Seeing no other alternative, he picked Joseph up, slung him over his shoulder and made his way back through the dark Wellington streets.
In the morning Joseph awoke with a pounding headache, a mouth that tasted utterly foul, and no memory of how he got back to the Whiri. As he lay gazing at the ceiling of his sleeping compartment, wondering whether he was going to be sick, the door opened and Cass stuck his head in.
‘Food on the table, boy,’ he said gruffly, and withdrew.
Joseph snatched his blanket over his mouth and nose as the smell of fried meat wafted in. He shut his eyes again: he could remember going to the tavern, drinking beer and rum, and talking to a girl in a green dress, but beyond that his mind was disturbingly blank. He sat up gingerly, wincing as his head hammered, and looked around for his trousers; they were draped over the end of his bunk, and they stank. Joseph tossed them into a corner and got out a clean pair. What on earth had he done last night?
The greasy odour of food assaulted him again as he stepped out into the main cabin. The crew, busy eating breakfast, glanced up and grunted greetings, but the atmosphere was subdued, and he saw John had a fresh bruise across his cheekbone.
Joseph sat down and reached for a piece of bread, chewed it without enthusiasm and gagged slightly as he swallowed. The pitcher of water was much more appealing, and he helped himself.
The others ate in silence until one by one they rose from the table and went up on deck, leaving Cass and Joseph alone. The silence grew while O’Leary emerged to clear the table of food and plates, then retreated again to his galley.
Eventually, Cass said, ‘Well?’
Joseph’s response was an oily and ominous burp. He clapped his hand over his mouth and turned away from the table.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, boy, go and get rid of it!’ said Cass crossly.
Joseph lurched up from the table and hurried across the cabin to the privy. Inside, he leaned over the hole in the wooden seat and vomited until he feared his eyes would burst. He briefly considered lying on the floor and going back to sleep but the privy’s smell was too much and he reluctantly went back to face Cass. He barely had his bum on the bench before Cass started.
‘You a disgrace, boy, you know that?’
Joseph nodded. Clearly he was in disgrace: he wasn’t sure why but he certainly was not going to anger Cass further by asking.
‘You know what you done?’
Joseph shook his head, certain Cass would tell him anyway.
He did. ‘You shamed yourself drinking too much alcohol, and you lay with a common slut. Your family have your guts for garters if they find out. Have you no mana, boy?’
‘Everyone else was doing it,’ replied Joesph, his truculent tone belying his genuine bewilderment.
Cass slammed his hand on the table, making Joseph jump. ‘You not everyone else, Joseph! You the son of Kepa, son of Te Roroa, nephew of Te Kanene. This behaviour becomes you not at all!’
Joseph couldn’t think of anything to say, and sat in miserable silence, staring at the tabletop.
Cass continued, but in a slightly more conciliatory tone. ‘Do you know about wharetangata, boy?’
Joseph thought for a minute but had to admit, ‘No, not really.’
Cass threw up his hands and rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘Bloody shit, I knew it,’ he swore passionately. ‘It be the same thing everywhere. Fathers not teaching sons the right things, mothers not teaching daughters. Too many Pakeha ways coming in and our traditions forgotten.’ He pointed at Joseph. ‘This is what is happening, boy — the children growing up not knowing how to behave, going off to schools learning Pakeha nonsense and missing out on what they really need to learn!’
He was angry mostly at Kepa; for not educating his son about the concepts he needed to keep himself strong and pure, and for giving him permission to go ashore without that knowledge. He was also angry at Te Kanene; the old man had, after all, made such a long and loud fuss when Kepa had gone off and impregnated Joseph’s mother. Speaking in Maori now because he did not have the English words he needed to express himself clearly, he took a deep breath and tried to explain.
‘Wharetangata embodies the sacred value of your loins, boy. From there comes the seed that perpetuates your line and builds on the mana of your ancestors. It is your duty to honour your family line, to respect it and to keep it pure. There are several aspects to this. The first is a matter of hygiene — you must not defile your body by having sexual contact with a woman who is dirty. This is a filthy thing to do to yourself, and at the very least it invites disease. I have seen many a man suffering an inflamed and festering penis from going with these women, boy, and it is not a pretty sight. The second is, it is beneath your status to sleep with such a woman. A woman who dishonours herself by allowing any man to use her does not have self-respect and is not worthy of your attentions. Remember who you are, boy. Always remember that.’
Joseph was giving Cass his utmost attention, but his face betrayed his anxiety; he had no idea if he had had sexual relations with the girl in the green dress or not.
Cass kept a straight face; the boy’s horrified look as he realised the possible repercussions of his actions was a sight to behold. He was tempted to prolong Joseph’s discomfort, but could not bring himself to be so harsh.
‘According to the girl you did not have sexual contact. I think you will be safe, from disease at least.’
Joseph closed his eyes in relief.
‘But that might not have been the worst of it. A sore penis is one thing, but what of the possibility of starting a child, had you thought of that? A child you might never have known existed, a child with the blood of your father and his father and all your ancestors running through its veins, left in the doubtful care of a dirty and dishonoured woman. What would become of such a child? It would never find its way back to its own people and would grow up empty of spirit, unless you claimed it. But how could you claim it, boy, if you did not know of its existence? Because of wharetangata, it is imperative that you be responsible for any issue from your loins. To father a child and not claim it is to bring great dishonour on yourself, boy. Children have always been the hope of our people, and they always will be.’
Joseph nodded, speechless with gratitude to discover he hadn’t done any of these dreadful things.
‘Becoming a man by lying with a woman is something to be joyously celebrated by your whole family, not a furtive, emotionless deed to be done in the dark with some soulless, disease-ridden female who does not even know your name. That is not the action of a man, that is the behaviour of an animal. Be grateful you did not do such a thing.’
‘I am,’ Joseph replied fervently.
‘There is still the matter of the alcohol,’ added Cass harshly. ‘There is also great shame in being so weak you drink too much and lose control of your body and fall down and vomit all over yourself. You were a pig last night and you smell like one this morning. I am very disappointed with you, Joseph. I had hoped for more honourable behaviour from you.’
Joseph’s eyes stung with tears. This was the worst thing of all — Cass’s obvious and deep disapproval. ‘I am sorry to have disappointed you, e koro,’ he said. ‘It will not happen again.’
‘No, you are right, it will not,’ agreed Cass. ‘You will not be granted shore leave again.’
‘Will you tell my father?’ asked Joseph.
‘Do you think I should?’
Joseph replied, ‘I think that is up to you. But I also think that if he is to be told, then I should be the one to tell him. It was my error and I will take responsibility for it.’
Cass drummed his fingers on the table. Privately, he was pleased at Joseph’s willingness to take responsibility for his actions — and it went some way towards restoring his faith in the boy.
‘I will think on it,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps that should be your choice, not mine.’
Joseph nodded and rose from the table; what he wanted most was to go back to his bunk
and sleep off his headache, but he knew there was work to be done. He was deeply ashamed of his actions and vowed never to put himself in the same position again. He also felt considerable anger towards his father for not telling him of his responsibilities as a man. Had Kepa not raised the subject because of what had happened with Joseph’s mother?
Or had Joseph been too busy running about being half Maori and half Pakeha to take heed of the lessons and traditions taught by the wider family he had grown up with? The thought that the ease with which he had been living in both worlds might have caused him harm stopped him in his tracks.
Thinking Joseph was going to be sick again, Cass looked hurriedly about for a receptacle.
‘No,’ said Joseph, reading his mind. ‘I am fine. I had a thought.’
‘A good one?’
‘An important one.’
Cass nodded and watched him for a minute, his face creased in thought. Reverting to English, he asked, ‘Boy, you really want to go to that fancy school?’
‘No,’ Joseph answered truthfully.
‘Well, why you going, then, eh?’
Joseph shrugged. ‘Because my father and Te Kanene both want me to, I suppose, and so does my mother.’
‘You be better off sailing on Whiri with me for a couple of years,’ said Cass.
‘I know, but are you going to try and persuade them?’
‘No,’ replied Cass, knowing such a suggestion was absurd. Suddenly, he got up and began to mince across the cabin floor, helping himself to imaginary snuff, smiling vacuously and waving to invisible friends in a wickedly accurate rendition of some of the more effeminate Englishmen he had encountered. ‘You turn into one of these, boy. All lace and velvet and empty head!’
Joseph laughed, then clutched his temples. ‘Ow,’ he said.
Cass laughed as well. ‘Go up on deck, boy. See if the wind blow your sore head away, if she don’t blow it off.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Joseph’s apprenticeship came to an end in February of 1894, two weeks before he was due to enter Te Aute College. It was with genuine regret that he said a reluctant goodbye to the crew. He would miss Cass most of all, with his lifetime of knowledge and his irrepressible sense of humour. But it was time to embark upon the next phase of his own life, and he knew the next three years at Te Aute would be tempered with memories of his time aboard the Whiri.
For Joseph, Te Aute was not a particularly pleasant experience. He enjoyed the mental stimulation of his lessons, which included Latin, physiology, geometry and algebra, and the physical demands of the sporting curriculum, but not the rigid structure nor the compulsory attendance at Sunday morning services. Many of the boys were older, and most were full Maori, but he soon found a ‘crowd’ with whom he felt at ease. During his time there he met many notable students, including Te Rangi Hiroa, who would follow in the footsteps of an earlier graduate, Apirana Ngata, and become a founding member of the Young Maori Party. He did not envy them the illustrious destiny for which they were being groomed.
Joseph dedicated much of his first year at Te Aute to pulling against the reins. He disliked being told what to do and where to go, and he detested the European style of schooling. Maori traditions were maintained but, in Joseph’s view, only so far as to ensure students were not too abruptly alienated from their heritage: as far as he was concerned, Te Aute existed to transform Maori boys into middle-class Pakeha. He worked hard to prevent this happening to him, which confused his friends who knew he was half European. He appreciated the enrichment of his academic knowledge, and the easy comradeship he developed with his fellow students, but was relieved to pass through the school gates for the last time at the end of 1896, having decided the world of academia and politics was not for him.
Instead, to the chagrin of Te Kanene and his father, he chose to work on the land. He considered returning to sea, but as he already had a rudimentary knowledge of seamanship and coastal trading, decided he would do better to learn something new.
After a stay at Maungakakari, followed by several days at Kenmore over New Year with Tamar, who was pregnant again, he took casual work on local sheep stations, learning to muster and shear, and to shoot and ride as if he had been born to both. He quickly grew to love the harshness and solitary beauty of the outdoor life almost as much as he had loved the sea, and once and for all put the possibility of a career involving books and letters out of his head.
It was while he was working on a station southwest of Napier that he received, on the first day of May, a telegram from Andrew Murdoch advising his mother had been delivered of her child but the infant was unlikely to survive.
When Joseph arrived at Kenmore several days later, he was tired and filthy from riding day and night without rest. Andrew, the lines of grief etched on his face, met Joseph at the front door and told him quietly what had happened.
April 1897
‘God bugger my bloody days!’ Tamar screamed, straining until her face turned scarlet and the veins in her temples bulged.
‘Now, now, Mrs Murdoch, that’s no way to talk!’
The midwife, who had taken over from Mrs Platt a year ago, frowned at Tamar who lay on the bed, legs wide apart. She was covered with sweat and stray strands of her hair stuck to her damp face. ‘For God’s sake, Mrs McSherry, I’m having a baby. I think I can swear if I feel the need, don’t you!’
Mrs McSherry didn’t think so, but who was she to comment on the behaviour of rich folk? That was the trouble with this colony — people behaved in any manner they chose, not at all like they did in England.
‘Now then,’ she continued, as if Tamar hadn’t uttered a word. ‘Push again. Hard, now.’ She prayed this delivery would not prove difficult: the local doctor was currently en route to a station up in the hills. She’d given Tamar raspberry-leaf and nutmeg tea in the first stages of labour to settle her nerves, and those of the unborn baby, but the woman was swearing like a trooper. Most unseemly.
Tamar gave another mighty push and grunted as the baby’s head crowned. ‘Christ Almighty,’ she groaned.
‘Really, Mrs Murdoch, you should know what to expect by now! This isn’t your first delivery, after all.’
No, thought Tamar as she gritted her teeth, but it’s definitely going to be my last.
John Adams had advised her not to fall pregnant again after Ian had arrived the previous year, but accidents happened, as she well knew. But they had both been pleased at the news, although Andrew had been concerned for Tamar’s health; after Ian, John had stated quite bluntly that in his view she was getting a bit long in the tooth to expect complication-free childbirth. Now, lying flat on her back straining to push out her sixth child, she had to agree.
‘Another push, Mrs Murdoch. We’re nearly there.’
Tamar heaved mightily and the baby’s head popped out accompanied by a gush of blood. When Mrs McSherry cleared the muck away from the tiny face she became alarmed; the infant was very blue and the umbilical cord seemed to be wrapped around its neck.
‘You’re going to have push even harder this time, all the way out if you can,’ she said. ‘Come on now, push!’
Eyes squeezed shut, teeth bared and hands gripping the bedhead behind her, Tamar strained again, feeling her insides were about to tear away from the rest of her. Nothing budged.
‘And again!’ urged Mrs McSherry, her voice rising. ‘Now!’
Tamar summoned what remained of her strength, took a huge breath and gave a massive shove. ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ she screamed, unable to hear her own curse because her ears were blocked with the enormous pressure of bearing down.
Mrs McSherry leaned forward as the baby suddenly slid out. She quickly removed the umbilical cord from around its neck, cleared out its mouth, tipped the tiny body upside down and briskly slapped the wrinkled little buttocks. The baby was a girl and Mrs Murdoch blew her cheeks out in relief as the infant took a small breath and began to mewl weakly.
‘Mam?’ asked a small, worried voice from
the bedroom door. ‘Mam? Are you all right?’
Mrs McSherry turned to see a little boy peering around the door. ‘Get away with you, boy,’ she snapped.
‘And get your da in here. Now.’
A minute later, Andrew hurried in. ‘Tamar?’ he asked apprehensively.
‘Yes, I’m fine, it’s all right,’ Tamar reassured as she lay back, utterly exhausted.
Mrs McSherry finished cutting the umbilical cord, tied it off, wrapped the infant tightly and placed her in Tamar’s arms.
‘I believe your wife is fair, Mr Murdoch. I’m not so sure about the wee girl. You’d do well to call for the doctor. He’s over to the Sinclairs at Toihi Station, I believe.’
Andrew kissed his wife’s damp forehead and gently pulled the blanket back from his daughter’s face: the child was very blue and she breathed shallowly and irregularly. He nodded, then left the midwife to clean up the bloody sheets and make Tamar comfortable while he hurried downstairs to send for the doctor, hoping like hell he could get to Kenmore soon.
Dr Logan bent over the child, moving one finger slowly backwards and forwards in front of her face, then palpated her tiny limbs, lifting then lowering them gently. Tamar and Andrew waited in silence.
‘She’s not responding very well,’ he said as he straightened up. ‘I’m not sure if she has any visual acuity, but I suspect not. I believe she may have sustained considerable damage during the prolonged labour. She’s very weak.’ He turned to Tamar. ‘Have you named her yet?’
‘Yes, Brigid, after my sister. Brigid Ann Murdoch.’
‘Mmm. Well, all I can say is it might be a good idea to prepare yourselves. I can’t say anything more, I’m afraid.’ He thought for a second. ‘She’s nursing properly?’
‘She’s taking a little. I try her every hour.’
‘Well,’ said the doctor, repacking his bag and snapping it shut with a loud click. ‘I suggest you keep on with that, and keep her warm and comfortable. I really can’t suggest anything more, I’m afraid.’ He’d seen this many times — newborns too weak or damaged to hold on to the slim chance at life they’d been given.
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