She was carrying the two books by Charles Dickens in her bag, and she withdrew A Tale of Two Citiesto read while she ate a piece of the bread with some of her own quince jam. She’d forgotten the opening passages of the book spoke of a ride in a mail coach, and reread that section with pleasure. It was wonderful to read something you’d recently experienced yourself.
With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it – like an unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
The passage reminded her of the way Frank’s horses had dragged the coach up the incline towards the highest part of the Gorge, mashing their way through the thick mud, just as the horses did in Mr. Dickens’ novel. Once she had talked to Pieter’s sister she could start thinking about the trip back tomorrow with Sergeant Frank. She very much looked forward to the return journey, even though they would no longer be alone. She would have to sit inside the coach with Pieter’s sister and her children, and the children would whine and protest. Such a waste, when she could be up the front…
16
The Funeral
The time came for the funeral to begin, and Mette put her book back into her bag, and hurried across to the church. She was pleased to have found Pieter’s sister so easily. Woodville was a small town, although larger than Palmerston, but Scandinavians often only knew other Scandinavians. Finding Mr. Murphy was an unexpected gain.
She could hear singing from inside the church and entered quietly. A group of people stood clustered at the front. Before them lay a plain wooden coffin, painted black, with the lid closed. The church was decorated with pine branches and a wreath of pine lay across the coffin. It was quite grand, almost as if one of the Monrad’s had died. Mette stayed at the back of the church, as it was clear that the funeral was in progress right this minute. She had arrived at just the right time. She was somewhat surprised to see the funeral conducted in the church, as her people would usually hold the funeral at the graveside unless the person who had died was important. She wondered if Agnete had been so upset she had spent too much of her remaining money on the funeral. That was not the way a widow should behave; she had to think of herself and her children and how they were going to live.
Someone began to sob – a young woman with two young children at the front of the church. She was dressed in normal Sunday clothes, but clutched a black shawl around her shoulders. Beside her stood a tall fair man with a reddish beard and a moustache that curled up on either side of full red lips. He was holding his hat in his hands and looking solemn. When the woman started to sob, he put his arm around her and whispered something in her ear, stroking her shoulder. She looked up at him and said something that made him smile, as she wiped away her tears with a kerchief. The two young children, a boy and a girl, stared at their mother with wide eyes. The boy, a little older than Hamlet, had his thumb wedged in his mouth and a look of terror on his face. He did not understand what was happening.
Finally, the ceremony finished and the group turned and walked slowly towards Mette. She could see that this was Pieter’s sister Agnete, as she looked very much like him. However, she was short and plump with rosy cheeks, whereas Pieter tended to be tall and pale. She looked at Mette sharply as she drew near.
“Are you looking for someone?”
Mette hesitated, and then said, “I believe you are the sister of Pieter Sorensen, my sister’s husband. He received a letter yesterday, which I…”
“You read to him,” she interrupted. “Can he still not read? Our mother tried so hard to teach him to read, and to write, but he was determined to work with our father and would not sit still to learn. I suppose he’s had no success in Palmerston because of that.”
Mette had taken a strong dislike to this woman, who was criticizing her own brother to a stranger. “His reading is not perfect,” she said. “But he can certainly read a little. And he’s doing well for himself in Palmerston.”
“He is, is he? Why are you here then?”
“I’m Mette, Maren’s sister, the sister of Pieter’s wife,” said Mette. “Pieter wanted me to come here and offer you somewhere to live – at his place. He asked me to escort you and your children back to Palmerston to live with them. They have a place for you and your children.”
“Take me back?” she said. “Take me back indeed. I don’t want to live with Pieter and his foolish wife.” She had apparently forgotten that the foolish wife they spoke of was Mette’s sister. “Did he send me money?”
Mette fingered the purse full of coins in her pocket.
“A little,” she said. “Enough to pay for your fare on the mail coach back to Palmerston.”
Agnete made a sound with her tongue against her teeth and looked upwards. “For the Lord’s sake. Did he not understand? I need money, not charity. I thought you said he was doing well? You can give me the fare, but I have no intention of returning with you to Palmerston.” She eyed Mette up and down, sizing up her wealth and finding it wanting. “I don’t suppose you have two farthings to rub together, and neither does Pieter if he sent you to find me.”
Mette removed the ten-shilling note carefully from the purse, without taking it from her pocket. “What will you do if you don’t come with me to Palmerston?” she asked. “How will you live?”
Agnete glanced at the man beside her who had been standing quietly, listening to the conversation, and smiled confidently. He smiled back, rather like the way a wolf that was about to eat someone would smile.
“Mr. Williams has kindly offered to take me – and the little ones, of course – to Wellington to stay with his, his sisterDaphne. She has a lovely home overlooking the harbour with several rooms. A parlour, a room for a maid.” She leaned forward. “Her house even has an indoor water closet.” Clearly the indoor water closet had helped persuade her to go to Wellington. Although why she would not be happy with a chamber pot and an outdoor privy was a mystery. Those were good enough for most people.
Mr. Williams clasped both Agnete’s hands in his, and said, “Of course, if Mrs. Madsen’s brother wishes to take the children, that would be acceptable. My sister is somewhat poor in health and finds it difficult to handle noisy young children.”
Noisy! Mette looked at the two children cowering beside their mother. “Mrs. Madsen’s brother has one tiny extra room with a small bed and barely room for his own family,” she said. “And the water closet is outside in the bush, where there are dangerous animals and Māoris lurking at all times. I myself was attacked by a Hauhaujust a few weeks ago.” She stopped herself saying that the room was hers and she had offered to leave it for this woman standing there with her fancy man. She removed her hand from her pocket with the note folded in her palm. The purse would not be coming out. The ten shillings she held was quite enough for this unpleasant woman.
“Well then,” said Mr. Williams, looking disappointed. “I’m sure we can find good care for the children in Wellington.”
For a minute, Mette almost relented. These poor children were going to be torn from their mother to live who knew where: the workhouse, or an orphanage. They would be far better off with Maren and Pieter. But then she remembered the tiny space, little Hamlet, and the baby that was coming in a few weeks, and she kept quiet. She would tell Pieter what she suspected, and if he wished to go to Wellington and bring the children back to Palmerston, he could do so. She would even go herself. But she could not arrive home with the children in tow and expect Pieter and Maren to make a home for his sister’s children. That was asking too much of them.
She handed the ten-shilling note to Agnete, who turned it over and looked at in disgust.
> “Pieter isn’t a very generous person,” she said. “I see he wants me to live like a church mouse in Wellington, and does not care if my children starve. Goodness, I will have to resort to living like a ladybird to feed myself and my children.”
Williams stroked her wrist and said softly, “Not as long as you have me my dear.”
Mette choked back her revulsion. She had almost reached into her pocket and pulled out more money to give this woman for her children, but the sight of Mr. Williams soft white hand stroking Agnete’s, a hand she noted that was the exact opposite of Frank’s strong brown hand, strengthened her resolve. Pieter and Maren and their children would not go wanting so that this woman could live in a house with an inside toilet and a view of the harbour.
17
Ringiringi
Frank left Napier early on Wednesday morning and headed for Woodville to collect Mette, stopping in small towns and settlements to drop off and pick up the mail. He passed quickly through Waipawa, Waipukurau, and Dannevirke, and then stopped in Norsewood, where the Manawatu River started its journey towards the ranges and Palmerston, to water his horses. He walked around the town to stretch his legs, and saw for the first time how many Scandinavians lived there. Stood to reason, of course. Norsewood. They were rugged people, well suited to the task of clearing the bush and building the roads. But they did the work to get land, and they deserved to be given land. Shame on the government in Wellington, and especially on Sir Julius Vogel for bringing them to New Zealand with vague promises of land.
Of course, the Māori deserved to keep their own land as well, but he had been at Mawhitiwhiti in ‘68 when the Pai Marire, Mette’s Hauhau,had slaughtered four sawyers over cutting rights, and then killed a loyal native who came to negotiate, cutting him to pieces with their tomahawks. Sometimes it was hard to find it in his heart to forgive the extremists even though they only wanted their land returned to them. He’d been recruited into the Constabulary a few months after the incident, and helped confiscate the land of rebels. And then had come the pursuit of Titokowaru and the terrible things that had led to. This country was a difficult place to live. He thought about his talk with Karira and was momentarily overwhelmed with the emotions of the memories that returned to him. Some day he would have to tell Mette about what he’d seen that day. But for now, he couldn’t bear the thought of her looking at him in horror. He wanted to say, it wasn’t my fault. But it was, he knew. He was part of it.
With his horses fed and watered, and ready to go again, he took off towards the next stop at Matamau. There, two roads formed a T-junction, with small farms being carved out of the bush along the road running up to Ormondville. He could see that in this place, as in so many others, England and Scotland and Wales would be rebuilt here in the colony, and the natives would be displaced, moved out to who knows where. A lone building stood at the spot where the roads met, with a post office, a police station, and a general store. The mail flag was not up, but he stopped to see if they had any cigarettes. Sometimes he got lucky, and he needed a cigarette right now.
A group of Māori men squatted in front of the door to the post office, smoking clay pipes. They were clad in European clothing, but were barefoot. He nodded in greeting, “Kia ora.”
They nodded back to him, muttering greetings. As he was about to enter the post office a familiar voice said, “Sergeant Hardy?”
He turned. “Yes?”
One of the “Māori” rose to his feet. He was looking at Frank with a lopsided grin, half friendly, half nervous, his pipe clenched in his hand a few inches from his chin, which was covered by a full beard, reddish brown and streaked with grey. His forehead was tanned dark by the sun, but pale blue eyes looked out at Frank. It was clear that he was not a Māori. A deserter by the look of him.
“Private Bent,” the man said, confirming Frank’s suspicions. “Or was. Kimbell Bent late of the Die Hards. Ringiringi they call me now.” He held out his hand to Frank.
“Good Lord, so it is,” said Frank, shaking Bent’s hand. “How have you found yourself in these parts? I thought you would have been killed years ago. Didn’t Her Majesty’s Imperial Forces come looking for you? Or the Pai Marire?”
Bent shrugged.
“I’m one of them now. I have a Māori wife and an iwi– a tribe – I belong to. I work a little, but I rest as well, on many days. No waiting for Sunday, the day when my body can recover from the aches and pains of work. I have a pleasant, carefree life, although I miss talking to Englishmen.”
“I’d talk to you if I had the time,” said Frank. “But I’m on my way to Woodville with the mail, then on to Foxton and Palmerston. Can I take a message from you to someone? Your family must wonder if you’re still alive, surely.”
“My family is gone, those that care. But I’d appreciate a ride down to Tahoari,” said Bent. “I don’t need to go there for any reason, but I’d surely like the opportunity to talk with an Englishman again.”
Frank nodded. “You’re welcome to ride for those few miles. I’d appreciate the company as well.”
Ringiringi climbed up onto the front seat of the coach, smiling happily. “Hei kona ra,” he said to the group he had been sitting with. “Tomorrow.”
Frank settled the horses to a steady trot before he said anything. After a while, he asked, “They treat you well, the Pai Marire?”
Ringiringi shrugged. “Well enough. I was a bit of a plaything for them at first. Owning a pakeha was quite the thing for them, and they paraded me around to tribes to show me off. But once they were accustomed to me they started to trust me. They gave me a wife, but she didn’t stay around long. An ugly woman, but nice enough. Daughter of a chief. I have another wife now. Titokowaru’s daughter. Friends, we were, Titoko and me.”
“You were with Titokowaru,” asked Frank. “Until the end?”
Ringiringi shook his head. “Just until Otauku. He sent me off, said it were getting dangerous. Then they chased him into the Great Swamp and I were glad he’d sent me off. The Kupapa and the colonists, they were nasty. Lot of people died on that chase. Old people, women, children, even babies. They didn’t give no quarter to the woman or the children.”
Frank felt sick.
“I was with Whitmore for the chase,” he said. “But believe me Bent, I did nothing to the women and children. I was not a part of it.”
Ringiringi looked at him, his expression unreadable.
“I expect not,” he said. “You were always a decent chap.”
“What about other deserters,” asked Frank. “Were they with Titoko as well?”
“Some,” he said. “One or two tried to desert back, but that didn’t go too well for them. Don’t like traitors, the Hauhau.”
Frank hesitated for a minute, then asked, “Did you encounter a private named Hardy, Will Hardy? He deserted before you.”
“I heard about him yes. But he were already dead by the time I went over,” said Ringiringi. “I heard about the beheading. That was a bad thing. Even the Hauhau– my Hauhau– thought so. Not something they’d have done, they told me.”
Frank said nothing, and after a few minutes Ringiringi continued, “He wasn’t one of ours, you know, the feller that did it. Came down from the north, up near Waitara, where the wars started. Your brother would have been fine with my lot, so long as he swore he would stay with them, like I did, but that big feller, he came to our camp the same day your brother came over the river. He wanted the pakehato die, and the chief couldn’t say no, especially after the ceremony. The chief, he left your brother in a hut, so he told me, and the big feller went in there and cut off his head. He were screaming something terrible, so they said.”
Frank felt his gorge rise. His worst fears confirmed. Will had been beheaded alive. The image of that warrior riding up on his horse, Will’s head hanging from his hand by a hank of hair, sprang into his mind and choked him. He was unable to speak. Poor, poor misguided Will. Frank would never be able to tell their father about this, and he knew the s
ecret would weigh heavily upon him.
“Sorry to be the one to tell you,” apologized Ringiringi. “Best to know the truth, don’t you think?”
“Did you ever see the man who killed my brother, the big fellow, after he killed Will?” asked Frank. Was it possible that Anahera was the same man? The description was similar although there had been no sign of moko on Will’s murder’s face.
“From time to time. He came by every few months to make sure my lot was being warlike enough. We weren’t you know. We didn’t really like to fight. We ran like headless chooks from Otapawa. Lot of us died first as well. Were you there?”
Frank nodded. “Was it you who called out to us? Someone yelled from the palisade at us that day, in English.”
Ringiringi looked sheepish. “That were me,” he said. “I were thinking you had no chance against us, and would run off. But we ran off. The five pounders scared us. But I didn’t kill Colonel Hassard. I know they said I did, but I didn’t.”
“Must have been 300 died in the Pa that day. It was a slaughter.”
“Not 300 hundred,” said Ringiringi. “Not near 300, but it were a slaughter, that it were.” He added, “Someone killed his brother.”
“Whose brother?” asked Frank, confused.
“The big feller,” said Ringiringi. “I remembered he were living with us. His brother I mean to say. That’s partly why the big feller came to visit so often. He wanted his brother out of the way of the fighting, but of course it worked out just the opposite, and his brother were killed.”
Not the Faintest Trace Page 14