Shadow of the Boyd

by Diana Menefy

  ‘He asked for volunteers tae go tae Wangaroa. I said "Aye,” but he didn’t choose me. Three boats left in the dark that night. A gale blew up, and by mid-watch they had all returned. The next day was fine and sunny and I leant on the gunwale and watched the boats leave again. One of the Maori chiefs went with them. The others and their friends stayed on board tae help defend the ship in case there was an attack. They tried tae stop Mr Berry from going, saying the Wangaroans had captured muskets and cannons.’

  ‘I’m lucky he didn’t listen to them. I don’t think I’d still be alive.’

  I often thought about Mr Berry and what I owed him. He was usually reading or writing when I was in the great cabin. Sometimes he came and read over my shoulder and asked questions, like now.

  ‘What do you think about the New Zealanders?’

  ‘I hate them all,’ I said, but knew it wasn’t totally true. Sometimes I felt guilty ‘cause I liked George.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  November 1809, on the Boyd — in the

  Tasman Sea, heading for New Zealand

  The others said George was arrogant, too proud for their liking, but he always answered my questions and treated me as a friend. He wasn’t that much older than me — about four years, I think; I didn’t know for sure. He was built solid like a fighter, yet he moved with a smoothness and a grace that made him seem different. He didn’t spend much time with the other New Zealanders on board, but then they were on the starboard watch.

  He liked the same things as me: the birds and the stars. Sometimes during mid-watch we talked. One night we saw a shooting star — matakokiri, George called it — and we started on about the stars. I missed the North Star and it was strange how the three bright stars of Jacob’s staff had changed direction as we sailed.

  George said they were called Tautoru, and that the four bright stars of the cross were Mahutonga.

  ‘He pai whakaharahara rawa atu,’ he said.

  ‘What did you say?’ I asked.

  ‘It beautiful.’

  I had no answer. I think he must have been homesick. He didn’t usually speak in his language unless it was to tell me the names of things when I asked. Mr Strunk said I asked too many questions, but if you don’t ask how can you find things out?

  I knew that George’s first trip had been on the Star when they picked up the sealers Captain Wilkinson had dropped off on an earlier trip around New Zealand. That was four years ago. Then he had sailed on the Elizabeth, collecting a cargo of sandalwood at Fiji on the way from New Zealand to Port Jackson. He’d spent some time at Port Jackson — even stayed at Government House. After that he had sailed on another sealing expedition on the Star. He said he’d liked sailing with Captain Wilkinson, but now he just wanted to go back home to see his family.

  The weather was good, and we even sighted some pods of sperm whales. I learnt more about where we were going when I was sewing a bolt-rope under the keen eye of Sails, and George was picking oakum close by. Sails had been to New Zealand several times before on other ships.

  ‘Where’s Wangaroa, George?’ Sails asked.

  ‘Down east coast from Reinga.’

  ‘How come I’ve never seen it?’

  ‘Hidden. Many big trees down to the water. My father’s pa there. Te Pohue.’

  ‘Never heard of it. I know Kororareka,’ Sails said.

  George just grunted and kept on pulling at the oakum fibres.

  Then, on 23 November, everything started to go wrong. George was spewing his guts out and had the runs. In the end he could hardly stagger out to the heads. I helped steady him, got him back and covered him with my blanket. He had the shakes and said he was cold. They didn’t miss him at first, but then the wind got up and Mr Strunk ordered him on deck and told him to lay aloft and help furl the sails.

  George said he was too crook, so he was taken before the captain.

  As usual we were ordered to the deck to watch the flogging. George was bound to the gangway, standing defiant and taut. I felt sick to my stomach and flinched at each stroke, my throat swollen with unshed tears as I watched George stagger and slump forward. I gripped my hands until they ached. How he lasted so long I’ll never know. By the time Bo’sun had finished, George’s back was a bloody mush, hanging in strips. In places I could see the bone exposed, and his trousers glared dark red. Afterwards they dragged him to his hammock and tossed him onto it.

  ‘There’s no rations for him until he’s back working,’ Bo’sun told Doc. ‘Captain’s orders.’

  I left George alone during the first watch that night. I was too scared to be seen helping him.

  Up on deck everyone was talking about George and the huge number of lashes Captain had ordered. Mr Strunk said that George had made his punishment worse by arguing. Apparently Captain said George was lazy, not sick, and if he didn’t obey orders he’d be flogged. George said Captain had no right to flog him. He was a chief in his own land. Captain said he was no chief, but a common shirker, and shouted other abusive words at him. No one seemed to care about the truth: that George was sick.

  At eight bells I went back down. George was muttering in his own language. After the others had gone to sleep I slipped out of my hammock and crept over to him.

  ‘Are you alright, George?’ I whispered.

  ‘E mate inu wai ana ahau.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘… thirsty.’

  ‘Hang on.’ I sneaked up to the galley to get some water. It was fairly safe — Doc always slept through the mid-watch, although I did have a nasty moment when the steps creaked as I went up the ladder. I paused, but no one stirred. I got the water and stopped again, listening at the top of the ladder before descending. All I could hear was breathing, snoring and George’s muttering.

  He gulped the water down. The blood on his back had dried, but the smell — like raw fowl — clung to my nostrils as I clambered back into my hammock. I lay there listening to him.

  ‘He hoariri ahau nona. Ka utua koe mo tenei hara i mahia nei ki ahau.’

  I had no idea what he was saying, but the tone of his voice made me uneasy.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  February 1810, on the City of Edinburgh —

  getting closer to the Horn

  The weather continued to favour us with a moderate breeze and calm sea. One afternoon, having completed the forenoon watch, I headed towards the great cabin. Mr Berry came out and down the steps.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Thomas. You need to make the most of this smooth sailing, it’s not going to last much longer. The closer we get to the Horn, the stronger the winds will get, and you won’t get much writing done once the sea breaks up.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there — get on with it, lad.’

  As I started to go up the companion, Kee came out of the great cabin. He saw me and smirked. I ignored him.

  ‘Super’s pet,’ he taunted, as he swaggered off down the deck. I was tempted to shout ‘Pox face!’, but Kee had a way of getting his own back. Last time I had called him that he’d waited until dogwatch and then nudged my elbow just as I was about to sip my cocoa. It had spilled down my front, burning me.

  Inside, I took a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer and instantly saw why Kee had been smirking: there were big blobs of ink on the top page of my account. I picked up the pages — the ink had soaked through several layers. The bastard! It took me ages to make new copies before I could continue with my account.

  George stayed on his hammock most of the next day. The wind had settled from the west again and we didn’t need him on deck. It had been two days since he’d eaten anything, but at least he’d stopped having the runs. That night I slipped him my ration of bread.

  Next morning Bo’sun told George to shift his lazy carcass or they’d throw him overboard. George joined us on the watch, but he wasn’t the same after that. I often heard him muttering to himself, and he seemed to repeat the word ‘utu’ a lot. I didn’t like to ask him what it me
ant. The only other person who was nice to him was Mrs Morley. I saw her standing next to him once, talking softly, her hand on his arm.

  By late November, the Boyd was approaching New Zealand. Things seemed to settle back to normal and George became more like his old self. I felt it was safe to ask him questions again. There were birds with yellow on their heads diving into the sea. They seemed to just drop out of the sky. ‘What are they, George?’ I asked. ‘Takapu. They make nest on islands. Near home.’ Then the ship rounded the Cape and started the run down the east coast, and George was almost happy. He smiled at me for the first time since his flogging.

  ‘My father send canoes meet ship. I see Te Puhi and Nga Huruhuru again.’

  ‘Who are they?’ I asked.

  ‘My brothers.’

  I understood. I’d been happy to wave my family goodbye as I was sculled across the Thames to where the Boyd was moored, but it hadn’t taken me many weeks to miss them.

  We were well down the coast when George was caught holding an axe, and so was tied to the capstan. Whether he’d just been going to use it for something or had been planning to keep it, I didn’t know and he wouldn’t say. He just stared down his nose at Bo’sun.

  Captain Thompson threatened to have him flogged again. I watched as George pulled and strained on the ropes, trying to get free as the other sailors mocked him. They said he was a thief and had probably stolen the iron nails, muskets and axes he’d bought to give to his people. They took them, shared them out, and left him with nothing.

  Mr Strunk and Mr Pritchard did nothing to stop the theft of George’s things. The sailors didn’t offer anything to John, Will or me, not that I would have taken anything if they had. They were so wrong. Even Will and John were starting to doubt George now. I walked away in disgust.

  But as we approached the inlet to Wangaroa, Captain Thompson sent Mr Strunk to negotiate with George.

  ‘I can release you if you help the captain to get his cargo of spars,’ he said.

  George stared at him, and I thought he was going to ignore the captain’s offer, but then he nodded. Mr Strunk ordered him untied. George shrugged off the ropes and stood at the bulwark, his shoulders squared and head high as the wind flicked his hair back. His face was set and his arms crossed. I left him alone.

  On 27 November, towards the end of the day, the Boyd lay off Wangaroa Harbour then slipped through the entrance under a slight wind. The harbour opened up into two big basins on either side of us, but the opening was hidden by the lie of the land. Huge pinnacles of rock soared high above the masts. The hills were covered with bush, and the water was a deep blue, mirror-still and beautiful. We dropped anchor near an island and waited, expecting canoes to approach the ship. We could see the natives gathered on the mainland, but no canoes left the beach. I thought this was strange, as George had told me his brothers would come out.

  After a while Captain Thompson ordered one of the boats to take George and the other three natives ashore. But first he had George stripped of all his English clothes.

  As I watched George leave the ship almost naked, the ugly weals from the flogging still vivid on his back, his wrists marked and bruised where he’d been tied to the capstan, I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

  Over the next two days Captain Thompson went off looking for spars with the natives. He arranged to have some trees felled and brought back to the ship. On the morning of our third day in the harbour, the ship was visited by many canoes and about fifty natives came on board. George wasn’t with them. A chief called Te Puhi went to see the captain — to pay his respects, he said. But I heard later that Captain Thompson said that he was busy working and told the chief to go away.

  Te Puhi was clearly offended. He stomped around on deck for a few moments, then went off in his canoe. After breakfast Captain Thompson went ashore with Mr Strunk and three boats. He took his fowling piece. No one else was armed.

  The longboat was late returning that evening. It was dark and most of the passengers were in their cabins, but no one was worried. At last we heard the splash of oars, and Mr Pritchard called out ‘Ahoy there!’ and threw down the rope ladder as the longboat drew alongside.

  I was down below. The first I knew of the attack was when John and Will staggered down the companion. John had blood pouring down the side of his face.

  ‘Hide, quick!’ Will shouted at me. ‘They’re attacking!’

  I stared at him, not understanding for a moment, but then I saw blood dripping off his hand.

  ‘Get down the hold — quick, before they see you.’

  ‘What about—’

  ‘They know we’re here, but they don’t know about you. Go, for God’s sake. Now!’ Will’s voice was hoarse with fear.

  I almost fell down the ladder to the fo’c’sle in my haste, and stumbled through to the hold. I could hear yells and shouts and thuds, and women screaming. I started to shake. My legs were heavy and thick, my heart hammering as I scrambled over the planks of wood. I worked my way deep behind the sacks of coal, the casks of powder and whale oil, until I was stopped by the far end of the hold. Then I curled up as small as I could and pulled some bundles of salted sealskins down over me. And there I stayed, too terrified to move, even after all the thudding and screams had stopped. I didn’t sleep.

  Once the ship fell silent a strange sort of singing started up, and some words of command seeped through the wood. It seemed to go on all night while I crouched there. I felt the ship shift with the tides, and heard canoes slapping against the sides, more deep voices calling in their language, laughter …

  It was dark in the hold and I’m sure I was there another day and night after that first night. At times I dozed off. My mouth was dry, and all I could taste was the bitterness of fear. I was cold and my stomach was rumbling.

  And then I heard footsteps coming down the companion and across the fo’c’sle. Several natives came into the hold, and at last I could see their shapes. Three tall warriors and a shorter one, working their way past the wood and heading straight for me. I wet my pants.

  Then I realized the shorter one was George. I pushed the skins aside, clambered over the sacks, calling out to him, ‘George! George, you won’t kill me? ‘

  George stopped when he saw me. The others lifted their weapons, but George pushed them aside and came towards me. He had a green club in his hand. It was stained brown.

  ‘Please, George.’ I saw the club move and started to stumble back, but he put it on a barrel and reached for me.

  ‘No, my boy, I not kill you. You good boy.’

  I collapsed onto my knees, tears pouring down my cheeks.

  He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Come,’ he said.

  I walked in his footsteps as we went up on deck, looking behind me all the while, not believing I was really safe. The deck was covered with bodies, congealed blood and entrails; the air weighted with the stink of offal. There was no sign of Will, and I was glad of that. It was hard enough imagining what had happened to him without having to look on his body. Then I saw John, or rather a body dressed in John’s clothes. I knew they were his, even torn and bloody as they were. I’d watched him sew the patch over the tear by his knee. He had no face. It looked as if his head had been split in half. There was nothing in my stomach to be sick with, but bile choked my throat again. Close by I saw two of the natives hacking at the body of one of the sailors.

  I followed George over the side and stumbled into the canoe. There was a high carved piece at the front and I huddled by it in a daze. George sat glowering at the shore, and I hesitated to speak to him, but now we were away from the ship the smell of my trousers caught my breath and the inside of my mouth felt like dried plum.

  As we left the harbour and headed up a winding tidal river, I spoke. ‘George, I stink. Can I wash in the river, please? ‘

  He ignored me. I didn’t ask again, but stared at the strange trees and low mud-covered banks that were covered in sprouting sticks. And then we stopped, close to an i
mmense heap of shells. I climbed out after George and splashed through the shallow water, my toes sinking into the soft ooze.

  ‘You clean now.’ He waved his arm towards the river, and I dashed back, wading out as deep as I dared. No one stopped me. I turned to see them pulling the canoe up onto the shore. I cupped my hands and tasted the water. It had a slight murky taste but wasn’t salty, so I gulped down mouthfuls, then started jumping up and down, letting the tepid water swirl around my legs, rinsing the fabric of my trousers.

  ‘Come, boy,’ George called from the bank.

  I waded back and followed him. We walked past four naked, bruised and bloodied bodies, dumped close to the landing. All were sailors I’d known. I stumbled and couldn’t hold back the strange sound that came from my throat. George’s stride didn’t even falter. I staggered up the track behind him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  February 1810, on the City of Edinburgh — about

  twelve hundred miles from Cape Horn

  This morning Kee went too far. I was by the companion when he started.

  ‘Where’s the pretty boy going, then? Up to flutter those big blue eyes at the super, are yer?’

  I spun on my heel, and with my fist screwed tight fair smacked him in the face. He staggered back and I followed through, raining blows about his head. Then he tripped on the lazy-tack and fell flat on his back.

  I was onto him and it seemed that all the anger which had built up inside me since the massacre was coming out in my fists. When he tried to hit back, I dodged the blow and pounded him again and again. He did land a few hits, but I hardly felt them. There was a red haze in front of my eyes and the taste of blood was in my mouth.

  Then Dunc was there, pulling at my shirt.

  ‘Stop it, Tom! That’s enough.’

  The haze cleared and I stumbled to my feet, sweat pouring down my face.