“Are you all right, Mette?” he yelled.
It took her a minute to reply. Her throat was dry with fear.
“I, I, yes,” she croaked. “Is it the Hauhau? Does he have a gun now?”
“Don’t know who it is, but he has a gun.”
He lifted the lid of the box under the seat of his coach slowly, and reached in to grab the gun. Another shot echoed around the Gorge and the box splintered. Frank cursed loudly.
“Are you hit Frank?”
“Stay there, Mette. Don’t come out,” he ordered. “A splinter from the box hit me in the hand. It’s nothing, just a scratch.” He pulled out his kerchief and wrapped it around the side of his hand.
Everything was quiet for a few minutes. He edged around the front of the coach and under the horses. He squatted, patting their haunches to keep them calm. He managed to release one, thinking he could ride the attacker down, but as it came free from its traces it trotted a few steps towards the branch. That at least gave him some cover. Keeping low, he came up from under the belly of the other horse and sprinted towards Mette. This time there was no gunshot. He arrived back at her side and leaned against the hill, panting. He had a white kerchief wrapped around his hand, and blood was seeping through. Mette helped him tie it around his hand to staunch the blood.
“What are we going to do?” she asked. “I have some money I could give to bushwhackers. I could throw it out on the road and call out to them that they can have it if they let us go.”
“There’s money in the mail bag,” said Frank. “Much more than you have. They could take that if they wanted. It’s not bushwhackers though. They would have shown themselves as soon as they realized I don’t have my gun on me.”
“What can we do?” asked Mette. “Will someone else be coming through the Gorge today? Can we stay here and wait for someone to arrive, someone perhaps who has a gun?”
“Depends who it is out there,” said Frank. “The Hauhauwants to kill me, bushwhackers want the money in the mail; there’s no reason for bushwhackers to kill us. As far as I know, no one else wants to kill…” He stopped suddenly and stared at Mette.
“What is it Sergeant Frank? Does someone else want to kill you?”
She reached out and touched the mark under his eye. “Is it something to do with this? You had a fight with someone, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“It can’t be him,” he said. But she could see in his eyes he knew something.
“Would he want to kill you? Why? What did you do to him? Who was it?”
In in answer to her question, someone slid down the hill behind the fallen branch and said, “I have you in my sights, you fucking limey bastard.”
Mette gasped. “Gottlieb?”
Karlsen rose from behind the branch, his face an angry mask of hatred, a revolver pointed at Frank. “I won’t miss from this distance,” he said. “I’ll shoot you right where you kicked me, you arsehole. Then we’ll see how she likes you.”
“Gottlieb?” said Mette again. “Why are you here? Why do you want to hurt Frank?” She moved in front of Frank and spread her arms out to cover him, but Frank thrust her aside. She wasn’t afraid of Gottlieb; she didn’t understand the threat. This was a person she thought she knew.
Gottlieb sneered at her.
“Thinks he’s better than me,” he said. “Bloody limey prick.”
“He is better than you,” said Mette. “But that’s no reason to shoot him.”
“I beat him up, a couple of days ago,” said Frank quietly. “He wants to kill me, or at least to hurt me.”
“Why did you do that?” she asked, still looking at Karlsen. “Was it because of what he did to me?”
“I did nothing to you,” said Karlsen. “The bloody bed stopped me before I could enjoy myself.”
Mette heard Frank let out his breath.
“What you did was not nothing,” he said. “Even if you, if you…” He stopped and started again. “Men, decent men don’t attack women while they are sleeping. Decent men don’t spy on women when they are washing clothes, and decent men don’t take pleasure with themselves while spying on women.”
“Gottlieb did that and you hit him?” she asked. “He deserved…”
Karlsen moved his gun from Frank and aimed at Mette.
“Shut up, fotze,” he said. “Or I’ll kill you too. Get the fuck out of the way.”
She gasped and put her hands over her mouth.
“Gottlieb, this is not right. What will our pastor and the Monrads think if you hurt us?”
Frank had been wondering the same thing. Perhaps he could reason with the man. He pushed Mette behind him and faced Gottlieb.
“You’ll be an outcast,” he said. “This is not a large country. You won’t be able to hide for long. They’ll find you and hang you.”
Karlsen gestured with his revolver.
“Move out from the hill. Over to the middle.”
Mette held Frank’s hand, and they moved forward, waiting for a shot, and the pain that would follow. They stopped in front of the horses. One of the horses, the one that Frank had released, dropped its head on Frank’s shoulder and whinnied softly. He patted it on its nose.
Karlsen gestured his gun at them again, this time towards the edge of the drop.
“Move,” he ordered.
They moved nearer to the edge. Mette’s hand started shaking as the drop came nearer. Her head felt light, and floated above her body. She could see the river, tumbling on its path far below her feet. She had a feeling that the river was sucking her downward and she just had to let go and fall, and everything would be over with.
“Gut,” said Karlsen. “Now you can both jump off the edge. Keep your hands held together and when they find you they’ll think it’s a stupid fucking lovers’ suicide.”
They both froze, staring at their attacker in shock. Then Mette said quietly, “Gottlieb, let us both live and I will marry you. I swear I will marry you and we will have many children together and a long life. But you must let both of us live or I will not marry you.” She felt Frank’s hand tighten on hers.
“No…” he said.
Karlsen made a noise that sounded like tuh.
“You think I want his leavings, you whore? If you want to see him live, then you jump first. Then he’ll be alive when you die.”
Mette gave a little sob.
“So,” said Karlsen. “Which of you wants to jump first, or do you want to jump together. It makes no difference to me.”
“Why don’t you just shoot us,” said Frank through gritted teeth. Then, to Mette he added quietly, “Wefen Siesichseitwarts.”
She didn’t move. “He speaks German,” she said.
Karlsen laughed.
“Ich spreche sehr gut Deutsch. Ich bin Deutsch aus Schleswig. Throwing herself sideways will not help at all.I have enough bullets for both of you and I can shoot you one at a time without a problem. Don’t think you can save her by dying yourself.”His face darkened.
“Enough of this bullshit. Jump! Jump! And do it together.”
“Gottlieb, I cannot,” cried Mette. “I do not want to die. Please don’t make me do this. My family, my sister, all those people I know, they will be so sad if I die.”
Karlsen raised his gun to eye level and walked towards them, a look of hatred contorting his face. Frank prepared to make a last-minute lunge at him, knowing that the odds were not good. He didn’t want to die either, but if he had to, he intended to take Karlsen with him to the bottom of the Gorge. He released Mette’s hand, ready to make a move.
Mette beat him to it, throwing herself at Gottlieb and grabbing hold of his shirt.
Please, Gottlieb, don’t kill me. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to jump. I’m scared…”
Gottlieb threw Mette to the ground at the edge of the drop and pointed his revolver at Frank again. “Get back, or I’ll shoot you in the leg and throw her off while you watch…”
Mette stood, dazed, and teetere
d closer to the drop.
“Mette stop, be careful,” said Frank.
Ignoring Karlsen he leapt forward. But Mette took another step and disappeared over the edge. He heard her scream, then nothing. Frank ran forward, and saw her ten feet below him, hanging on to a clump of gorse. The land sloped down towards her, and then dropped precipitously beneath her feet.
“Mette,” he said. “Hold tight, I’ll pull you up.”
“Back away,” snarled Karlsen, aiming his gun at Frank again. “Get back by the coach.”
Frank didn’t move.
“Go, go,” said Karlsen, or I will shoot her before she falls.” He kneeled and tried to reach her to make her let go, pushing at the bushes above her. Frank was about to throw himself at Karlsen when he remembered the tomahawk in the foot box. He backed towards the coach, his hands up.
One chance, he thought. One chance.
Karlsen was lying on the ground trying to force Mette from her perch, the gun pointed at Frank but wavering.
“Let go the bush, taeve” he said. Mette whimpered.
“Hold my hand and I’ll pull you up then, you dumme taeve,” said Karlsen. “And you can live a few more minutes and die with this bastard. You want to do that, don’t you?”
Believing him, Mette reached for his hand. Karlsen’s attention was now fully on her, the gun arm on the ground. Frank leapt for the foot box and flung it open. Karlsen heard him and jumped up, forgetting about Mette. Frank heard her scream again.
Karlsen started to bring the gun up towards Frank, but the tomahawk was in Frank’s hands now. He pulled back and threw it as hard and as straight as he could, his cricketing days helping his aim.
The tomahawk hit the side of Karlsen’s head and stuck there. He stood, not moving, a puzzled look on his face. Blood dribbled down his cheek. He dropped the gun and raised his hand to touch his head. Frank sprang at him, but Karlsen swayed and staggered sideways, disoriented. He took one step towards the rim of the gorge, and then suddenly was over it, plunging towards the water, soundlessly. The river continued to roar beneath them, the horses stamped their hooves, and nothing else moved. Frank caught a brief glimpse of Karlsen in the water as he was tumbled back through the Gorge in the raging water. He bobbed up once, the tomahawk still embedded in the side of his head, then disappeared completely. When he surfaced downstream in the Manawatu River, Frank realized, the fact that he had not died naturally would be obvious. But he would worry about that when it happened.
He dropped to the ground and lay face forward, reaching out to Mette. She looked up at him, a hopeless look on her face.
“You can’t reach me,” she said. “You’ll have to let me fall.”
He edged forward, his hand still inches from hers. “I’m not going to let you fall,” he said. “I’d rather die myself than let you go. Not now.”
He moved further forward. He knew that a few more inches and he would be unable to keep himself on the bank, but would slip into the gorge, taking them both down. He looked around for something to hold on to, but there was nothing. He was afraid that if he got up to look for something he would come back to find her gone.
Something pressed against his back, followed by the sound of heavy breathing.
“Keep holding tight, Mette,” he said, rolling over. “One more minute. I’m coming down to get you.” The horse he had released was standing beside him, its reins hanging to the ground.
He took off his coat and threw it on the ground, put the reins around under his armpits and edged forward over the drop. “Hold on, I’m coming.”
The horse shuffled forward and held fast, taking Frank’s full weight as he slid forward. When his hands were within reach of hers, he held her tightly by the wrists and said quietly, “You can let go now.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t do it. I’m scared.”
The gorse she was holding gave way with a crack. But the horse held them in place.
“Now boy, pull us back,” he said, and made a clicking noise with his teeth. The horse backed away from the drop pulling the two of them with him. When Frank was on solid ground himself, he gave Mette a tug and pulled her over the edge with him. The front of her dress was torn and dirty and her face was white with shock. She lay on her side, sobbing.
He patted the horse on the neck and said, “good boy, good boy,” then sat down beside her. She sat up and scrabbled further away from the edge.
“I thought I was going to, going to…” she said.
He took her hand in his. He could feel it shaking and could hear her teeth chattering. He picked up his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, holding her tight. The shaking increased. “But you didn’t fall,” he said. “You hung on and now you’re safe.”
She started gasping for air, panicked. He put his hand to her face and pulled her against his chest, and put his face against the top of her head.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re safe.”
“You saved me,” she said. “But it was all my fault. I didn’t pay attention when he asked me to dance, and I gave him false ideas. And now he came for me, to…”
“It was never your fault, Mette. Don’t ever think that,” he said into the top of her head. As he comforted her, he felt a calmness he’d not felt for a long time.
She had started to relax, and put her hand up over his where it held her face. They sat like that for several minutes, saying nothing. She turned her head towards him, looking at him, still holding his hand against her face, her eyes searching his.
He bent towards her, unable to stop himself, his lips brushing against hers briefly.
“Do you need help here?” said a loud voice.
They sprang apart, both flushed. Frank’s heart was pounding.
Coming from the direction of Palmerston, two large fair men in broad-brimmed hats had arrived in a dray pulled by a bullock. Mette sniffed and rubbed her eyes, and spoke to them in Danish, her voice quavering. The men looked at each other and back at her.
“I think I know what you say,” said one in English, staring at Mette, interested. “But we are Swedish and I think you are Danish. We are farmers from the Wairarapa. We have been in Palmerston to buy a new ploughshare for our land.” He gestured to the back of the dray. “Should we move this tree together? We have an axe in the dray. We found it back there…”
“Thank-you,” said Frank. “We were unable to get by and were worried.”
With the two men helping, Frank managed to remove the smaller branches and throw them in the ditch. Then they took the remaining large branch, dragged it to the edge of the gorge and threw it down. It fell to the water and was swept away in the rushing current, much as Gottlieb Karlsen had been just minutes before. The two Swedes showed no curiosity about how the branch had got there, and why they had found an axe lying on the side of the road.
The men went on their way to Woodville and Frank and Mette climbed onto the coach and started back towards Palmerston. Before they did, Frank tossed the axe far out into the Gorge.
“Best we don’t leave this here,” he said.
“Was he dead?” asked Mette.
Frank nodded. “I think so. He had a tomahawk stuck in his head, and if that didn’t kill him the water would.”
She looked at her hands and said nothing. He wanted to say something to her, but couldn’t find the words. He’d seen how the Swedish farmer had looked at her. That was the kind of man she needed. A solid, reliable man who would not constantly put her in peril. He would have to stop thinking about her and leave her to her life.
He flicked his whip over the horses’ heads and steered them down towards Ashhurst. But now his carbine was between his feet. If Anahera was out there somewhere, waiting to attack, he would shoot to kill before Anahera could raise his mere. One murder attempt was enough to survive in one day.
19
A Body Under the Ferry Punt
As they reached Palmerston they were both quiet, thinking about what they had to do next. Despit
e what they had been through, the mail coach was a little over an hour late and Frank was able to release the horses from their traces and take them into the paddock behind the Royal Hotel, where Hop Li had left a bucket of oats, acting like nothing unusual had happened. Mette watched him as he walked away, but he didn’t look back. They had decided to say nothing about what had occurred. The Manawatu River had taken Gottlieb’s body, just as it had surely taken the bodies of Paul and Jens. Mette felt ill. She could not celebrate Gottlieb’s death despite what he had done to her.
Pieter was waiting for Mette in front of the hotel, pacing up and down anxiously. He helped her dismount, climbed up and carried her bag down from the roof of the coach and took it silently to the bullock cart. They climbed onto the seat of the cart, he flicked his whip over the heads of the bullocks, and they were off to the clearing.
“Mette,” said Pieter finally. “Where is my sister?”
Mette scrabbled in her pocket and took from it the money Pieter had given to her. “Here is your money, less the ten shillings I gave to Agnete and the small amount I spent on a room and some bread in Woodville. Agnete is not coming.”
He took it and looked at her, waiting for more information.
“She did not want to come,” she said. “I told her you would make a home here for her and for her two children, but she is going to Wellington to stay with a, with a lady friend.”
“How much of money did you give her?” asked Pieter, after a pause.
“A little. A few shillings – the ten-shilling note in fact. I didn’t feel she needed money and I knew that you needed it more for your own family, for Maren and Hamlet and the new baby.”
To her surprise, Pieter turned to her, his eyes welling with tears.
“Was there a man there, Mette? Please tell me the truth. I know my sister very well. Has she attached herself to another man?”
Mette bit her lip. “I am afraid to tell you this Pieter, but yes, there was another man. I met her in the church at the funeral of her husband, and she was holding the arm of an Englishmen. A not very nice Englishman I think. Your sister Agnete said she was going to Wellington to stay with the sister of this man, a Mr. Williams. Perhaps she was.”
Not the Faintest Trace Page 16