A Mother's Courage

by Maggie Hope

  Yet Prue was only marginally aware of the orgy of killing that was taking place; her mind was wholly on Matthew. He was still on his knees with his hands now tied together, right in the middle of it all. She raced to his side, taking hold of his shoulder, trying to pull him to one side before she realised he was unable to rise to his feet for he was hog-tied with the same rope that bound his hands.

  The tribal chief lay across Matthew’s legs, and as she pushed and shoved at the body to get it off, she saw the knife he dropped as he died. Desperately she hacked at the rope around Matthew’s wrists, but it was sticky with blood from the stumps of his severed fingers and her hands slipped once, horrifyingly, so that she only just missed cutting him more. Then he was free and he snatched the knife from her with his good hand, and hacked at the rope binding his ankles. It fell away and he took hold of her, running for the edge of the clearing, stumbling a little but getting there.

  ‘Stay,’ he ordered and she nodded, though she felt she could not have moved again of her own volition. She had begun to tremble with shock and the blood was pounding in her veins so that she could barely see.

  The clearing was empty of women – whether they had fled or were among those who were cut down, Prue couldn’t tell. Some of the men had surrendered; she could see a group of them on their knees before the Fijians who were tying them roughly together with loops of twine around their necks, their hands behind them.

  She watched Matthew, a club in his uninjured hand, walking behind them, checking the knots and she could hardly believe his forbearance as he came to the two who had held him as the chief cut off his fingers; he treated them exactly the same as the others. All the excitement seemed to be over, the party from Viwa businesslike in their actions.

  Morgan West and his handful of seamen were standing taking a breather, leaning on their guns, when one of them spied a woman hiding in the bush.

  ‘Here’s a bit of sport, lads!’ he cried and dragged her out by one leg and the others were soon searching for her companions, whooping and shouting.

  ‘Tally ho!’ someone shouted and seized a girl with a baby in her arms and the men who a moment before had been kneeling abjectly before their captors were jumping up despite their bonds and trying to get at the Europeans. Morgan West calmly levelled his gun, aimed at one of them and fired, bringing him down in the mud and his nearest companions, still tied to him by the neck, on top of him.

  The men from Viwa stood and stared at him as Morgan lifted his rifle to his shoulder once again and calmly took aim for the next prisoner in line while the women shrieked and the seamen whooped their approval. Prue cringed inside herself, oh, dear God, was he going to kill off the whole village? It certainly looked like it. A grinning seaman was dragging off a young girl who could not have been more than twelve right in front of her, the girl’s eyes large and staring, limbs frozen in fright.

  Galvanised into action, Prue jumped forward and took hold of his arm. ‘Leave her alone, you monster!’ she cried but the seaman only shook her off, grinning.

  ‘I will, lass, willingly if you’ll take her place,’ he said and laughed before taking the girl off into the undergrowth.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Francis had not long been ashore on the small island that was his destination after he had left Eleanor at Viwa when Matthew’s uncle paddled a small canoe on to the beach and, hardly waiting to make the canoe safe, chased after the party of missionaries, arriving breathless and barely able to stand after his exertions.

  ‘Mr Tait, Mr Tait,’ he cried. ‘A raiding party! I visit my nephew and he gone, and the woman and the babies, all gone!’

  Francis stared at him, unable to move at first. No, it wasn’t true, there was a mistake, hadn’t he left Eleanor at Viwa only an hour or two ago? It was Mr Calvert who stepped forward.

  ‘Calm down, man,’ he said. ‘Now tell us what you mean, take a deep breath and try to speak plainly.’

  The Tongan did as he was told and all the while Francis listened, still disbelieving but knowing at the same time it was true. He thought back to the minutes the ship had been at Viwa, only so long as it was necessary to leave Eleanor and to catch the last of the tide and get out into the bay again. It had been a very quick turn around and even so he had noticed how empty the beach was; why hadn’t he thought more about it?

  But there had been smoke coming from the native huts and, if he had thought about it at all, he had thought the women must be cooking and the men out on some hunting expedition; he certainly hadn’t guessed that there was anything wrong – why should there be? And he had been eager to discuss the building of a new church on this island, newly evangelised and very exciting. Nothing had alerted him to the idea that there had been a raid.

  Yet in the back of his mind he knew he had not been sufficiently on his guard and he should have been alerted. He was well aware there was trouble with the hill tribes who were in dispute with the king and his Christian advisers. In fact the hill tribes hated the Methodists, hadn’t he heard that only last week when he was at the conference on Bau? Dear God, he prayed, let nothing have happened to my boys, please God, don’t punish them because of my negligence.

  ‘We must go after them,’ Mr Calvert was saying and Francis looked at him.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, we must, there’s no time to lose,’ he answered and turned back to the shore but Mr Calvert stopped him.

  ‘Wait, Francis, wait, consider what we need. The local men, I think, they are our only chance of finding where they are.’

  Francis halted. Of course, it was pointless simply dashing off with no idea where they were going. His mind was beginning to clear, his initial despairing panic subsiding and being replaced by a cold determination.

  It was not until they were approaching the third small bay, hidden among the rocks of the northern coast, that the native Fijians among them began to show excitement and as they rounded the headland Francis could see why. A sloop was anchored in the bay, a sloop he knew well.

  ‘That is Captain West’s ship,’ observed Mr Calvert. ‘Now what is he doing here?’

  Francis didn’t answer; he was straining forward against the rail, staring at the figure of a woman only just discernible against the starlit sky. It was Eleanor, he was sure it was Eleanor; she hadn’t seen their approach, she was standing with her back to them, gazing at the shore. What was she doing on Morgan West’s ship? The question ran through his mind even as he was preparing to lower a boat to go over to her.

  ‘Eleanor!’ he called and Mr Calvert joined in.

  ‘Halloo, Mrs Tait!’

  Eleanor turned and walked slowly to the opposite side of the deck and stood waiting as the two men climbed aboard. Francis’s heart dropped as he saw her face, her eyes still red and her cheeks streaked with tears.

  ‘Eleanor, my dear, we came as soon as we heard, our Fijian friends knew where to look, thanks be to God,’ he said, going towards her with his arms outstretched. He put his arms around her but she was unyielding, her face set.

  ‘Mrs Tait, have you heard anything of the children?’ asked Mr Calvert, who was hovering beside them.

  Eleanor didn’t answer; indeed she hardly heard him. When she had first seen Francis coming over the rail a terrible wave of bitterness had washed over her so she couldn’t speak for a moment. And Francis saw it in her eyes and he felt he deserved it; he had done the unforgivable by allowing the boys to be put in danger. He did not say how sorry he was; what good were apologies now?

  ‘Mrs Tait?’

  This time Eleanor heard the older missionary and pulled herself away from Francis’s arms so that they fell to his sides.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Calvert,’ she said formally, almost as though she were replying to a polite inquiry at a social meeting, and he blinked and cast a swift glance at Francis. After a slight hesitation she continued and to Francis it was almost as if she didn’t want to tell him, as though she wanted him to suffer.

  ‘Mala and his men found the boys, Mr
Calvert, they were with Prue, she had managed to escape from the tribesmen.’

  Francis broke in. ‘Eleanor? Are they harmed? Tell me, Eleanor, for the love of God.’

  ‘Perhaps love of your children would be more appropriate at this time,’ she observed and Mr Calvert stepped back, shocked by the venom in her voice. ‘They are unharmed in body at least, though no doubt they will suffer nightmares for the rest of their lives.’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ breathed Francis. ‘Where are they? I must go to them.’ He heard her last remark, of course he did, but almost as an aside, for the important thing was that they had not been injured.

  ‘I think not. They are asleep in Captain West’s cabin. I think sleep is a good thing for them, don’t you? I don’t wish them to be disturbed.’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed,’ Mr Calvert interjected, nodding his head as he did his best to lessen the tension between the couple. ‘Sleep is the best thing for them.’

  ‘They were calling for their daddy,’ Eleanor went on, gazing at Francis stonily. ‘Evidently Prue kept their spirits up by saying their daddy would come after them and rescue them.’

  Every word a stab at him, thought Francis, and how could he blame her?

  ‘Instead it was Captain West who came. I don’t know what I would have done without his help. And Prue too, I know you thought little of her but she saved the boys and now she has led Captain West and his men to the village. The heathens still have Matthew captive.’

  ‘We must go at once, you’ll be all right here with a couple of men?’

  Eleanor smiled for the first time, cold-eyed. ‘I usually am, Francis, I have to be.’ She turned abruptly away from him and stared landwards, looking for signs of life among the trees. After a moment she spoke again. ‘Of course you must go, though I’m sure Captain West and his men will bring Prue and Matthew back safely; they are well-armed. And there are Mala’s men too.’

  Francis wasted no more time. Goodness only knew what was happening on shore, he thought. Before long the men were embarked in the canoes for the short row ashore. He glanced back once at the ships anchored in the bay but there was no sign of Eleanor.

  ‘I don’t know about West,’ said Mr Calvert as he toiled up the hill on the now well-worn track to the village. ‘I have my misgivings about him, I don’t think he will go out of his way to rescue a native, even a Christian.’

  Francis agreed with him. There were disturbing stories of the cotton planters and Morgan West in particular. It was said they had little regard for human life if the human in question was not white.

  Their fears appeared to be justified as they approached the site of the native village to be greeted by the screams of the women and the sound of rifle fire.

  ‘In the name of God, what is going on here?’ he cried as, almost in mid-stride, he grabbed a man who was molesting a girl.

  ‘Just as I feared,’ murmured Mr Calvert. ‘Well, Francis, we have to stop it and stop it now.’

  Prue couldn’t believe her ears; the voice came from behind her, from the path that led into the clearing. And it was Francis Tait who strode forward, his hand round the neck of the seaman who had gone off with the girl, dragging the smaller man after him, stumbling and held up only by the strength of Francis’s arm. Behind him came the Reverend Calvert and half a dozen men, Christian men from the south of the island.

  Morgan paused; lowering his rifle, he turned to the newcomers.

  ‘Why, Francis, what do you think is going on? We’ve been saving your family from kidnap and murder and the Lord knows what else, and a good thing too, when you were away leaving them to fend for themselves. Now, come on, Reverend Mr Tait, aren’t you going to say thank you?’

  ‘If you or your men kill one more I will personally take you in charge and hand you over to the authorities on Bau,’ said Francis. ‘Now call your men in, I will have no more innocent girls molested, do you hear me?’

  Morgan laughed. ‘Oh? And who is going to stop us doing exactly what we damn well like? To the victor the spoils, say I. And if either of you two holy joes think you’re going to stop us I’ll soon send you lickety-split into the jungle with the aid of my friend here.’ He patted his rifle and grinned at Francis, who was still holding the seaman in his grasp almost as though he had forgotten he was there.

  Francis stared thoughtfully at him and away at the men from his own compound, who were standing in a group watching him expectantly. Mala, the chief, was listening to the exchange intently and was fingering his club, frowning.

  ‘It’s over now, Mala,’ Francis said calmly. ‘Now we must see to the dead. The prisoners we will take down to be dealt with by the king. You agree, Mr Calvert?’

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something, Francis?’

  Francis turned back to Morgan, his eyes hard in an otherwise expressionless face. ‘Have I?’

  ‘Thanks, for instance? If it hadn’t been for me and my men what do you think would have happened to your children?’

  ‘I don’t think they would have actually hurt the children,’ Mr Calvert intervened. ‘In all the years we, as a Society, have been in Fiji, we have never had a child harmed by the natives. No, I think they may have been held to ransom but not harmed. The tribes’ fight is against the king’s sovereignty, I believe, and his conversion from the old gods.’

  Morgan snorted. ‘They are nothing but savages, animals. I don’t think them capable of reasoning at all. They simply love fighting and killing and eating their enemies, any excuse will do. Look at what they did to your man. They’re all the same underneath, Christian or pagan, I wouldn’t trust them an inch. I would be doing you all a favour if I rid the island of this lot!’

  ‘But you will not,’ said Francis. ‘Now call your men together, we will give thanks to God for the deliverance of our people and then we will bury the dead and go home.’

  Morgan looked as though he was about to argue but in the end he did as he was bid and the party eventually made their way back to the shore where there were now two ships in the bay, the missionary ship anchored close to Morgan’s sloop. Francis must have found out what had happened and chased after them, Prue surmised. At least little John would know his daddy came, after all.

  The prisoners were loaded on to the canoes of the Viwa men, still tied together. The village was left with old men to guard it and women and children lamenting over the graves of their dead. Despite the horrors she had witnessed in the clearing, Prue couldn’t help feeling sorry for them and for the few who trailed after them down the forest path, some with babies in their arms, looking for a last glimpse of their men.

  Matthew, the Tongan, walked with his head held high, both arms swinging by his sides, and Prue knew what it must have cost him in pain in his injured hand, now covered with a piece of bark cloth but otherwise untreated.

  Eleanor will see to it as soon as we get home, thought Prue, Eleanor has healing unguents and ointment that will help it to heal cleanly. She shuddered again as she thought of how he had lost his fingers and smiled into his face as he happened to glance her way. Matthew, of course, as befitted a warrior, ignored her completely.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Mary paced up and down the verandah that stretched the whole length of the front of the new house Morgan had built. The day was hot, even hotter than usual, and the serving women had retired to their own quarters now that lunch was over. But Mary ignored the heat. She was working herself up into a fine temper.

  Morgan was with another woman, she was sure he was. By, she thought, if she could only find out who it was she would tear her hair out, she would that. She stopped her pacing suddenly and sat down on a white-painted armchair and stared out at the lines of labourers working the cotton fields, hoeing weeds, she supposed, even now when the sun was at its hottest. A wave of sympathy tinged with guilt because she did not do more for them swept over her.

  ‘These blacks are not like us, Mary, how many times do I have to tell you? They don’t feel the heat like we do, they’re used t
o it. They get twenty minutes for their dinner and that’s enough, now shut up about them.’ Morgan had almost lost his temper with her again the last time she had suggested that it might be better to let them rest more when the sun was at its highest.

  ‘They’ll work better when it’s cooler,’ she had said.

  Dark anger had clouded his face and she had shrunk back from him but in a moment his expression had cleared and he had smiled at her.

  ‘Leave the workers to me, Mary,’ he had said and in spite of his smile his tone was steely and she knew she dared say no more. ‘All you have to do is look after yourself and my son in there.’ He had patted her stomach, which was just beginning to bulge for she was four months gone by her own reckoning.

  Oh yes, she thought now, remembering. He had been so solicitous for a while then but as her pregnancy developed and the baby quickened within her, he had begun to go journeying round the islands more and more and now when he had been away for almost a week, she was sure he had a woman hidden away somewhere.

  Not that she cared for herself, she thought savagely, not now. In fact she was beginning to dread the nights when he came to her bed, he was always so insistent and wouldn’t brook any refusal for whatever reason.

  ‘It won’t hurt the baby, the doctor says so,’ he always said. And then he would complain about her ‘lying like a log’ and fling himself out of the house and she knew he went down to the huts of the indentured women. Oh yes, Mary thought grimly, he might think them sub-human when it came to work or feeling pain and treat them like coolies or slaves but when it came to that particular use, they were human enough.

  But now it was different, he had a white woman, she was sure he had a white woman, a mistress, a whore from among that crowd of drifters and their followers that camped out on the beach nearby. Or if not that beach, some other. Not that there were a lot of unattached women but any one of them would think Morgan West, the rich cotton planter, a great catch.