Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Captain Hull? That be you, sir?”

  Hull found himself staring down into a whiskery face streaked with blood. The rain was washing it away.

  “We got to go at ’em, sir! We can’t hold here.”

  “Easy there, man. We’ll have them all soon enough.”

  “No sir, you don’t understand.” He was so excited he was hopping up and down, nodding toward the Kingite barricade. “I saw, I got a look. They got a ladder back there.”

  Hull frowned. “What?”

  “A ladder, sir. Flax. I’d say it’s a good fifty feet long. See, I went over to the edge and looked ’round. There’s Maoris climbin’ down it right now. They got a big boat in the water, big sea-goin’ canoe or somethin’. They.…”

  Hull was pushing past him, shouting orders, shoving and hitting startled men out of his way. From the little man’s description of what he’d observed the Kingite’s intentions were strikingly clear.

  Even now they were trying to snatch victory from defeat. If he hadn’t already escaped to the waiting boat below, Alexander Rui was doubtless preparing to do so. The pakehas weren’t the only ones who could spring a surprise. The hated ariki would use ladder and boat to escape by sea. He and his most respected warriors would land somewhere far away. There he could bide his time and rebuild his forces until again ready to commence his swift, horrible attacks, just when everyone believed he’d been finished.

  It had to be prevented.

  Hull gathered a group of militia about him and ordered them to ready their weapons. When he explained the reason for the urgency, not a dissenting voice was raised. All had suffered, even if only indirectly, from Alexander Rui’s depredations.

  “Lead us to ’im, Captain,” one of the men shouted.

  “Aye sir! We’re with you!”

  As Hull turned to study the makeshift barricade that was concealing Rui’s flight it struck him that this was the first time in his life he’d led a group of people who respected instead of feared him. He felt oddly exhilarated and out of place.

  “At them men!” he heard himself screaming. “Down with the Kingites! Down with Rui!”

  The twenty men surrounding him roared as they rushed the barricade. Several discharged their muskets, drawing answering fire from the defending Maoris. The distance was not great and in an instant they swarmed over the barrier, rifle butts and swords and sabers slashing at anything that moved.

  Hull brought his own blade down across the face of a startled warrior, saw the man’s expression contort as he fell away clutching at his eyes. A small cluster of Maoris materialized out of the rain, running towards him. Maybe half a dozen, he determined quickly. In their midst was a tall warrior clad in the splendid battlefield attire of an ariki.

  When they saw Hull they turned, and the tall chief glared straight at him. In the darkness their eyes met for a moment, and Hull felt his heart leap. Rui had yet to make it to the boat waiting for him below.

  The sounds of burning wood reached him as houses and granaries were torched. They burned furiously against the rain. The battle was good as won, except that their principal quarry was about to escape.

  Then Hull was in among the chief’s bodyguard, clutching his saber tight with both hands and swinging with a strength he hadn’t felt in twenty years. Around him all was chaos and confusion. For a terrible instant he feared he’d outrun his comrades, that he was taking on Rui’s soldiers all by himself.

  As he ran one warrior through he caught a glimpse of Rui’s face disappearing over the edge of the cliff. Suddenly someone was battling alongside him, a young colonial officer he didn’t recognize. As he stared he saw the man break away and rush to the cliff to start hacking with his sword at the top of the rope ladder.

  “That’s it, that’s it! Go to it, man!” Hull tried to defend himself and lend encouragement as he divined the other man’s purpose. With the ladder cut away Rui would be well and truly trapped.

  So intent was he on cutting the ladder that the officer didn’t see the warrior who snuck up behind him. Even as he realized it would come too late, Hull tried to scream a warning.

  The warrior was over six feet tall and broad in proportion. The spear he wielded came down fast to slam into the young colonial’s back. He arched in pain as he fell, his own sword falling to the ground. Even as Hull let out a cry and rushed forward the warrior was withdrawing his weapon and turning to meet the threat.

  Rui’s bodyguard was regrouping as the surviving Maoris, desperate to help their leader escape, rallied around them. Hull ignored them all, seeing only the young officer slumped near the top of the ladder.

  The warrior who’d struck him down let out a yell, jumped forward and thrust with his bloody spear. Hull ducked under it. His saber flashed. He felt it bend slightly as it hit rib. Then it straightened, slid forward, and pierced the heart. Clutching himself, the Kingite staggered backward and raised his spear as if to throw. Suddenly he was gone, over the edge of the cliff. Hull knew he wouldn’t be able to hear the other man strike the water.

  He dropped to hands and knees at the top of the rope ladder and wiped rain from his eyes as he stared down. Rui was less than a fifth of the way to the bottom because the ladder was full of warriors. Frantically Hull started sawing at the thick ropes with his own saber. The fine Italian blade hadn’t been intended for work like this.

  The young officer whose life was bleeding away close by had almost cut through the first rope. Hull finished it and saw the ladder sway, heard Maoris below yelling in surprise. Now he could see the war canoe clearly, even as he saw Rui and his companions try to hurry their descent. Once more the rain was an ally, making the rope slippery and dangerous.

  When half the remaining rope had been cut Hull raised the saber over his head and brought it down with all his strength. More screams from below, this time fading rapidly. As he sprawled exhausted on his chest and belly he could see the dark shapes falling, falling, the rope ladder coiling about them like an accompanying snake. Seconds passed. Then a few dull thuds as objects struck the rocks which protruded from the cliff base.

  Good-bye, you rotten stinking bastard, Hull whispered into the wind. Hell take you and all your murdering kind.

  Ignoring the noise of the intense fighting raging around him he glanced to his right, saw an arm move weakly. The officer was still alive. Hull crawled over and pulled the man onto his back. Innocent eyes in a smooth face stared up at him. A quick check revealed that the wound was severe. No physician, Hull couldn’t tell if any vital organs had been pierced. There didn’t seem to be too much blood.

  Laying his saber aside he worked both arms beneath the younger man’s arms. Though much taller, he was no heavier than Hull and the merchant was able to drag him through the mud.

  “Easy there, young sir. We’ll get you to a doctor. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.” The injured man didn’t respond.

  Someone was calling his name. It sounded like Marker but Hull couldn’t be sure. Then something slammed into his back, a dull hammer blow. There didn’t seem to be much force behind it. It wasn’t even painful, but all his strength left him like water spilling from a shattered crock. His hands still under the other man’s arms, Hull dropped to his knees. His vision was blurring rapidly.

  Tired. So tired. Too tired to try and see what had hit him. Instead he found himself regarding the man he’d been trying to save. Maybe the doctors would get them both. For the first time in a long while he sensed the rain on his back and neck, felt the chill of the damp night air.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The last thing he expected was a response. But the young man blinked up at him, through the falling rain. “It’s—all right.” He was trying to smile, though you couldn’t tell for certain for the mud that covered his face. “Tell my family.” The eyes closed.

  Hull wanted to say that he was sorry, that he wouldn’t be telling anyone’s family anything, including his own. Not even then did he think of his daughter, Rose. For the first time i
n a long while he did think of his long-departed, beloved wife Flora. That in itself was unusual. There had been a time when he was certain he would never be able to go as long as a day without thinking of her.

  Well, he wouldn’t be seeing her now. She’d gone one place and he hadn’t the slightest doubt he was headed elsewhere. Perhaps the Lord would look kindly on his efforts this day and grant him a little leeway.

  “Why?” he murmured as he had murmured on his wife’s deathbed more than twenty years earlier. Then he fell over onto his side, in the mud, his eyes open and staring but no longer troubled by the rain that struck them.

  The young soldier he’d been trying to rescue didn’t move. His eyes remained shut, but he managed to whisper, unaware that his would-be savior could no longer hear him.

  “It’s all right. It’ll be all right. Listen, if I don’t make it will you—will you get my name to my family?” He swallowed, an ordinary action that now required an extraordinary exertion of will.

  Other faces crowded around as the men of Marker’s regiment finally broke the last Maori resistance. A distant voice was yelling.

  “Captain Hull! Over here, quick, it’s Captain Hull!”

  The young officer didn’t hear this. He was concentrating on the face of the sergeant who was bending over him.

  “What’s your name, son?” the noncom was murmuring even as he and two of his men struggled to lift the dying colonial out of the mud.

  “Coffin. Chris—Christopher Coffin.”

  In times of battle it is not at all unusual for the last words a man utters to be among the first that are spoken after his birth.

  7

  Coffin was feeling good as he rode up the street toward the splendid house that dominated the cul-de-sac. It had grown over the years, he reflected. Turrets and rooms had been added and the expensive iron fence now fully enclosed the park-like grounds. A home to be proud of.

  The sun shone brightly and the city seemed to expand beneath it. News of the death of Alexander Rui and the total defeat of his band had reached Auckland only a few days ago. There’d been much drinking of rum and whiskey when it became known that the worst of the rebel leaders had met his end. Not that it meant an end to the interminable rebellion, but it did allow men like Coffin to return home to see to their families and businesses.

  Later today he would be able to meet with Elias, but Holly came first. She would listen enthralled to his stories, they would have breakfast on the porch, and then tonight he would once more be able to sleep in his own bed. After several months of marching and fighting, rain and mud, that seemed like the greatest reward of all.

  The war would drag on for a while longer, though. While the number and frequency of attacks had been reduced, they had not been eliminated. Not even Rui’s death would ensure that. The Kingites had only been stalemated.

  They would bring over more soldiers, more artillery to reduce the remaining rebel pas. Surely one more year of fighting would see an end at last to the revolt. The war had gone on far too long as it was.

  He rode in the back way, wanting to surprise Holly. The stableman came out to see who had brazenly entered through the rear gate. A smile came over his face as he recognized the intruder.

  “Mr. Coffin, sir! It’s good to have you back.”

  “Thanks, Jack.” Coffin dismounted as the stableman took the horse’s reins. “How are things up at the house?”

  “Just fine, sir, just fine.”

  “And Mrs. Coffin?”

  “Well enough. She’s been visiting this morning, but she’s back now. They went off in Mrs. Abigail’s carriage and I didn’t see them return, but I think I heard wheels on the front drive not long ago. You’re looking well yourself, sir.”

  Coffin acknowledged the compliment with a nod. He was staring at the house, suddenly conscious of how deeply tired he was. Years of riding back and forth across North Island hadn’t made him any more comfortable in the saddle. He much preferred the roiling deck of a good ship.

  “There’s a gentleman here to see you, sir. Been waiting some time. He was here yesterday as well but I told him you weren’t expected until today. ‘I’ll come back,’ he said, and sure enough he did.”

  A family friend? Perhaps word of Coffin’s return had preceded him.

  “Who is he?”

  “He was reluctant to give his name to anyone but you, sir. I thought it strange but didn’t question him. Didn’t strike me as the sort of chap who’d talk if he didn’t want to. I don’t know him. He said it was important, sir.”

  Coffin nodded thoughtfully. The stableman was a tall, lanky Dutchman. He’d been with the Coffins for several years now. He wasn’t much on people but he was wonderful with horses. In his care Coffin’s tired mount would be properly cooled down.

  “He’s in the tack room, sir. Wouldn’t go up to the house. Insisted on waiting here.”

  “It’s all right, Jack. I’ll see him.”

  Coffin intended to make the irritating detour as brief as possible. Probably some small business matter, vital to the visitor. Something to be disposed of quickly.

  His guest didn’t have the look of a small businessman. A big, burly, dark-haired individual, he looked more like a blacksmith. He sat, well-groomed and silent, on a back bench surrounded by gleaming tack. He was engrossed in a book, which struck Coffin as out of character. As Coffin entered, the man put the volume up without showing the title.

  “Robert Coffin?” His voice was deep, the words hesitant.

  “I am.” Coffin’s grip was easily matched by the other.

  “I would’ve guessed, sir, though we’ve never met. I’m Alfred Cobb. Sergeant Cobb much of the time.” He smiled slightly, almost apologetically. “Of the New Plymouth Irregulars.”

  Coffin nodded. New Plymouth was a town on the west coast of North Island. It was far from Auckland, but then so was just about every other settlement in New Zealand.

  “How goes the Taranaki War in your district?”

  “Well enough. You heard about our little punch-up with Alexander Rui?”

  “Who hasn’t? So you were with Marker? My congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We’re doing well everywhere these days. My group’s had a success or two itself, though nothing so grand as the triumph over Rui. What can I do for you, Mr. Cobb?”

  “Well sir.” The sergeant’s fingers moved unceasingly over his book. “First I’d best explain what I’m about. See, I’ve been serving as a sort of courier much of the time. I know the back country pretty well and I’m good at living off the land. So the various commanders, they’ve been using me to carry messages back and forth.”

  “I was about to say you’re a long way from New Plymouth.”

  “I’d been given a number of communications to deliver. This here’s the last one.” He nodded toward the house. “I was told by your man that you were expected soon, so I thought best to wait and give you the news first.”

  Coffin’s expression changed. This wasn’t what he expected.

  “What news? And why me first?”

  The big man wanted to look everywhere but at his host. He kept fiddling ceaselessly with his book. “Mr. Coffin, sir, I’m not much good at expressing myself. I’ve had a lot of practice but it never seems to help much.”

  “What are you driving at, man?” Coffin was getting angry. He hadn’t been gone these many months, hadn’t ridden all this way home to spend precious time locked in cryptic conversation with a total stranger.

  “It has to do with Rui’s defeat, sir.”

  “Hmph. It’s good news then, whatever it is. Anything having to do with that bloody bastard’s demise is good news. The Maoris are well rid of him too, though they don’t realize it yet.”

  “Yes sir. Everyone’s agreed on that. You heard how his last pa was taken?”

  “Only the barest details. I know this young Captain, Marker, was promoted to Major as a result. That’s the sort of army man we need. Not these over-deco
rated popinjays who acquire their commissions through political connections.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, sir. Well sir, it wasn’t an easy fight. None of us who were there expected Rui to give up easily, and he didn’t. When they were finally cornered his people fought harder than ever. But we took ’em anyway. It’s just that.…” Cobb paused, then seemed to draw strength from some inner source. “Well sir, I’m afraid your son’s among the dead, sir.”

  Coffin’s face went completely blank for a moment. Then he half smiled, a crooked, lopsided sort of grin, as though his brain had temporarily lost control of his facial muscles.

  “Christopher?”

  Cobb nodded slowly. “Yes, that’s the name I was given, sir. Christopher Coffin. He was your son, wasn’t he?”

  Was your son. Was. Trembling, Coffin leaned against a large sink for support. “Can’t be.” He swallowed, raised his voice. “It can’t be. My son’s here, in Auckland. He’s working in my offices. He’s not a soldier. He wasn’t with a reserve unit, even.”

  “I’m truly sorry, sir. He was attached to the Third Northern Militia. The identification was positive, I’m told.”

  Coffin turned away, staring at nothing. “We talked about it. We talked about it. He agreed with me. He said he wasn’t going to do any fighting.” That was what Christopher had said. But what had he felt, that last time they’d talked in Coffin’s tent? What had he really meant to do? Hadn’t he gone on about how badly he’d felt? Hadn’t he said he felt he was shirking his duty? He hadn’t really agreed with anything his father had said. Coffin had just assumed his son would do as he was told. People always did what Robert Coffin told them to do.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you didn’t know of his participation. It was something the young man did on his own?”

  Coffin could only nod. The disbelief was giving way to acceptance, to horrid reality. He knew why the army used a man like Cobb. You couldn’t wish him away. The fellow simply stood before you, grave and commiserating, as substantial as a mountain. He was a man you had to believe. All the delight, all the happiness and relief Coffin had been feeling as he’d ridden the final mile homeward this morning, it had vanished. Only a vast emptiness remained to take its place.