I raced after him to where the two Pakeha sat outside the meeting house, and stared amazed at Mr Hadfield’s companion. He had two ordinary eyes, exactly the same as ours, but blue, like the sky, and in front of them were two extra eyes, transparent and surrounded by black wire, reflecting the morning light.
Behind us gathered the great company of Mr Hadfield’s parishioners, gazing in astonishment. Then I heard the voice of my stepfather. ‘Why, it’s Mr Henry Williams.’ He advanced through the crowd, his right hand extended in a Pakeha greeting. ‘You stayed at my inn at Otaki, sir, when you took the Treaty around New Zealand for the chiefs to sign.’
Mr Williams stepped forward and seized my stepfather’s hand in his own. ‘Mr Nicoll. How do you do? How very pleasant to see you again.’ He looked at the crowd of onlookers. ‘But tell me, Mr Nicoll, how does it come about that I am commanding such undivided attention?’
‘It’s your spectacles, sir. No one here has seen them before. They think you have four eyes.’
Mr Williams threw back his head and let out a bellow of laughter. ‘Ah, of course. In the North, the Maori call me Te Kara Wha, Four Eyes.’ He peeled the front eyes from his face and passed them to my stepfather. ‘Here, let them look through these.’
There passed a most fascinating time while we took it in turn to see for ourselves how these extra eyes enlarged and distorted everything about us.
‘A clever Pakeha invention,’ said my mother, ‘but of course we Maori have no need of them.’
Mr Hadfield was again sick. My mother sent me to his little house with a kete of kumara boiled with healing herbs.
‘How kind, Makareta,’ said Mr Hadfield, who was lying on a long chair in his sitting room.
‘And I am to take care of your hens every day until you are better.’
‘Now that takes a great weight from my mind. You will find the corn in the usual sack on the shelf in the hen house. And when you have finished, come and join me in a cup of English tea.’
After I had fed the hens and replenished the water gourds, I set about hunting for eggs, which I placed in a large woven basket, then made my way back to the cottage. As I entered the kitchen, I heard voices. Mr Hadfield had received a visitor.
Peeping into the sitting room, I saw it was another missionary, Mr Taylor. Unsure of the polite thing to do when two Pakeha were talking together, I did not interrupt their conversation but neither could I rudely creep away. Instead, I sat on the kitchen floor, out of sight, waiting till Mr Hadfield might realise that I was there.
‘I should like to know, Octavius,’ I heard Mr Taylor say, ‘how you’ve managed to gain such influence with our Maori brothers.’
‘As to that,’ said Mr Hadfield, ‘I must tell you it is a combination of diligence in learning their language and observing their customs, and a very great deal of luck. When first I came to Otaki, Te Matia, a chief second only in importance to Te Whatanui, was violently opposed to all missionaries and to me in particular and, when I held a service, he would attend and shout noisily during the sermon and the prayers. After one such interruption, I visited him in his gardens to remonstrate with him, but he ignored me, so I very thoughtlessly sat down on the ground, picked up a piece of kumara and bit into it. This, of course, was a serious breach of tapu, and he ran at me with his tomahawk and would have cut me down but for his daughter and the son of another chief who rushed up and placed themselves between me and Te Matia, their hands over my head, so that it was impossible for him to hit me without first striking them. Others then came forward to my aid and, after some time, his rage abated and he sat down near me.
‘I attempted to explain that, as a foreigner who had not been long among them, I had not been aware that I was causing offence. But before I could finish my explanation, the chief ’s tohunga, Hereiwi, interrupted and pronounced a curse upon me. “You will either die,” he shouted in Maori, “or be driven from Otaki by evil spirits.” ’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I told him his curse would neither affect my life nor influence my intentions but was much more likely to injure him. And then I left them and set off later that day for Waikanae.
‘On my return, a few days later, I learnt that during the night, after our altercation in the kumara gardens, Hereiwi had died. Well, this produced a profound impression on his fellows, who attributed his death to his cursing me. I tried in vain to explain that I had heard from some Englishmen who knew Hereiwi that he had been suffering from a lung complaint and that his death had been caused by the rupture of a large blood vessel. They were not at all convinced, and resolved in future to allow me to disregard all of their tapu ceremonies and go where I liked. And after that, Te Matia and I were on friendly terms, or at least we lived together peacefully.’
I crept stealthily from Mr Hadfield’s kitchen and ran home.
‘How is Mr Hadfield today?’ asked my mother.
‘Better,’ I lied.
But to myself I thought perhaps this illness was Mr Hadfield’s punishment from the gods for breaking the sacred law of tapu. And when Mr Hadfield became so sick that he was taken to Wellington to the Pakeha tohunga there, I knew it was indeed a further sign of the gods’ displeasure.
AUCKLAND, 1848
‘I have called upon you again, Miss Fanny, as you observe. I wish to invite you and Mata Kawana on an honourable visit to my pa near Waimate. Pihopa and Mata Pihopa Selwyn will be at the Mission House then, so you may stay with them and visit me. You will ride from Auckland and camp in tents on the way. The countryside is more beautiful than you will find anywhere else in New Zealand. Do you like this proposal?’
‘Very much, and I’m sure Mata Kawana will also. But I hope the Governor will allow us to go.’
‘He has agreed already.’
‘And will we be safe, two women alone?’
‘You will not be alone. You will take the servant, Ingrams, and I will supply guides from my tribe. If you are under my protection, your safety is assured.’
‘Then I’ll speak to Mrs Grey. I’m certain she’ll be delighted by the idea. She longs to travel more in the interior.’
‘So, it is settled. Te Kawana will be from home and the time is propitious.’
‘Propitious? How so?’
‘I have consulted my tohunga, my priest, and he has cast the omens to determine this.’
‘Are you saying he is able to see the future?’
‘Of course, if the gods will it. The power of the tohunga is very great. Only he can call upon the gods and make them speak.’
I felt the strangeness that affected me whenever I was with Te Toa. For much of the time, in his manners and conversation, he seemed like an Englishman and then, unexpectedly, he would reveal the nature of the savage.
‘Why would the tohunga ask the gods to speak?’
‘I do not know. That is tapu, the sacred bond between the tohunga and the gods. One is not permitted to ask such things. But what is important is that the omens are favourable. And Te Kawana will be happy for you to see the Mission House of his friend, Pihopa Selwyn, especially when, as I told you, he hopes to weaken the power of Mr Williams and the missionaries in the North. I think, too, Te Kawana wishes to please me and his old ally, Waka Nene, in consenting to your visit.’
‘Does Waka Nene also dislike Mr Williams?’
‘By no means. Nene is too great a chief to engage in the petty squabbles of Pakeha, even those of Te Kawana.’
Still bemused by my conversation with Te Toa, I was interrupted by Lucy.
‘Fanny, you must come and see this letter I’ve just received. I’m in two minds as to whether I should show it to my husband. Here, read it for yourself.’
‘Mata Te Kawana Rangatira,’ I read. I looked questioningly at Lucy.
‘Mother Governor Chief. It’s the polite form of Maori address to the Governor’s lady. Do go on.’
You know I am a speaking man and not a writing man so I am asking Mr Williams, missionary, to write this letter
from me to you, just as I want to say it. Mr Williams is a good man. He will put only my words and not his own.
Mata Te Kawana, now we Maori must live in Aotearoa beside the Pakeha. But some of the Pakeha steal our lands. I have told Te Kawana we will fight forever to keep this land which has been ours since the time of the first chiefs. But Te Kawana does not hear me. He favours only the Waikato tribes and has turned his face against us Ngapuhi. You have seen my nephew, John Heke. He has told me of your kindness to him when he was a prisoner of Mata Wikitoria. I have written to this Queen as one paramount chief to another. Perhaps she has not received my letter for she has sent me no reply, no messenger.
My son has been killed in this fighting, many of the Ngati Wikitoria soldiers also. I say to you, Mata Te Kawana, we should stop this fighting. Ask Te Kawana to restore our stolen lands. We have given lands to the missionaries of Te Ariki; we have given lands to the Queen as a mark of honour. Do not take more from us. Let us cease this bloodshed. My nephew, John Heke, tells me you are the daughter of a paramount chief of the English Navy. And you are the wife of a paramount chief. Mata, I do plead with you, use your great mana. Ask Te Kawana to end this bloody slaughter. Everywhere is hatred and murder. Te Rau-paraha has many muskets. Soon he will come both north and south to kill us all. He is not to be trusted.
In the name of my ancestors and of Jesus Christ, Te Ariki, I ask you, Mata Te Kawana, to bring this, my message, before your honoured husband.
May the Gods preserve you and me and all of us, eh-Mata.
Hori Te Marama Kotuora.
I paused. ‘There are strange markings here, and underneath Mr Williams has written in brackets, “his moko mark”. What does he mean?’
‘Because the chief can’t read or write, he signs his name with his tattoo markings,’ said Lucy. ‘Just like a cross. Well, do you think I should show it to my husband?’
‘It’s a very sad, sincere message sent in good faith, so I suppose you must.’ I thought of Te Toa’s words. ‘But I fear the Governor may accuse Mr Williams of putting words into the chief ’s mouth’’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Mr Williams is a missionary. I’m sure my husband wouldn’t consider that for a minute.’
V
AOTEAROA
It came to the ears of Mr Hadfield that Te Rau-paraha and his allies were plotting together to attack the settlers near Wellington and seize Ngatiawa territory.
‘My health is much improved,’ said Mr Hadfield to my mother, ‘and I have no fears for my own safety. Te Rau-paraha cannot harm you or your family while you are under my protection, so, for the moment, you are safe at Waikanae. But if he and Te Rangi-hae-ata and Te Mamaku attack the settlements at Wellington, the settlers will form vigilante groups, there will be war and no one will be safe. The government troops would have no chance of quelling such a revolt. I have sent a Maori messenger from Wellington to carry an urgent message to Te Kawana Kerei in Auckland, asking him to come south with all speed.’
‘As things stand,’ said my mother, ‘nothing but your own mana, Harawira, can prevent war between Maori and Pakeha. But listen to me carefully. Thirteen years I have waited and, at last, it is my own turn to have utu. Believe me. I have vowed to the gods that, even if it is with my dying breath, I shall see Te Rau-paraha brought down.’
AUCKLAND, 1848
I tossed in my berth as the sea rolled about us. Dimly, I heard cannon boom, and was half-aware of their momentary flashes of fire lighting the night sky. Water began seeping into the cabin; with terrifying rapidity it rose to lap, then engulf, my bedding. A fish flapped against my face.
‘It’s too bad,’ said a voice beside me. ‘Entirely vexing. Wake up, Fanny! We’re almost drowned here.’
As I struggled from my dream and sat up, a piece of the sodden fabric of our tent slapped my face and shoulder. Thunder cracked and a lightning flash briefly illuminated our surroundings.
‘The storm’s directly above us now,’ said Lucy, ‘but when it passes, this rain will become torrential.’
My bedding was sopping and another strike of lightning showed our boots and habits soaked and drenched where we had left them. ‘This really is the most detestable climate,’ said Lucy.
I shivered. ‘How long do you think the storm will last?’
‘Impossible to say, but as soon as it’s light, we’ll call the guides and ride on to the Selwyns at the Mission House. I’m sure it can’t be more than an hour’s ride. Two at most.’
The thought of riding in saturated clothing for even half an hour was unappealing but I said nothing, my thoughts having turned to more worrying possibilities. ‘But where are our guides?’ I poked my head from the tent but could see nothing.
‘Halloo!’ called Lucy. She looked at me nervously. ‘They should be outside.’
The lightning flashed again, giving me a clear view of the deserted clearing around our tent, the empty beach just below us, and the forbidding stands of bush encircling us on three other sides. ‘There’s no sign of them,’ I said. ‘Nor of Ingrams.’
‘He was to have slept near the guides.’
‘Could he … could they have … kidnapped him, do you suppose?’
‘I hardly think so.’ But Lucy moved closer to me and we sat, trembling with cold.
‘Well,’ I said, trying to sound braver than I felt and to quell the recollection of Lady Martin’s tale of the natives with their tomahawks, ‘Te Toa assured me the Maoris here are friendly. So we have nothing at all to fear. But do you have any real idea of where we are, Lucy?’
‘Only that we’re somewhere between Government House and Waimate. Quite a long way from Auckland.’
I flung back the tent flap in hopes of scrutinising our surroundings again in the next illumination. The rain was abating a little and sheet lightning flared across the ocean. Thunder rumbled all round us, and I fancied I saw shapes moving in the bush. If the Maoris do return to capture us, I thought, we will at least have a chance of escape if we are in the open.
I began to pull on my soaked habit and forced my feet into my sodden boots. Tsarina and Blaze, tethered by the bush, were whinnying and fretting. ‘We can’t sit in this tent forever,’ I said. ‘We’re so wet already the rain will make no difference. And the horses will be calmer if we are with them.’
‘But which way shall we go?’ said Lucy. ‘We have no compass and there’s no sun or even any light yet.’
‘We could always ride along the beach.’
‘Much too dangerous. Listen to those waves crashing. But I fancy we were following some kind of track yesterday.’ She paused. ‘Do you remember that poor woman in Whanganui? Massacred with her—’
‘Stop it!’ I cried. But I was, myself, conjuring up visions of sinister men creeping stealthily upon us. ‘It seems,’ I said, in as calm a voice as I could muster, ‘that we must shift for ourselves and ride on alone. So, let’s start at once.’
‘What about the tent?’
‘Ingrams can strike it if … when … he returns.’
‘Can you see his mule?’
‘It’s gone.’ I clutched Lucy’s hand. ‘Come. Let’s hurry. We should set off at once.’
Soaked and bedraggled, we were fumbling with the horses’ bridles when there came the sound of approaching hooves.
‘Quickly,’ hissed Lucy. ‘Into the bush. Here.’
This was not at all easy. Pushing into the densely entwined undergrowth, we were drenched from the branches above and sluiced by the low-lying ferns and foliage. Water ran down my back beneath my clothing, squelched inside my boots, trickled across my forehead. Finally, we managed to force our way far enough into the bush to be concealed from our pursuers. Peering at the clearing through the tangle of branches, we huddled together, listening to the oncoming horses. Though the lightning had moved even further south, I became suddenly afraid that that even one burst of illumination might reveal our hiding-place, and I tried to press Lucy deeper within the tangle of vegetation.
Into the clea
ring galloped two horses followed by a shambling mule.
‘Ingrams,’ I whispered to Lucy. ‘And our Maori guides.’
She grasped my arm. ‘I think we should stay here until we are quite sure of their intentions.’
‘Ma’am,’ called Ingrams, dismounting and making his way to the empty tent. He turned to the guides and spread his hands. ‘Gone,’ he said.
Shaking his head, one of the guides jumped from his horse and went over to our mounts.
I pushed Lucy forward. ‘We’re here,’ I cried, ‘sheltering from the fury of the storm.’
At the sight of us, the guides attempted to apprise us in dumb show that they had ridden with Ingrams through the night to let the Bishop know of our impending arrival — or so we understood. Recalling my terror of massacring natives, kidnap and slaughter, I felt ashamed of my own cowardice. ‘That was very kind of you,’ I said.
‘And how far off is the Mission House?’ asked Lucy.
‘No more than an hour or so, Ma’am. Perhaps a little longer. The ground is so sodden now it will make for a slower riding pace.’
We set off together. When at last we approached the Mission House, I was relieved to see that it was a stout wooden building, fronted with a wide veranda and surrounded by what appeared, through the rain, to be a small orchard. The Bishop, in ulster and shovel hat, strode through the downpour to meet us. Dismounting, I briefly took in my surroundings. Close at hand stood apple, pear and apricot trees … and then, suddenly, I felt my heart lurch and heard again Te Toa’s words: the omens are favourable. At a distance from the other plantings, I discerned a small but sturdy mulberry tree.
‘Ah,’ said the Bishop, following my gaze, ‘you are admiring our mulberry. We’ve allowed it space to flourish to its full magnificence. Are you familiar with the species?’
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