The Spanish Helmet

by Greg Scowen

  CHAPTER

  26

  Saturday, October 2, 1526

  We have not reached the Moluccas, but we have sighted land! A lot of it. It lay directly in front of us on our wind-forced south-westerly heading. We approached closer, but kept a safe distance from the coast, being unsure about reefs and having sighted natives on the headland. We were becalmed and used the opportunity to collect a good bounty from the sea under the watchful eyes of the natives. The wind having picked up, we have tacked to the north and will follow the coast for a few days and see what we can find. We are in need of fresh water and it would be good to get vegetables or fruit if we can find a suitable harbour. It is very exciting to be here. I think this land may be the edge of Terra Australis. My quadrant suggests that we are somewhere around 38 degrees south.

  Friday, October 8, 1526

  After five leagues of northerly coasting, we followed a large cape around to the west. The coast then sunk to the south-west in what appeared to be a huge bay. However, a pillar of smoke directly to the west drew my attention and so I had the master steer us towards it. As we got closer, it became apparent that there was an island in the middle of the bay, an erupting volcano. These are unpredictable and so I ordered a change of course to the south, to the coast again, about eleven leagues away. Due south from the volcano, we found a safe harbour and have anchored there yesterday. The fishing is good and fresh water in plentiful supply. Because our sweet potato plants are suffering, we have planted them here and hope to return to collect the vegetable at a later time. Some men ventured a short distance into the thick forested hills, but returned without fruit. They did manage to capture some birds and they collected the eggs of these. They have made a tasty treat. The exploration party report no sighting of any natives.

  We will stay here for a few days to replenish our supplies and energy. Then we will set off on our continued exploration of the coast to the west.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Te Papa Museum of New Zealand loomed over them. Matt stood with Aimee in a large open plaza. The museum was modern and attractive. To the left, it was a large curvy stone structure, to the right the building was composed of triangular structures of stone and glass. The entrance fell between them and was a large wall of glass. Inside, the building was just as airy as it appeared from outside.

  Matt asked a guide where they would find the Spanish Helmet.

  ‘Oh, you mean the Iron helmet,’ the guide said, after checking in a computer terminal. ‘Item number ME000841. It’s part of the Taonga Maori collection. You’ll find it here.’ He made a little circle on a map and handed it to Matt.

  They made their way through groups of school children and tourists until they located the correct room and stood in front of a glass cabinet containing the helmet.

  ‘I’m going to have to believe them that it’s Spanish,’ Aimee said. ‘I’m no expert.’

  ‘It’s in fairly good condition, considering it spent so much time in the water.’

  ‘Actually,’ Aimee said, pointing at the information plaque under the helmets display cabinet. ‘It says here it can’t have spent long in the water. Here, let me read this out loud.’

  She crouched down in front of the cabinet and started reading.

  ‘An iron helmet dated to 1580 and previously thought to be Spanish was found in Wellington Harbour some time before 1904. It has since been repeatedly cited as evidence of European contact with New Zealand prior to Abel Tasman in 1642. It is a ‘close helmet.’ Though the style is European, it is not necessarily Spanish. It could have been made in England or northern Italy. Its state of preservation suggests it was immersed in seawater for only a short time. It shows no signs of marine encrustation, although it could have been cleaned. Archival material in the Museum shows that so little is known about the helmet that it cannot be used as evidence of European contact with New Zealand before Tasman. The helmet may have been used as ship’s ballast - obsolete armour was often used this way. It may have been a souvenir brought out by an immigrant. The helmet may have also been given as a presentation piece or as trade to local Maori in much the same way as armour was presented to Hongi Hika, Titore, and a sword to Te Rauparaha. The helmet was first recorded in the museum’s collections in 1904 - 1905. It has been dated to approximately 1580 and is of a type known as a close helmet. Close helmets were used in the sixteenth century. There’s no evidence to suggest Te Papa’s helmet is actually of Spanish origin. It is not known when or how the museum acquired the helmet. It was recorded as ‘found in Wellington Harbour.’

  ‘Do all New Zealand museums document their artefacts so poorly?’ Matt said, taking his camera out of its pouch and taking a few photos.

  ‘It’s not well written, is it? I don’t think I understand. They are saying it’s not Spanish and it didn’t spend long in the water.’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Then where has it been since 1580?’ Aimee asked.

  ‘Can I help you perhaps?’

  The voice from behind them made Matt spin around on his heels.

  ‘Is there some further information I can offer about the helmet?’ the prim looking museum attendant asked.

  ‘Do you know much about it?’ Matt asked, lifting his camera again to get a shot from another angle.

  ‘Of course, but first, I must ask you if you’re aware of our photography policy.’

  Matt lowered his camera. ‘Sorry, is it against the rules?’

  ‘No, no. For personal use it’s fine, but you can’t use the images commercially or publish them anywhere. I’m sorry, as a curator it’s my job to make sure you know.’

  ‘You’re the curator?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Of this collection, yes, which is why I can tell you some more about this helmet. What would you like to know?’

  Matt was impressed. She was young, attractive, and clearly well accomplished to be a curator at such an important museum. She also seemed to be genuine about helping.

  ‘There appears to be a lot of confusion about when the helmet was found, and what sort of helmet it is,’ he said.

  ‘The problem,’ the Curator said, ‘is that two reports were made about the helmet find. Originally, the director of the Colonial Museum recorded the helmet in 1904. He said it wasn’t known when it was found, but it was found in Wellington Harbour. Then an ethnologist wrote a report sometime in the forties or fifties which said the helmet was found in 1926 or 1927.’

  ‘Why’d he do that?’

  ‘No one knows. But it’s possible that he didn’t have access to the original record and, in discovering that the Wellington Harbour was dredged in the twenties, decided it must have been found then. His dates are wrong though. We know that.’

  ‘So is that where the whole theory of it being dredged out of the harbour comes from?’

  ‘Yes. For all we know, it was found on the shore by a fisherman.’

  ‘What about all the chat online? Some people say it’s a Morion, some say it’s a close helmet, some say it was dredged in 1880, others argue that it’s definitely proof of a pre-Tasman visit. What are we to believe?’

  ‘It’s all speculation. Unless somebody finds something concrete to give the helmet archaeological provenance there can only be speculation. It’s a little like the Ruamahanga skull.’

  Matt had no idea what the curator was talking about now. He looked at Aimee.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Aimee said. ‘I forgot all about the skull.’ She turned to the Curator. ‘Is it related to the helmet?’

  ‘Not so far as we know. But I certainly wouldn’t suggest it was.’

  Aimee turned to Matt to fill him in.

  ‘A couple years back a skull was found in the Wairarapa, over those big hills behind the harbour.’

  Matt nodded to show he was listening.

  ‘It made the news because testing showed it belonged to a forty-something European woman.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She could have been living in New Zealand before
Tasman arrived. Half a century before Cook made the first recorded landing.’

  ‘Mitochondrial DNA analysis has shown she lived sometime between 1619 and 1689,’ the Curator said. ‘There’s no denying that the skull raises many questions. But again, no provenance. We really need to know more of her story. Perhaps an isotope analysis could give us more information, but I doubt one will ever be done.’

  Matt was just about to ask why not when he was distracted by a movement on the other side of the hall. When he looked closer, he saw a tall man standing off to the side, appearing to study some Maori weapons in a nearby display unit. Studying his features, Matt was convinced it was the occupant of the black Corolla. He motioned Aimee to look at the man and pulled her towards himself and quietly said it was time to go. They thanked the curator and excused themselves before slipping out the nearby entrance back into the main corridors of the museum. It was time to lose their tail.

  * * *

  Back in the main halls of the museum, Matt realised they wouldn’t be able to hide in a broom closet to evade their unwanted escort. Te Papa was too modern and open plan for that sort of movie magic. Instead, he indicated to Aimee the direction to go and they hurried along, weaving in and out of people who were shuffling from one display to the next. Looking back over his shoulder, Matt saw the Maori had followed them out of the room and was pounding down the floor behind them. At the moment they had about a thirty second lead, but the gap would close fast.

  They rounded a large display and Matt homed in on the potential saviours: tourists. About 60 of them. From the noise and accents, he knew they were American. He grabbed Aimee’s hand and yanked her into the middle of the sweaty, shuffling group. They huddled in the centre. Matt could barely see out to the side. Perfect. He felt like a midget in the middle of a Roman army formation, like something out of an Asterix comic.

  Aimee smiled.

  ‘Nice work,’ she said, in an accent that matched the crowd around them.

  Matt smiled. It was one of his proudest moments. He could pull off some movie magic after all. A minute later the front of the crowd stopped moving but the back half kept going. Everyone crushed up against each other in front of ancient fish hooks. Matt wasn’t sure if the bulge pushing against his groin was the huge woman in front of him, or her fanny-pack. He didn’t stick around to find out either. Jostling though towards the edge of the crowd, he was able to confirm that their unwanted escort was hurrying off in the other direction, assuming no doubt that they must have gone to the next floor. Matt and Aimee broke free from their confines and made a walking-dash to the descending stairs and got out of the museum as smartly as their legs could carry them, without breaking into a forbidden run.

  Out on the plaza, Matt and Aimee took up camp behind a statue and watched the museum entrance.

  ‘I realised we were being followed in Whakatane. I just want to confirm it though,’ Matt said.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later, the tall Maori emerged from the glass doors, scanning the plaza. He couldn’t see Matt and Aimee and walked toward the car-park.

  ‘Wait here, I’m gonna go find out what his problem is.’

  ‘Wait.’ Aimee tried to stop him, but it was too late.

  Matt marched over to the Maori, catching him off guard. He grabbed his arm and spun him around.

  ‘Who the hell are you and why are you following us?’

  The Maori looked down at Matt’s hand on his arm and then stared coldly into Matt’s eyes.

  ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let go of my arm.’

  Matt held on. ‘Not until you tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘If I did that, I’d have to kill you.’

  Matt let go.

  ‘Who I am isn’t important. I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘And your job is?’

  ‘Making sure that you don’t stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.’

  ‘Why me, why us?’

  ‘You keep the wrong friends. If I was you, I’d give up this madness and go home before someone gets hurt.’ With this the Maori turned on his heels and hurried off.

  ‘Who’s doing the hurting?’ Matt called after him.

  He didn’t get an answer.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him.’ He said to Aimee when he rejoined her.

  ‘No,’ Aimee answered. ‘Did he admit he’s spying on us?’

  ‘More or less. He first followed me with Warren in Auckland the day I arrived here. Warren said he must be NISO.’

  Aimee made an alarming choking sound.

  ‘NISO, are you serious? Why would they spy on us? They’re anti-terrorism for the most part, I don’t imagine they’re interested in us.’

  ‘Warren says they work together with the DCI, protecting New Zealand’s cultural interests.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. They do satellite spying and stuff. I’ll show you their spy base if we get a chance, it’s near to Nelson. Always wanted to see it.’

  Matt wasn’t convinced. He was sure Warren knew what he was talking about. There was no other logical explanation for anyone to be following them. Whatever was going on, he was worried. His professional integrity was at stake. If the NISO and DCI were interested enough to follow his work and if they can arrange for facts to be ‘lost’ where it comes to historical archives in museums, then what could they do to the reputation of a historian who goes against the status quo? Matt, he thought to himself, if you’re not careful you may just find out.

  * * *

  It was pointless trying to avoid it, and Hemi knew it. So when his mobile rang that evening, he answered dutifully.

  ‘Evening.’

  It was a nice evening too, or at least it had been. He had checked into the same Holiday Inn as Matt and Aimee. He had started to like them, listening in to their conversation whenever they were in the car. He didn’t need to bother watching them all evening, since they were surely not going to run off. Besides, they wouldn’t get far before he caught up. Such was the helpfulness of the GPS bug. Instead, Hemi had gone for a relaxing stroll along the waterfront, devoured a quarter piece pack of KFC and now he relaxed in his room with a couple of cans of Tui. His favourite beer.

  ‘You haven’t called in,’ Warren said, his voice rising with a questioning tone.

  ‘I’ve been busy.’ Hemi semi-lied.

  ‘What did our friends get up to today? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in Wellington. We made a nice museum visit.’ There, he said it.

  ‘Te Papa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any particular exhibit?’

  ‘The Spanish Helmet.’ No point denying it, Warren would find out anyway.

  ‘Damn it, Hemi! At least tell me you scared them into returning to Auckland without taking this mess further.’

  ‘I gave chase through the museum. It would have scared the crap out of me if I was them.’

  ‘And did it work?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve got a bad feeling it didn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They went to an agency and bought ferry tickets for tomorrow’s early sailing.’

  ‘Bugger!’

  ‘Is it such a big deal? It isn’t likely to lead them anywhere, is it?’

  ‘That all depends on how much that bloody father of his is going to tell him. I have to stop this.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to undo all the damage that has been done by Dr. Cameron meeting his father.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I’ll take care of things. His father is a very sick man. He could die at any time.’

  Hemi cringed. ‘His father is innocent.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  The line went dead.

  Hemi closed his eyes and counted to ten. A wave of nausea swept through him and he had to hold his breath to avoid throwing up. It just wasn’t right to drag Matt’s father into this mess. Warren’s problem was with Matt, not his father. H
emi’s problem was with Warren, not with Matt. The agency had a problem with all of them. He decided that he had to deal with the situation himself. It was time to take things to the next level.

  CHAPTER

  28

  The wind carried a light ocean spray into Matt’s face. The saltiness of the water left a tingly sensation on his tongue. There were few things more refreshing than enjoying the deck of a ship on a hot summer’s day. Matt took a deep breath; the sea air filled his lungs with vigour. He smiled. Last night, Matt had e-mailed Dwight Pick. It was good news, or so he thought. He told Dwight that he had dropped the Celtic investigation, from here on out he would follow up on the Spanish theory. It reassured him to know the warnings would be withdrawn, that his job was no longer on the line.

  Wellington was ten minutes behind them. Picton, at the top of the South Island, was almost three hours away. The ferry was rumoured to go through some beautiful sounds later in the journey, but right now, they pushed their way through Wellington Harbour. A patchwork quilt of housing tumbled down towards the water on the starboard coast. To port, things were sparser. There was a large range of hills. Not a lot of activity over there.

  ‘Just think,’ Aimee said, ‘maybe Spanish explorers were here five hundred years back. I wonder where the helmet was dredged from.’