by Sarah Lark
Kitten overheard it all because, of course, Morton had sought out the presence of the women when he sat down to have his chat with Carpenter. By the light of the fire, she saw the reverend flinch. He still had yet to so much as visit the “savages” he was supposedly here to save.
“And in the north, they are more peaceful?” Morton asked nervously.
“Well, I wouldn’t say peaceful,” Carpenter said calmly. “But Europeans have been there longer. The tribes have more contact with them and, to a certain extent, they’ve learned what’s appropriate. They don’t eat settlers anymore—at least, most of the time. It’s easier to trade with the tribes there because they want anything the whites have that makes life easier: blankets, pots, pans—and they have money. They’re constantly selling land to new settlers.”
Reverend Morton took a deep breath. “Perhaps,” he said hopefully, “they would be more open to receiving the word of God.” He looked at the merchant expectantly.
Carpenter shrugged. “I don’t know, Reverend. So far there has been no demand for Bibles. But you could change that. If you like, I’ll take you with me.”
“You would do that?” The reverend instantly became more animated. “My labors would fall on fertile ground there, don’t you think?”
Carpenter rolled his eyes. “It would be bad for my business if Bloody Jack ate a missionary,” he retorted, straight-faced. Bloody Jack was Chieftain Tuhawaiki’s nickname. “You can join me. Of course, I’ll expect a contribution to my travel costs . . .”
Reverend Morton cringed. “I don’t have very much money, I—”
“Word is you’ve got plenty to spend on whores,” Carpenter remarked. “Spare yourself the effort, Reverend. I doubt I can save my soul just by bringing a priest to the savages. You’ll pay your way, or you can try your luck here with Tuhawaiki.”
It was clear from Morton’s face that this alternative wasn’t appealing.
“Do we really have to leave tomorrow?” he asked unhappily. “It wouldn’t be very—pious, since Mrs. Hempleman just passed away. I thought I would be able to offer the widower succor for another day or two. The captain will surely understand—”
Carpenter, a small, pudgy man with sly eyes, laughed loudly. “Offer the widower succor? Save it, Reverend. You’re obviously more interested in the little blonde who’s being auctioned off. You’ve been drooling over her since you got here! What would your church think, eh? But as I said, I don’t care what you do. And Captain Clayton doesn’t either. Nor does Hempleman. The ship is loaded and it will sail. Time is money.”
Kitten had to smile when the reverend sighed sadly. The reverend wasn’t so determined to be the first man to lie with her that he’d face down a cannibal. But otherwise, the conversation hadn’t made her feel any better. In the last few hours, she’d been thinking about escaping to the Maori. It was possible that they’d take her in. Perhaps she could steal some seeds and baubles from Carpenter’s wagon and buy her way in. However, if they were really so dangerous . . .
But then another idea flashed into her mind. What about escaping on the Bee? Until that moment, Kitten had believed that the captain would be sailing directly to Europe, as he usually did. Of course she had considered hiding on the ship in order to escape. But she had been put off by the extremely long voyage and the completely foreign country at the other end of it, and she couldn’t hide between barrels of whale oil for three whole months. But it couldn’t be so far to Cloudy Bay. She could stow away in Carpenter’s wagon. He protected his wares with a canvas cover, which would make it an ideal hiding place for Kitten. And there would doubtlessly be something to eat among Carpenter’s supplies, even if it was just flour or hardtack.
It was only the destination that gave her pause. After all, Cloudy Bay was another whaling station. But hadn’t Carpenter said something about white settlers trading with the local Maori? Maybe the station was close to a larger settlement or even a town! A town with honest work for a young girl—in a household or perhaps a shop. Kitten’s heart pounded. Of course, there was also the possibility she’d end up in a worse whorehouse in Cloudy Bay . . .
Finally, she made up her mind. Things could go wrong, but if she escaped, she would at least have a chance. Here she had none. Kitten glanced over at Noni, who was gazing into the fire with a dreamy look on her face. She was probably fantasizing about her lover and future husband. Priscilla had already left to spend time with Barker and comfort him about his lost proceeds, and Suzanne sat by one of the other fires and stared into space as usual, taking swallows from a whiskey bottle that the men passed her every now and then. She wouldn’t spend the night alone—and she certainly wouldn’t wonder where her daughter was.
Kitten stood up inconspicuously. Noni didn’t say anything, and only the reverend watched unhappily as she slipped away to find Carpenter’s wagon.
Kitten found the merchant’s wagon a ways from the whaling station. Carpenter probably didn’t want the stench of rendered blubber to permeate his blankets and clothing. The night was gently lit by the moon and glittering stars, and everything was still around the wagon. Kitten climbed nimbly onto the cargo bed and slipped under the canvas cover. It was almost comfortable there, even if the smell was a little strange . . . Kitten found a small barrel that she thought must contain sauerkraut. The pickled cabbage was popular with sailors because it warded off scurvy—and it had been Linda Hempleman’s favorite dish as well. Carpenter had brought it for her, but he hadn’t wanted to offer it to Mr. Hempleman after she had died.
George Hempleman seemed to be trying to forget his German roots as fast as possible. Kitten herself liked sauerkraut very much, whether cooked, the way Frau Hempleman had offered it to her, or raw. She was always hungry anyway, and ate almost anything she could get. The only thing she couldn’t get down was whale meat, although it was thought of as a delicacy. But the sauerkraut was a stroke of luck in another respect. On the journey northward, the cabbage would satisfy Kitten’s hunger, and the vinegar would have to suffice for her thirst.
The girl made herself comfortable between the large piles of blankets. If Carpenter didn’t decide at the last moment to make a few trades with the whalers before loading the wagon on board the ship, she was free.
To Kitten’s surprise, she was even able to fall asleep in her hiding place. Her belly full of cabbage and exhausted from the previous days, she nodded off quickly and awoke only when the wagon started moving. Carpenter hadn’t lifted the cover, and a quick peek outside showed her that he probably wouldn’t. The sun was starting to rise, and at that time of day, nothing was moving on the beach. The merchant stopped briefly only to greet the reverend. He usually wasn’t an early riser, but his fear of ending up on the Maori chieftain’s plate had made him leave Noni’s embrace punctually that morning. Kitten heard Reverend Morton climb up to the front seat, and Carpenter guided the wagon onto the ship.
Everything went smoothly. The ramps were still in place from the previous day’s loading. Kitten held her breath as they rolled over the swaying boards, and again as Carpenter and the reverend got down and Captain Clayton’s men lashed the wagon to the deck of the ship. The merchant led the horse away. It would be stabled below deck. Then she was alone. Kitten was still afraid that Carpenter might come to get a few blankets or items, perhaps to sell them to Morton, who might not be prepared for a night on the ship. But soon the voices of the captain and his men faded away. Orders were shouted, and the gangplank was stowed away.
Kitten relaxed as she felt the ship begin to rock. The Bee was on its way, and Kitten was at sea. She had escaped Barker! Even if they discovered her now, Captain Clayton certainly wouldn’t sail back to return the pub owner’s property. Kitten almost said a prayer of thanks she had learned from Frau Hempleman. But then she changed her mind. It would be best not to attract the notice of Reverend Morton’s god!
The trip to Cloudy Bay took two days, and it went quietly for the crew, as well as for Kitten. Aside from the voices of the sailors o
n deck and the wind in the sails, the girl didn’t hear or see anything during the voyage. No one approached the wagon, and Kitten even dared to crawl out from under the canvas at night in order to relieve herself. The wagon was stowed near the bow between crates of baleen and other wares, and most of the crew stayed below deck and slept. With light breezes and calm seas, few men were needed to sail the ship.
Kitten could hardly believe her luck. Unfortunately, it didn’t last when she finally reached Cloudy Bay. Her hopes that the whaling station was connected with any kind of city were immediately dashed. Once the wagon had been unloaded onto the beach, Kitten peeked out from under the canvas, but there was nothing to see but whalebones, boats, and the typical primitive huts of the whalers. The station was even smaller than George Hempleman’s. But it was supposed to be older. Kitten had no illusions. Here, too, there would surely be a simple pub and doubtless a few whores. The pub owner would be just as eager as Barker to take some fresh meat into service. So, it would be better for Kitten not to let herself be seen, if possible.
Still, the land beyond the station seemed to be extremely beautiful. The area close to the beach was much flatter than in Piraki Bay, but in the distance, snow-covered mountains rose, and beyond the beach there were gentle green hills. She could see the mouth of the river now too. The Wairau, which ran next to the station, must be a powerful river. Was it possible that it also flowed through the settlement Carpenter had mentioned? If she followed it, would it lead to a town? Kitten thought about trying it, but was scared of going into the wilderness alone. Besides, Carpenter hadn’t given her any chance to sneak out. The merchant had immediately guided his horses away from the beach and begun following a path along the river, in spite of the reverend’s protests. Morton would have preferred to linger at the station and was probably looking for what he called “relaxation.”
“I once had some trouble here,” Carpenter explained. “The station manager is a crook. I brought him an entire wagonload of supplies he’d ordered, but he claimed they were too expensive. What could I do? While I was trying to insist on the price, suddenly twenty savages were standing around me, every one of them a head taller than I. In the end, he didn’t pay a cent, and I was happy to get away with my life. So I’m getting out of here while Captain Clayton is still around. Otherwise, the savages will clear out my wagon. Of course, you’re welcome to stay, Reverend . . .” He laughed, and Kitten could imagine the expression on the reverend’s face.
Kitten could only hope that Carpenter was headed toward some kind of settlement. But that hope died when Reverend Morton asked the merchant about his destination.
“Will we get to the town today?” he asked. “You said something about white settlers . . .”
Carpenter snorted. “I said something about the area around Tasman Bay, Reverend. If you’d ever looked at a map of your new sphere of influence, then you’d know the few areas settled by Europeans are on the other end of the Cook Strait. They’re on the west coast. We’ve landed on the east, all the way across the island. My customers live inland. Te Rauparaha, the famous chieftain, has settled with his tribe on the Wairau River. That’s where we’re headed now. I’m hoping to make it by tonight. In the meantime, you can think up a few prayers. Or learn a few words of Maori. Kia ora means ‘good day,’ and ‘welcome’ is haere mai. Oh yes, and I think ka mate means ‘I’m going to die.’ And then there’s the famous haka, a native dance ritual. And then they sing until the water boils . . .”
Kitten’s eyes were wide. The merchant was headed directly to a Maori tribe! And he’d surely find her when he began to hawk his wares. She decided that she’d let herself inconspicuously fall out of the wagon, and then somehow make her way to the settlement on the west coast. The wagon jostled violently on the rough roads, and with any luck, the men up front wouldn’t notice when she jumped off. It wouldn’t be difficult to find the way. A quick glance from under the canvas confirmed that they were still following the river. The banks were heavily forested, with much thicker vegetation than in Piraki Bay. Giant tree ferns dragged their fronds over the river, and ironwood trees surrounded by rata reached into the sky. Once, Kitten thought she saw a kauri tree, which was supposed to be the most valuable wood in all of New Zealand. The Hemplemans’ furniture had been made of it.
The broad river flowed sedately, and it was doubtlessly navigable, which explained the bad condition of the road. Normally, people must have gone by boat when they wanted to travel inland. Kitten kept a lookout for a good place to jump, but just as she was about to, the road became smoother, and Carpenter urged the horses into a trot. He was in a hurry to reach the Maori village and avoid a night camping on the road.
Kitten abandoned the idea of jumping off. At a trot, it was too dangerous. And she didn’t want to go back to the whaling station. She sighed and decided she’d just let herself be discovered at the Maori village. It wasn’t the worst option. Carpenter would surely be annoyed, but maybe she could convince him to take her with him once he’d completed his business. Then he would need to go to the next large town to resupply. He would probably want to be compensated for transporting her—and if nothing else worked, she’d have to do what he wanted. But in the town there would surely be a new chance for escape.
Kitten relinquished herself to fate, and peeked out again at the sun and the shimmering, silver river. The riverbed was stony and flat at the water’s edge, and there were sandbars. The Wairau often seemed not able to decide on a course, twisting through the countryside.
“The water’s very fresh,” Carpenter remarked to his passenger, who became more and more silent the deeper they went into the wilderness. “The Maori catch fish in traps, when there doesn’t happen to be a missionary to roast.” Kitten detected a grin in his voice. “Otherwise, they cook the roots and other parts of the fern, and plant sweet potatoes. Since the whites have been here, they also plant grain. They didn’t know it before. The seeds sell extremely well. Oh yes, did I tell you before that Chieftain Te Rauparaha’s name comes from an edible plant? His predecessor got the job by conquering Te Rauparaha’s father, eating him, and threatening to eat his son. He’d said the child would be a side dish for his rauparaha roots. But they taste good with fish too.”
Carpenter was obviously enjoying himself immensely, and Kitten hoped his good mood would hold when he discovered her later. The fern forest was lighter now, and after a while, Kitten thought she saw crops: fields of some kind of herb, and wheat. The camp must be close. Kitten lowered the canvas, not wanting to be discovered too early.
The roads were even smoother now, and soon she heard shouts and approaching voices. They were male and female, and they sounded happy and benevolent. Carpenter seemed to be well known here.
Finally, the wagon stopped, and greetings were exchanged. Carpenter spoke in broken Maori, and Kitten caught the words kia ora, which he’d mentioned earlier. The natives returned the greeting in English.
“Good day, Ca-pin-ta!” said a low, pleasant male voice. “We waited you many moons. We happy!”
Carpenter laughed. “I’m happy too, Te Puaha,” he replied. “And above all eager for a good meal. I haven’t had anything fresh in my belly for days.”
Kitten could imagine that he grinned at the reverend meaningfully as he spoke. And her mouth watered too. The air smelled promisingly of grilled fish.
“And you bring someone? Who that?”
“My name is Reverend Morton,” Kitten heard him say in his high voice. “I bring you God’s greetings and God’s blessings!”
Kitten started in shock as she heard cries of alarm and a thumping noise. She allowed herself a quick peek and saw that the reverend, who had raised his arms in blessing, was now being crowded by a large group of young men who were pounding their spears threateningly on the ground.
“Get your hands down, you idiot!” Carpenter shouted. “Don’t worry, Te Puaha, he just wants to say hello. That’s the sign for kia ora, understand?”
Reverend Morton’s
arms sank in shock, and Te Puaha smiled again. He was a brawny young man, and like all the Maori men Kitten could see, quite thickset. Their dark skin, especially on the face, was tattooed with blue vines and leaflike shapes. The reverend understandably had gone pale when they had looked as though they were about to attack him.
“We thought, make threat,” Te Puaha said. “Maybe have fire thing—mus-ke-ta, you call it, no? You bring some, Ca-pin-ta? You promise!”
Kitten had lowered the canvas again and couldn’t see whether Carpenter nodded.
“We’ll talk about the wares later,” he told the young Maori. “But first, say haere mai to Reverend Morton. Otherwise, he’ll be scared of you. And he definitely doesn’t want to hurt you. He’s not the kind to missionize with fire and brimstone; he’s too much of a coward for that.”
The reverend said something, but Kitten couldn’t hear it because of all the friendly words of welcome coming from the Maori.
“Friend of Ca-pin-ta also friend of Ngati Toa tribe,” Te Puaha said. “We welcome. Girls dance haka, women make food, you bring whiskey, yes?”
Kitten’s stomach sank. It was time. The whiskey bottles were stowed next to the sauerkraut barrel. While people were laughing and singing outside, Te Puaha raised the canvas with anticipation—and stared at the girl who was huddled as inconspicuously as possible between the blankets and the seed sacks.
“Hey, Ca-pin-ta? What you bring? Little girl?”
Kitten wanted to close her eyes and pretend to be invisible, but that would have been pointless and childish. Instead, she looked at the young Maori, and then Carpenter, who had just appeared.
“I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed. “How did you get here? You—you’re from Piraki Bay, aren’t you? The girl whom they wanted to auction.”
“Auction girl?” Te Puaha asked in amazement.
Now more Maori had gathered around, among them women and children. They seemed to be asking for a translation. Te Puaha quickly exchanged words with a tall, slender woman with long black hair and gentle features, which, in spite of her tattoos, didn’t look threatening.