Shadow of the Boyd

by Diana Menefy

  He stopped talking and looked at me. I couldn’t think of a response. We sat in silence for a while. I thought about the sickness killing the natives. It still didn’t seem fair. That wasn’t deliberate, just something that occurred.

  ‘What’s going to happen to us?’ Mrs Morley asked.

  ‘You friends. You kind. I save you.’

  ‘We can’t stay in the hut forever. Ann will get sick soon if I don’t wash her. We all need a wash.’

  ‘You safe. I spoke my father, brothers. You safe.’

  ‘But what are we going to do?’ Mrs Morley asked.

  ‘You help women.’

  ‘What about me?’ I asked.

  ‘You fish. Plenty work.’

  ‘Can we wash first, please?’ Mrs Morley asked.

  ‘Come.’

  We followed him down to the river.

  I spent the rest of the day there, splashing in the water or lying in the sun on the grass above the bank. Now that I was close to the sprouting sticks, I could see they were actually roots of the trees that grew along the edge in the mud. At low tide the bank stank — like mouldy leaves, seaweed and rotten eggs all mixed up together. Some of the native boys came to the river, but, although I could see them looking towards me, talking and giggling together, they didn’t come near me and left after a while. Mrs Morley had gone off with the women, and although George had said we’d be safe the tightness in my chest wouldn’t go away.

  I stayed by the river as long as I could, popping mud bubbles with a stick before they burst. I knew I’d have to face the natives sometime, and my stomach was grumbling again. As the sun started drifting behind the hills I dawdled back up the path towards the big hut with carved poles where the men were sitting in groups on the ground outside.

  And then I saw the heads on sticks.

  In a line.

  They were hair, bone and shrunken flesh.

  Five of them, almost unrecognizable.

  I’d heard about the heads of the King’s enemies being put on spikes by Tower Bridge, but this was different. I’d known these men.

  I stood, my stomach churning, my hands clenched, wanting to turn and run back to the hut. Then I saw George and he called out to me.

  ‘Come, boy. Come eat.’

  I sat as close to George as I could without disturbing any of the others. Eyes burnt into my back while I waited for the baskets of food to be handed around. The voices were low and loud together, none of the words familiar. The food was different too — from the size and shape of the little bones I knew it had to be a bird and it tasted a bit like chicken. Instead of the sweet potatoes there was some sort of root. It wasn’t unpleasant and I was hungry.

  That night I lay tense on the bare ground and shivered. It wasn’t that cold, but I was too scared to move or ask for a mat to lie on. Every now and then a drift of smoke from the fires would bury the odd smell of those lying close to me, a strange mix of sweat, salt, oil and grass. I gave up trying to work it out, and stared at the stars while the natives muttered and slept around me.

  I don’t remember going to sleep, but I must have because the stars were clouded over and it was pitch black when my nightmares jerked me awake. I bolted upright and sat staring wild-eyed, then I lay back on the hard surface until my breathing eased enough for me to be sure of hearing anyone approaching. There was silence, broken only by snores and a strange bird calling two mournful notes over and over.

  I woke again at dawn, stiff, hungry and busting to go. I watched as some of the others got up, stretched and walked off towards the woods. In the end, desperate, I followed a boy about the same size as me, and sure enough he was relieving himself. He saw me watching and said something. The words didn’t sound threatening so I decided to stay close to him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  March 1810, on the City of Edinburgh —

  off the coast of Tierra del Fuego

  One morning, after the boats had left to continue the search for a bay with a clear entrance, several canoes came up to the ship. These weren’t big wooden canoes like those of the New Zealanders, but small and looked as though they were made of bark. Each canoe had a heap of dirt in it — ballast, Bo’sun reckoned — with a fire burning on top. The natives had sealskins draped around their bodies, but I could see them shivering. Their skin was dark brown, their faces flat with high cheek bones. They all had long, black hair that looked coarse and dirty, hanging straight down over their shoulders. Some of them had painted their faces with red and yellow ochre. An old man stood and called out what sounded like ‘Pickeray! Pickeray!’ He had something in his hand.

  They were a small people and looked harmless, but I stood well back and watched as Mr Berry haggled with an old woman. Her face was deeply wrinkled. They traded sealskins and some funny-looking pieces of rock. I found out later that the rock was copper pyrite — useful for striking fire. When Mr Berry asked them where they’d got the rock from, the old man pointed at the mountains. Eventually, satisfied with the trade, the natives paddled off.

  That afternoon the boat crews discovered a small nook, accessible to the ship. There was deep water close to a steep rock, and plenty of trees and dense bush for two hundred yards above the high-tide mark. Mr Berry went for a walk and came back with some pale greyish-red bark. ‘Winter’s bark’, he called it. He gave some to Doc to make tea for us, and said we should all drink it to help prevent us from getting scurvy. I figured it couldn’t be worse than the burnt toast scrapings Doc used to make coffee, and picked up a mug. It smelt like aniseed. Tasted a bit like it, too, but it left a sharp, pungent tang in my mouth.

  We were able to secure the ship to the rock, and for the first time in weeks I knew we were safe from the weather. That night a fearful gale blew up but we were snug. We sang and laughed and feasted on the large mussels that smothered the rocks by the low-tide line. Doc had steamed them open, and they tasted much better than the raw ones. Mr Berry named the place Preservation Harbour.

  Over the next week everyone worked on repairing the ship. We split into three gangs under Bo’sun, Chips and Sails. Kee and I got to stitch canvas. Sails had sorted and trimmed as much of the torn canvas as could be used, and all the joins had to be double-seamed. It took me days to get the knack of pushing the needle through the stiff canvas with my palm.

  There weren’t enough sail hooks to hold the seams square while we sewed, and twice I had to pick out the stitches. And then, when I thought we’d finished, the sails had to be edged all around with the bolt-rope. Kee sniggered when Sails called me addle-pated, and I glared at him. He hadn’t picked on me as much since we’d fought, but I knew he was just biding his time to get even.

  Mr Berry went off on his own again one day. When he came back, he told Mr Russell he’d climbed the mountain to see whether there was anything beyond it that we could use, or game we could shoot. There was nothing. Mr Russell told Bo’sun that Mr Berry had said there was just rock and more rock. The only difference from the rocks on the shoreline was that those up there had been smoothed and polished with the rains. There were no signs of any animals, so we would have to find a different haven to renew our supplies.

  It took weeks to complete all we could do to repair the ship without further resources. It was now a matter of waiting until the wind was right to work our way out of the islands and into the open sea. While we waited I spent some hours in the great cabin writing. I’d almost finished my account of the massacre and was keen to be done with it.

  Early December 1809, at the village at Wangaroa

  I hated being scared all the time, not knowing what the natives were saying. I couldn’t tell if they were threatening me or just telling me something. Their faces always looked fierce, and my stomach wouldn’t unclench until they gestured so I could understand.

  Now that I’d survived a night surrounded by them I felt braver and sought out George. I asked him the boy’s name and if he’d mind getting the boy to teach me their names for things.

  ‘He called
Ripi,’ George said, then shouted to the boy.

  Ripi came over and listened to George. He glared at me and argued back, but George stamped his foot and settled the matter. Ripi stalked off towards the baskets left from the previous night’s meal, jerking his head for me to follow. After grabbing a handful of cold food and holding it out to me, Ripi pointed in the direction of the canoes where most of the men were gathering, and ran off, calling ‘Haere mai’. I followed him, hoping it meant ‘Come’ or ‘Follow me’.

  Ripi and the others started to drag a canoe down to the water. I stood uncertain, watching for a moment. Ripi called out and waved his arm at me. It was obvious that I was meant to be helping. We got the canoe into the water and I scrambled in. Ripi handed me a short-looking paddle. It was awkward at first after our long oars, but I soon got the hang of it.

  We spent most of the day out in the harbour. The water was a deep, dark blue, and its tiny peaks and troughs looked like a paddock of hay rippling in the wind. The only break of white came from the paddles and the trail left by the canoes. I watched as the men tossed out the big nets and hauled them in. I’d never seen so many fish in one catch.

  By the end of the day, Ripi had got used to my questions. Even though he didn’t understand English, it was obvious what I was asking. I had added waka (canoe), hoe (paddle), ika (fish) and kupenga (net) to my list of words. I was tolerated and, although the odd unfriendly poke still made me jump, the malevolent glares had gone.

  We fished for several days. The nets were made out of strands of flax twisted together and knotted again and again. I’d seen the women working on them. Mrs Morley told me that the women worked all the time with flax, making baskets and mats, cloaks and rope. She sometimes helped gather the flax, but spent most of her time working in the gardens. She hated it, was exhausted, and said she’d be better off dead. I felt guilty for enjoying my time out on the water.

  One afternoon the men caught this huge fish. There were lots of shouts of ‘haku’, and they all had big grins. I think ‘haku’ must have been the name of the fish. I’d never seen anything like it — greeny-blue on top and silvery-white underneath. When the canoes returned to the village at dusk the natives paraded it, then cut it open just below the gills. Blood poured out: I never knew a fish had so much blood. My stomach turned queasy as I couldn’t help but think of all the blood spilt on the deck of the Boyd.

  They gutted the fish and left the remains to the flock of seagulls that seemed to have swooped in from all around the harbour, squawking and screeching as they squabbled for the pieces. I told myself I wasn’t going to eat any of the fish, but it smelt good cooking, and as usual I was starving.

  I got used to seeing the natives wearing trousers, shoes and coats stolen from the ship. I recognized Captain Burnside’s jacket — although the sleeves had been torn from it. Others had canvas from the sails draped over one shoulder the same way they wore their cloaks. A couple of women had dresses on. The children ran around naked.

  I thought about arming myself and getting away — the muskets and ammunition that had made it ashore were leaning against the big hut. And every now and again I saw an axe or knife being used and I knew they’d come from the Boyd, too. But even if I could get my hands on a weapon, there was nowhere for me to hide it. Anyway, where would I go? If I did manage to get away, they would only hunt me down and then George would be angry, too. I decided not to try.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  April 1810, on the City of Edinburgh —

  leaving the coast of Tierra del Fuego

  One morning, on 2 April, the breeze blew offshore at a steady rate. Captain Patterson ordered the mooring lines to be let go. With the wind astern and the jib, sprit-sail and foresail set, we hauled on the halyards, sheets and braces. The wind picked up the sails, and the ship slid forward into the bay. Mr Russell moved the tiller and we all cheered as the improvised rudder responded. Our jubilation was short-lived, however, as the wind pushed us into a float of giant kelp and the ship shuddered to a stop. With the ropes belayed, Captain ordered a boat lowered and I watched from the stern as one of the sailors slipped from the boat and swam under the hull to investigate. I wished I could swim.

  Some of the kelp stems had apparently got between the rudder and the sternpost and were holding the ship tight. Two other sailors went down with knives to cut the stems away. At the same time the Fuegians who had visited us before turned up and joined in the effort. They had no knives, but used their teeth to bite through the kelp. Finally the ship was free, and with a wave to the Fuegians we sailed out of the bay and started on our voyage northwards.

  While the ship was in New Zealand, Mr Berry had heard that there had been a revolution in Spain and that Spain and England were now friends. He told us the best chance to get the ship repaired and save our lives was to take refuge in Chile, which was ruled by the Spanish.

  Most days the wind was generally from the south and west, and the sky hazy. With so little sail up, our progress was slow, and there were frequent gales that knocked us around and repeatedly displaced our makeshift rudder. Luckily the gales were short and fast, and between times the weather settled down and the rudder was retied.

  It was during one of the calmer spells, when I was back in the great cabin, that I decided to ask Mr Berry about George’s story. I hadn’t really believed what he’d told me.

  Mr Berry was reading.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What now, Thomas?’ He put his book down.

  ‘George told me that the captain of a ship cast an evil spirit in the water and put a curse on the land and lots of George’s people got sick and died. And that was why everyone on the Boyd got killed. Do you believe in evil spirits and curses? ‘

  Mr Berry made a sound that was remarkably like a snort. He leant back in his chair and stretched with his hands behind his head. He was obviously thinking and not annoyed with me, so I waited.

  ‘No, I don’t believe in them, but many unsophisticated societies do,’ he said. ‘The story is basically true; I heard about it from Te Pahi, a Bay of Islands chief. One of the crew of the Commerce who went ashore must have been sick. I don’t know why so many died — we don’t — but you can understand why they thought there was a curse. There was nothing for them to see, just the sickness spreading.’

  ‘What about the evil spirit in the water? Was that something to do with the sickness, too?’

  ‘I heard that Captain Ceroni dropped his watch into the harbour. The New Zealanders thought it was a demon. Then Ceroni didn’t help matters by sailing on the tide during the night without taking leave of anyone. That’s not what a friend would do.’

  ‘So George was right. And then finding out about the flogging just made them more angry.’

  ‘Probably. It was unlucky that the Boyd sailed into Wangaroa.’ He paused for a moment. ‘When I came back from Tonga and Fiji I intended to go there — Ceroni had told me it was an excellent place to get spars. But the New Zealanders on board begged me not to. They told me that they’d heard the natives intended to attack the first ship that entered on account of the great evil Ceroni had caused. I didn’t believe them — I thought they were just trying to monopolize our trade. But the winds weren’t right, so we sailed on to the Bay of Islands instead.’

  ‘You still came to rescue us.’

  ‘We were well-armed and expecting trouble, and Metanangha made it easier.’ He picked up his book and settled back to read. I picked up my quill.

  December 1809, at the village at Wangaroa

  Another day we left the village with a collection of flax baskets and long sticks and walked away from the river over a hill, coming out on a sandy beach. I watched as the natives started to fill the baskets with sand, then Ripi tossed one at me and yelled ‘Mahi!’ I guessed that meant ‘work’. When the baskets were full we slid each one onto a stick, put the ends over our shoulders and followed the others back over the hill, but instead of returning to the village we carried on around several bends to whe
re the women were working a plot of land.

  Mrs Morley was there, sweat dripping off her face as she poked at the ground with a sharpened stick.

  ‘Soddin’ primitive tools. No wonder we work all day. Not one spade between ‘em — and look at my hands!’

  The women weren’t turning the soil over like you do with a spade, just loosening it up. It looked like hard work. Another group of women was breaking the sods in their fingers. We emptied the baskets of sand onto the crumbly soil behind them and went back for more. The others talked and laughed and ignored me. I didn’t mind this. I thought that while I was working I’d be safe. By the end of the day I had sore shoulders, and all but the last of the sand we’d carted had been worked into the soil. I wondered what they were going to plant. Other than their potatoes I’d seen no vegetables.

  One night we went hunting for eels. The men used sticks that had a small bundle of fire wrapped in flax leaves on the ends. The smoke had a funny smell, familiar, but I couldn’t work out what it reminded me of. I stayed back with the boys, watching as some of the men crept forward — the light-bearers and those with spears. The spears had white, pointed tips tied on with a fine flax rope. The men threw the spears and shouted and we rushed forward to grab the slim, wet eels. It wasn’t long before we had a heap of them.

  The next morning, the women tied the eels to sticks and placed them in rows over a smoking fire where they stayed for several days. When they were done, the women peeled the skin off and broke up the flesh. We ate them that night: the taste was good but not a patch on Ma’s eel pie. Ma could cook like a dream. I wondered what she was cooking for dinner, but then I remembered that she’d be asleep. I wondered how long it would be before she knew that something had gone wrong and that she’d never see me again.