by Sarah Lark
Matariki and Koria spoke a few words to the oxen drivers, at which they saluted politely and turned their teams away.
The young farmer addressed the girl again, confused by what was happening. “What, what is all this? We thought we’d have to hold you off with guns, but it’s enough just to show up? First you cause trouble and then you wander off?”
Koria smiled gently. “This is a political act, sir. We just want to point out the property situation. We don’t want a war. And as my friend already said, we can plow anywhere. If you want to stop us, you’ll have to stand in our way everywhere. Perhaps if you place a man every two yards, then we wouldn’t be able to get through. The governor sold sixty-four hundred acres of our land. You can go ahead and calculate how many men you’d need for that.”
Over the next few days, the plowmen worked their way north. They were left alone by the white settlers thanks to the diplomacy of the interpreters. Nevertheless, the atmosphere became more aggressive. Major Harry Atkinson began teaching the settlers how to use their weapons, and the Taranaki Herald wrote that the man wanted a fight and ultimately the extermination of the whole Maori people. The premier, Sir George Grey, did not give such militaristic interviews, but he was also far removed from accepting any blame for illegal land sales. At best, the government would speak of misunderstandings, but more often of unruliness and revolt.
After a month of plowing, the government had to give in or negotiate. Matariki, enlivened by her successes among the settlers, was almost convinced the premier would come around. She was completely dumbfounded when their plowmen were suddenly confronted by the armed constables.
“You are all under arrest,” the sergeant announced to the men behind the teams of oxen. “Resistance is futile.”
“We won’t be resisting.” Matariki smiled sweetly, but this time she was unable to talk them out of the situation.
“Come with me,” the constable ordered the plowmen without acknowledging Matariki.
“Us too?” asked Koria.
The man looked at her as if she were stupid. “Of course not, our orders don’t mention any girls. You can get lost.”
“And the oxen?” asked Matariki.
The constable looked confused. “I don’t know. They—”
“You can’t arrest oxen.” Matariki seized her chance. “Arrest our people, but I’m taking the oxen.”
The soldiers were astonished when the delicate girl reached for the reins of the lead ox and tenderly stroked its nose.
“Come, we’re going home.” Matariki smiled at the soldiers and turned the team around. The massive animals lumbered dutifully behind her, and the arrested team drivers nodded at her assured air of victory.
They were replaced the very same day with new plowmen. The Armed Constabulary arrested them too. A few hours later, Koria and Matariki secured the oxen again.
“It’s a shame it requires so much strength; otherwise we could just plow ourselves,” Matariki laughed. “Then the poor sergeant would be completely lost, since he’s not supposed to arrest either girls or oxen.”
The next day, instead of more plowmen, a delegation of chieftains and dignitaries appeared.
“The men with the most mana should be the first to put their hands on the plow,” Te Whiti announced, and Matariki showed the great ariki Titokuwaru and his subordinate chieftains how to hold the reins of an oxen team. The warriors did not get much done before they were arrested. The prisons of Taranaki filled with prominent prisoners like Titokuwaru, Te Iki, and Te Matakatea.
In the meantime, the regular plowmen tried to avoid the soldiers’ patrols and continued to plow. If the plowmen were arrested, the tribes immediately sent replacements. Soon the prisons of Taranaki were overfilled. They took men to the Mount Cook fort in Wellington where almost two hundred plowmen were incarcerated.
The government then stopped selling the land in question. In exchange, the Maori stopped plowing. The examination of the legality of the land seizures was to be left to the high court.
“So, a truce,” Matariki said. “And Te Whiti agreed to that?”
The young translators were a bit sad they would have to return to their quiet life in Parihaka after the excitement in the plowmen’s camps.
Kupe nodded. “Te Whiti wants peace. It would not have ended well if he continued now. Besides, we’re running out of plowmen.”
Lizzie Drury sighed with relief when she read the report about the compromise in the Otago Daily Times.
“I was afraid every day that they would shoot Riki,” she admitted to her husband.
Michael nodded. “But this doesn’t mean it’s over. There’s a lot more to this Te Whiti fellow than I thought. If the negotiations don’t go his way, he’ll think of something else—he lives dangerously. The Crown won’t be bossed around for long.”
“What if he remains peaceful?” Haikina asked. She had come to pan for gold with Hone, and Lizzie had invited them in for coffee when she discovered the news in the paper. “There could be isolated incidents of attacks. I’ve been worried for Matariki. But what could they do?”
Michael shrugged. “That I don’t know,” he said. “I only know there’s one thing the English absolutely hate more than any revolt.”
Hone nodded and smiled grimly. “They have that in common with all the warriors of the world,” the Maori said wisely. “They don’t like to be made fun of.”
Chapter 4
Violet hurried home. It had been a later night than usual at the Billers’. Caleb was supposed to celebrate his eighth birthday the next day, although he had mixed feelings about the giant party his parents had planned. All he really wanted was the microscope he yearned for so much that he had handed his mother a list of options, complete with brands and model numbers. The idea of a party, and the tea and games with all the socially appropriate children between Greymouth and Westport, made him shudder.
Still, Caleb had done his best to help Violet inflate balloons and hang garlands when Rosie didn’t want to help. Rosie had been allowed to take a red balloon home with her, and she was now back at the Paisleys’ hut, waiting for Violet, who had to run to town.
She would have sent the letter to Heather Coltrane another day—she had been corresponding for weeks with her friend and was very proud that she could read Heather’s letters and answer them with very few mistakes—but when she and Rosie returned home, Violet discovered, as she often did, that the family’s food stores were completely gone. She had thought there was bread, but her father and brother must have eaten it during the day. Really that could only mean one thing: one or both of them had not been allowed to go down into the mine that day. They had likely been too far gone from drinking the night before.
Violet sighed, thinking of the lost wages that would result and, in turn, the anger. At least it was Violet’s payday, so she didn’t have to get the groceries on credit.
If only the blasted town were not so far from the miners’ camp. It did not bother Violet to run back and forth, but the spring evening was already getting dark, and she was afraid of the path through the forest. It wasn’t the shadowy ferns or the eerie cries of the birds that scared her but instead the men she might encounter. Violet’s heart beat faster at every bend in the road, but she told herself that at this time of day she did not have anything to fear. The miners on the day shift had just gotten off work. Violet would be long home before they made their way to the pub.
Then halfway to Greymouth, Violet ran into a group of miners and lumberjacks. The men had just arrived in Greymouth, and they had turned their advance from the mine not only into wood and nails to build shelters, but also into whiskey.
“Now, who’s this running our way? Such a pretty girl here at the ends of the earth?”
The man spoke with an Irish accent and had a nice smile. Violet lowered her gaze and tried to pass them quickly. However, another man immediately put himself in her path.
“Don’t flirt, Paul. Just think of your Mary waiting at home,” he
said to the first man. “Me, on the other hand, sweetie, I’m all alone with no one to kiss.”
The men laughed.
“Today, anyway,” the man specified, “and the three months on the ship. It makes a man real sad, cutie. What do you think, would y’like to cheer me up?”
He reached for Violet’s arm, but she shook him off. He let her go, which gave Violet hope. The four men were certainly tipsy, but not very drunk, and besides a few lewd remarks, they did not seem to mean her any harm.
“Cheer yourself up,” Violet said firmly. “I need to get to town, and I’d like to be back before dark.”
“I’d be happy to accompany you,” said the third man, a blond with a soft, deep voice. “Tell me if you need protection. I’ll be your knight.”
“He’s no knight, just a dreamer,” the fourth man said. “Right, Sir Galahad?”
Rolling laughter made Violet think the young man had earned the nickname on many occasions.
“What do you think? Will you get to kiss the girl, or are you just talking again?”
The blond looked at his pals with gentle rebuke, frowning comically. “A few pretty words, gents, conquer a woman’s heart quicker than a kiss, which here I’d have to steal anyway. Or would you be willing, princess?”
Now Violet had to laugh. This strange miner would almost have been able to touch her heart. But now she had to go. She was about to make a suitable riposte meant to let her depart in friendship—when the young man in front of her was brutally yanked backward. In the half-light, Violet could only see the outline of someone seizing him by the shirt, yanking him around, and punching him powerfully in the chin.
“D-d-don’t you talk to my little sister like that.” Fred Paisley slurred the words in a hiss.
Eric Fence was right behind Fred—no less drunk and spoiling for a fight. After the blow, “Sir Galahad” sank at once to the ground. It would not have surprised Violet if his jaw had been broken. The other three men formed a front to defend their pal. Paul, the oldest, went after Fred, but received a blow from Eric that struck him in the kidney and left him groaning. That was all it took for the six men to become entangled in an embittered brawl.
Violet, who at first had looked on in shock, finally tried to stop them, but it did no good to scream at Fred and Eric. They did not seem to hear her. They were in the rush of the fighting and appeared to have the upper hand on the new arrivals. After Sir Galahad and Paul were knocked out, the fight was evened out, though the new immigrants were surely weakened after the long journey by ship. Fred and Eric were rested from a sleepy and boozy day.
“I, I’ll teach you t-to feel up m-my sister.” Full of rage, Fred thrashed his opponent, and Eric did no less.
“Th-the girl is, is sacred to us,” he shouted histrionically, and seemed to spur himself on with those words. “Like, like family, get, get it?”
With that, Eric sent his next opponent to the ground. The man moaned once more before losing consciousness.
Fred’s adversary now grew visibly afraid. “We didn’t do anything. Girl, girl, tell—”
The man turned desperately to Violet, who had been maintaining the entire time that the men had not hurt her.
It clearly did not matter to Fred and Eric whether they were striking the innocent or the guilty. Violet was almost happy that they unloaded their anger on the strong men rather than on Rosie or Violet herself.
It was clear to her that was not yet over when the last of the men fled into the darkness of the forest. Fred seemed to consider whether it was worth chasing after him, but then he turned to his sister instead.
“Well, Vio? How were we?” He grinned triumphantly.
Violet did not know how she was supposed to answer. Was it better to soothe the boys with praise, or would a sobering rebuke be more effective? No matter what, they should all get away as quickly as possible. The men on the ground had not moved for some time, and she hoped they weren’t dead. She also hoped the fourth man would take care of his friends once Fred and Eric were out of the way.
“We saved you.” Fred beamed.
Violet bit her lip. “I, I was not really in danger. I—”
“Ooh, look at her play coy. Little Violet, she’s so brave, she could have defended herself. Or were they not bothering you at all, little sis? Maybe you wanted to make a little deal with the men?” Fred’s voice became threatening and serious.
Eric, however, grinned. “Nonsense, Freddy, our little Violet, she’s, she’s much too fine for—” He boomed with laughter. “Nah, nah, Freddy, she just doesn’t want to be grateful. That’s it. She’s too fine for a little gratitude.”
Fred looked at his sister searchingly. “Is that it? You don’t want to say thanks? It’s real easy. Try it. ‘Thank you, dear Fred.’” He grabbed Violet’s arm hard.
She forced herself to breathe deeply. “Thank you, dear Fred,” she said through clenched teeth.
Fred laughed derisively. “That was very nice,” he praised. “And now: ‘Thank you, dear Eric.’”
Violet swallowed. “Thank you, dear Eric,” she spat out. “Can I go now? I need to get to the post office and to the store. Otherwise there will be trouble with Dad when he comes home. There’s nothing to eat.”
She did not really want to go to town. She would have preferred to run straight home and crawl with Rosie into their shared bed. Yet the road to Greymouth was the only possible escape path if the boys really let her go. Besides, then she could tell Mrs. Travers about the wounded men on the road. The gravedigger’s wife would send help.
Eric Fence scratched his nose. “Anyone can say it,” he said, “but if you’re really thankful, you’ll show it too.”
Violet tried to tear herself away, but Fred held her tight. She could only try diplomacy.
“I’d be happy to show you, Eric,” she said as amiably as she could. “Tomorrow, tomorrow evening, you, you’ll come to eat, right? I’ll cook something extra good. Tomorrow’s Caleb’s birthday, so I can also bring something from the mansion. There will be leftovers. Roast and cake.”
Eric grinned. “Something sweet, yeah, now we’re getting closer. But not tomorrow. I’ve got a craving for something sweet now. How about you, Fred?” He laughed. “You really can’t because, because she’s your sister. That’s bad luck, Fred, but, but you can give us something like your blessing. Eh, Fred? Give me your sister’s hand. Then we’ll let you watch.”
To Violet’s horror, Fred did not stop his friend from threatening his sister’s innocence. Instead, he grinned lasciviously.
“What d’you want with her hand, Eric?”
Both men laughed.
Violet saw with a mixture of horror and relief that her admirer—“Sir Galahad”—seemed to be coming to, which was a good sign but also dangerous.
“Maybe we could talk about this at home?” she asked desperately.
Eric and Fred looked at each other. Then they nodded.
“Just a question of your house or mine,” Eric said, placing his arm around Violet.
His arm gripped her body like a vise. She had no chance of escape.
“Come along, lovely.”
The boys moved to take their prize home. Shadows were stirring in the direction of the mining settlement. The first of the miners were making for the pub.
“We’d better get out of here,” said Fred, glancing at the men on the ground.
Suddenly it seemed to have occurred to them that they ought not to get caught among their unconscious victims.
“Not a sound,” Eric hissed at Violet.
She nodded hesitantly. Would it do any good to scream and draw other men’s attention to her situation? Fred was her brother. No one would believe he was threatening her. He put his arm around her too. Violet planted her feet instinctively in the ground, but the boys lifted her effortlessly and dragged her along between them.
“A bit, bit too much to drink,” Fred said with a grimace to the approaching men.
Violet squeezed out a desperate,
“Help,” but her already weak call was silenced when Eric kicked her shin.
“You ought to be ashamed getting the girl drunk if she doesn’t know how to control herself,” an older miner chided.
“Slut.”
Violet swallowed when she heard the word. Her reputation in the settlement would be ruined. The only thing that mattered was that the Billers did not catch wind of it. Her fear of losing her beloved post and refuge briefly overcame her fear of Eric. But so far, only two miners had seen her like this, and they would be distracted the moment they stumbled on the victims of the brawl. Maybe they would forget Violet.
“Let me go. I can walk on my own.” Violet struggled against Eric and Fred’s grip. “I don’t want people to think I, I would—”
“Always thinking about her reputation,” Fred laughed. “A real little lady, my little sis.”
Eric seemed more agreeable. Perhaps he did not really like forcing women to do things.
“Don’t you dare say a word. Don’t you dare try to run,” Eric said.
“We’d catch you anyway,” Fred reprimanded her. “Certainly by the time you crawl back to your little Rosie. You wouldn’t leave her alone with Dad.”
Something else to worry about. Even now, without a doubt, he would be taking out his anger at the lack of dinner on Rosie.
“I’ll do what you want,” Violet said. “But quickly. I need to get back to Rosie. She’ll be afraid. You, you won’t hold me longer than necessary, right?”
Eric whinnied laughter. “Sweetheart, no one’s complained until now. You can rely on ol’ Eric. I’m always up for it.”
Violet did not know what he meant, but she didn’t care. Whatever the boys had planned for her, she would get past it. She would survive. She had to.
Trembling but resigned, she followed Eric into his hut. It was even more primitive than their own, and the place was filthy. It stank of rotten food and dirty, sweaty clothes; the sheets on the bed were stained and stiff. Violet shuddered when Eric directed her to lie there. Uncertain, she sat.