*CHAPTER X.*
*THE MAORI BOY.*
The bath of sea-water which Edwin had provided in the shepherd's paildid more than anything else to restore poor Effie. When the arduoustask of opening the oysters was at last accomplished, by the aid of agreat clasp nail and a splinter of stone, the abundant and nourishingmeal which followed did them all so much good, Cuthbert and Effiedeclared they did not mind being left alone in the hut half as much aswhen father left them by the charcoal fires. They all wanted Audrey towait until morning, but her answer was resolute.
"No, dears; the chance might be gone. It is just when the men come backfrom the hills Mrs. Feltham will want me. They may come in the middleof the night. Nobody knows when, and if I am there, at least I shallhear what they say. Perhaps they will have been with father, and bringus a message."
This reconciled them all to her departure. Then she hurried away withEdwin by her side, for fear the dark wintry day should close before shereached her destination.
Edwin guessed the distance to be about four miles; but they were in poororder for walking, and were reduced to halting by the waysidecontinually. Yet, as the snail got to the top of the wall at last, sothey reached the avenue gates. Here they agreed to part. There was nomore danger of Audrey losing herself, and both were uneasy at leavingEffie and Cuthbert alone so long.
During the walk they had talked over everything, which Audrey declaredwas the greatest comfort imaginable. Edwin did not want to go up to thehouse to fetch his Beauty.
"I shall come for him to-morrow," he said; "then I can tell you howEffie is, and we shall hear how you are getting on."
The shades of night were gathering as Edwin turned away; but he couldnot lose the white line of well-made road by which he was returning evenby starlight, yet he was afraid of encountering any of the wild cattle,which he knew were roaming at will among the groves and coverts whichsurrounded him. He found himself a stick, and trudged along, whistlingto keep his courage up.
It was a danger to which he was altogether unaccustomed; for there is nofour-footed creature native to New Zealand bigger than a rat, and in theprimeval forest which surrounded his home the absence of all animal lifeis its marked characteristic. But here the many horses and bulls whichhad strayed from the early colonists had multiplied in the bush andgrown formidable, not to speak of the pigs which Captain Cook let looseon the New Zealand shore, and which now, like the rabbits, overrun theisland. The sound of grunting in the midst of a flax-bush or the bleatof a bell-wether was enough to startle him.
The hoar was gathering white on the grass and sparkling like diamonds onshrivelled fronds and gloomy evergreens, when he heard the barking ofthe boundary dog, which told him he was nearing the hut, and his wearyfeet jogged on at a quicker pace.
The barking grew still more furious. A battle was going forward.Instead of turning off towards the sea to find the hut, Edwin ran on tothe point of the road where it entered another sheep-run. As it was thepublic coast-road, there was no gate. The dog was stationed there, witha chain long enough to command the whole breadth of the road, to keepthe sheep from straying on to their neighbour's ground, and well he didhis work. He seemed to know in a moment to which side the adventurousrover belonged who dared to intrude on his beat, and sent him home witha resolute bark and a snap of the wool just to show how easily bitingcould follow. But the cry which succeeded the onslaught of the dog, thecry which made Edwin turn aside, was so like the cry of a child that itshot a fear through him Cuthbert might have been tempted to pay the doganother visit, and having no more bones to give him, the hungry brutehad seized poor Cuth instead.
As Edwin came up he could just distinguish a small figure on the otherside of the boundary vainly endeavouring to pass. It must be Cuth, heargued, because there was nobody else about; so he shouted to him tostand still until he came up. But instead of obeying, the small figuredarted forward once more, and a fearful yell told Edwin the dog hadseized him at last.
He sprang towards them, and grasping the dog's collar with both hands,exerted all his strength to pull him off. Strong and savage as thehairy hermit had become from the loneliness of his life, he had all adog's grateful remembrance of a kindness, and recognizing the hand whichhad flung him the welcome bone earlier in the day, he suffered Edwin tochoke him off without turning on him.
"Run!" cried Edwin to the boy he had delivered; "run beyond his reachwhilst I hold him."
He had no need to repeat his exhortation. The shrieking boy fled likethe wind. It was not Cuthbert; Edwin knew that by the fleetness of hishare-like speed. He did his best to soothe and coax the angry dog,keeping his eye meanwhile on the retreating figure.
As the distance between them increased, Edwin let the dog go. Thefugitive changed his course, and was circling round to regain the road.Then Edwin started at right angles, and so got between him and the hut,where Effie and Cuthbert were probably asleep.
"They will be so frightened," thought Edwin, "if he runs in for refuge.For poor little Eff's sake I must stop him."
So they came up face to face in the open ground beyond the black shadowof the boundary, and eyed each other in the starlight.
"Whero!" exclaimed Edwin.
"Ah, you!" cried the Maori boy, holding out both hands. "To meet you isgood."
"Come in with me and rest," continued Edwin. "Are you hurt? It wasmadness to try to pass the boundary dog in the dark. He might have tornyou to pieces."
Out spoke the young savage, "I would have killed him first."
"No, no," interposed Edwin. "He is set there as a sentinel to keep thesheep from straying; he only did his duty."
"I," repeated Whero--"am I a sheep, to be made to fear? All the goblinsin Lake Taupo should not turn me back to-night. I heard men saying inTauranga streets the sacred three had shot forth the lightning that madeall faces pale last night and laid the tall trees low. Are not they themen from whom I spring who are sleeping the death-sleep in their bosom?Last night they awakened; they are angry. The thunder of their voicesis louder than the cannon of the pakeha. Why are they calling? I knownot; but I answer I am theirs. I leaped out of the window of my school,and ran as the water runs to the sea. No one could catch me, for Ithought of my father and mother; and I said in my heart, 'Will the angerof the majestic ones fall upon the son of Hepe, or upon those who havedespoiled him?'"
Edwin drew his arm within his dusky friend's. "It is not the dead men'sbones which are buried on Tarawera but the hidden fires which have burstfrom the mountain which have done the mischief. Our house went down inthe shock of the earthquake, and we fled from it for our lives to thesea."
"I took the coast-road," continued Whero, "for the coach was turnedback. Trees lay everywhere in its path; and no man knows more than Ihave told you."
Edwin trembled for Whero, for he remembered how the men had said the lowwhares of the natives were completely buried.
"Wait with us," he entreated; "wait for the daylight."
As he began to describe the strangeness of the disaster which hadoverwhelmed the district, the ready tears of the Maori race poured downin torrents from Whero's eyes.
Edwin led him into the hut; and finding Cuthbert and Effie fast asleep,the two lowered their voices, and sitting side by side in the starlight,went over again the startling story until voices grew dreamy, and Edwinbecame suddenly aware that the eager listener reclining at his elbow waslost in forgetfulness. Then he too laid down his head and gained arespite from his cares and fears in the deep sweet sleep of healthyboyhood.
Effie was the first to awaken. A solitary sunbeam had made its waythrough the tiny window, and was dancing along the opposite wall. Therest of the hut was in shadow. She did not see Edwin with Wheronestling by his side, for the long fern fronds rose in heaps around her;but she heard a sound from the road, and called joyously to Cuthbert,--
"Get up; there is somebody coming."
Cuth tumbled to h
is feet; Edwin started upright. They were rushing tothe door, when Whero lifted a black hand and commanded silence. Hisquicker sense of hearing had already told him of men and horses near athand.
Effie eyed him in mute amazement. "Look," she whispered at last,pointing to Whero's head, "there is a big boy-rat rustling in theleaves."
"Hush! listen!" cried her brothers.
"Is it father?" she asked, in a flutter of fear and expectation.
The boys ran out, elate with a similar hope. But Edwin saw in a momentthere was only a party of shepherds returning for supplies. Theyscarcely waited to listen to his eager questions.
"Can't stop," they shouted. "But the worst is over. All are going backto their farms. You will have your own people coming to look you upbefore long. You are safest where you are for the present."
Their words were intended to reassure the boys--Edwin was certain ofthat; but their faces were so grave, they seemed to contradict thecomforting assertion that the worst was over.
"I must hear more," cried Edwin. "I'll run after them and ask if anyone has seen father."
The tired horses were walking slowly; one or two seemed to have fallenlame, and all were covered with mud.
"We shall soon overtake them," thought Edwin; but Whero outstripped himin the chase. The shepherds looked back. One amongst their numberhalted, and shouted the inquiry, "What now?"
"Did you reach the lake in the hills? How is it there?" burst forthWhero.
"Up among the natives?" answered the shepherd, not unkindly. "Nobodyknows. We did not get beyond the road, and we found enough to do. Themud fell so thick every door and window was blocked in no time, and manya roof fell in with the weight. Everything around the mountain liesburied deep in mud."
The shriek, the howl in which poor Whero vented his alarm so startledthe shepherd's horse it galloped off at a mad rate towards the mansion,just as Edwin came up, pale and panting. But Whero's English wasscattered. He could only reiterate the man's last words, "Deep in mud;buried, all buried deep in mud," and then he ran on in Maori.
Edwin and Cuthbert looked at each other in despair. It was impossible tounderstand what he was evidently trying to explain.
"You wooden boys!" he exclaimed at last, as he turned away in disgust,and raced off like a hare towards the mansion.
Cuthbert was wild to follow, when a large merino ram bounded out of agroup of palm trees and knocked him over.
"Go back to Effie," urged Edwin, "and I'll watch by the roadside, forsomebody else may pass."
But Cuthbert could not find his way alone, and the brothers retracedtheir steps. As they drew near the hut, the loud barking of theboundary dog was again heard. Somebody might be coming by thecoast-road, somebody who could tell them more.
It was the boundary rider from the neighbouring run, waiting andwatching for the appearance of his neighbour, to ascertain if anytidings had yet been received from the lonely mountain wilds. All knewnow some dread catastrophe had overwhelmed the hills. Confused rumoursand vague conjectures were flying through the district beyond the reachof the muddy rain. Earth-slips and fallen trees blocked every road.The adventurous few who had made their way to the scene of the disasterhad not yet returned.
Far as his eye could see across the grassy sweep not a shepherd wasmoving. Feltham's sheep were straying by hundreds in his master's run.Then the two boys came in sight, and arms were waved to attractattention; and the burning anxiety on both sides found vent in thequestion, "Any news from the hills?"
As Edwin poured forth the story of their flight, another horseman wasseen spurring across the open. It was a messenger Mr. Bowen haddespatched the day before, to inquire among the shepherd hermits inFeltham's outlying huts, who might, who must know more than theirseaside neighbours. But the man had ridden on from hut to hut, allalike empty and deserted. About nightfall, at the extreme end of therun, he came upon a man who had been struck down by the awful lightning,who told a rambling tale of sudden flight before the strange storm.
"So," said the shepherd, "I rested my horse, and determined to rideround to the central station, or go on from farm to farm, to find outall I could; but a trackless swamp stretched before me. Turning aside,I fell in with a party of Feltham's men, who had made their way by theriver-bank as far as the government road. They were returning for acart to bring off one of their number, who had been knocked on the headby a falling tree, trying to make his way through the bush."
"Who was it?" asked Edwin breathlessly, his brief colloquy with thehorsemen he had passed full in his mind. They were the same men, butnot a word as to the accident to one of the relief-party had crossedtheir lips.
The significance of their silence flashed upon him.
"It is father!" he exclaimed, "and they would not tell us."
"No, Edwin, no," interposed little Cuth, with wide-eyed consternation."Why do you say it is father?"
"Why, indeed," repeated Mr. Bowen's man. "I tell you it was a nearneighbour of the fordmaster's, who had come across to his help beforethe others got up. For Hirpington and his people were all blocked in bythe weight of mud jamming up windows and doors, and were almostsuffocated; but they got them out and into the boat when the otherscame. One man rowed them off to the nearest place of refuge, and theothers went on to look for the roadmen in their solitary huts."
Every word the man let fall only deepened Edwin's conviction.
He grasped Cuth's hand. Was this what Whero had tried to tell him?
The doubt, the fear, the suspense was unbearable. Their first impulsewas to run after the shepherds, to hear all they had to tell. But theBowen men held them back; and whilst they questioned Edwin more closely,Cuthbert sat down crying on the frosted grass. The boundary dog came upand seated itself before him, making short barks for the bone that wasno longer to be had for the asking. The noise he made led the men towalk their horses nearer to the hut, when the debris of the wreck,scattered about the sands, met their eyes. That a coaster should havegone down in the terrific storm was a casualty which the dwellers by thesea-shore were well prepared to discover. They kicked over thehalf-buried boots and broken spars, looking for something which mightidentify the unfortunate vessel, and they brought Edwin into court onceagain, and questioned him closely. He assured them the sailors were allsafe, and when they heard how they had borrowed his father's horse andcart to take them across to the central station, they only blamed himfor his stupidity in not having asked the captain's name.
"Yes, it was stupid," Edwin owned, "but then I did not know what I wasdoing."
The sound of their voices brought Effie to the door of the hut, and theyheard a little piping voice behind repeating, "Bowen, please sir; hisname was Bowen."
"What! the captain's?" they cried.
"No, the schoolboy's," she persisted, shrinking from the cold sea-breezeblowing her hair into her eyes, and fluttering her scant blue skirt, andbanging at the door until it shut again, in spite of her utmost effortsto keep it open.
Here was a discovery of far more importance in the estimation of Mr.Bowen's men than all the rest.
"If that is our young master Arthur," they said, "coming up for theholidays, we must find him, let alone everything else. We must be offto the central station; and as for these children, better take themalong with us."
This was just what Edwin wanted. After a reassuring word to Effie anentthe black boy-rat, he set himself to work piling up the wreckage, withthe care of one about to leave the place.
He had not forgotten Hal's charge to stay where he left them.
"But better be lost than starved," said the men; and he agreed withthem. Even Audrey had failed to send them food to that far-off hut. Itwas clear there was no one to bring it.
"You should have gone with the sailors," said the boundary rider. "Youmust go with us."
He wrapped the flap of his coat over Effie as Edwin lifted her on to hisknee, and his comrade called to Cuthbert, who was hoisted up behind him;and so they set forth
, Edwin walking in the rear.
As the horses trotted onwards across the fern-covered downs, thedistance between them steadily increased, for the boy was tired. Onceor twice he flung himself down to rest, not much caring about losingsight of his companions, as he knew the way.
Edwin had nearly reached the gate of the avenue, when he saw Wheroscampering over the grass on Beauty's back.
There was a mutual shout of recognition; and Whero turned the horse'shead, exclaiming,--
"Lee! Boy! Lee! Wanderer Lee! have you lost your horse? I went tobeg bread at the station, and he leaped over the stable-bar and followedme. You must give him back, as you said you would, for how can I go tothe hills without him? I want him now."
"And so do I," answered Edwin; "I want to go back with the shepherds tofather."
"The men who spoke to us are gone. I saw them start," returned Whero."But jump up behind me, and we will soon overtake them."
For one brief moment Edwin looked around him doubtfully. But Erne andCuthbert were safe with Audrey by this time, and he was sure Mr. Bowen,"the old identity," their kind-hearted travelling companion, would takegood care of all three as soon as he heard of their forlorn condition."His grandson will tell him how Cuth and I pulled him through the surf.I had better ride back to the hills with Whero, and see if it is safefor us to go home. They may have taken father there already, and then Iknow he will want me." So Edwin reasoned as he sprang up behind theMaori boy. "And if I don't go with him," he added, "we may lose ourhorse, and then what would father say to that?"
Doing and Daring: A New Zealand Story Page 10