried amidst the higher buildings that have sprung around it.

Monument to the Great Fire, the spire of St Magnus beyond.

 

Crossing Eastcheap we walked past the monument towards the Thames. It surprised me how high we had been, and that the descent was steep – to our right the approach to London Bridge was higher so that when we came out at Lower Thames Street you could see that we would need to climb higher to cross the bridge. Ahead of us was the church of St Magnus the Martyr, with its arched porch and clock. This small street was once large and the direct approach to the bridge. Pedestrians crossing the bridge passed through the archway on the church porch, avoiding the wheeled traffic grinding past. It was here that Eleazer’s body was laid and his inquest was held on the afternoon of his death.

St Magnus the Martyr. This was once the approach to London Bridge. Beyond is another new icon of London ‘The Shard’ which is in Southwark on the other side of the Thames

To get onto London Bridge we had to back-track past the monument, and soon found ourselves gazing into the river. The present-day London Bridge was built during the 1970s. The previous one was sold and shipped to America (they probably thought they had bought Tower Bridge). The stone-arched bridge that was there when Eleazer died had been built in 1825, and the remnants of the ‘original’ London bridge were still visible for some time.

Demolition of Old London Bridge in the 1830s looking towards St Magnus (the Great Fire Monument beyond), and the ‘new’ bridge to the left. (credit: Stephencdickson)

Access from the riverbank to the bridge was through three flights of steps, still in place for many years as can be seen in old photographs.

London Bridge in the 19th Century showing the steps alongside. (credit: Cornell University)

The steps were to be the death of Eleazer. Rushing to catch his train back to Portsea on the far side of the bridge, the climb up was too much, and he collapsed and died.

Details of his last moments were recorded by the coroner, with witness statements written in a form of shorthand. Luckily these documents are from just a handful  of reports that survive today in the London Metropolitan Archives. These were kindly photographed for me in 2013 by a kind member of the online forum, British Jewry.

It took me a couple of weeks to transcribe the coroner’s shorthand:

Henry Huttle City Police Officer 577:  about 5 minutes to 6 this morning I was in King William Station and I saw the deceased just by the top of the steps leading down to King Station on the lower side of the bridge. It appeared as if he had come to the top of the steps and he fell forward immediately. I saw 2 men lift him up and I went up to them they left him in my hands and I got a cab and took him to Dr Smiths in Fenchurch [?] Street he pronounced him dead. I saw him fall. No-one pushed him or knocked him down. I brought him for S Turks[?] of the church. When he was dis(covered?)  he had 2 books on eating fish, and the basket a whiting [cod], he was carrying them

Henry Balls  26 George St, Kent.  The cabman: I saw the deceased in the station and saw one person with him.  I thought he was in a fit  I took him to the doctors in my cab   I then got him to the church entrance[?] I did not see him fall

Michael Hart, 112 Middlesex St, Whitechapel, Islington: The deceased was my brother. His name is Eleazer Hart. His age [ is] about 70. He was a gentleman. He lived at 47 St George Square, Portsea. He left me at 10 minutes upon 6 this morning at St-Mary-at Hill.I gave him one fish: his basket. He was in a great hurry to get to the 6 o’clock train at London Bridge to get him to Portsea. His health was good before this but he was taken occasionally with palpitations of the heart and gout.

[coroner?] The running up the steps caused apoplexy him.  I have seen him. This is my [observation?] sub[sequent?] of struck first on his cheek bone from the fall. I show by this his death was probably natural  [added note in pencil:  he has been in town for the week.]

Sworn before H Payne coroner

So now I stood and looked at my feet as I stood on London Bridge and thought of Eleazer’s cheek meeting the ground as his breath left his body for the last time, and how he, a Jewish gentleman, was gathered up and laid out in a Christian church while the coroner recorded his final moments from the witnesses, including his brother Michael Hart. I thought too, how I had written about the end of Eleazer’s life in To Live a Long and Prosperous Life (p96-97) and had wanted to see for myself where he died alone, yet surrounded by hundreds of strangers on one of the busiest thoroughfares of London – and now I was finally here and it all seemed surreal.

standing on London Bridge

From London Bridge looking towards Tower Bridge. The metal structure in the foreground are the new spiral stairs installed in 2016 leading from the top of the bridge to the riverside path.

I was too late to walk the old stairs, demolished just a few months earlier. They suffered from ‘a poor environment which can cause which can cause antisocial behaviour issues’ according to a report of the opening and the actual river bank can no longer be reached either.

Under London Bridge looking up-river to the rail bridge. Beyond is the square brick tower of the Tate Modern – the former Bankside Power Station

Just a bit further along the bank, the old Billingsgate Fish Market, which once reeked of fish guts and blood, was now reincarnated as an elegant fish restaurant. In the outside eating area waiters in long black aprons were clearing away tables from the lunchtime service with crisp white tablecloths flapping in the breeze and seagulls hovering expectantly for scraps. This was where Eleazer had met his brother Michael that morning, to get a fish to take home for his supper.

What would they have made of the transformation of this area into genteel fine-dining and ambient strolling? The only thing unchanged (apart from the gulls) was the massive grey, oily Thames, silently roiling past us towards the sea, turning and glistening undercurrents gave an impression of animal strength – a living thing. The same river that had carried Eleazer’s son and daughter-in-law Nathaniel and Dinah and their young family when they sailed to New Zealand 152 years earlier, full of excitement for their new life – or aching for those familiar faces and places they were leaving behind. Their voyage took three months. We, too, were setting off to New Zealand later that night: it would take us less than thirty hours to complete our journey. My journey to walk in their footsteps had come to an end. Time to fly away home.