Mette explained her situation, wondering why he had changed the subject so suddenly. He was trying to get rid of her, she was sure of that.
He took the pen from her, and said, “When you return to town, after your trip to Woodville, please come and see me.”
She nodded, wondering why an old man like that would possibly want to see her. At least he’d given her a book, so that made it a wonderful day for her, and she hadn’t even gone through the Gorge with Sergeant Frank yet. She was a little worried about the dangerous Hauhauwho had tried to take her piglet and done the angry dance – the haka. But she knew the soldiers had made sure he was gone. Fortunately, Pieter was not given to listening to gossip, or he would never have let her go to Woodville.
As she left the store she saw a case filled with cigars and tins of tobacco. Perhaps Sergeant Frank came here as well, and she’d meet him accidentally, possibly when she returned the book.
15
Through the Gorge to Woodville
Mette walked from the bookshop, smiling to herself, and found Frank outside walking up and down as if she had conjured him up with her thoughts. He was looking unhappy, rubbing his bunched up right hand with his left. He had a bruise under one eye, but thought it best not to mention it. If he’d been in a fight, well, she didn’t need to know. Maybe he’d been drinking at the hotel and argued with someone. She’d heard that the hotel was a place where people got drunk and fought with each other. Not that she could imagine Frank getting drunk and starting a fight with anyone – not unless he had a very good reason.
“Look what Mr. Robinson gave me,” she said, ignoring the bruise and the rubbing. “Perhaps I can read it on the coach on the way to Woodville, if the coach doesn’t bump around too much. Did you know I am coming on the coach with you today? I’m going to fetch Pieter’s sister from Woodville as her husband has died.”
“They told me at the Royal,” he said, not looking at her. “I hope Pieter knows what he’s doing, sending you off on a venture like this by yourself.”
“You’ll take care of me, I’m sure, and save me from the Hauhauand the bushwhackers, and the wild pigs,” she said, smiling.
She had expected him to smile at that, but instead he looked downcast.
“I will, of course, when I’m able. But when I’m in my coach I’m caring for the horses. The road’s rough and the coach not at all comfortable. You’ll find it hard going…I doubt you’ll manage to read much on a moving coach.”
“Then may I ride up the front with you?” she asked. “That would be an interesting trip I think, if I can’t read. I’ll look at the wonderful scenery instead.”
He answered her with a brief nod.
Only one other person was waiting for the coach; a travelling bible salesman wearing a green coat and sporting large mutton chop whiskers, stood beside a box of his wares, ready to board. His arms were wrapped around his middle to fend off the chill of the morning, and he stamped his feet to warm himself. The coach stood nearby, with two enormous light grey Percheron horses yoked and ready to pull it. The coach was black, with large wooden wheels, and a coat of arms on the side Mette didn’t recognize. Probably something to do with the English royal family. The English liked to have royal in everything.
Frank bent down and touched the fetlocks of the horse nearest to him “I have a couple of checks I need to do…”
She left to fetch her bag from hotel, feeling guilty for wasting his time. When she returned, he was seated up on top of the coach, holding the reins and a whip. He wore his usual grey-blue greatcoat but had added a tall hat, and looked very large as well as very handsome. A Chinaman stood beside the door of the coach and indicated that she should give him her bag. He was quite short, with long hair tied back in a pigtail, much like her own plaits, and she handed him the bag reluctantly. She was sure she was as strong as he was and could put the bag wherever it needed to be put without any help, especially from a Chinaman.
“I’m going to ride up in front with Sergeant Hardy,” she said to him slowly and loudly, as she handed him the bag.
Frank glanced down at them.
“Shove it up here under the seat, Hop Li,” he said.
Hop Li pushed her bag under the seat and helped her climb up beside Frank.
You should put some raw steak on that eye, boss,” he said, to Mette’s surprise.
Frank gave her a quick smile. “Hold tight,” he said. “Expect a bumpy ride.” He flicked his whip above the heads of the horses.
She clutched the side of the seat with one hand, wishing she could hold on to his arm, held her bonnet with her other hand to stop it flying off, and they were away.
“That was Hop Li,” he said after a minute. “He’s the cook at the Royal Hotel. He’s a friend of mine. He’s also one of the best cooks in New Zealand.”
“He understands English very well,” said Mette.
Frank grinned, his face crinkling in the way she enjoyed.
“I should think he does,” he said. “He’s been in New Zealand since the West Coast gold rush, over ten years ago. Before that he was in Victoria, Australia, until the gold ran out there.”
“He dug for gold?” asked Mette. “Does that mean he’s very rich? Why does he need to be a cook as well?”
“Rich, yes,” replied Frank. “One of the richest men you’ll ever meet. But not from gold. He fed the prospectors, seduced them with his cooking and ended up with more gold than many of the diggers. Sends most of his money back to his family in China I believe.”
Mette nodded, her hand still on her bonnet. She understood the appeal of food well.
“His food was the best the miners ever tasted, and he always had a garden full of vegetables and fruit trees,” Frank continued. He was looking forward as he spoke, his eyes focused on the his horses and the ground beneath their hooves. “As a matter of fact, he has a garden right behind the hotel, across the other side of the paddock. He’s been buying land around the Square for a market garden. The hotel job gives him a chance to keep his eyes open for possibilities.”
Mette craned around in her seat, even though they had come too far to see back to the hotel. “Oh, I’d so much like to see that. I’m finding new plants here all the time, and finding ways to use them instead of using the plants we were…”
“He has a new fruit he brought with him from China,” said Frank. “Oval shaped, and brown with a fuzzy skin, about the size of a large egg. It grows on a vine. If he offers you a taste, try it. He calls it a Chinese gooseberry; it’s sweet and delicious. He says it’ll do well in New Zealand.”
“I wish I could return and talk to him right now,” said Mette. “I’d so much like to see his garden.”
She looked back again and saw someone come out of the bush and stare after them. Was that Gottlieb? She hadn’t seen him since that terrible night, although she frequently thought she saw him. Thankfully, she was with Sergeant Frank, who would keep her safe from Gottlieb. She looked back one more time, but the figure had gone. Or she had imagined him.
They continued in silence, Frank concentrating on his horses on the rough, rutted road. The calming effect of the scenery soothed her, and she began to enjoy herself. The metaled road ran mainly through bush, but also through desolate landscape covered in totara and rimu stumps stretching off for miles. They forded several streams, the horses straining to pull the coach up and out of the water each time, coaxed carefully by Frank. A few times she and the bible salesman had to climb down from the coach to lighten the load and walk in the muddy track behind it. Walking made a nice change from the bumping and swaying of the coach.
At one point a group of armed men rode by, wearing blankets around their waists as kilts, blue jackets and broad-brimmed hats; rifles, or what looked like rifles to her, but with shorter stocks, lay across their saddles.
“Those are the Armed Constabulary,” said Frank, seeing that Mette looked nervous. “They’re keeping an eye on things. They’ll be guarding the entry and exit to the Gorge as w
ell. We’ll be safe from Anaheraas we pass through.”
Within an hour and a half, they arrived at Ashhurst, where the tributary Pahangina River met the Manawatu River. Here they would cross the Manawatu on a ferry punt. The stagecoaches between Wellington and New Plymouth met here to exchange passengers, but Frank’s mail coach would cross the river and continue through the Gorge carrying the same passengers the whole way.
The bible salesman and Mette climbed down once more from the coach and watched as Frank maneuvered the horses aboard the ferry punt, dismounting to keep them calm as the ferry was drawn across the river on a rope. Once the coach was safely on the other side, the ferry punt came back for them, pulled by a team of bullocks roped to a turnstile. Looking down at the water, Mette was reminded of Paul and Jens. They could be right here, below her feet, stuck under the dock, and she would not know. She peered down through the wooden planks, hoping not to see the boys, but could only see a green slime washing against the pylons.
Once across the river, the mail coach entered the road adjacent to the Gorge. The Manawatu River, which she knew well from Palmerston, ran through the Gorge between two mountain ranges, the Tararuas and the Ruahines, the ranges ending one each side of the river.
As soon as they entered the Gorge they were stopped by two Armed Constables and forced to get out. The bible salesman climbed down looking annoyed.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “I need to get to Masterton by nightfall.”
“Won’t be long sir,” said one of the constables. “But there’s a killer on the loose, and we’re trying to make sure he doesn’t get through the Gorge and away up north.” He peered into the coach and then stepped back and winked at Mette. “He’s not in there at least.”
“A killer?”
“Don’t worry,” said Frank. “He’s not after bible salesmen. You’re safe.”
“No chance he can get by us,” said the constable. He moved towards Frank and said quietly, “Keep an eye open, will you?”
Mette watched the bible salesman climb back into the coach. He hadn’t heard what the constable said, but she had. She climbed up onto the driver’s box again feeling nervous.
The first part of the drive was beside a fast and narrow river, but gradually the coach climbed higher until the road was the height of a tall building — a cathedral, for example, like the Church of Our Lady in Copenhagen, which she had visited once, or the Haderslev Cathedral, where she had been many times — and ran beside a steep drop. Once or twice a wheel slipped into a rut and the coach lurched, making her afraid they would slip into the abyss.
She could see Frank concentrating, his whip constantly ready to snap above the horses’ heads, careful that they didn’t put a step wrong as they strained to pull the coach up the slope. She was glad she was sitting on the bank side of the coach and not the cliff side, so she didn’t have to see what lay below. Being in a high place made her body feel strange, almost as if it could float up into the air like a balloon. Frank looked at the road, glancing only occasionally at the surrounding hills. He wasn’t worried about Anahera jumping out at them, which made her feel better.
They hit the highest point of the Gorge, and Frank stopped the coach to allow them a moment to look at the view. The bible salesman leaned out over the edge of the drop and stared down at the water. Mette did not want to let Frank know she was terrified, and stood as near as she could to the drop, half-closed her eyes to blur the view, and hoped Frank didn’t notice that her hands were clenched tightly by her side. Had she looked down she would certainly have fallen to her doom, unable to stop herself. For a moment, she remembered Anahera, who was free somewhere and bent on revenge. What if he had slipped by the constables and was in the Gorge, running beside them high above? What would she do if he attacked them now? Would it be a choice between being murdered or jumping off the cliff? She thought she might choose death by tomahawk, if she had a choice.
The road leveled out and dropped slightly towards Woodville, and she could see before her the plains and forests of the Wairarapa. They stretched in front of her, green and wonderful, as far as the eye could see under a beautiful blue sky with the tiniest of fluffy white clouds. This was the Seventy Mile Bush that ran from Palmerston through the Gorge and north to Norsewood. Scandinavians were busy chopping it down to make farmland.
As they got closer to Woodville, the forests became less thick and impenetrable, with large areas where trees were gone – cut down or burned with only the blackened stumps remaining. Eventually, Woodville appeared, first as some columns of grey smoke, then gradually the town itself with its metaled streets and wooden sidewalks. The trip had been scary, but she was alive, which was all that mattered. And with luck, Anahera was trapped on the other side of the ranges where the Armed Constables could hunt him down.
The coach pulled up beside Murphy’s Hotel, and Mr. Murphy himself came out to welcome them. He was a short, round bald man with tufts of hair above his ears and a twinkly smile; he wore a leather apron and his sleeves were rolled above his elbows, as if he had just that minute been cleaning off the counter or scrubbing the front step. Mette asked him if he had a room for the night and was pleased to hear that he had several. Sixpence a night for room and board, which meant that she had a place to stay until Frank returned the next day.
“Do you know Mrs. Agnete Madsen?” she asked, expecting Mr. Murphy to say he didn’t. “her husband was killed…”
“Indeed, I do,” he replied. “In fact, her husband is currently resting at the church across the street. I believe the funeral is this very afternoon. You may find her there later in the day – four o’clock I believe.”
“Do you know what happened?” asked Mette. “She sent a letter to her brother in Palmerston, and said only that a tree had fallen on her husband and he was dead. Was her husband not used to the working in the bush?”
“Oh no,” answered Mr. Murphy. “He was an excellent bush man…a crew leader and known for being a careful and hard worker. Nobody knows how he came to be under the tree when it fell. Usually there’s a warning…”
“So how did it come to fall on him, do you think?” asked Mette, curious.
“They say he tripped,” answered Mr. Murphy. “They yelled that the tree was coming, and he was standing on the side. He started to run, and then tripped over something. Before he could get up the tree was on top of him and he was crushed. They wouldn’t let his wife see him, he looked so terrible…his head was flattened.”
“How terrible for her,” said Mette. “To lose her husband, and not be able to see him one last time.”
The innkeeper busied himself with his guest ledger. “Yes…you’d expect her to be sad,” he said. “But she’s coping…best for her, I suppose.”
Mette put her small bag in her room at the hotel, marveling at the sight of the bed, which had a feather tick mattress and was covered with a large quilt. It would be like sleeping on a bank of moss. Such luxury! How could she go back to her little bed in Palmerston after this? Once her bag was stowed safely, she ventured out to walk about the streets of Woodville until the funeral was to start. The smell of bread baking permeated the street and she followed it to a small bakery, tucked behind the hotel on the main street.
A plump woman with blotchy red cheeks, her hands covered in flour, greeted her. “Good morning my dear. What can I find for you today?”
Mette pointed to a large round loaf with a crispy golden crust.
“How much is one of those?”
“Sixpence for one loaf, and ninepence for two,” said the woman, wiping her hands on a cloth in anticipation of the sale. “Or one of these larger loaves, the four pound loaves, for ninepence.”
“I’ll take two of the smaller ones,” said Mette. Pieter wouldn’t mind if she spent his ninepence on food, she thought. She would eat some of the bread tonight, and share the rest with Frank on the coach ride back to Palmerston tomorrow.
“Are you a visitor to town?” asked the woman.
Mette nodded. “Just for the day. I expect to be returning to Palmerston tomorrow.”
“I hope you’re staying at Mr. Murphy’s establishment. Mr. Murphy is a fine man and one of the original settlers in the area,” said the woman. “I hear he does very well by his guests.”
“It is a nice place,” said Mette, wishing she could speak English as well as the baker woman, who spoke like Mr. Robinson in a rich, full accent. “And at a good price.”
“We did used to have a less expensive place down the street a way, but the owner, Mr. George Ollandt, was cruelly murdered just last week by Henry Thompson, his partner,” said the woman, clearly happy to have someone new to listen to her story.
Mette put her hand over her mouth. “Murdered, how…”
“An axe, I expect,” said the baker. “They say the face of poor George was quite mangled, and found covered in flies. The inquest is to be held here tomorrow afternoon, and we all know Henry Thompson will be remanded to trial.”
“How awful,” said Mette.
The baker nodded. “Isn’t it? And now the police are searching for another missing man, a Mr. Peter Kane. He left Sandon in June to find work, carrying all his fortune on his person, ninety pounds, imagine that?” She flicked away a speck of flour from the counter with her cloth. “And his wife has written to him and advertised in the newspapers…and heard nothing. We’re all fearful that he’s been killed for his money and his body thrown into the woods, probably by Thompson. The Armed Constabulary were here, but left early this morning. They’re after someone else now apparently. I hear there’s a wild Maori on the loose, killing people.” She wrapped the two loaves of bread and handed them to Mette. “Thieves and robbers, and murderers, what is the world coming to? I have no idea.”
Mette could feel her little hoard of coins in the pocket of her dress; anyone who passed must know it was there. She thanked the woman, took the bread, and returned to her hotel room, afraid to venture further into town. She would stay in her room until it was time to go to the church across the road where the funeral was to be held. She had no desire to risk her life on the dangerous streets of Woodville, as harmless as they had seemed.
Not the Faintest Trace Page 13