Catching the Current

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘Conrad,’ she begins, but he interrupts, eager to show his clever idea.

  ‘Look here … your dress … see how I have tied this bundle of straw? For a while the dress will float, held up by the straw. I have torn it a little, too, as if you had struggled to release yourself. Someone will find it downriver — perhaps even at Jackeytown — and your death will be accepted. It’s a neat job, eh?’

  ‘Conrad …’

  ‘The straw will become sodden in the end and break free. Don’t worry, I have made it carefully. No one will suspect. Now, this canvas strip will keep your bedding dry; you must stretch it over a branch and tie it with these ropes. See how I have made it so one person can do it easily. You will be snug and warm, sweetheart.’

  ‘Conrad, this will not work.’

  ‘Of course it will. You are a strong woman. Clever.’

  ‘I am a woman close to giving birth. The baby is heavier than I imagined. A big boy, like his father.’ She tries to smile but the strain of her words is too great.

  ‘I will be with you in a week. We will manage together. Think of being free, Ana!’

  ‘Listen, my dear one. I should have spoken earlier and am ashamed that I did not. This plan is like a story from one of your sagas. It will not work here, in our real world.’

  ‘But why not? I have thought it all through carefully.’

  Conrad looks so crestfallen that for a moment Anahuia falters. Perhaps he is right; perhaps this man’s energy and invention will carry it through. But she is too tired. ‘Conrad, look at me. I cannot hide in this condition, or run quickly. I will be seen, and then all the pretence and your story will come down hard on us. On my family, too.’

  ‘Your family have not shown much concern this past ten years. As far as they are concerned you could be dead already.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ Anahuia speaks sharply. ‘They would know. They would care.’

  Conrad leaves the subject of Anahuia’s family; he has learned to his cost that Anahuia will always defend them fiercely, despite evidence that they have indeed turned their backs on her. Carefully he places his bundles under the protection of a bush and prepares to argue seriously. He is not about to back away from this adventure.

  ‘There is no need to travel or run. Haven’t we planned a good place? Where you will not be seen? Take heart, Ana. You will not be alone for long. You like it in the bush. Listen, sweetheart, I have never seen you afraid, even when others are shaking from some sound or sight. Why now, when we can so soon be making a free life?’

  He speaks persuasively, gently; takes her hand and strokes it as if soothing a nervous animal. Puts an arm around her shoulders to draw her into his warmth. To Anahuia it is like a drug she feels she must resist.

  ‘There is much movement among our people these days,’ she says, shaking free. ‘Some are moving secretly through the bush to join Titokowaru and his Pai Marire. Others are meeting to discuss whether to fight with him or to support the Queen’s Maori. It is not safe, Conrad. I will be found.’ She does not speak of her deeper fear — that the baby will come while she is alone, and with no woman to assist her.

  Conrad moves impatiently. He steps away from her and picks up the bundled dress. ‘You are starting at ghosts and shadows. This is the time. Look how swollen the river is — it has come almost up to my hut. The plan will be believed, I know it!’

  He walks toward the river and goes to throw the dress. Anahuia lurches after him and takes his arm.

  ‘Kao! It is not the right way!’

  ‘Ana! I am trying to help!’

  ‘Wait till after the baby comes. We will try again to persuade the man. He may change, then. The bishop may help. Wait, please.’

  ‘You are afraid!’ Conrad shouts the words.

  Anahuia accepts the taunt. ‘Yes. I am afraid. Also, it is a false thing. I will not do it, Conrad.’

  ‘Ah!’ With a sharp cry, which is as much despair as anger, Conrad swings back his arm and hurls the dress and its bundle of straw into the swirling river. ‘So I am to be trapped here, along with you? I need to leave, Ana. Can’t you see that?’

  For a moment Conrad and Anahuia stand watching the blue and white of the fabric as it bobs and weaves its way downstream. The green branches of a tumbling log reach for it and for a while the two — dress and tree — travel together; then they separate and continue on around the bend and out of sight. Abruptly, without a word, Ana walks away, downstream too, towards her kainga. Conrad watches her go. He slams a foot into the bedroll, then picks it up and, groaning, presses his face into the rough canvas.

  LATER that day news reaches the big house that Napoleon Haraldsen has been swept away in the river and cannot be found. Evensen, the Dane who accompanied Napoleon on the trip to Foxton, arrives at the house dripping wet and distraught, leading Haraldsen’s horse.

  They had picked up the herd, he reported, and made the crossing safely before the river rose. Progress was slow, because of the mud and the rain, the cattle preferring to take shelter and wait out the storm, but they struggled on. At Jackeytown, Evensen suggested they stop, yard the cattle and enjoy a dry evening at a friend’s house, but Napoleon, who had been ‘down in the dumps all day; not his usual self’, was keen to get on home. Not far from the Monrad block one of the beasts broke from the herd and stumbled towards the river. Napoleon followed on horseback. Evensen shouted a warning about the danger and Haraldsen raised his hand to acknowledge.

  The strange thing was that he succeeded in diverting the steer and seemed about to turn back himself when something else took his attention. With a shout he pointed towards the swirling water, ran his horse at the river and plunged in. Halfway across the horse plunged and reared, throwing its rider. The river was not deep, said Evensen, but running very swiftly. For a moment it seemed that Haraldsen would hold on to the saddle, but he must have lost his footing or been struck by a log. The last Evensen saw of him was a distant thrashing of arms and legs as he was tumbled downriver. By the time he reached the bank Haraldsen’s panicked horse was lunging back to shore. There was no sign of the rider.

  For an hour Evensen rode downriver searching the banks but saw nothing. Finally he gathered the herd and drove them as hard as he dared, home to Karere to get help. Evensen feared the worst, he said, but there was the possibility that Haraldsen had been thrown into the shallows and survived.

  Conrad is among the search party that sets out. The light is fading fast and before they reach the place where Napoleon went in the southerly strikes again, bringing driving rain and a cold wind. The searchers can scarcely see beyond their own noses. When the others finally give up, Conrad will not go home with them. He shrugs off their advice and stumbles on, calling to Napoleon in his native Faroese, the words carrying no distance at all in the roaring dark.

  The river rises further during night, flooding the low-lying fields, breaking its banks where Conrad had built his hut, and sweeping the whole construction, including his few possessions away. In the morning Conrad and Anahuia find sodden blankets, the bedroll and Conrad’s fabulous red coat scattered along the riverbank, but no sign of Napoleon. In silence they spread the wet bedding and clothes over manuka bushes to dry. Both know the thought of the other: the fear — the dread — that Napoleon saw Anahuia’s dress floating, mistook it for the woman, and plunged to his death in an effort to save her. Why else would Napoleon, notoriously fearful of even small rivers, let alone raging torrents, be so foolhardy?

  The appalling possibility is too dire to voice. They work in silence.

  Towards noon the sun breaks through. Thick mud lies over the bishop’s river-fields, and some sheep are missing. An acre or two of land has been claimed by the river. The situation would be retrievable, but for the loss of Napoleon. Again a search party scours the banks. They soon meet a silent party on horseback coming up from Jackeytown. Draped across the back of a big white mare is the dead body of Napoleon Haraldsen, Faroeman, beloved only son of Harald and Thora Haraldsen of Streym
oy.

  6.

  ON THE NIGHT before Conrad leaves, Anahuia asks for a story.

  ‘Put on your scarlet coat,’ she says. ‘Tell me a story to remember you by.’

  ‘Until I return,’ he says.

  ‘Until you return.’ Her voice is uncertain.

  ‘Ah, sweetheart, look where my stories and plans have landed me. I am not in the heart for high tales.’

  ‘Tell me a true one, then. Tell me truly how you came to be here in this country.’

  Conrad looks at her quietly. They lie together under a makeshift shelter of canvas and ponga fronds. Anahuia lies on her back, her belly mountainous under the blanket. Outside, a sharp wind tosses the trees and sends leaves clattering against the canvas.

  Slowly Conrad reaches for the coat. The epaulets are edged in cords of gold, golden tassels hang from one pocket. The stiff, high collar, marked with silver scrolls, cannot enclose Conrad’s wide neck, nor can the gold buttons reach their intricately decorated toggles. On the breast a many-pointed silver star is pinned, at its heart a darkly gleaming jewel. Conrad shrugs into the coat. His smile is the first Anahuia has seen since the death of his friend five days ago.

  Napoleon’s body has been buried in the little graveyard at Tiakitahuna. The bishop said the prayers and spoke of Napoleon’s father and his homeland. Conrad could not utter a word, nor sing, though he tried.

  After the funeral the bishop called Conrad into his study. ‘You will be going back,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ There was no question now. News of the death had to be delivered and Conrad was the man to do it. No one else had spoken of the floating dress; no one had suggested that a silly game might have caused Napoleon’s death. This was a private agony that Conrad must suffer.

  Monrad pointed to a neat bundle tied with rope that rested on the floor just inside the door. ‘His possessions. Not much, but Haraldsen will be pleased to have them.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Among the articles is the book of sagas. Keep up your studies, Enok Rasmussen of Su∂eroy. Learn to read your language as you travel. Learn the third section of the Sigurd saga. Your friend was eager for you to memorise further. Think of it as a tribute to him.’

  For a moment Conrad considered arguing, but the breath he took petered out as a sigh. ‘Perhaps,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, perhaps.’

  Finally the bishop held out a fat packet of letters, secured tightly with red tape. On top of the packet was a single envelope. ‘This one,’ he said, ‘is for my friend Haraldsen. The others are for colleagues in Denmark. Will you send them on their way when you reach Copenhagen?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘It seems there is some interest in my return. A year, two maybe — we’ll see.’ The bishop nodded, kind and sympathetic. ‘Perhaps — who knows? — I will visit the Faroes one day and will hear you sing. I hope so. God speed you and keep you safe, young man.’

  Conrad tried to clear his head of the deadening guilt. ‘Will you take care of Anahuia? Of the baby?’

  Monrad frowned a little. ‘Her place is with her people. They will undoubtedly care for her. Of course if she wishes still to work here she will be welcome. She may, of course, find that difficult once the baby arrives.’

  ‘I plan to return to her.’

  The bishop smiled gently. ‘The Faroes are a long way distant from here, Enok. Many things may keep you in your own country once you are there. Do not make promises or raise hopes that you cannot fulfil.’

  ‘Ah, Jesus!’ Conrad reached for the packet of letters, hoisted Napoleon’s bundle onto his shoulder and stumbled out of the room without a word of farewell.

  The bishop, standing at his window, watched the tall young man, blond hair flying, stride down past the lagoon and felt, perhaps, a little relieved. Monrad was accustomed to seeing young Danish men come and go, was always ready to give them work until they moved on to make an independent life in this country. He felt it a duty, and it gave him pleasure. This volatile Faroeman, though, had proved a bit of a handful. A good worker, certainly, and richly talented with hands and voice. But unpredictable. The business with the native woman had been unwise. Monrad had always considered those from the Faroe Islands to be solid, God-fearing people; phlegmatic, even. This Enok — or Conrad — didn’t seem to fit the pattern at all.

  NOW, lying on fern fronds, clad in his scarlet jacket, Conrad leans over his Anahuia and pushes into her hands a tiny purse of coins.

  ‘Keep this safe,’ he says, ‘and use it when you have need. It is all I have left from my wages here. I wish it were more, but I am not wise with money … or with other things.’

  Anahuia holds tightly to the purse. Touches his face with her free hand. ‘I will treasure it. If possible I will keep it safe till you return.’

  Ah, sweetheart,’ groans Conrad, ‘I am frightened. I cannot see the future clearly. Can you?’

  Anahuia strokes his face. Moonlight glows against their canvas roof, turning Conrad’s pale skin and hair ghostly. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I am very frightened too. But I think you will return. I think so.’

  ‘Truly?’

  Anahuia does not answer. After a while she whispers, ‘I will wait here if I can, with the Monrads. Or if I am freed — which will surely happen if we are patient — I will wait at my mother’s kainga further south.’

  ‘I will find you.’

  Anahuia feels with her fingers the tears that slide silently down the cheeks of her poor lost man.

  ‘The story,’ she says. ‘Give me something cheerful to remember, not tears.’

  Conrad sighs. ‘Ah … my dear one.’ He wipes his tears and lies back beside her. The silver star on his chest gleams in the pale light. He draws a long breath.

  ‘This is the story,’ he says, ‘of Køne the Tall and the Battle of Heligoland.’

  ‘A true story?’

  ‘So far it is true. Tall Køne was my name in the navy.’

  ‘Keep it true then, you terrible man.’ Conrad grins.

  ‘I will do my best. But a good story, you know …’

  ‘A good story can also be true.’

  ‘Enough! Listen.’

  4.

  Conrad’s Tale of the Battle of Heligoland

  THE NORTH SEA AND COPENHAGEN

  1864

  1.

  KØNE HAD BEEN in the Danish navy only two days when he resolved that military life was not for him. He was sick at heart — that would have to be part of the trouble — but also the rules, the discipline, the bloody-minded officers all rubbed him the wrong way.

  Køne was in trouble from the moment he stepped onto Danish soil. That first step was at the naval dockyard at Nyholm in Copenhagen. The dockyard rang with the sounds of industry: iron hammer on iron rivet, the rasp of saw on timber, rumbling carts carrying mountains of cannonballs. Close to Køne, a plank thicker than a handspan was being bent to fit the curve of a half-built hulk. The dripping plank rested on trestles above a smouldering fire. One man with a huge wet mop plied the wood with water, while two others used great tongs to bend the ends. Despite his misery, Køne paused to see the great mass of wood miraculously curve, centimetre by centimetre, down towards the ground. To the west, the long thin bulk of the rope-making building blocked the view, while closer the anchor-smiths shouted warnings as a cauldron of molten iron poured its blinding contents into the waiting sand-mould. The air hung heavy with the stench of sulphur: one of the buildings must have been manufacturing powder for the cannons.

  A sense of urgency drove all the sights and sounds: shouted orders, running feet, horses straining against harness. War was in the air. Several great ships lay dockside, their masts and rigging intricate against the morning light, the gap-toothed squares of their open gun-ports black and sinister. Men swarmed over these fighting frigates, repairing rigging and timber. Ordinarily Køne would have been agog at the new sights and sounds but the tall Faroeman stepped ashore from the recruiting gunship, head down, dragging his feet, conspicuously silent among t
he chattering recruits.

  When it came his turn to face the officer, he failed to salute. The lieutenant, accustomed to homesick boys, gave him a little leeway.

  ‘You are …?’

  Silence from Køne.

  The recruit next in line said, ‘He says his name is Køne, sir, but actually he’s Enok Rasmussen from Su∂eroy, sir.’

  That earned him a black look from Køne.

  The officer checked his list. ‘I’ve got an Enok Rasmussen.’

  ‘Køne,’ said Køne.

  ‘Konig? King who? Related to royalty, are we?’

  ‘Køne.’

  ‘Kone, is it? Some kind of woman in disguise? You trying to be clever with me?’

  Silence again.

  ‘He doesn’t talk much,’ said the obliging recruit.

  ‘And you make up for it,’ said the officer. ‘On your way, lad; I’ll deal with this.’

  He turned back to the surly Køne. ‘Now, lad, any name will do in a storm, and if you’re set on Køne it’s all the same to me. Make a new start if you will, but I won’t have insubordination. I want a salute and a “sir” from you.’

  Køne saluted in slow motion. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Better. Now. Do we have another name?’

  ‘No … sir. Just Køne.’

  ‘Trouble at home? Left a sweetheart behind? Recruited against your will?’

  Silence.

  ‘Dear God,’ said the lieutenant, ‘there’s no time for sulking in the navy. You’ll have to grow up quick, Køne. Now get out of my hair.’

  That was the most sympathetic voice he heard for the next week. Køne was in the dumps and he let everyone know it. He was slow to respond to commands, repulsed friendly advances from other boys; once he was put in irons for answering back and told it would be the lash next time. It made no difference. Køne lost his temper over some minor argument, hit a rating and earned twelve strokes. It was clear he had no intention of settling. His commanding officer, at his wits’ end but reluctant to lose such a big strong fellow, suggested the difficult Faroeman be put to sea immediately.