Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

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  Maori

  A Novel

  Alan Dean Foster

  Te Atua.…

  This being, as the Maoris say,

  The Spirit of the rest of the Book

  BOOK ONE

  1839

  1

  “Why the divvul would anyone want to live at the end of the Earth, sor?”

  Robert Coffin was standing by the bowsprit of the schooner Resolute when the question was asked. North Island lay north by northwest, South Island somewhere astern. “Aotearoa” the Maoris called this place in their melodious language; the Land of the Long White Cloud.

  “I might ask you the same, Mr. Markham.”

  The powerful, battered face of his First Mate convulsed into a half-smile. Out in the vastness of the South Pacific it was considered impolite, not to mention potentially fatal, to inquire too closely into a man’s background. Yet Markham didn’t hesitate. There was very little he’d hesitate to do for Captain Robert Coffin. It was one of Coffin’s great talents, a rare one among men, that others of his kind were eager to do things for him.

  “Well sor, it were encumbent on me to leave the Blessed Climes of home in somewhat of a hurry. There were a bit of a problem with some cards.”

  “What sort of problem, Mr. Markham?”

  The First Mate’s contorted grin widened. “Too many of ’em, sor.”

  Coffin nodded. Lit by the flickering glow of the whale-oil lamp hung from the rigging, the First Mate’s face bore more than passing resemblance to the impenetrable topography of South Island. Then he turned to stare out at the tar-black sea.

  “I chose to live here, Mr. Markham, because I had nowhere else to go.”

  “Ah now, sor, be you meaning to say you wouldn’t go back to Blessed England to live were the circumstances appropriate?”

  “Mr. Markham, insofar as I am concerned, Blessed England can sink to her gunwales and I’d shed not a tear for the scuppering.”

  The First Mate had seen a great deal in his lifetime. There was little that could shock him. But he was shocked now. He nodded somberly, turned as if to depart, and then recalled why he’d sought out his Captain. Finding him had not been difficult. Coffin slept less than any man he’d ever met. When not taking charge of his vessel you were apt to find him here, staring over the bow, as though searching for something only he knew was out there, somewhere ahead in the salty darkness.

  Though he didn’t turn he knew the Mate was still there. Coffin had the gift of the third eye, he did, and his men knew it and whispered. But not in front of their Captain.

  “Something else, Mr. Markham?”

  “Sor, Mr. Harley and the helmsman both wish to know if you intend to try a landing tonight or if they should search out a place to drop anchor.”

  “Forgive my absentmindedness, Mr. Markham. It’s forethought that weighs heavily on me, not indifference to my duties.”

  Again the Mate grinned, a different sort of smile this time. Coffin could be ruthless, as was proper for a Captain, but he could also confess to his humanity. It was another reason others were willing to die for him.

  “I know that, sor. ’Tis been a long night.”

  “Intended to bring us home in good weather. I would not be caught out even in these familiar waters in the storm which may be brewing.”

  Markham nodded approvingly. Coffin was twenty-six and the First Mate twenty years older, but each knew who the superior seaman was. Other Captains studied charts. Coffin memorized them, to the neverending awe and respect of his crew. The young Captain had a real brain.

  If only he wasn’t quite so driven.

  He was pointing toward the shore where the first glimmering lights were coming into view. “I’ve not pushed the night watch since moonrise to stop half a league from home. We’ll berth the Resolute in her own dock tonight. The men may berth where they will.”

  Markham chuckled. Tired as they were, once they made landfall only those few men with wives would repair to the comforting arms of Morpheus. The rest would awaken anew to drink and debauchery.

  More of the harbor was coming into view. Markham squinted to port. “It won’t be any easy thing to manage in the darkness, sor. I estimate there be near a hundred vessels at anchor tonight.”

  Coffin considered the same darkling panorama. Always ready with a joke, our Captain, thought Markham, but not what you’d call a jolly chap.

  “Inform Mr. Harley and Mr. Appleton of the situation ahead. If there are a thousand ships we’re still going in. Mind Mr. Appleton doesn’t go ramming any clippers in the dark or I’ll patch any hole in the hull with his buttocks.”

  “Aye, sor.” As often happened, the First Mate was unable to tell if his Captain was being sarcastic or dead serious. Therefore he treated every ambiguity as gospel, preferring to be thought of as dour rather than stupid.

  Turning, he unhooked the lamp and swung it from side to side as he yelled sternward. “Reef all tops’ls! Make for landing!”

  The cry was taken up by the other mates, relayed sternward where it eventually reached the ears of the helmsman. Hands leaned on the great wooden wheel.

  Coffin stood steady as a figurehead, gazing out over the bow. “Two degrees to port, Mr. Markham,” he said calmly.

  “Aye, sor.” Once again the First Mate shouted orders. He joined his Captain in studying the crowded harbor. Running the gauntlet of anchored ships that lay in front of them would be no easy task, especially at night, not if Neptune himself were giving directions. The Resolute was in the hands not of a King but a Coffin. A bad name, he mused, for a good master.

  It was a measure of the confidence they had in Coffin that not a man among his crew questioned his decision to try and dock in the darkness. There were only a couple of hours left until morning. It would have been simpler and safer to drop anchor outside the harbor and wait for daylight, but Coffin was not a man to tempt a calm sea. In this isolated part of the world, storms and typhoons could appear with astonishing speed.

  Overhead the Southern Cross gleamed, a road sign fashioned of diamonds. The quarter-moon turned the shallower water the color of deep green glass. Luminescence boiled in the schooner’s wake, caressing her bow as she disturbed billions of tiny creatures with her passing.

  The very water seemed on fire as they entered the harbor. Flames towered a hundred feet high, throwing the skeletal spars of dozens of vessels into sharp relief. In addition to the apocalyptic sight it presented, the air of Kororareka Harbor was dominated by a terrifying, pungent smell. For while many men spent the night ashore wallowing in the drunkenness and debauchery of the part of town known as The Beach, others toiled through the darkness on their ships, intent on the final and most noisome stage of that business which brought so many vessels from so many lands to this godforsaken corner of the globe.

  Of the hundred or so craft which bobbed at anchor in the harbor, most were whalers. They roamed the vast empty spaces of the Pacific seeking the great whales whose rendered corpses would provide light for the lamps of Europe and America. At Kororareka they came together to boil out blubber and flesh, to restock stores and supplies, and to leave behind their gold.

  The hellfire that flared across the waters came from gigantic iron cauldrons on the whalers’ decks. Fired by wood and charcoal bought from New Zealand’s fledgling merchants, these seething black pits reduced tons of animal to gallons of oil. It was said among the sailors that when God looked down on Kororareka he had to hold his nose, for the stench from the vats was strong enough to assail the nostrils of the Lord Himself.

  When the boiling and rending was
done, the oil would be dipped out with long-handled iron scoops. The reservoirs of the whaling ships would be topped out with liquid gold enough to build grand palaces in Newcastle and Nantucket, Salem and London, Boston and Liverpool and Marseilles. The awful business was better done in a calm harbor, away from the grip of a raucous sea that could easily spill the precious bounty with a single unexpected wave.

  For more than a league in any direction from Kororareka, North Island stank of cremated leviathans.

  The natives were a fastidious bunch of savages. They kept their villages and settlements well away from the rancid vicinity of the town. They called themselves maori, which meant normal. This in contrast to the pakehas whose odiferous business clearly marked them as anything but normal. Those Maori women who had joined their imported white sisters in the business of attending to the needs of wild sailors breathed as little as possible when they went into the town. Their habits and barely veiled contempt for the seamen did not endear them to their customers. However, this did not interrupt the ancient commerce between the sailors and ladies-of-the-evening. The Maori women were comely, the Pacific was vast, and the polyglot crews that called at Kororareka were not interested in the social opinions of the women they solicited.

  Fortunately there was little need for the two cultures to mix when not in bed. The permanent settlers served as go-betweens for ship’s pursers and Maori suppliers. It was this business which had drawn respectable citizens to the hell that was Kororareka.

  Coffin’s opinion of the Maori was considerably higher than that of most of his colleagues. He was familiar with the savages of other lands: the aborigine of neighboring Australia, the blacks of South Africa and the Redmen of North America. From what he’d heard and experienced, the New Zealand natives were special, differing even from their cousins in the Tahitis and Samoas.

  For savages they were good people. He enjoyed their company and had gone so far as to learn much of their language. This shrewd move gave him a decided advantage come trading time. Few of his countrymen had any interest in learning the speech of savages, preferring to rely on interpreters who often as not were in the business of taking kickbacks from the very Maori traders their European employers assiduously worked to cheat. Among the European settlers only the missionaries strove to acquire a working knowledge of the native language.

  Coffin had first traveled to Australia as a common seaman. There he’d learned of the promise of still another new land lying farther to the east. And there was fortune to be gained in this New Zeeland, as its audacious Dutch discoverer had named it. Not in the form of gold to be scooped off the ground or spices to be plucked from trees, but from hard work and sharp dealing.

  So he’d shipped to lawless, open Kororareka in the Resolute. Five years later found him her owner and master, as well as the founder of Coffin House, prime supplier and victualer to the insatiable whalers who crowded the harbor ahead.

  In England a man couldn’t rise far above his station unless he had friends at Court or in Parliament. The poverty-stricken Coffins had none. At the ends of the Earth no such restraints were placed on a man’s ambition at birth.

  He was taller than most men, smooth of face but certainly not soft. Broad of shoulder and hip without being bulky, he was stronger than friends or enemies surmised. From a small, almost delicate mouth issued a voice of striking depth and power. The kind of voice, he’d been told on occasion, that belonged not in a mercantile establishment but in the House of Commons debating great issues. Coffin had no regrets that this was not to be. The life he’d chosen suited him well.

  The wind shifted slightly, scuttling down out of the dark hills that ringed the harbor. The horrible miasma rising from the rendering kettles was momentarily diverted. The breeze blew Coffin’s hair into his eyes and he brushed at it absently. Along with his booming voice, the young Captain’s most striking feature was his silvery hair. It gave him the look of a man twenty years older. As it did not seem to put off the ladies, it never troubled Coffin. The first Maoris he’d met had promptly dubbed him “Makawe Rino.” Iron Hair.

  His attention shifted from the hellish harbor to the town beyond. There waited not just Coffin House but Mary Kinnegad. Irish Mary, the sailors called her.

  She’d migrated to New Zealand several years earlier, leaving behind in Australia a convict past of unknown origin. It mattered not a whit to the men who frequented The Beach, where any member of the opposite sex more comely than a beluga was welcome with no questions asked. Set down among shop-worn painted doxies and dark Maori girls like a diamond among zircons, Mary Kinnegad found herself treated like a queen.

  Then Coffin had found her and she found him, and the finding changed both their lives permanently.

  She’d unburdened her history to him, confessing to the killing of another woman in England. She refused to say what had sparked the fight save that it was not over a man. There wasn’t a man alive Mary Kinnegad thought worth fighting over. Coffin was doing his best to change that opinion.

  Two fine, healthy children she’d borne him already: little Flynn, and Sally whose hair was as red as her mother’s. A family as admirable as his business, he knew. Not a bad life for the sole son of a coal miner dead of the black lung these ten years past. His father would have been proud. Aye, there was a good life to be wrested from this far land, and he gave thanks to God that the Dutch who’d found it had decided they wanted no part of it.

  He turned to gaze at the deck, stacked high with its heavy load of Kauri pine. The Kauri grew on North Island as well as on South, but with increasing demand came also increasing prices from those “ignorant” Maoris—who knew business as well as any of their European counterparts. Hence Coffin’s risky voyages to South Island in search of high-grade trees and low-grade Maori traders. With a pakeha vessel still something of a novelty there, he’d managed to find both.

  God seemed to have designed the Kauri pine specifically to serve the needs of sailing men. The tree soared straight and true to extraordinary heights before sending out its first branches. Coffin knew of emergencies where an untrimmed Kauri had been stepped into service as a mast without having been touched by the axe of a ship’s carpenter. The saplings made excellent, perfectly straight spars.

  Of the hundred-odd vessels that rocked at anchor in the Bay of Islands fronting Kororareka, many had been dismasted and many more limped in with broken spars. The Pacific seemed to strive to belie her name, and good quality Kauri was in short supply in the harbor now. Captains paced their quarterdecks and fumed at the delays; Coffin could expect a warm welcome for his cargo. Pine for masts, flax for sturdy rope, and the provisions for starving sailors—

  The cauldrons of Hades receded as the Resolute moved on one sail toward the makeshift wharf. Not a pretty landing, not like Liverpool or Southampton, but it was his. No one else in Kororareka could claim that. As an anchorage Kororareka left much to be desired. The wharf was the best he could do.

  As the schooner bumped up against the pier the mates had to raise their voices in order to make themselves understood above the screams and shouts that rose from The Beach. Soon the sun would be up, but there would be no slowing of frantic activity. The taverns and grog shops and brothels never closed. Bartenders and whores and gamblers worked the whalers in round-the-clock shifts.

  Lines were tightened around cleats and made fast to pilings. A ramp was extended over the side. Somewhere a musket went off and louder screams were heard.

  Coffin had come home.

  2

  He approached the ramp. Markham was waiting for him.

  “Orders, Cap’n?”

  “We’ve been a month away from port, Mr. Markham. Once the cargo’s been seen to, give everyone leave to visit their wives or sweethearts or both. Mount the usual guard. We want no sneak thieves making off with our profit.”

  “Aye, sor. I’m anxious to be off meself. South Island be a cold place, and not meaning only the weather, sor.”

  Coffin’s gaze went to the
head of the pier. Already seamen not utterly besotted with drink could be seen stopping to gape at the masts and spars-to-be that were piled high on the Resolute’s deck. They would carry word back to their ships that the badly needed supplies had finally arrived.

  “The market will come to us, Mr. Markham. Inform any who inquire that there’ll be no sale of our Kauri until Mr. Goldman has had time to grade and price the wood. I’ll not lose all our hard work to a panic selling.”

  “No sor,” agreed Markham.

  “Good. Arrange for your own relief when you’re done. As for myself, I have business of my own to attend to ashore.”

  The Mate winked. “Don’t we all, sor.”

  Coffin started toward the ramp, only for Markham to delay him. “One other thing, Cap’n.” The Mate nodded across the deck. “What are we to do with him?”

  Coffin’s gaze followed Markham’s through the waning darkness. He could just make out the spectral silhouette that was leaning against the far railing. The old Maori stood six foot six in his sandaled feet and was thin as a clipper’s mizzenstay. He wore a dun-colored flaxen cloak and four feathers in his hair: three plucked from the rare kea and one from a bird Coffin didn’t know, though it was easily the largest feather he’d ever set eyes upon.

  The Maori had been taken aboard at South Island. From what they’d observed, the natives there were glad to be rid of him. His name was Tuhoto and he was a tohunga. It was not quite the same thing as a priest; more in the line of a spiritual adviser and wizard all rolled into one. If nothing else, he was a curiosity. In return for his passage he’d promised to cast a karakia, a spell for good weather. This primitive nonsense he’d backed with practical knowledge of wind and waves.

  The crew didn’t like him and made no effort to hide their feelings. “No place on a clean ship for a filthy savage” was how one sailor had put it. In conversation the native was dry and concise.

  Despite this he was cordial to Coffin. For what it was worth, everyone admitted that they had enjoyed unusually calm weather during the homeward leg of the journey, though not a man-jack among the crew would dare give the heathen’s incantations any credit for their good fortune.