Jackson shook his head. “Can’t say as I have. Didn’t they drown? That’s what I heard. Happens often enough when you have people who can’t swim trying to cross rivers.” He took a long pull at his pipe.
“Probably. But we can’t find them in the river, or along the banks. The brother of the older boy is afraid some other harm has come to them, that someone has attacked them and left the bodies somewhere.”
“More’n likely,” replied Jackson, changing his opinion easily “The roads are full of robbers and bandits, not to mention the towns. Did you hear about the robbery at Snelson’s store in the Square? Snelson, the new mayor? He was away for the day and someone bashed in a window and took watches, plate and jewellery, everything they could carry. Five hundred-quid’s worth I heard. Threw around his furniture as well.” He took his pipe from his mouth and banged it against his shoe. “And the police raided a house yesterday. A posse of Armed Constabulary from Wanganui Town, looking for booze I heard. Found a hundred-quid’s worth hidden in a back room. An unlicensed lodging house selling booze to settlers who can’t handle it. Be better if the coppers spent their time clearing the bush of bushwhackers, I reckon. Those Armed Constabulary, they don’t care about anyone. Do what they want. Seen ‘em around here quite a bit lately. Up to summat I reckon.”
“But no one attacking strangers that you’ve heard of,” asked Frank. He refrained from mentioning that the Armed Constables were on the lookout for someone specific. Jackson was a talker and likely to spread rumours.
Jackson rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Now that you mention strangers, I did hear that there’s someone up in the bush behind the Hokowhitu sawmill. One of these boys says he saw a scoundrel dressed half native half European lurking around.” He stopped and looked at the men working for him. “Which of you blokes told me he saw that bastard lurking up behind the Hokowhitu mill?”
The tallest member of the group took a rock out of his mouth where he had been measuring it, and spoke up. “That was me, saw him a few days ago.”
“What did he look like?”
“Could’ve been that bloke there,” pointing at Frank. “Looked like him, not quite as tall, beard, dark. Native, I think. Didn’t see him close enough to tell.”
“I know the gentleman in question,” said Frank. “Threw a tomahawk at me, just missed because I had bent down to pick something up.”
“You seen ‘im then?” asked Jackson.
“I had my back to him at the time,” replied Frank. “I’m not sure what he wanted, but he appeared to be after a piglet a young lady had just caught.”
“Bit over the top, innit?” said Jackson. “Throwin’ a tomahawk at someone to get a pig? Must’ve been hungry.”
Frank shrugged.
“Anything else you can tell me? Have you been down by the river at all?”
Jackson looked at his road crew. “These lot are down at the river all the time, collecting rocks. If there was bodies there they would’ve said. You boys seen any bodies down at the river?”
“Not dead ones,” joked the one who claimed to have seen the man in the bush. “Seen a few puhi. Can’t touch them though, the boys from thePa would come after me.”
“And so they should,” Frank said. “They should come after you anyway, spying on their young women like that.”
The tall man turned away smirking. He had several teeth missing or hanging loose, detracting from his already disagreeable face.
“You could go up and ask at the Pa,”said Jackson. “They’re up and down the river all the time in their waka, and if there were a body in the river they’d know about it. Maybe they found a piece of clothin’ or summat.”
Frank had already decided to visit the Pa. “I might do that,” he said.
“Ya know,” said Jackson suddenly. “Could be the Angel, that fella up in the bush Karlsen seen.”
“He’s seeing angels now?” asked Frank.
“Nah, Avenging Angel. The one that’s killing people up in Poverty Bay.”
“An Avenging Angel,” said Frank. “Who’s he killing?”
“Not sure,” said Jackson. “Soldiers mostly, I think.”
“Around here? I haven’t heard of anyone like that.”
“Not here, up in Poverty Bay, as I said,” said Jackson. “Last I heard. Killed a couple of men up there, ex-soldiers, and they were on the hunt for Tito, back with you.”
“Not likely the same person then,” said Frank. It sounded more like the man the Armed Constabulary were after. The escaped soldier. Not the Māoriup behind the mill.
He stood up to leave.
“How come you’re working for the Scandies?” asked Jackson. “No money there.” He stopped and looked at Frank. “Not about the woman, is it? Did I hear you mention a young lady? Got a horn for one of them Scandi girls, ‘ave ya? Can’t go wrong there, they’re all looking for a nice young pommy bloke like you, especially one who has all his teeth.”
Frank walked away without speaking, his hands clenched to stop himself from punching Jackson’s lights out. Even if he did, it wouldn’t help. Some people’s minds could not be changed. Jackson was typical of his kind, and Frank wasn’t at all sure that he might have thought the same way once himself. One day, he hoped, Jackson would understand that people were all the same, although his friend would probably die with his bigotries intact.
8
The Attack
It had been a long and exhausting day and Mette was happy to be back in her lean-to getting ready for bed. She loved her bed. It had belonged to a soldier in the British Imperial Army, was made of good sturdy iron and folded down flat to the floor. On top was a mattress stuffed with straw, so she was very comfortable. Maren and Pieter slept on a solid wooden bed and Maren often complained about the insects that lived in the wood and crawled from the wood and took up residence in the mattress. She would hear Maren through the wall, slapping at them and denouncing them angrily to Pieter. One of the many sounds she heard through the wall, some of which she found vaguely embarrassing.
It was freezing at night, even in spring, and Mette wore a heavy nightgown, woollen stockings, and a cap that covered her head right down below her ears. She undressed in the dark and put on her nightclothes, not wanting to waste a candle. Next door she heard the soft lowing of the milch cow, which always comforted her and made her feel safe. Pieter and Maren had murmured quietly for a few minutes, and already she could hear Pieter snoring softly. She often read a little before she went to sleep, but tonight she was so tired she couldn’t keep her eyes open and fell asleep almost as soon as she crawled into her bed.
When she awoke, it was still dark. She was surprised as she seldom woke during the night. She lay there smiling to herself, thinking of the dance. She wished there were more events like that to attend. She had enjoyed dancing, especially the mazurka which had left her breathless and exhilarated. And seeing all the Scandinavians dancing and happy made her…
Something shifted in the shadow, over near the door. She stared towards it, not sure what she had seen.
Someone – a man’s voice – said quietly, “Mette?”
She sat up, clutching her quilt to her chest.
“Who is that? What do you want?” Had the Hauhaucome to kill her? How did he know her name?
“Du kender,” someone replied in Danish, and laughed softly.
“No, no, I do not know, I…” She was relieved that it was not the Hauhau, but puzzled that anyone would be in her room. Was it Pieter? No, it could not be. She could hear Pieter snoring on the other side of the wall. The shadow moved towards her. She still could not tell who it was, but she was beginning to be afraid. Should I wake Pieter and Maren, she thought? Pieter needed his sleep so he could leave early in the morning for the sawmill. And Maren, Maren was having a baby and was always tired.
She was still deciding whether to scream when a hand was clapped over her mouth and a face pushed near to hers. A smell of rotting teeth washed over her, and now she knew
who it was. If I call him by his name, she thought, will he think I am happy to see him? Her entire body was shaking and she felt cold and numb all over.
She managed to put both her hands on one of his and tried to push it away. It came loose briefly from her mouth, and she gasped, “Don’t, please don’t.”
But he was already pulling the quilt away from her body and clutching at her gown.
“You want me to, I know you do,” he whispered. “After, we will get married because no one else will want you. That will be good for both of us.”
He’s right, she thought fatalistically. And it was my own fault. I did not look first, but stood up without thinking. Nevertheless, she kept pushing at his hand and struggling against the other hand as it pulled at her nightgown. His hand was still tight over her mouth; she grunted as loudly as she could, a sound from deep within her, praying that Pieter or Maren would hear and come to help.
He leaned on her heavily, his elbow on the bed and his hand over her mouth, pressing her down. She felt him fumbling with his own trousers, and something hard pressed against her stomach. Her heart pounded and she thought she might die of horror and shame. She tried to shake her head loose from his grip, but it was held fast in place. She wrenched her whole body from side to side in a fruitless effort to dislodge him. He laughed, seeming to enjoy her struggle. He pulled her nightdress slowly up, pushing himself at her. She braced herself for what was to come, her eyes closed tight so she could not see his face.
Then the bed did what it was supposed to do, and folded down flat. They landed in a heap, him on top of her still, his hands now out on the sides of the bed.
“Pokkers!” he blurted out, unable to stop himself. Then he whispered harshly, “You must be quiet, or your family will hear.” His hand closed over her mouth once more. She tugged at his hand, noticing as she did that blood ran from the side of her own hand where the bed rail had hit it. The collapse of the bed had happened too quickly, and she had not had time to scream for help.
But through the wall she heard Pieter or Maren stir and stay something. Her attacker’s hand tightened over her mouth so she could barely breath, but she made one more noise deep in her chest. She knew this was her single chance for rescue.
“Mette?” called Pieter tentatively. “Is everything well?”
The hand tightened even more and through the pain she managed another sound.
She heard Pieter say to Maren, “I’m going to see if Mette is all right. I’m hearing some strange noises through the wall.”
Maren said something quiet and she heard Pieter get out of bed and walk across the room. Her attacker swung his legs around and sat up and the hand on her mouth loosened briefly.
“Pieter, Pieter, help me,” she said. Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper, but Pieter had heard and started to run. Her attacker leapt to his feet, pulling his trousers back on.
“Taeve,” he snarled at Mette. “I will see you later, when you are walking in the bush. And you will like it and we will be married.” He began tucking himself back into his trousers, his face a mask of hatred and lust.
Mette was too distraught to reply. I will never, never marry him, she thought. I will die first.
As her attacker opened the door to her lean-to Pieter came round the corner. The intruder pushed at Pieter’s chest and Pieter fell backwards with a grunt of pain. They heard the intruder plunging into the bush, breaking branches and swearing.
Pieter struggled upright and Mette waited for him to chase after her attacker. He was a big man and strong, and would easily overtake and punish the man who had attacked her. Instead, he turned to her.
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She began to cry. “I could not…tell.” If I tell Pieter who it is he will either kill him or make me marry him, she thought. I wouldn’t be happy about either of those things.
“Someone from the dance?” he asked. When she did not reply, he said, “What did you do, Mette? Did you encourage someone at the dance?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I did,” she said through gasps. “But is it permitted that he could come to my home and attack me like that, because I looked at him at the dance?” She stopped herself from saying because I danced with him at the dance, because that would allow Pieter to work out who it was.
Pieter shook his head, standing there looking at her his face full of reprimand. It was almost more than she could bear.
“You mustn’t be childish, Mette,” he said. “A man cannot sometimes help himself. There are many men here who do not have women, and you are a very nice woman. Not pretty, but a good cook and some men would be happy to have you.”
Mette had regained some of her composure.
“I would never marry a man who came into my room in the night and attacked me,” she said. She plucked at the middle of her nightdress and held it against her hand to stop the bleeding. Pieter didn’t seem to notice. Instead he asked shrewdly, “How would you know, if you didn’t see who it was?”
She had no reply to that and thought for a minute of telling him who it was. But before she could speak, Pieter added, “We can’t report this to the police. It would cause too much trouble in our community. I’ll ask Sergeant Hardy what we should do. He’s like a policeman, and very helpful. For now, I will make a bar for the door. When you come in you must place the bar across and you will be kept safe.”
“Is it necessary to tell Sergeant Hardy?” asked Mette. “He’ll think it’s my fault when someone attacks me because I don’t think about what I’m doing…”
Pieter looked at her, frowning.
“It is a lot your fault Mette,” he said. “You must be more careful.”
He left to report back to Maren, and Mette wondered what he would tell her. Maren would understand, at least she hoped she would. She pulled her rocking chair in front of the door and wedged it under the handle. The smallest sound and she would scream as loudly as possible. Then she fell on the bed and cried. She would try to sleep, but knew it would be very, very difficult.
Morning came eventually, and she awoke to the sounds of roosters crowing, amazed to realize she had slept. Her body ached and the hand where she had cut herself had crusted over. She lay there for a long time before she gathered her strength to dress and go outside to gather feed for the cow.
9
On the Riverbank
Frank listened to the story Pieter told him with growing disbelief.
“This is not the fault of your sister-in-law,” he said finally. He had ridden out to the clearing to talk to Nissen, but finding him not home had stopped to talk to Pieter Sorensen, half hoping he would see the young woman again.
“She encouraged him,” Pieter said dismissively. “A woman should not dance with a single man unless she is willing to consider marrying him.”
“You know who it is then?”
“She wouldn’t say, but she danced with an unmarried man at the Monrad’s shed, one of the men on the road building crew. I expect she gave him the impression she would like to marry him and he came to her room to visit her.”
“In the middle of the night? And he attacked her? That’s not a visit, that’s an invasion.”
Pieter nodded reluctantly. “Perhaps he went too far. But still, he’s a man. What should expect if she flirts with someone.”
Frank was growing angry, but he could see there was no point in arguing with Pieter, any more than there had been with Sergeant Jackson.
“Would she talk with me?” he asked. He didn’t think it was the best idea, but at least something would be done about it.
“I do not see why she shouldn’t,” said Pieter, to Frank’s surprise.
He went to talk to Mette, who was washing linen in a large tub. She was looking tired and stressed and his heart ached for her. He brought up the subject cautiously.
“Your brother-in-law tells me you had a problem the other night.”
She nodded without looking at him, and continued scrubbing at the
washing.
“I told him that the person who attacked you was despicable,” said Frank. “Personally, I’d like to see him go to gaol for a good long time. And horsewhipped first.”
She glanced at him sideways, but said nothing, continuing to scrub the same spot on her wet clothing.
“Pieter thinks you did something to encourage him, but…”
“No, I did not,” she spoke up, still scrubbing at the same spot on her garment. Frank glanced at it and saw that it was a nightdress. He saw a bloodstain, and felt a jolt of cold horror, soon replaced by intense anger. Momentarily he was too angry to speak, but said, finally, “I don’t think for a minute that you did anything to encourage him,” he said. “But Pieter doesn’t think like us.”
She looked up at him finally, letting the nightdress fall back into the water.
“He is not educated,” she said.
He smiled.
“So I noticed.”
He stood there for a while in silence, wondering what he could do. Finally, he said, “If you wish, I could have a talk to the man who…”
“No,” she said quickly. “I don’t know who it was.”
“Pieter thinks it was someone from the Foxton road crew, a person you danced with at the dance.”
Her face reddened.
“How would he know that if I don’t know?”
“What do you know then? Was there anything about him that seemed familiar, or that you could describe?”
“He had bad teeth and bad breath,” she said.
Frank nodded, remembering his discussion with Jackson and his crew. Now he was sure he knew who the bastard was, and was not surprised.
“Lots of men around here with bad teeth,” he said, not letting her know that he had guessed whom it might be. “Difficult to narrow it down to one.”
“I don’t want you to try,” she said. “Pieter has made my door secure and I’ll be more careful about where I walk. I won’t have a problem again.”
Not the Faintest Trace Page 7