The dance ended at ten o’clock. Viggo Monrad stood to thank them for their attendance on behalf of his wife and himself. Of course, Olga Monrad would not attend a dance like this one. Her pregnancy had nothing to do with it; she was not the type of person who would feel comfortable here. But Mette had seen her at church every Sunday, sitting in the front pew, her husband beside her. And when any of the women from Schleswig gave birth, Olga would send over something nice for the baby to wear, such as tiny knitted booties, as well as sausage and bread for the parents.
They applauded his speech enthusiastically and began to file out towards the carts. Mette had danced with several men she knew from church, but all were older and married. Gottlieb Karlsen’s eyes had followed her the whole time from where he sat on a bale of hay at the end of the shed but he’d not gathered his courage enough to ask her to dance a second time. She had carefully avoided making eye contact and wondered how she would be able to shake him off in future. But she had enjoyed herself tonight, which was the main thing.
The trip home in the dark of the night under the stars was beautiful. Hans Christian and Johanna crowded on to the bullock cart with them, and as he drove Hans Christian pointed out some of the stars, especially the cluster called the Southern Cross, which could not to be seen from Schleswig. They travelled in the company of four families from the clearing, a group of men from the lumber camp, and another from the road crew, so she was not afraid that the Hauhauwarrior would jump from the bush and steal Hamlet away. Some of the men carried squared axes at their feet and kept an eye on the bush. They could throw them as accurately as any native could throw a tomahawk, and protect the women and children. Hamlet slept in his mother’s arms, where he had been for the entire evening, oblivious then to the dancing, or now to the chance of being taken away and eaten by a troll who was really a Hauhau.
She was glad to finally see the clearing again, with its rows of neat wooden cottages and gardens facing the road. Hans Christian’s lesson had helped her understand why Pieter had such problems growing vegetables in his front garden, and why she had to use the spot at the end of the clearing. He’d chosen to site his cottage facing south, with the garden in front. In the southern hemisphere, it would be necessary for a garden to face north. She longed to point this out to him, but he would take it as an attempt to win their previous discussion about the importance of education over experience. Silence was the best option.
Pieter pulled the dray up in front of their cottage; the other drays went on their way. The dray with the men from the road crew was the last to pass, and she saw Gottlieb Karlsen staring at her. She gave him a half smile, to show she understood that he had wanted to dance with her more, then regretted it when he leered back at her.
7
Searching For the Boys
Frank hadn’t had much time to look for the Scandi boys. He asked after them in Napier, with no success, but had managed to track down Anna, the young woman Jens had liked. The Scandi community in Napier was not large, and was clustered in one area. He asked after someone who had come over on the Inverenefrom Copenhagen and tracked down a man working at the stables who sent him to the right family. The young woman’s name was Anna Jespersen, and although he did not speak to her, he did speak to her father, Christian Jespersen.
“He was a nice young man,” the father said. “Lively, with red hair and always smiling. They were together all the time coming here, and I thought—I hoped—they would marry in New Zealand. But the government sent me here, and Jens was sent to his cousin in Manawatu. She’ll be upset to know he’s gone missing.”
Later he rode up to the lumber camp and checked the boys’ whare. Hans Christian had cleaned it up, removing all the rotting food, but two bedrolls sat neatly on one side. Clearly, they had not gone anywhere without meaning to return. He found a locked metal box underneath one of the bedrolls; shaking it he heard the rattle of coins. He would give those to Nissen and Sorensen. He was sure they would find a use for them.
He rode down the path to the river the boys would have followed, and came out across from what he assumed was Knud Jensen’s tent. A rough track ran beside the river. He dismounted and walked upstream. Fifty yards along he came to the remains of a campfire. Stirring the ashes, he found a few cooked huhu grubs, which indicated the presence of someone familiar with the Māoridiet, if not a Māori. It could well be the same man Mette had seen in the bush, but the food did not definitively prove he was a Māori. Deserters were quick to adopt that diet if they wanted to survive. The bush was trampled nearby, and he found the imprint of a horseshoe and beside it the impression of a bare foot. He put his boot against it and estimated a size eleven or even twelve.
Downstream he found evidence of a previous search, a jumble of footprints, shod not barefoot, broken branches, and the butt end of a cigar. He stood for a while staring out across the river. “Where are you, Paul and Jens? What happened to you?”
He could imagine them struggling in the water, and then being swept to their death. But it was strange that the bodies had not yet surfaced. And the possible presence of the Hauhau, as Mette called him, was interesting. Things were not as settled as he’d told the settlers; one angry Māoridid not mean an attack of any kind was likely, but why was the man hanging around in the bush? There must be a reason. And had he seen the boys?
He followed the trampled bush further downstream and stopped again to look at the water. It told him nothing. But on his side of the river, under the hanging branches of a willow tree, he saw light glinting off something. He removed his coat and boots and lay them on the riverbank. Then, balancing carefully on a lower branch he eased out over the water and leaned down, scooping up a small glass bottle trapped in the branches. It was empty. The stopper, if there had been one, was gone. The bottle had raised letters on one side – HO, which meant nothing to him. He sniffed the opening but smelled nothing. Might not be important, but he slid it into his coat pocket.
As he backed along the branch towards the riverbank he heard a horse snickering and froze. His own horse was tethered fifty yards away, his carbine holstered on the saddle. The sound had come from somewhere close by. Very close by. He slid off the branch and into the river, landing thigh deep in water, and ducked down as low as he could. He could see nothing. The sound came again. Someone was on the track, not moving. Was the person waiting for him? He thought briefly of calling out, asking who was there, but something felt wrong.
He edged out into the river toward the sound, holding the willow branches. A horse stamped softly, confirming a presence. He moved around the periphery of the willow, feeling his way with his feet, trying not to disturb the water and alert the watcher.
At the far edge of the willow, where the bank curved outwards towards him, he stopped and looked hard, parting branches carefully. He could see a shape through the trees, but nothing more than a dark shadow intermingled with the leaves. He crouched down, wondering what to do. He’d stalked fighters in the past, and once, during the attack on Otapawa, he shot a boy hiding behind a tree, not realizing he was armed only with a useless old musket, a memory that still haunted him. He hadn’t used a gun much since, but carried his old Calisher and Terry carbine when he was in his coach or on horseback. But the watcher was between him and his carbine.
His leg bumped up against something that felt like cold flesh. He glanced down. A dead eye looked back at him. Not now, he thought. Not now. He reached down carefully to touch whatever it was. He felt rough skin, and something moved, maybe with the flow of the water. His mind grappling with the idea that he might have found one of the boys, he pushed against it. Once again it moved away from him, whether by its own effort or with the water he couldn’t tell. He edged his foot underneath whatever it was and lifted it upwards.
With a huge thrashing of water a giant eel the size of a small woman reared from the water and lashed at him with massive teeth. He leapt back, cursing.
He heard a shuffle of hooves hitting dirt as the watcher on the
bank dismounted. Could he make it to the other side? Possibly. But that would leave him vulnerable. The watcher might be armed, and if he wasn’t he could get to Frank’s gun faster than Frank could get to him.
The sound of a troop of horses was suddenly in the air, coming towards him from the direction of the Pa. He heard the horseman mutter something, a slap of thighs against saddle, and hoof beats as his observer galloped away.
He clambered quickly up the bank, but was too late to see anything other than a faint disturbance of dust disappearing along the track towards the hills.
Within minutes a troop of Armed Constables crashed along the track from town and pulled up in front of him, carbines out and trained on him. He raised him arms slowly, his hands flat and facing outwards, his face impassive.
“S’orlright,” said a familiar voice. “I know ‘im. That’s Frank Hardy. Played cards with ‘im last week. He’s a coachman on the Royal Mail. An old Die Hard.”
The carbines remained trained on him until the captain moved his hand slightly.
Frank lowered his hands cautiously as the carbines swung away. None of the men let go of the guns, however, but kept them resting across their knees at the ready.
Frank stamped his feet to ease the chill of the water. “Looking for someone?” He was freezing, his wet trousers clinging to him uncomfortably.
The captain stared at him. He had pale blue protruding eyes and a scraggly fair moustache that trailed down each side of his mouth.
“What were you doing here?”
“I saw something in the water and I went in to fetch it.”
“By the river,” said the captain. “What were you doing by the river.”
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t be by the river?”
The captain looked at him with narrowed eyes.
“If you refuse to answer my questions we’ll take you in and send you upriver.”
Frank shrugged. He knew what upriver meant. Rumours had it that the Armed Constabulary had a secret prison up the Wanganui River from which few returned and none escaped. He knew the threat was empty, but also knew it would do no good to argue with the man.
“I was looking for the two missing boys who were last seen crossing…”
The captain grunted and signalled for his men to follow him.
“Are you looking for someone?” asked Frank.
The captain reined in his horse and looked back.
“An escaped prisoner,” he said shortly. “One of ours, a big man like you. Not in this area that we know of, but…”
“I heard you were looking for someone who had something to do with Titokowaru’s campaign,” said Frank, not looking at Wilson who’d told him more than he should have.
The captain stared at him, his eyes popping out even more but did not reply.
“Why now, after all these years?” persisted Frank.
“Had him in prison,” said the captain. “But he escaped a few weeks ago and he’s gone on a rampage.”
An ex-soldier—one of ours the captain had said. Not Mette’s Hauhau at least. But who was it who’d been watching him? Someone dangerous, or someone resting there for no reason.
The captain raised his hand and beckoned to the troop to follow him. As Wilson passed him he leaned down.
“Watch yourself,” he said to Frank quietly. “This escaped bloke’s looking for people like you – old soldiers.”
Constable Price was sitting in Hop Li’s kitchen enjoying a lunch of slow-roasted mutton flap when Frank returned to the Royal Hotel. Hop Li cut him a slice of meat and handed it to him with a large chunk of damper, bread that he had cooked in the open fire roaring in the fireplace. Frank ate standing beside the fire, drying the dampness from his trouser legs.
“Just ran into our friends from the Armed Constabulary,” he said between bites. “Looking for some murderous prison escapee.”
Constable Price grunted.
“They don’t tell me anything, those buggers,” he said. “They come into my territory, they should tell me what they’re after.”
“All I know is, I fit the profile,” said Frank. “They drew their weapons on me thinking I might be him. An ex-soldier I think.”
“Big man then,” said Price, looking Frank up and down.
“I thought he might be a deserter,” said Frank. “But the captain said he’s been in prison since the war, Tito’s war.”
“I don’t hold with chasing deserters,” said Price, wiping grease from his chin with his sleeve. “Not after all this time. Not a deserter though, you say?”
“There’s a man hanging around up behind the mill. I thought he might be the man they’re after, but doesn’t sound like it,” said Frank. “A MāoriI think; someone who saw him thought he was a Hauhau.” He smiled to himself as he said it. He would tell Price about Mette’s scare at some point, although without mentioning the tomahawk, now stowed safely in the foot box of his coach. He needed to buy himself a revolver, something that he could keep in his coat pocket. Legally he could own a single gun, but he needed two, to be safe in all situations.
“Don’t get Hauhau around here any more,” said Price. “Not since ’69. I was here in the panic back then, November it was. We were all sure Tito was on his way. Remember the old Bishop? Bishop Monrad, the Scandi? He was so scared he buried his plate in the garden and ran off back to Denmark, his tail between his legs.”
“I talk to Captain Monrad sometimes,” said Hop Li. “A good man, and not scared.”
“That’s his son,” said Price. “He stayed around, kept the farm going.”
“You find anything today, boss?” asked Hop Li. “You were looking for the boys, I think.”
“I searched the river,” said Frank. He took out the bottle and showed it to them. “I found this. Mean anything to either of you?”
They both shook their heads.
“I think I’ll head out to the Pa as well, after my next trip to Napier.”
“You could talk to the men on the road crew, Jackson’s men,” suggested Price. “They’re down by the river picking up rocks quite often. They might have seen something.”
“Good idea,” said Frank. “I know Sergeant Jackson. Used to be a Die Hard.”
Sergeant Jackson had been in the Die Hards with Frank, and they met occasionally for a glass of beer or a game of cards. Jackson had found work in road construction when the troops returned to England. Roads were spreading through New Zealand at a breathless pace; Sergeant “Jack” Jackson worked the roads through the Seventy Mile Bush from Palmerston up towards Napier, so they often ran into one another. He would ask Jackson if he’d heard anything about the disappeared boys, or if he or his men had any suggestions as to their possible whereabouts. His men were mostly Scandies.
He found Jackson, wearing his old Die Hard blouse as a badge of his past, sitting on a rock on the Foxton road, supervising a gang of men who were breaking rocks to resurface the road in the Macadam style. They had brought loads of rocks up from the river and were breaking the rocks into metal. Jackson was watching as a group of tow-headed, ruddy-complexioned Scandies cracked the rocks into small pieces, occasionally measuring the size of a piece by putting it into their mouths.
“Easiest way for them to understand how big to crack the rocks,” he told Frank cheerfully. “Luckily they all have big mouths so the metal comes out just the right size.”
Frank watched, interested.
“What do you do with the metal when it’s finished? How do you decide where to run the road, where to lay the metal?”
Jackson pulled out a clay pipe and a packet of tobacco and started stuffing pinches of tobacco into the bowl, whistling between his teeth as he did so.
After a minute he said, “We follow the bridle path, mostly, the paths beaten down by people like you on horseback. Then we widen it by chopping down the trees on either side. Big bastards, they are, those trees sometimes. The bullocks drag a grader over the path, an’ then we drop on a layer of bigger rocks—bigger
’n a Scandie’s mouth—then a layer of mullock, and last of all a layer of metal. Other times we have to follow where the surveyor says.” He chuckled and sucked on his pipe. “But we don’t always do what the surveyor tells us, ‘course. What the hell does he know, that’s what I ask myself. I spent more time with the army building roads than ever I did fighting, especially during the last couple o’ years. Musket always at the ready of course, but hardly ever had to use it after ‘68.”
“You were on General Chute’s March.” said Frank. He knew the answer and waited for the inevitable story.
“Near killed me,” said Jackson. “All them hills and gullies, the poor bloody pack horses dying. We et a couple o’ them. Ever tasted packhorse, Hardy?”
Frank shook his head, smiling inwardly. Jackson had told his story several times before – the March around the east side of the mountain hoping to find a shorter route to New Plymouth, the hardship, the brutal General Chute. It was Jackson’s standard drinking story.
Jackson sensed he was repeating himself, and stopped. “Well, no doubt you heard me tell that story before.” He took a few more pulls at his pipe.
After a minute, Frank said, “I was asked to look for those boys who disappeared. The Scandi boys—they’ve been gone a couple of weeks. You haven’t heard anything, have you?”
Not the Faintest Trace Page 6