“Only Old Boys in this match,” said the one named Mountjoy. “Those are the rules. And look at the man. Surely, Masterson, you wouldn’t want our team to be represented by a tramp…”
“If he knows how to play I would,” said the irrepressible Masterson. He winked at Frank. “I’m sure he was a cricket player and a gentleman before he was a beggar. A veritable W.G. Grace by the size of him and the beard…”
In response, Frank retreated a few steps, took a run and threw the ball high into the air, watching as it faded towards the inner field, where it was caught by another of the Old Boys, whose team members yelled out their appreciation. The two runners for the First Eleven were doing their bit, running between wickets, tapping the creases at each end with their bats; an Old Boy caught the ball and hurled it at the wicket, knocking the bails off the stumps; whoops and cheers echoed across the field, accompanied by the ref’s voice: “Out!”
Mountjoy glared at Masterson, turned and stamped back towards the pitch.
“Sorry,” said Masterson, looking apologetic. “Mountjoy is a first-class chump. He thinks because he’s new out from England…technically he’s not even an Old Boy himself. He landed on us a few days ago and Reverend Harvey took him on as a house tutor, because he went to Harrow, and his grandfather …”
“Never mind,” said Frank. “I don’t usually dress like this, but I’ve had an adventure on the river and my clothing has suffered for it.”
Masterson looked him up and down. “Do you need a bed for the night?” he asked. “No questions asked, I promise. My cottage is on the school grounds. Sit with our side until the end of the match and then come back to my place for a meal and a bed. And shoes, perhaps. You look as if you could do with something to put on your feet. Those socks are almost worn through. I probably have an old pair of shoes that would fit you, and socks of course. As you can see, although I’m not as tall as you, I do suffer from very large feet.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind Mr.…Masterson, is it?”
“Reverend Masterson,” said his benefactor. “John. I teach Latin at the school, perform the occasional wedding or funeral, and take care of the rose garden in my spare time. Not really an Old Boy, but they tolerate me because I’m good with the bat. Most of these chaps are decent enough. Don’t pay any attention to Mountjoy. He’s a fool.”
Frank watched as the last minutes of the game played out. The First Eleven won without much of an effort, despite the assistance he’d given the Old Boys. The men took him into their midst as if they had known him all their lives – except Mountjoy, who continued to either ignore Frank or scowl at him as if he was a hated rival.
Frank had recognized him, both his name and his face. And he knew who his father was as well. This…fool…was the son of Colonel Mountjoy, the very man who’d been upset by his presence at the South Sea Hotel. He remembered Mountjoy interrupting his own discussion with the proprietor, complaining about the state of his son’s room, and then boarding a coach with his son. For some reason the sight of Frank standing at the desk had thrown the colonel off and he had not pursued his complaint. The son had clearly inherited his father’s rude nature, but what had he done to set them against him? Was it his lack of status, or were they rude to everyone equally?
He stared at the man, barely a man really, probably no older than Paul and Jens, the two boys who had vanished in the Manawatu River back in July. He was dark-haired with intense brown eyes. A handsome fellow if he could just do something about the nasty sneer that had taken up permanent residence on his face. Something about him was familiar though. What was it? More than just the brief encounter at the hotel. Even then, although he’d not thought much about it, he’d felt a twinge of recognition.
The men were to have a photograph taken while there was still light, and as he watched the young man interacting coolly with the rest of the team he realized who the man resembled. Will, his own brother Will, murdered by the Hauhau many years ago.
His brother Will had belonged to the same regiment as Frank, the Die Hards, the 57th Regiment, when they saw action during the Taranaki Wars. Will had run into trouble with his corporal and rather than take the consequences had defected to the enemy. The result had been that the enemy had beheaded him and displayed the head on a pole across the river from where Frank and his men were bivouacked; Frank had spent some time obliterating the awful thing with shots from his Enfield rifle musket.
It was an awful memory and he was sorry to be reminded of it by this churlish young man. Like Mountjoy, Will had been a young man with a grudge against the world in which he found himself. But he directed his ire at those above him, rather than those beneath him on the social hierarchy. Of course, Will and Frank were lower status than Mountjoy, but that should no longer matter in New Zealand, a country where every man was equal to every other man and any citizen over the age of twenty-one had a vote. Recent immigrants were buying land and accumulating wealth regardless of where they came from; Pieter and Maren were good examples of that.
He was still thinking about his brother as the two teams of young men lined up three deep to pose for a photograph taken by Reverend Masterson, who apparently had more skills than simply Latin and cricket. Frank had never had his own image captured and he stood behind Masterton to watch. Some of the young men in the First Eleven struck a pose, cricket bats over their shoulders, and one lay down in front of the group, his bat propped up at right angles to the ground. Masterson held up one hand, and the men froze in those awkward positions for several seconds, while Masterson slid the plate into the back of the camera. Three or four seconds later it was done.
“Stand down,” Masterson called cheerfully. “Now the Old Boys…take your places…” He said quietly to Frank, “This lot will be much more difficult. They’re much more concerned about how they’re going to appear to future generations.”
The Old Boys sorted themselves into rows, laughing and jostling, each arranging himself in the most flattering position, some with thumbs hooked into vest pockets, others standing in profile to capture their good sides for eternity. Mountjoy had no such qualms, but stood with his shoulders squared, staring at the camera unsmiling, reminding Frank once more of Will when he was unhappy about something. He shook his head, wondering why some men could never be pleased with their lot in life, even when it was such an elevated one. This young man had even less reason than Will to be unhappy.
Frank and the reverend shared a bachelors’ meal: some cold slices of mutton and a large chunk of three-day old bread, washed down with several glasses of ginger beer, which Frank was starting to enjoy almost as much as the real thing. It had been some time since he’d tasted anything quite so delicious. Nothing like abstinence to improve the taste of food.
He discovered a common background with the reverend, who had grown up near Farnham in Surrey and been schooled at Rugby. Frank had trained at the Aldershot Garrison, not far from Farnham, before being sent to Crimea as a lad. And his father’s employer had sent his sons to Rugby, the public school made famous by Thomas Hughes in a book published shortly after the end of the Crimean War. Masterson had been there later than the two sons, but thought he’d heard of them. He and Frank also shared an interest in the use of force and how it contributed, or not, to the British role in the world. The reverend though religion was the key to change. Frank was not so sure.
Frank brought up the recruits he’d seen on the parade ground at Cook’s Gardens earlier that day. “If Titokowaru or another Hauhau rebel were to return to Wanganui those men would be next to useless,” he said.
“It’s not likely to happen, though, is it?” asked the reverend. “Things have been quiet here for almost a decade. The volunteers are just for show, don’t you think? To keep the natives on their toes?”
“Things are still shaky in some parts of the country,” said Frank. “An old captain of mine who lives up in Gisborne wrote to me saying they’d recently had a scare with Te Kooti. They called in the volunteers and waited a
ll night on the barricades, then discovered they’d been given false information. Te Kooti was still in the Ureweras and not on the way to slaughter them all in their beds. Just nervousness, I’d say.”
“I hear that Titokowaru has turned to peace and preaches tolerance and the union of our two peoples,” said Masterson. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? They’re a god-fearing people now, the Maori.”
Frank nodded, thinking about Anahera. It was true that many warriors had turned to peaceful means, but not all of them. He’d seen Anahera praying, and couldn’t believe that meant he’d turned away from revenge. It was more likely that he was using prayer to calm himself for the fight, or to ask for God’s help in his battle. How he felt about Frank was another matter.
Masterson interrupted his reverie to ask if he’d like to watch him develop the photographs of the two teams, but Frank yawned and said he was tired. He was interested in photography, in any new inventions, but he didn’t need to learn the minutiae. He couldn’t imagine he’d ever have need of a photograph. Perhaps one of Mette…
He left Masterson in front of a small but ferocious fire, contentedly smoking his briar pipe. Everything was for the best in this best of all possible worlds for Masterson.
After a difficult night on a monastically hard bed that was several inches too short for him, Frank awakened early the next morning. He was up before the birds but not before his host, who was ready with strong tea, bread and marmalade, and a selection of boots and shoes laid out for Frank. He picked a dusty old pair of Blucher boots reinforced with hobnails in the soles, worn but serviceable. They were snug, but the toe caps of both had split, making room for his big toe.
He arrived at Market Square just as the town was rousing itself for a new day, shopkeepers sweeping off boardwalks and opening shutters, ready to display and sell their goods. As he’d hoped, a Cobb’s Coach sat in Market Square about to leave for Bulls, Fielding and Palmerston. Cobb’s was not an official mail carrier, but often carried mail, and Frank knew some of the drivers. Not this driver, however. He was a heavily built, surly looking chap dressed in a blue greatcoat not unlike the one Frank had left to the flames of his prison cell. Frank approached him tentatively and made himself known.
“Looking for a free ride to Palmerston then?” the coachman said shrewdly. “No money?”
Frank shook his head and showed the few coins he still had in his pocket. The coachman gave a barking laugh, throwing back his head and showing a mouth full of teeth whose rotting centres had been plugged with gold leaf. Frank reached into his pocket tentatively and took out the butterfly brooch. It was all he had left that was worth anything, and he hated to part with it, knowing he’d not get anything near what he’d paid for it. He’d been looking forward to giving it Mette.
“I picked this up in Wellington, at Te Aro House,” he said. “Silver inlaid with indigo gemstones. Cost me five quid. You should be able to get at least three.”
The coachman took it and turned it over in his hand. “Pretty thing, isn’t it. For a lady friend, is it?” He looked back at Frank with eyes narrowed, assessing him. “Take you to Bulls then,” he said, his hand closing over the brooch. “No further though. Picking up a group of ladies bound for a temperance meeting in Wellington, and can’t be having a rough bloke like you on board. Best I can do.”
Frank accepted reluctantly and watched the brooch disappear into the pocket of the coachman’s greatcoat. One day he’d find another one just like it.
There were only two other passengers in the coach, a mature couple who sat not talking, even to each other, she in a poke bonnet and yellowed-lace shawl, sitting on one side of the coach, he with a dove grey coat and tall hat, which he held on his knee, on the other side. At Aramoho, a few miles along the Wanganui River, they heard a thundering of hooves approaching. Frank shrank back in his seat, making sure he could not be seen. However, the man rose and leaned out the window, dropping his hat on the floor of the coach in his excitement. A group of horsemen went by in a cloud of dust.
“Armed Constables,” he said, as he sat back down. “In a hurry. Something must have happened. Don’t see them in a group like that very often.”
“He loves the sight of uniformed men on horses,” said the woman. “He came to New Zealand twenty years ago to fight against the Maori. The army wouldn’t take him though. Bad feet. Bumps on his heels made it hard for him to march. And he never did learn to ride.”
“We’ve done well, though, haven’t we?” said the man. “Didn’t have two pence to rub together when we got here, and now we have a nice bit of land. I import whisky from Glasgow.” He looked at Frank’s boots, with the toes sticking out, and said encouragingly, “You’ll do well eventually, just you wait and see.”
The drive to Bulls took almost three hours, the coach stopping every few miles to pick up patrons or drop off mail. At the Whangaehu River they picked up an old Maori woman wrapped in a blanket with a woven flax basket she kept held to her chest. She sat on the top of the coach as it crossed the river on a ferry punt and said nothing, chewing at her lower lip, which was etched with blue lines of moko that ran from her lip down her chin. When she descended on the other side of the river, helped down by the coachman, her basket started to squawk and she stared ahead, ignoring the sound as if it was coming from someone else.
“Chooks,” said the coachman, watching her hurry away. “Wonder where she got those then? They steal them from the settlers’ farms on the other side of the river and bring them over here, these old Maori women. Then they sell the eggs to the settlers, who’re wondering why their own chooks don’t lay such good ones. Quite the business, I reckon. Supply and demand, like Adam Smith said.”
At Bulls, Frank was once more on foot. A mere twenty-five miles from Palmerston, and he’d have to walk. Another night under the stars and he was tired of it. Wishing he’d demanded some cash for the brooch, he used his last few coins to buy a packet of ginger nuts and an apple at the grocers and set off towards Palmerston, munching away at his sparse meal.
He’d walked as far as Sanson, a good two-hour walk, when he was overtaken by a man in a pony trap. His clothes and general manner gave the impression that he might be a policeman, and Frank realized he would have to watch his words.
“I can give you a ride as far as the Ashhurst Road, just past Bunnythorpe,” the man said. “I’m off through the Gorge. Will that suit you?” He held out his hand to Frank. “Constable Farmer from Woodville.”
Frank shook hands then jumped up beside the man. “Woodville?”
“On t’other side of the Gorge,” said Farmer. “And you are…?”
“Frank…Frank Smith,” he said. “Heading south. Thought I might stop in Palmerston to pick up a bit of work. I hear there’s work in the saw mills.”
The constable looked at him sideways.
“Iffen you’re a Scandi,” he said. “That’s all they hire in the sawmills in Palmy. Road work too. Take care of their own, they do, the Scandies.”
“I’ll find something,” said Frank. “I can turn my hand to anything. What are you doing so far from home?”
“Been up to Wanganui,” said the constable. “To report on a murder I investigated. The Ollandt murder. Heard about it, did you?”
Frank remembered Mette telling him about a recent murder when he had picked her up in Woodville two months ago. “Can’t say as I have.”
“Been all over the papers,” said Farmer. “He was killed by his partner, Hans Thomsen, a Scandi. We took a search party out to look for Ollandt’s body…he’d been missing for some hours…and Thomsen lead us right to it, and described it before he was close enough to see, unless he had eyesight like an eagle. Called out to us, he did, saying, ‘What a horrible sight,’ when even the sharpest of eyes couldn’t see what he was looking at. He knew what we would find. Then we found blood on his pillow…”
“You got him right away, then,” said Frank. “Easy bust…”
“Took a bit of smart detection,” said
Farmer, bristling. “Course it’s not as bad as those murders in Palmerston, the ones by that Hauhau. Haven’t heard of those either, I suppose. T’was in the papers as well.”
Frank shook his head. Anahera, the Hauhau rebel who had chased Mette from the bush, who had made three separate murderous attacks on Frank, and had killed his friend Sergeant Jack Jackson? No, he’d never heard of that Hauhau.
“They say he’s escaped from prison again,” said the constable. “Got a telegram about it at the division in Wanganui. Him and some other bad ones. There was a fire up the Wanganui River where he was being kept, and some of them escaped.”
“How would anyone know?” asked Frank. “Wouldn’t people have been burned? Could they tell who was missing?”
Constable Farmer glanced at him suspiciously. “There was a sergeant there, name of Wilson. With the Armed Constabulary. He said at least a couple of them escaped, and he thought the Hauhau was one of them. Don’t know how he knew, but they’re on the lookout for him, for them…two probably.”
“You think they’re dangerous, these men?” asked Frank. “I mean, are we likely to run into them?”
“No idea,” said Constable Farmer. “But that Hauhau, if I was him I’d be heading up river to the King Country. Maybe find his way to Te Kooti in the Ureweras. Not this way. We’re safe here I should think.”
“And the other one?” asked Frank.
Constable Farmer shrugged. “Didn’t say much about him. Just some European thug. No description or anything. Could be anyone.” He looked sideways at Frank. “Could be you.”
“Not likely,” said Frank. “Never been in trouble with the law. Specially not with the Armed Constabulary. I wonder what he did?”
The constable shrugged. “No idea. Have to be something bad if he was in that prison though.”
“It’s for bad ones then, is it?” asked Frank.
Recalled to Life Page 7