Cross Tides

by Lorraine Orman

  But I did not want to spend our last hour together in such serious talk. So I slid my hand down his smooth belly, and that was the end of the talking.

  Something made me lift my head from the prayer book in my hand. I looked over the channel towards the rocks at the entrance to Cook’s Strait and my blood froze in my veins. Canoes, dozens of them, with tall sternposts and long rows of paddles moving together in perfect timing. They were too far away for me to hear the splash of the paddles, and the lack of any kind of noise was the most frightening thing of all.

  Where was the lookout, meant to be keeping watch on the hill over the channel? Asleep, most likely. Jack would thrash him half to death for such carelessness.

  I leaped up and scrambled over the rocks, heedless of the puddles and the slippery seaweed. As soon as I reached the sand I ran, my skirts hauled up to my knees and my cap flying into the air. ‘Waka!’ I screamed. ‘Waka! Canoes! Beware, beware!’

  My screams soon reached the ears of the men filling the barrels with oil from the cooling tanks. I saw them look up, throw down their tools, and run to spread the word. By the time I reached the pathway, gasping and breathless, Jack was waiting for me. He’d already been back to the hut and had his cutlass and a pistol tucked into his belt. ‘The Ngati Toa,’ he said grimly. ‘A war party by the looks of ’em. Lizzie, go to the hut an’ get the whisky ready. Put it handy by the door. An’ mind you don’t come out till I give you the nod.’

  I did as I was bid. The station was in an uproar, women dragging their wailing children towards the safety of the huts, whalers striding towards the beach with muskets in their hands and knives in their belts, dogs running in circles and barking, goats bleating so as you’d think their throats were being cut. I put a large pannikin of whisky and some tin mugs on top of the water barrel outside the door. Then I stood by the window and watched the path leading to our hut.

  A long time later Jack appeared, walking in the middle of a group of Maori chiefs. His face was grim. As they came closer I recognised the smaller man at Jack’s side. It was Te Rauparaha. His flax cloak was richly decorated with black tassels and he carried a taiaha, a long carved fighting staff favoured by the Maoris. His moko was uneven, with only a few swirls on one cheek while the other was darkly tattooed.

  Behind the group of chiefs came a crowd of people, a mixture of warriors, whalers, and wives. They all looked amicable enough, talking and laughing as they greeted family members, but when I looked closely I saw that the whalers were bunched close together and their weapons were in plain view. And the natives, some of them already daubed with red, greasy warpaint, carried their flat, sharp clubs in handy fashion on cords round their wrists. A few of them were even carrying old muskets and looking round about themselves with very proud expressions.

  Jack led the chiefs to the area in front of our hut and gestured to me to pour the whisky. I slipped out through the doorway and picked up the pannikin, my hands shaking so much that the liquid splashed on the ground. Jack took the mugs as I poured and gave them out to the natives. Most of them squatted in a circle and drank eagerly, chatting and joking to each other in their own language.

  Ever curious, Te Rauparaha stuck his nose through the door of the hut and cast a keen eye over its contents. He grunted, gave me a stare and a lift of the head, then wandered away across the grass to the whalebone fence beside the hut. In the field were four sheep that Jack had brought over from Port Jackson with a heap of aggravation and cost. They were his pride and joy.

  The rangitira muttered to the native following close behind him. The man turned to Jack and said, ‘My chief asks what are the animals with long hair?’

  ‘Sheep,’ Jack said gruffly. ‘We raise ’em for wool to make our clothes. Also good meat for eating.’

  The translator spoke in Te Rauparaha’s ear. He frowned in acknowledgment and kept on staring at the sheep.

  Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the chiefs decided they’d had enough. They got to their feet and sauntered down the path, laughing and talking even more loudly than before. But Te Rauparaha stopped after a few steps, raised a hand, and snapped a command to two of his men. They trotted towards the fence and made to climb over. Any fool could have figured out what they were about to do. Jack’s voice suddenly rang out. ‘Stop!’

  Everyone froze. The warriors muttered to each other and grasped their clubs, the whalers growled and lifted their muskets, and the wives moved hastily behind their menfolk. ‘Stop!’ Jack bellowed again, striding toward the group of chiefs. Even though he spoke in English everyone knew what he meant. The two men stood by the fence, looking to their rangitira for directions.

  ‘Where is the real Te Rauparaha?’ Jack demanded. ‘Where is the mighty chief of the Ngati Toa? I cannot see him! All I see in front of me is a common thief! A miserable villain who steals from his friends! Surely this thief is not the great Te Rauparaha?’

  As the interpreter whispered into his ear the chief’s face grew thunderous with rage. He glared at Jack and spat some words at him. Then like a fire suddenly flaring, he launched into a ferocious war dance. He pounded his foot on the ground and thrust with his taiaha and howled terrible curses. He sprang towards Jack, jumped back, leaped towards him again. Each time he came a bit closer. No-one moved. We all stood, scarcely breathing, staring at the furious chief.

  Jack pulled the pistol out from his belt and cocked it. Then he bent over and scraped a line in the sandy shell path in front of him. ‘If you cross this mark, by God, then I’ll shoot your head off,’ he said slowly and deliberately. He stepped back a few paces, raised the pistol, and took aim at Te Rauparaha.

  The chief continued his terrible war dance. He stamped right up to the line and away again, all the time thrusting his weapon at Jack and bellowing at the top of his voice. The crowd watched and waited. Nobody spoke. When a dog barked in one of the huts everyone started and looked round in alarm.

  But then a voice came out of the crowd, a loud ringing shout in Maori. I did not understand the words but the voice was Matthew’s. He shouted again, a strong cry that cut through the air like a spear.

  Te Rauparaha stood still, cocked his head towards the voice, then looked in the direction of his men. They moved towards him, repeating what Matthew had said in loud urgent voices. The chief glared at them and barked a few words. They spoke again and this time they seemed to be pleading with him.

  Finally he grunted, briefly bowed his head to his chest, and thudded the end of his taiaha into the ground several times. His men surged round him, talking in voices full of praise as if he’d just fought a terrible battle and won. The whalers lowered their guns, the natives put away their clubs and spears. The two men by the fence looked at each other, hooted with laughter, and walked away in the direction of the beach.

  I sagged against the doorpost. I could scarce believe it. We’d come within an inch of death and now everyone was laughing and chatting as if naught had happened. Jack came up to me and gave me the cutlass. ‘Keep it very handy,’ he instructed.

  ‘What if he’d crossed the line?’ I gasped.

  ‘Then I’d have shot him for sure.’

  ‘But we’d all have got killed!’

  ‘Aye, mebbe.’

  ‘You should have let him take the sheep!’

  Jack scowled. ‘I’ll be damned if I let him treat us like slaves. Times are changing mighty fast in this country. There’s more an’ more white men arriving every day. He’s got to learn he can’t loot an’ burn us like he used to. This day was a lesson for him. An’ I hope the bastard learns it well.’ He turned away, then paused and looked back at me. ‘Who was it called out to him? Did you see?’

  I gulped. ‘I reckon ’twas that Maori preacher.’

  ‘Aye. Seems to me that little runt’s getting far too big for his boots.’ He walked off but not before I saw a calculating gleam in his eye.

  A moment later Matthew himself stood in front of me. ‘Mistress Dawson, are you well?’

&nb
sp; How I longed to rush into his arms. But people were all around and eyes were glancing at us. ‘Aye. I’m well. And many thanks to you for asking.’

  ‘It must have been truly terrifying for you, seeing your husband facing up to the Ngati Toa in such a brave fashion.’ His eyes were trying to say a lot more than his lips.

  ‘Tell me, Sir,’ I said loudly so others could hear, ‘what was it you said to him? What stopped him in his tracks?’

  He beamed. ‘I knew he didn’t really want to kill Captain Dawson. And he certainly didn’t want to cross the line and be shot. But he couldn’t stop without losing face, as the missionaries used to say. So I simply told him it was enough. What he’d done was sufficient. His people needed him to lead them into the future. Once his chiefs spoke up and agreed with me he was able to back down with good grace.’

  I nodded. My heart was beating so loudly I wondered if other people could hear it. I felt myself sway towards Matthew, my body trying to be just an inch closer to my lover. ‘Your words were indeed well-chosen, Sir.’

  By this time George Martin had joined us and was listening to our conversation with his head on one side, an unlit clay pipe clenched between his stained teeth. ‘Aye, laddie, you spoke fair. Touch an’ go there for a moment. Not that the Captain’ll give you any thanks, mind. Stole ’is thunder fair an’ square, you did.’

  ‘Matthew kindly came to see if I was well,’ I said hastily to George. I hated lying to such a dear friend but he had always been Jack’s man and I didn’t dare let him know the truth about us.

  ‘Aye, very civil of ’im,’ George said. ‘You are lookin’ a bit green round the gills, missy. Why don’t you trot off an’ ask Marama for one of ’er toddies?’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’ I nodded to both of them and retreated into my hut where I put the cutlass carefully on the table. Then I sat down and buried my face in my hands and wept. And prayed to Matthew’s loving God to deliver us from this dangerous place. Oh, how I wanted to believe that He was looking after us. But I couldn’t quite find in my heart a faith as solid and sure as Matthew’s. My belief was a structure built of crumbling sand, and the tide of doubt was always washing bits away.

  The response to my prayers came only three days later and was not deliverance. Oh no, it was punishment for my sins, punishment worse than any I could ever have imagined. Matthew’s God turned His face away from us, and we were forever damned.

  The signal fire on the hill was smoking and two boats had set out to chase whales in the Strait. I did not go down to the beach to see the boats off as I had sometimes done in my first whaling season. By now I knew more than enough about the dangers of the chase. You couldn’t live on a whaling station and not know.

  The crews would be rowing like madmen to the entrance of the channel, each boatload of seven men determined to make the first strike with the harpoon. Jack was the steersman on the Bonny Bess and he’d be standing at the stern wielding the huge steer oar and bellowing curses at the top of his voice. His shouts would be matched by the rough voice of Geordie McDrew, the steersman on the other boat. They’d head out into the Strait, watching for the forked jets of spray shooting from the blowholes of the right whales. They’d pull in as close as possible and at just the right second the harpooner would plunge his irons into the side of the whale. Once the harpoon was fast, anything could happen.

  I’d heard my fill of loud drunken stories from the whalers. Stories of high-speed rides across the sea when the harpooned whale had sounded and towed the boat for miles with the rope running out, hot and hissing, to the very end. Stories of boats being struck by the flailing tail of a whale in her dying flurry and the men tipping out to drown alongside her in the bloody sea. Stories of whales swimming for miles down the coast in a useless attempt to escape the barbs buried in their flesh and then being killed by the last lance so far away from home that the exhausted crew spend a whole night towing the carcass back to the station, sustained only by frequent swigs of rum.

  I’d heard it all before. So I wasn’t too surprised when Marama suddenly burst through my door just as dusk was falling and cried, ‘One boat! Only one boat back!’

  That meant one boat had gone down. And likely men as well. I grabbed my shawl, a blanket, and the oil lantern off the table. ‘Go!’ I said and we ran to the beach. Other women ran with us through the dim light of evening, clutching babies to their breasts and dragging crying children by the hand.

  We stood on the sand and watched the dark shape moving slowly towards the shore. There were too many heads in it, heads that hung low or rested on the sides of the boat. It crept into the shallows and people waded into the sea to pull it up on the sand. The women crowded round, crying out for their husbands, grabbing at shoulders and arms. I saw Marama kneel by the boat and weep as she clutched at a man’s jacket. It was George, his face grey and ugly with exhaustion. Thank God he was safe.

  Then a bulky figure rose from a seat and stepped wearily out of the boat. A familiar voice growled a command and I knew my husband had returned safely. I went to him and held out the blanket. He was scowling fiercely as he watched his men crawl out of the boat into the arms of their women. ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  He peeled off his sodden jacket, dropped it to the ground, and wrapped the blanket over his shoulders. ‘Not quick enough,’ he said flatly. ‘I could see the fluke coming down an’ I yelled to the crew to slip us starboard but we was too slow. Bloody fish got us fair an’ square — split us in two. Down we went. I reckoned we were goners — Geordie was half a mile away an’ the men were beginning to sink. But Geordie’s lot rowed like champions an’ hauled us out — jest in time. Them that didn’t get walloped by the fluke, that is.’

  He turned his head and glared at the body lying in the bilge-water at the bottom of the whaleboat. ‘All that useless little bugger’s fault. Too bloody slow — when I gave the command he jest sat there, staring an’ heaving like he’d run a hundred miles. Didn’t even lift his sodding oar. Lost us the second we needed to get clear. Fluke came down right on top of him. Broke his neck. Serves the stupid bastard right.’ He spat on the sand next to the boat.

  There was a sack covering the head. But I knew who it was. My whole body seemed to turn to stone. ‘Why’d you put him on a boat?’ I said with lips that could scarcely move. ‘Any fool can tell he’s not strong enough for the oars.’

  ‘That other bastard Rewi said he’d cut his hand or some such. I needed another man. Right away.’ Jack snorted. ‘The Bible-banger was jest standing there on the beach spouting some bloody prayer. A couple of the men were even listening to him! I reckoned ’twas time he learned a lesson. He wasn’t quite so hoity-toity once he’d rowed two mile down the coast — looked like he was ready to keel over into the sea.’

  ‘That’s why you shouldn’t have put him on a boat,’ I said. ‘I told you. He’s not strong.’

  Jack shrugged. He’d never admit to making a mistake, not even to me. ‘Aye, well, good riddance to him,’ he muttered. ‘No room on this station for useless bludgers like him. Jest a bloody shame he had to take the Bonny Bess with him.’

  By this time the Maori women had taken care of their men with blankets and dry clothes and tots of whisky, and were gathering round the whaleboat. Ruihi began a high-pitched wailing in the back of her throat. The others quickly joined in. They pulled at their hair and grabbed sharp shells from the sand and cut at their arms and breasts till the black blood soaked through their dresses. All the time they kept up that eerie high-pitched wailing.

  I could feel myself starting to shatter under the awful noise. But then a dark figure pushed its way through and stood staring down at the body. It was Atutahi. His eyes were gleaming. He took a deep breath, puffing himself up like a toad. ‘This man is dead because he cursed the gods,’ he shouted in Maori. ‘He dared to challenge the gods who’ve looked after us since the beginning of time. Now he’s paid the price. His god is weak and useless! His god can’t even keep him alive! All you foolish people
must return to your old gods. I, Atutahi, command you to honour the true gods of your ancestors!’

  The women moaned and fell to their knees in the sand and bowed their heads. Atutahi looked triumphantly at me and roared, ‘I will take his body! It is the right of the victor!’

  The last fragment of whatever was holding me together cracked into tiny pieces. I could guess what the Maoris would do to Matthew. Whatever I felt about his God, I could not let this awful thing happen to my lover. ‘No! You will not take him!’ I cried. ‘He’s a Christian. He must have a proper Christian burial!’

  He smiled. Too well he knew what Matthew meant to me. ‘I have the right,’ he said in careful English. ‘I take him. I punish him.’

  ‘No!’ I swung round to Jack, who was gulping down a second mug of rum. ‘Captain Dawson! You must forbid him to take Matthew! Tell him the body must have a proper Christian burial.’

  Jack frowned, tipping the dregs on the sand. ‘What’s it to me? The bloody witchdoctor can take him an’ eat him for supper for all I care. Saves the crew having to dig a grave.’

  I fell to my knees and clutched his legs. ‘No! Don’t let them take him! For God’s sake, think what they’ll do to him!’ I felt tears on my cheeks as I stared up into his surprised face.

  He tried to prise me away. ‘Stop your noise, Lizzie! What’s wrong with you? Why are you weeping? Christ, he was only a bloody native!’

  ‘Matthew, Matthew!’ I wailed, letting go Jack’s legs and collapsing on the sand.

  ‘Lizzie! Stop it! Have you lost your wits?’ he shouted. He threw the mug away and grabbed me by the hair. ‘Hell’s teeth, what was he to you? Why are you so addled with grief?’ He hauled my head back so he could see my face in the light of the oil lamps. ‘Tell me!’ His face was dark with suspicion and mounting rage.

  ‘I love him!’ I screamed. ‘I love him more than life itself!’

  ‘Christ!’ With his other hand he struck me across the cheek, then he flung me down on the sand. ‘What are you saying? You filthy whore! You bloody little slut!’ I lay where I fell, too numb to move or even cry. My mouth was filling with blood from a cut cheek. He was surely going to kill me, and I didn’t really care any more.