After supper we sat by the hearth, one on each side, leaning close to catch the light and the heat. With the extra light from an oil lamp on the table I was able to mend a rip in a pair of Jack’s trousers. As I stitched I shot glances at my husband, wondering if I had enough courage to bring up the subject of Matthew. Jack was cleaning his guns, something he did nearly every day. He kept a musket and a shiny cutlass hanging on the wall over the doorway, but his most precious possessions were the two matching pistols in a box under the bed.
He was frowning over the pistol but his fingers looked like they were stroking it. ‘You expecting trouble?’ I asked.
He spat into the fire. ‘Aye. Mebbe. There’s word out the Old Sarpint got hisself mortally offended by some announcement from a Ngai Tahu chief. He’s gathering his warriors for a war party to come south an’ take revenge. I’m reckoning the bastard’ll stop off here on the way for a swig of grog to fire up his men.’
My blood ran cold. I’d seen Te Rauparaha of the Ngati Toa tribe once before when the Marianne had stopped at Entry Island on the way south. I couldn’t forget his quick, clever eyes and the proud lift of his lip. Jack feared him as much as he despised him. The whaling station only existed with the chief’s permission — if he ever changed his mind we’d all be dead. Jack hated being beholden to any man, specially a savage cannibal. ‘Shall we be safe?’ I asked.
‘Safe enough. We’ve got dozens of his bloody friends an’ relations living here now — all sent to spy on us, mind you — but leastwise it does mean there shouldn’t be trouble. Mebbe the odd skirmish when the warriors get the grog in their bellies but that’s all.’ He lifted his eyes from the pistol and stared at me. ‘Are you frightened, Lizzie?’
I couldn’t tell him that every day I woke up with a cold feeling in my gut. Was it fear or just unhappiness? I shrugged. ‘Any sensible person would be nervous in a place like this.’
He reached out and squeezed my hand. ‘Aye, well, ’tis understandable. Lizzie, you know I’d die afore I let anyone hurt you, don’t you?’
I knew he spoke the truth. I nodded in response.
Jack went back to his polishing and me to my mending. After a decent time, I spoke. ‘There’s a new preacher here. A native, name’s Matthew. Story is he comes from the missionaries up north. Maybe he can help keep the peace.’
Jack examined a mark on the handle of the pistol. ‘Oh, aye, I’ve met him. A cocky little runt who reckons hisself a step above the rest of us ’cause he can read an’ write.’ He peered down the barrel, then lifted the pistol and pretended to aim it at someone. ‘A pox on the bloody missionaries! Filling the natives’ heads with their rubbish. The Maoris will always be murdering savages however many hours they spend listening to verses from the Bible.’
I sewed a stitch, very crookedly. ‘Will you let the preacher stay?’ I prayed that my voice was steady.
‘The runt? Aye, I’ve no choice in the matter. He came with the Old Sarpint’s blessing so I’ve jest got to lump it.’ He scratched his beard with the muzzle of the pistol and grinned. ‘The men tell me the witchdoctor Atutahi’s had his nose put right out of joint since the preacher arrived. He’s spitting fire because the preacher’s saying the old Maori gods don’t exist. You can bet your boots Atutahi will go whining to the Old Sarpint about it.’ He chuckled hoarsely. ‘Mebbe the witchdoctor’ll cast a spell on the Bible-banger. Then the whole problem’ll get sorted without me lifting a finger.’
I nodded, remembering Atutahi’s curses when Ruihi and I went past on the way to the prayer meeting.
‘I reckon ’twould be a canny move to put the runt on a whaleboat,’ Jack said thoughtfully. ‘A few fifteen-mile pulls ought to convince him this is an unhealthy place to settle.’
I stabbed my finger with the needle. ‘The preacher? On a whaleboat?’
‘Who else?’ He laughed again. ‘Christ, if I put the witchdoctor on a boat he’d bring down a whole passel of curses on our heads. We’d likely catch a giant sea serpent an’ get strangled to death!’
I put my finger in my mouth. The blood tasted coppery on my tongue. I had to talk Jack out of this idea. ‘Hum,’ I said, trying to sound wise. ‘I doubt he’s got the strength. His chest is weak. Te Rauparaha might not be too pleased if you put his man on a boat and brought him back with a burst heart.’
‘Aye. We’ll see.’ Jack picked up the second pistol and rubbed it with a rag but I didn’t like the calculating look in his eyes. I knew he would do anything to protect his precious whaling station.
‘He’s a bonny preacher,’ I said. ‘I heard him at Marama’s house yesterday. The native wives think he’s God’s gift. You’ll keep them content if you just leave him be.’ Jack lifted his head and gazed at me, his eyes glowing red in the firelight. My stomach turned over. Had I said too much? Did he suspect me? ‘An’ what about you, missy?’ he growled. ‘D’you reckon he’s God’s gift? I never heard you keen on preaching before. You turning into a Bible-banger an’ all?’
I tossed my head. ‘Never. I’ve got no time for religious claptrap. He’s got a pretty tongue in his head, that’s all. He pleases the women with his smooth words. I like to see them laughing and singing. You know happy wives mean contented men.’
Jack grunted and his eyes went back to his pistol.
I’d said the right thing. He would turn a blind eye if Matthew’s preaching cut down the number of fights between the crew and their women. Underneath my apron I crossed my fingers. Now that we’d spoken of the preacher, surely Jack would see nothing amiss with me going to Matthew’s meetings.
On the day I was to meet Matthew again I spent close to an hour choosing what to wear from my miserable wardrobe, and then another hour sponging marks out of the blue, high-waisted dress I finally chose. It was not a fancy dress, made of fine woollen fabric with only a small touch of lace at the collar and cuffs, but it was my best, purchased from the captain of a Yankee whale ship whose wife had died at sea. I thought Matthew would like it.
I fiddled with my hair, first of all putting it up in a thick coil then pulling out the tortoiseshell comb and letting it fall over my shoulders in a rush of curls. Boldly I decided to leave off the linen cap. I didn’t want to look like a married woman. I wanted to look … what? Beautiful, that’s how I wanted to look. Beautiful and unforgettable. So Matthew would fall head over heels in love with me.
I couldn’t stop myself skipping on the path to Marama’s house. I felt close to bursting with excitement. I tapped on the open door, looked inside, and gasped when I saw he was already there at the table, drinking from a steaming tin mug. Marama was sitting opposite him, her hands clasped. She was leaning towards him and saying something in a low voice. For a second I felt a sting of jealousy, then my common sense returned. Marama loved George Martin, the man who’d rescued her from a life of slavery with the Ngati Toa. She would never look at another man.
Marama stood up and came to embrace me. ‘I am happy,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘He pray for a baby for me. If I am good he promises God will send me a baby.’
I squeezed her shoulders. ‘Then you must have faith, Marama.’
She smiled at me. ‘Eh, but in his heart Matiu thinks of you, Eri. All the time. I see it.’
Matthew had also jumped to his feet when I came in. His smile was full of delight. ‘Mistress Dawson! At last. I’ve been counting the hours till we met again.’
I gave him my hand. My skin tingled where his fingers touched it. ‘Please call me Lizzie. If I’m to call you Matthew then we must be the same.’
I sat down at the table, choosing the bench opposite. I hated putting the table between us but it wouldn’t do to appear too forward. Matthew would expect all white women to be as respectable as the missionary wives. I lowered my eyes under his bright gaze and prayed he was finding me pleasing. Marama put a mug of tea in front of me, whispered a word of farewell, and slipped through the door.
For a minute we sat and sipped, both suddenly too shy to speak. I could hear th
e air between us humming with unsaid thoughts. Did he feel it too? I prayed to Matthew’s heaven that he did.
There was a flax container sitting on the table close to my elbow. In it was a rag, a sharp knife, a rough stone, and a few hunks of whalebone. I had often watched George carving small figures out of whalebone: birds and dogs and horses. I picked up the one he was presently working on. It was a dolphin, shaped to capture the curve of a leap in the air. I held it in my palm, longing for the freedom of a dolphin.
Matthew broke the silence. ‘Forgive me if you think me rude,’ he said urgently, ‘but I want — no, I need, to know everything about you, Lizzie. When I saw you standing in front of the preacher on your wedding day wearing that gaudy dress and looking so sad, my heart felt as it it were breaking along with yours. I wondered why you were getting married to a rough brute twice your age. I longed to know why the tears were rolling down your cheeks as you spoke your wedding vows. For months afterwards I kept on seeing your face in my dreams. I couldn’t forget you.’
‘I wish I’d seen you,’ I whispered. ‘Even one friendly face would have lifted my spirits that day.’
He stared deeply into my eyes as if searching for answers. ‘You’re still sad, aren’t you, Lizzie? Even now.’
I closed my fingers over the whalebone dolphin. ‘Aye, I’m still sad. I was sad on my wedding day and I’ve been sad every day since. I’ve forgotten what happiness feels like.’
He put his mug down and rested his hand on top of mine. ‘Tell me all. I must know.’
I laughed bitterly. ‘Well then, where to start? With my miserable wedding day? No, it began before then.’ I stared at my hand resting under his, the skin red and rough and the nails torn, and the cheap brass ring tight on my marriage finger. I should have taken it off before I came. ‘My stepfather went to the grog-shops in the Rocks every night,’ I said. ‘Mam begged him not to drink away the money that should have bought food for the bairns, but he took no notice. That night he had no money left, not one farthing. But the gambling fever was on him. So he offered me, his stepdaughter, as the prize in a game of dice. He lost. The man who won me was Jack Dawson.’ I closed my eyes, hardly able to speak. I’d never told this story to anyone, not even Marama.
‘I got hauled from my bed by my stepfather while Mam wept in the corner where he’d thrown her. She couldn’t stop him taking me — she had a child in her belly to think of. He dragged me down to the docks and handed me over to two of Jack’s crew. I was rowed out to a schooner, the Marianne, and taken aboard, right into the Captain’s bunk.’
I found myself shaking all over. I’d hidden those memories away in a deep, dark place in my mind. All the fear and shame. The look in Jack Dawson’s eyes when he pulled the blanket off me, like a man who’d stumbled on a treasure trove. The greedy stares and foul comments of the crew when I finally managed to crawl out of the cabin, weak with seasickness, to go up on deck to get a breath of fresh air. Speaking these memories aloud, even to Matthew, was like reliving it all over again.
Matthew rubbed my cold hand between his palms. ‘Lizzie, forgive me. ’Tis too painful for you. I should have known better than to ask.’
I shook my head. ‘I must go on. Maybe I’ll find peace when the telling’s done.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Aye.’ I clenched my teeth, then continued. ‘The Marianne was bound for New Zealand, carrying men and supplies for the whaling station. The Captain hadn’t planned to have a wife along. But when a fresh young wench landed so conveniently in his bunk … well, ’twasn’t surprising he managed to include me in his plans without too much trouble. The schooner stopped at the Bay of Islands so he could marry me and make me respectable. As headsman of the station he’s obliged to set a good example, you understand.’
Matthew’s face was full of compassion. ‘Oh, Lizzie. You were forced into it, then?’
‘Forced? Oh aye. I was half dead with seasickness and faint with lack of food and terrified out of what wits I had left. I could hardly walk. You can surely say I was forced into it.’
‘You didn’t think to ask the missionaries for help? They’d have looked after you. They’re good people, Lizzie. Strict, but good.’
‘Oh, I thought of it but in the end I could not,’ I said. ‘I saw the way those missionary ladies frowned and looked down their noses at me. I was just a dirty little slut from the gutters of Sydney Town. They could hardly bear to come near me. How could I beg for charity from them?’
Matthew squeezed my hand tightly. ‘Lizzie. If only you’d spoken up. Just one word. They’d have taken you in, notwithstanding their frowns and tut-tutting. They’ve got kind hearts underneath the starch. I should know — look what they did for me, a sick, abandoned slave child, left to die by my own people.’
I shook my head. ‘I could not do it.’
He sighed. ‘So … do you love him, then? Your husband — do you love him now you’re wed?’
I shook my head. ‘Never. Oh, he’s got a huge strength inside him that makes men follow him and do whatever he says, even good-hearted men like George Martin. I suppose I’ve come to respect him, in a strange kind of way. But I can never love him.’
‘Does he love you then?’
I opened my hand and stared at the leaping dolphin. ‘He thinks he does. He even tells me he does — sometimes. But what’s love? If love is thinking you own a person body and soul, then aye, he loves me. If love is expecting a person to obey every command, then he loves me.’
‘That’s not love,’ Matthew said gently. ‘Love is wanting a person to be happy. Love is caring about someone. Love is letting a butterfly go free because to keep her caged is to kill her.’
‘I can never go free,’ I said, carefully replacing George’s dolphin in the kit.
Matthew took my hand again and held it to his chest. I could feel his heart beating. ‘Poor butterfly. I wish…’ He shook his head as if doubting the words that hung on his lips.
‘What do you wish?’ I asked eagerly.
He let go my hand, stood up, and walked to the doorway. He stared out into the pale, winter sunshine for a long time. Then he said, ‘I wish for lots of things, Lizzie. But right now I wish to see a smile on your lips and hear laughter in your voice.’
For a wild moment I thought of jumping up and running to him. But I sat still. ‘Just be here for me,’ I said. ‘Stay close. Be my friend. Help me through the bad days. Then maybe I can learn to laugh again.’
He turned and took a step towards me. I stood up to meet him. But he merely touched my cheek with his finger, dropped his hands to his sides, and gave me a strange smile. ‘Aye, I’ll stay, Lizzie. Your face has been in my heart for many months. Now at last I can see and touch it I’m not of a mind to rush away.’
What could I see in his eyes? Maybe love, but something else was causing him to do battle with himself. ‘What’s amiss?’ I asked.
He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘’Tis nothing.’
I suddenly remembered I had to warn him. ‘Matthew,’ I said, ‘you must take care. You have enemies.’
He threw his head back and laughed. Whatever had been troubling him was gone. ‘The high and mighty Atutahi? Don’t worry your head about him. He’s already informed me that my God is useless and will soon be beaten into oblivion by his gods. I know he’s been skulking round the place casting spells on me. But I’m here at Te Rauparaha’s command, just as he is.’
‘Not just him,’ I said. ‘There’s Jack.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Jack Dawson? Why?’
I longed to say, ‘Because his wife is falling in love with you,’ but instead I said, ‘Jack hates missionaries. He reckons they put dangerous ideas in the natives’ heads. And your safe passage from the Ngati Toa is not likely to win you any favours. He mistrusts all natives, Te Rauparaha more than any of them.’
Matthew looked thoughtful. ‘Well, his opinion of the Ngati Toa is not misplaced. When I came to their island, ’twas obvious they didn’t know w
hat to make of me. A Maori who spoke English and Maori, a Maori who acted like an Englishman — I was a terrible puzzle to them. I could see Te Rauparaha scratching his head and figuring how to use me to his advantage. Then he thought of sending me down here as a spy. I was told to find out what lies in the hearts of the Pakeha. I was delighted to agree. It fitted so neatly with my own plans.’
‘And what are your plans?’
He threw his cloak back over his shoulders and his eyes glowed. He began to pace up and down the length of the hut. ‘To bring Christianity to my people. To teach them love and hope. To turn them from the old ways of murder and revenge. This is the promise I made to God and to the good people who saved me. ’Tis my life’s work, Lizzie.’
‘Oh,’ I said, trying to hide my dismay. He sounded so determined. Just like Jack Dawson when he told me tales about the fortune he was going to make killing whales. There was surely no room in Matthew’s plans for me. All those strong looks and sweet words meant naught. I was a fool, a silly little fool. I looked down and watched my fingers trying to rip the edge of my apron. He mustn’t see the tears in my eyes.
He came over to me and lifted my chin with his fingers. ‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘Not tears, surely?’
‘You’ll go,’ I choked out. ‘These grand plans of yours will take you away from here. And I’ll never see you again.’
‘I am God’s servant,’ he replied solemnly, ‘and one day, aye, I will go from here. But God led me to you, Lizzie. I reckon you’re my reward. I’m not planning to let go of my reward for a long time to come.’ He leaned over and I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead all he did was trace the sign of the cross on my forehead, gently but firmly.
Then he walked through the door and into the sun. For a second he seemed to be surrounded with light like an angel. I touched my forehead where the skin still glowed from his fingers. He loves me, I thought wildly. He must! For all his talk of God he can’t stop himself loving me. I can feel it with every bone in my body.
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