“What made him think his brother needed to be protected? Wasn’t he a fighter?” Frank asked.
“Too young,” said Ringiringi. “A boy, about thirteen or fourteen. He was supposed to be with the woman and children, back in the bush at the hiding place, but he came back to the pato bring us a musket – a very old one, not much use to it – and on the way he ran into one of you blokes and was killed.”
Frank said nothing. He knew who had killed the man’s brother. He’d done it himself, and it had haunted him for years. A young boy he’d encountered in a clearing had pointed a musket rifle at him. He gave the boy a chance to drop the gun, but he’d raised it and pointed it at Frank. Frank had shot him. He beheaded my brother, he thought, and I killed his brother. There was no point to it all, the fighting. People got killed who were not supposed to be killed, and the real warriors lived, scarred and bitter by their experiences, like him.
After a while, Ringiringi continued.
“He would want utu, you know. Balance. Revenge. Whoever it was that killed his brother, if he could, he’d find him and kill him. It’s his duty to do that. They need to retain their mana. Doesn’t matter if you do a good deed or a bad one, it must be repaid in kind.”
Frank nodded.
“I understand. But would he want utu or vengeance?”
Ringiringi shrugged. “No difference.”
If it was utu he was after, thought Frank, he had it.
He said, “Where’s this big feller now? Could he be out looking for someone who had killed his brother, do you think?” Was it possible that Anahera was after Frank? But no one knew what had happened at the attack on the Pa.
Ringiringi shook his head. “No. He were killed during the early part of Titoko’s war. Up near Patea at the Turuturumokai redoubt. Took a few of your boys with him I heard.”
“Do you know anything about him?” asked Frank, noting that when Ringiringi had said “your boys” he was siding with the Hauhau. “Where he was from. Which iwi? Did he have another brother?”
“The big feller was a war chief, even though he weren’t from our iwi. Came from up near Waitara, as I said before. Don’t know what iwi though, or if he had a brother. He had a ceremony he would perform sometimes before a fight – a sacred weapon he would place on the ground until it pointed to someone. I seen it myself once. He would go into a trance and chant until the bloody thing moved by itself. When it stopped, and pointed at some poor bastard he would haul the bugger up and ask him if his heart were strong within him.”
“And surely a man would answer yes, if he valued his life,” said Frank. He was waiting to hear how this story would enlighten him on his brother’s beheading.
Ringiringi took a pull at his pipe.
“Most did, most did. Because they knew if they didn’t they would be taken out and tomahawked to pieces. When they left to fight, he would be there, chanting: Patua, kainga! Patua, kainga! E kai mau! Kaua e tukua kia haere! Kia mau ki tou ringa.”
“Kill them, eat them, kill them, eat them, let them not escape,” translated Frank. “That was the chant of Titokowaru, wasn’t it? I take it my brother refused to say his heart was strong within him?”
“Well, he wuz confused, like. Asked what the big feller meant, and said he didn’t come over to kill and eat his own kind. Then he went off to the hut he wuz given, and in the night, as I said, the big feller went in and killed him.”
“But you agreed?” said Frank, trying not to think about Will’s fate. “You would have eaten British flesh if they had asked you to?”
Ringiringi’s face showed a quick flash of humour.
“British, I would. But I’m a Yankee, aren’t I? Born in Eastport, Maine.”
When Frank said nothing, Ringiringi added, “Just fooling with ya. I wouldn’t eat human flesh, and they didn’t make me. If they beat them – the pakeha that is – in battle, they would bring back a piece of flesh, usually the heart, ripped from the body of the first man they killed in the fight. They would offer it to their Tohunga. All he did was light a flame and singe it a bit, then throw it away. One time, after the fight at Papatihakehake I saw a bloke cut open the body of a dead pakeha and tear the heart from it, but he wuz already dead, and no one ate his heart. Just ceremonial I suppose.”
They travelled in silence after that. Frank let his passenger off at Tahoarite, where he squatted by the side of the road and start sucking on his clay pipe again. He was several miles from his former companions, and Frank wondered how he intended to return to them. Walk back, probably. The Māori, which Bent had become, were used to travelling long distances overland on foot. Bent, or Ringiringi, had settled for a simple life, but Frank wondered how it was possible to survive as part of another world so different from his own.
18
Return Through the Gorge
When Frank pulled his coach in at Murphy’s Hotel Mette was sitting on the step with her bag, waiting for him. He’d been driving through a light drizzle, but the skies cleared as he approached Murphy’s Hotel as if Mette had brought about the change with her sunny nature. He’d dreamed about her the night before, but felt the dream slip away as he awoke. Later, he’d fallen back to sleep and dreamed that he was being pursued through a dark forest by a dark, shapeless force. He’d tried to turn and see who was pursuing him but he could not. Once more he forgot the dream, recalling only a vague image of the throat-slashing gesture he had now seen twice, once from the man holding Will’s head, and once from Anahera. Was there a connection between the two men? What was it?
As he climbed down from his seat, he noticed she looked unhappy, which dampened his own mood. He had no other passengers and helped her up beside his perch, assuming she’d want to sit up front. When he passed her an old army blanket from the box behind him over her legs, she set her bag down forcefully and tucked the blanket around her knees.
He’d been looking forward to the opportunity to talk to her. The return trip was somewhat easier as the slope was mostly downhill and was easier on the horses. He sat her on his left, away from the steep drop now to be on his right side. The return journey was on the inside of the road and if they met another carriage or cart that vehicle would have to pull to the edge of the ravine. The return journey was always easier because of that.
She waited until they were on the way out of town, and then said angrily, “That woman did not want to come back to Palmerston with me.”
“She’ll come later then?”
“She will not come at all,” she said. “She’s going to live in Wellington with her fancy man and his sister, who I do not believe is his sister, and the children will be sent to where, I do not know. I am afraid they’ll be in the poorhouse immediately, and so will Agnete when her Mr. Williams,” she practically spat his name out, “her Mr. Williams tires of her.”
Frank sat in silence for a few minutes, digesting this new turn of events. He was amused at her turn of phrase. What was a fancy man in her mind?
“Will you tell Pieter?” he asked finally. “He’ll want to go and bring her back from Wellington, don’t you think?”
Mette sighed.
“He would if he could, I suppose. But I will tell him a good version of the story and leave out the bits that make his sister sound like a, like a taeve. Not that I suspect that his sister is going to live in a bordel– what would you call it – a whorehouse. No, I will tell him simply that his sister is going to stay with the sister of a friend in Wellington and she does not need any help or money at the moment as the friend is assisting her.”
Frank glanced at her.
“She may need money and help eventually,” he said. “If things go as you suspect. Don’t you think he should be somewhat ready to help, if – when —the occasion arises?”
Mette stared past him towards the river, which was still beside them. They were not yet in the Gorge and she was already afraid of the drop she would see as they rose higher.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “You’re right. He should know that everything i
s not perfect. She’s a horrible woman, but she is his sister after all. Pieter can also be difficult, but he is underneath a kind man who would always do his best for his family.”
At the mouth of the Gorge they were stopped by three Armed Constables, including Wilson, the card player.
“Right then Hardy,” said Wilson. “Down you get. We need to check out your coach.”
“For what?” asked Frank.
“Making sure you aren’t bringing back the Avenging Angel,” said Wilson.
“Bringing him back?” said Frank, remembering the tomahawk hidden in his foot box. “Did he get through the Gorge?”
“Nah,” said Wilson. “No idea where he is.”
The other two men had climbed into the coach and checked it out.
“Nothing in here,” said one of them. “Not even a passenger.”
“I’m carrying mail,” said Frank. “It’s in the foot box at the back of the coach.”
Wilson glanced at the foot box. “Don’t suppose the Angel would fit in that,” he said. He grinned at Mette. “You think he’s hiding a Hauhauin that box?”
She shook her head. “I hope not.”
Wilson slapped the outside of the box. “Carry on then Hardy. But keep an eye open for the Angel. As I said, we don’t know where he is. Could have crossed over the ranges through a track somewhere. We can’t be everywhere.”
They travelled for a while in silence. Then Mette said, “Sergeant Frank, do you think Anahera might be here somewhere? Inside the Gorge?”
“Doubtful,” said Frank. He could see she was holding the blanket tightly. He had his carbine close at hand in case of an attack, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “We’re quite safe, Mette.”
“Would you like some bread? I purchased some at the bakery in Woodville. It’s the freshest bread I’ve eaten since I left Haderslev, and quite delicious.”
He nodded, smiling. She always ate when she was nervous, he’d noticed, but it did calm her. She took the bread, wrapped in a piece of newspaper, from her bag and tore off a piece for him.
“Now,” she said, settling back. “I would like you to tell me something.”
“What?” he asked. She was trying to take her mind off the possibility of an attack by Anahera.
“Tell me about yourself when you were a small boy. I know nothing about you except that you were a soldier and that your brother, who was also a soldier, was killed – murdered – by Hauhau. Where did you live when you were boys? What about your family – your parents – do they still live there?”
He thought for a minute, working out what he could tell her.
“My father was also a soldier,” he said. “He served under the Duke of Wellington and fought at the Battle of Waterloo. Do you know about that?”
“Of course,” she said. “The Duke of Wellington defeated that nasty little man Napoleon.”
“Yes he did, with some help from my father. And before that he – my father – was in Spain, and that was where he met my mother.”
“Ah,” she exclaimed. “That explains why you are a little dark for an Englishman, with brown eyes. Mostly they – Englishmen – have pale skin and light blue eyes. They look very much like the Germans, so I’m pleased that you don’t look like that.”
He glanced at her, wondering why she should be pleased, and she continued, “And your father married your mother and you and your brother were born while he was still a soldier?”
He shook his head, distracted. “Just a minute while we get onto the tracks here. We’re on the way back up the Gorge and I need to concentrate.”
“Then quickly tell me about your life, when you were born, and when your brother was born.”
“Quickly? Very well then, I’ll try.” He gave the horses a light tap and pulled back on the reins to slow them down. “After they were married my father left the army. He was highly skilled with horses, and became a groom at the stable of an important man, a politician, and his old commander from his army days. After a few years as groom, the coachman on the estate died and my father took that job. We grew up on the estate of the politician, and he allowed us to be educated with his sons, at least until they went off to boarding school. Rugby, they went to, one of the oldest British public schools, and I hardly saw them after age eleven or so. Even after they left he encouraged us to read, and allowed us to use his library. We ate with the staff in the downstairs kitchen, but mostly treated us like family. When the boys did come home they used to make me play rugby with them, but that stopped when I outgrew them and they couldn’t bring me to the ground with a tackle. I learned about horses from my father, which has proven useful.”
“And your mother,” asked Mette. “What about her. How did she like leaving Spain and living in such a cold and unfriendly country as England.”
“She died,” he said. “In childbirth. Giving birth to my brother. I can barely remember her.”
“How sad,” said Mette. “I think I would have liked to know your mother. How brave she was, leaving her country and going to live in another country away from her family.”
“Like you,” he said. “Why did you leave Schleswig? You didn’t need to fear being inducted into the army.”
She looked down and a tear splash on her hand. “Not me, but my brother and my father were,” she said. “He was a gentle man, kind to Maren and me and our brother Hamlet. First the Prussians took Hamlet to be a soldier. They were fighting against the French and they needed all the young men they could find. Hamlet left to fight in August and in September he died in the Battle of Sedan, although it was a long time before we heard about it. We hoped all the time he would come home, that he would live.” She paused, and then added, “Little Hamlet, Maren’s boy, is named after him.”
“And your father?” he prompted.
“He was taken to be a soldier a few months after Hamlet,” she said. “And he was killed at the Siege of Metz. It was terrible for my mother. Maren and I were little girls. She tried hard to keep the family together, and she kept teaching us as our father had been doing…what is that on the road?”
Frank had been looking at her, not paying as much attention to the road as he should. He looked to where she was pointing and cursed, pulling back on the reins to slow the horses before they ran into the barrier that was now across the road, from bank side to cliff side.
“Damn it,” he said. “A fallen branch. How are we going to get around that?”
In front of them a tree limb lay across the road, completely blocking their path. The horses slowed and came to a stop, stamping and whinnying. Frank threw the reins across the seat and climbed down, leaving the horses standing where they were.
“Wait,” called Mette. “Won’t the horses run away if you aren’t holding the reins?”
He shook his head, not looking back at her, and strode towards the branch. He attempted to lift it, but it wouldn’t budge. Mette climbed down and joined him.
“What will you do?”
He walked along the length of the branch, from the edge of the drop to the rise on the other side, staring intently. The rise was not steep at this point, and he hopped up on an outcrop of rocks and stared down at the branch. He dropped into a squatting position suddenly, looking down at the branch, and said, “Damn.”
“What is it,” asked Mette, scared suddenly. “Did you see something?”
“Mette, get over as near as you can to the hill, immediately.”
She ran over to the hill and he followed, stopping beside her.
“What is it?” she asked again. “Is it Anahera? Is he here?”
“The branch has been cut with an axe,” he said. He was leaning back against the hill, his hand over his eyes, scanning the area. “This isn’t an accident, it’s an ambush.”
“Anahera?” she said, her voice quivering.
“Could be,” he said. “But it’s pretty close to where we met the armed Constables. He wouldn’t take the risk. Bushwhackers, maybe. Either way, we’re in trouble.”
“Does he want to kill me because of the pig?”
“If it’s the Hauhauhe’ll be after me,” answered Frank. He had not told Mette of his encounter with Anahera. “I was involved in something that upset him.”
Mette moved closer to Frank.
“Do you have a gun, Sergeant Frank?”
He nodded. “Yes, but it’s in the box under the seat. Didn’t think to keep it on me, stupidly.”
“Then I’ll go and get it. If he needs to kill you for revenge, he may not want to kill me.”
She started to move towards the coach, but he grabbed her arm and held it firmly.
“I’m not going to let you do that.”
He looked around again, scanning for movement. Everything was quiet; only sound of the rushing of the waters in the Gorge, far below.
“If we move nearer to the coach we’ll be under the edge of the hill,” he said finally. “We’ll have to move quickly, before they – he – realizes what we’re doing. Then once we’re under the hill I can get around the other side of the coach and up into the seat to get my weapon.”
“Will he shoot you when he sees you?”
Frank had been thinking about that himself. “If it is the Hauhauhe won’t be carrying a gun. He prefers his kills to be more personal. But if it’s bushwhackers, yes, they will have a gun. Guns. The Hauhauis a better proposition. He’ll want to fight hand-to-hand, for the honour of the killing. Or at least throw his tomahawk at me, if he has another one. Let’s move.”
He held her hand and they ran the short distance to where the bank rose straight up. He pushed her behind him, and stared around again. Nothing moved, and there was no sound other than the ever-churning waters of the Gorge.
“Stay here and lean back as far as you can,” he said, almost whispering now. Then, taking one more look around, he dashed towards the rear of the coach.
The gunshot was so unexpected that Mette gave a small scream. The edge of the coach splintered, throwing shards in the air. The horses jostled each other, their eyes white with fear. Frank was around the other side now.
Not the Faintest Trace Page 15