The Road Builders E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Skinnbok
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: The Australians
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 444

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The eighteenth book in the dramatic and intriguing story about the colonisation of Australia: a country made of blood, passion, and dreams.   Despite resistance from the native Maoris and Hauhaus, the settlers find themselves in a war between cultures.   The settlers try to claim the bold frontier of New Zealand, but face opposition from two native tribes. The journey will be dangerous, and the consequences bloody. It is a matter of perishment or prevalence. Loyalty will be tested, love will fade, men will fall, but neither of the parties will back down without a fight.

Leseprobe

The Road Builders

The Australians 18 – The Road Builders

© Vivian Stuart, 1986

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

Series: The Australians

Title: The Road Builders

Title number: 18

ISBN: 978-9979-64-243-5

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

The Australians

The ExilesThe PrisonersThe SettlersThe NewcomersThe TraitorsThe RebelsThe ExplorersThe TravellersThe AdventurersThe WarriorsThe ColonistsThe PioneersThe Gold SeekersThe OpportunistsThe PatriotsThe PartisansThe Empire BuildersThe Road BuildersThe SeafarersThe MarinersThe NationalistsThe LoyalistsThe ImperialistsThe Expansionists

CHAPTER I

Red returned from the dockyard to his father’s house to find, to his surprise, his wife entertaining Kitty Broome and two well-mannered small boys. He recognized Andrew Melgund, after a moment’s hesitation, and then recalled that Magdalen had told him she had promised her brother William that she would take care of the boys and see to their education, when he was able to arrange their passage from Auckland. He had not listened with full attention to what she had said concerning the boys, but Magdalen, as always perceptive and sensing his momentary confusion, said with a quick smile, “Red dear, Andy and Harry—Harry Ryan—have arrived to stay with us. And wasn’t it fortunate for them—Kitty decided to pay Sydney a visit, and she looked after them on the passage. They came in the Dolphin with Claus Van Buren.”

He had seen the beautiful Dolphin clipper working into the harbour, Red remembered, and had intended to contact Claus as soon as he could, but the dockyard had held him up. They were making difficulties, in the manner of dockyards, over the replacement of the Cossack’s mizzen topmast, and he had been caught up in lengthy argument, which had not improved his temper. But he forced a smile, greeted Kitty politely, and then turned to the boys.

Andy had long been a favorite of his, and—Lord, how the lad had grown! Tanned and up to his shoulder already, as sturdy and well built as any youngster half his age. By contrast, his companion, Harry Ryan, looked thin and more than a little scared by the company in which he found himself. He was an unnaturally subdued, shock-headed little fellow, several years younger than Andy.

“Well now, Andy, tell me what you’ve been doing since I last saw you,” Red invited. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Nearly three years, sir,” Andy confirmed.

“Your uncle Will took land, didn’t he, with a view to farming?”

Andy inclined his head. “Yes, sir, in the Taranaki, near New Plymouth. Harry’s family were our neighbours, but the rebel Maoris destroyed our farms, burnt down our houses, and made off with the stock . . . and they murdered Harry’s folk, before they could make their escape. We had to go to New Plymouth for safety. Uncle Will volunteered for the militia, and he put us in school at Mrs. Mordaunt’s, in the town. He was in all the fighting, sir, as you’d expect.” There was pride in the boy’s voice. “But, then, when the new general came out—General Cameron, sir, who’d known Uncle Will in the Crimea—well, he sent for him to serve on his staff. That meant we had to go to Auckland, and Uncle Will decided to send us here, sir, and enter us for the Sydney Grammar School. He said it was important for us to have a good education, if we were to make proper careers. I—well, both of us, really, were sorry to leave, weren’t we, Hal?’

Little Harry Ryan nodded his tousled head but said nothing, and Andy went on, “I want to enlist in the Volunteers, as soon as I’m old enough, and go back and fight the Maoris.”

“You’ve never thought of the Royal Navy?” Red questioned, meeting Magdalen’s gaze and suppressing a smile.

“Oh, yes, sir, I’ve thought of the navy,” Andy admitted. “But there’s talk of sending the naval ships here, once peace is signed with the Taranaki tribes, so that wouldn’t be any use, would it? I want to fight the Maoris, sir. I want to get back at them for what they did to us.”

“I had understood that Governor Grey is exerting every effort to make peace with the Maoris,” Red countered.

“It will not last, sir,” Andy asserted, with complete conviction. “The Waikato tribes have elected a king, you know, and one of their chiefs, called Rewi Maniapoto, who is a famous warrior, is said to be stirring them up to rebel. Oh, the governor’s trying, I know, but the odds are against his succeeding. Besides, the settlers—folk like us, sir, whose land has been laid waste—we have a score to settle.”

He spoke, Red thought with surprise, like an adult, and in all probability his was the voice of a great many of the North Island settlers, dispossessed of their land and their homes and determined on vengeance against those who had despoiled them and done so many of them brutally and savagely to death.

As if he had voiced that thought aloud, Harry Ryan broke his silence and confirmed Red’s reasoning.

“I feel like Andy does, sir,” the boy said tensely. “The Maoris murdered my ma and pa and my brother Davie and my sisters. I saw them, Captain Broome—I was there. The chief’s son was my friend and Davie’s friend, but he was there—he was leading them! I saw him kill Davie.” As suddenly as he had spoken, Harry lapsed back into a constrained silence, his thin little face scarlet with embarrassment. Andy came instantly to his rescue.

A hand on his shoulder, he glanced anxiously at Kitty Broome and then burst out, “Lady Kitty thinks we shouldn’t talk of such things, don’t you ma’am? Not here, that is, where maybe folk wouldn’t understand. But Harry—well, you see, sir, Harry can’t forget what happened, and neither can I. We both mean to go back and fight for what is ours, just as soon as we’re old enough.”

Kitty spread her slim, beautiful hands in a helpless gesture. “You see how they feel, Red. I cannot convince them that peace—a lasting peace—between settlers and Maoris would be best for the future of the colony. I couldn’t even convince my husband. You know that Johnny has joined the militia, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know,” Red confirmed. “I saw him when I was in Auckland.” He did not enlarge on his meeting with his brother but, recalling Johnny’s anger when he had found Kitty gone, and their enforced dinner in the militia’s mess, found himself wondering whether her presence here was the result of some misunderstanding between them. Sensing his unspoken question, Kitty said flatly, “Johnny went off to Drury with a party of surveyors. They are planning to build a military road through the forest to the Waikato River, it seems. He did not know how long he would be away, so . . . I decided to come back to Sydney for a while. To see my brother and . . . oh, to escape from the war.”

As an explanation, it sounded a trifle lame, and glancing again at Magdalen, Red observed that she, too, was puzzled. But she expressed no opinion; instead she held out a hand to each of the boys and suggested brightly that they might care to see their rooms and make the acquaintance of Jessie and Andrew.

“Only we call Andrew Rufus,” she added, “because he has red hair like his papa. But at least that will avoid his being confused with you, Andy. And Captain Broome senior will be getting up soon, after his afternoon rest, and he will want to meet you, I know.”

Both boys went with her willingly, and when they were gone, Kitty said ruefully, “I’m afraid they regard me as more of a dragon than their old schoolteacher, Mrs. Mordaunt! But I did have to instil some discipline during the passage—their beloved uncle Will has spoilt them terribly. But they are both good boys, Red, and I’m sure that you and Magdalen will have no trouble with them.”

“Magdalen has a way with youngsters,” Red assured her. “And probably a change of scene will be of benefit to both of them. The Grammar School is excellent, I’m told—and renowned for its discipline!” He helped himself to a second cup of tea, feeling a trifle awkward in her presence, the memory of Johnny’s reaction to her unexpected absence still rankling.

She had changed, he decided, studying her lovely, piquant face over the rim of his cup. The easy, infectious charm for which Kitty Cadogan had been noted was no longer in evidence. She looked pale and tired, even disillusioned. Her marriage to Johnny, he was aware, was not the happy union he had hoped his brother might find, but. . . Red set down his cup. To make conversation, while avoiding the subject of Johnny, he inquired about her passage.

“You came back with Claus Van Buren in the Dolphin, Magdalen said.”

Kitty smiled. “Yes. It was pleasant to see Claus again, and travel on board the Dolphin is always enjoyable. She is a beautiful ship, and her crew are so much better than those of other traders. Two of them are Maoris, believe it or not. One, named Korriko, is the son of a chief. I don’t know the story behind it—no one told me—but I gathered that both young men were compelled by their chief to serve Claus, in reparation for some injury the tribe did him. But—” She laughed, with something of her old spirit. “They both seemed as happy as sandboys, and Korriko was being instructed in the skills of navigation. Claus told me he intends to return them to their tribe on his next trip, as a reward for good behaviour, but I don’t believe that either of them really wants to be returned.”

Red smiled to himself. What Kitty had just told him about the two Maori seamen was, he thought, typical of Claus Van Buren’s dealings with New Zealand’s native inhabitants. He trusted and respected them, and they returned his trust in full measure, which made him what they called a pakeha Maori. He had not seen Claus’s trading post at Rangirata, but he had heard much about it and knew that one of the Yates brothers—the elder, Robert—acted as manager and had married a daughter of the chief, Te Anga. Te Anga had strong links of kinship with the Waikato and, in particular, with Rewi Maniapoto and Wiremu Kingi, so that his position, should the Waikato break out in rebellion, was a matter for speculation.

To his surprise, Kitty went on, “Robert Yates was with us, as well as Simon, Red.”

“Robert? I thought he was managing the trading post for Claus?”

“He was,” Kitty confirmed. “I’m not quite clear as to what happened, but his wife, who was a Maori girl, was recalled to the tribe by her father, the chief. And the chief advised Robert to leave Rangirata for a while. The post is being managed by a Maori.”

Which did not augur well for Te Anga’s adherence to peace, Red decided. And probably it was the reason why Claus intended to put his two Maori seamen ashore on his next call at the trading post.

Uncannily, as if she had read his thoughts, Kitty said, in a flat, expressionless voice, “I have tried to wean those two boys from the prospect of war, Red, but in truth, I fear that peace between settlers and Maoris is a long way off, for all the governor’s efforts. He went with General Cameron, Captain Seymour, and Premier Fox to Russell, in the Bay of Islands, just before I left Auckland, and they say he reached a good understanding with the tribes there—the Ngapuhi, I think they are called. But it is the Waikato tribes everyone mistrusts, and the general opinion in Auckland was that the new road that is planned from Drury will be a red rag to a bull. And Johnny’s there.”

“The governor has a considerable military force now,” Red pointed out. “Imperial and volunteer. And there is also the navy.”

“But not for much longer, Red,” Kitty said. “All the naval ships are to leave during the next few months—Captain Seymour himself told me. He’s expecting to return here, to Sydney.”

When Red, in his surprise, gave no reply, Kitty rose and started restlessly to pace the room. “Patrick,” she said, over her shoulder, “was out of town when I arrived, so I haven’t seen him yet. I sent a message, telling him that I would be here, so I hope he will call before long to pick me up.”

“I can take you wherever you wish to go,” Red offered, but Kitty shook her head.

“I’m sure Pat will turn up. He will be as eager to see me as I am to see him. We’re twins, you know, Red, and this is the longest time we’ve ever been apart in our lives. Over two years! I thought he would settle down happily on the farm near your uncle’s place at Bundilly, but no. He found it tedious, or so he told me in the last letter I received from him, in Auckland. He left Luke Murphy in charge of the farm and came to Sydney, and . . . ” Kitty sighed deeply, sounding half anxious and half exasperated. “What do you suppose he wants to do?”

Red stared back at her in bewilderment, and she answered her own question.

“Why, volunteer for military service in New Zealand, if you please, of all the foolishness! It appears that they are recruiting men from here to go out as military settlers, and my brother told me he has put his name down to join them. That was one reason for my coming back to Sydney, Red—to stop him, if I can.”

“One reason, Kitty?” Red echoed quietly. “And the other, no doubt, was Johnny?”

She halted and stood facing him, her beautiful face suddenly pale and tense. The story of her encounter with the Maori warriors was briefly and bitterly told, and she said wretchedly, “Johnny didn’t wait to learn why I hadn’t come back, Red. He—oh, he jumped to the wrong conclusion, made up his mind that I was having an affair with Sean O’Hara, and . . . he just went off to Drury. He did not have to go; he volunteered and simply left me a note to say he didn’t know when he would be back. I—I thought it was no use my staying, and, out of the blue, really, Will De Lancey offered me the passage he had booked in the Dolphin and could not use, if I would take care of the boys and deliver them to Magdalen.” Kitty drew in her breath sharply and added, an edge to her voice, “It was Johnny who told him I wanted to come back to Australia, Red. My husband!”

At a loss for a suitably sympathetic reply, Red was silent. It was as he had feared, he reflected regretfully—his brother’s marriage, unlike his own, was the reverse of happy and secure. Johnny had been angry and put out by his wife’s absence, but . . . he had reacted impulsively and, as Kitty had said, without waiting to learn the reason for her failure to return from her visit to Sean O’Hara’s stud farm. Perhaps, giving Johnny the benefit of the doubt, he had cause for jealousy. Kitty was a lovely young woman; she was Irish, and so, judging by his name, was the owner of the stud farm, O’Hara. The two of them would have memories of their homeland in common— more to talk about, no doubt, than she and her husband had. But . . . There were tears in her dark eyes, Red saw. Johnny had evidently wounded her deeply, and she, too, had reacted impulsively and fled to her brother—her twin brother—in an attempt to assuage her hurt.

“I’m sorry, Kitty, truly sorry.” Red got to his feet and put his arms around her bowed shoulders. “But you will go back, won’t you? Back to Johnny, I mean?”

“If he wants me to go back, Red,” she countered. “I cannot be sure of that, can I?”

She moved away from him and went to stand by the window, looking out across Elizabeth Bay and mopping at her tear-filled eyes. Magdalen came into the room. She glanced uncertainly from Red to the silent figure of her sister-in-law and offered, with suspicious brightness, “The boys are with your father, Red, and all three seem to be enjoying themselves, talking nineteen to the dozen. I was wondering—” She hesitated. “We dine at eight, Kitty, and I hope you will stay and eat with us. We . . . ”

The sound of a carriage drawing up outside caused her to break off, and Kitty turned, her face lighting up.

“Oh, that must be my brother! That must be Pat! He will have received my message.” She started towards the door and then halted and turned to apologize. “I’m forgetting my manners, Magdalen—forgive me. It’s just that I haven’t seen Pat for such a very long time, I—I couldn’t help myself.”

“Don’t worry,” Magdalen answered. “We understand, don’t we, Red? Go and meet your brother and bring him in here for a drink when you’ve exchanged your greetings.”

When they came into the drawing room, a few minutes later, they came hand in hand, both their good-looking young faces aglow—like two lovers, Red thought, as he stepped forward to bid Patrick welcome—and so alike that, save for their clothing, it was hard to tell them apart.

Patrick was not in uniform—that, at least, would be a relief to Kitty—and he said at once, “Oh, I’m still a civilian, Captain Broome. Apparently the rumour is that it’s to be peace in New Zealand—for the time being, at any rate. We’ve simply been told to hold ourselves in readiness for a call-up, if we’re needed, so I shall do just that. Now that Kit’s here, I’m in no hurry. It was a delightful surprise to receive her note.” He smiled at his sister, accepted a glass of brandy, and raised the glass in courteous toast. “Your very good health!”

They did not stay for long but took their leave and went out to Patrick’s waiting curricle, as they had entered, hand in hand.

“Poor Johnny,” Red said regretfully, when he returned from seeing them off. “Poor old Johnny!”

Magdalen eyed him questioningly. “Poor Johnny, Red? Why do you say poor Johnny?”

Red shrugged and went to put his arm round her.

“Because, my love, he has to compete with Pat Cadogan— Lord Kildare—for his wife’s regard, and I very much fear that he’s fighting a losing battle.”

“They are twins,” Magdalen reminded him.

“True,” Red conceded. He laughed. “Then I suppose I should say thanks be to God that you are not!” He bent to kiss her. “Well, perhaps we should rescue my father, darling—he’s probably had his fill of those two boys by now, don’t you think?”

“I doubt that,” Magdalen denied. “But he may have had as much of them as is good for him.” She linked her arm in Red’s. “We’ve acquired quite a family, haven’t we? And, you know, I’ll never forget what Andy said, when I first introduced him to Jessie. He looked at her, with his head to one side, very seriously, and he said, ‘She reminds me of my little sister Rosie, Mrs. Broome. Rosie was awfully pretty, and Jessie looks just like her now.’ Poor little fellow—he still hasn’t forgotten, has he?”

“No, and I don’t believe he ever will—or young Harry either, come to that, poor little devil.” Red held the door for her. “Building an empire costs lives. It’s a pity, though, that so many of those lives are of the young and innocent, who do not even know what they died for. India, Canada, Burma, Australia, and now New Zealand—I sometimes wonder if our descendants, our grandchildren, my love, will deem it worth all the effort and all the bloodshed.”

“Oh, I think they will, Red,” Magdalen asserted with conviction. “Look what a few shiploads of convicts have built up here. Surely that is something to be proud of.”

Red was reminded suddenly of the speech Governor Phillip had made, soon after the First Fleet had landed in Sydney, which—according to his father—his grandmother had so often quoted.

Here are fertile plains, needing only the labours of the husbandman to produce in abundance the fairest and richest fruits. Here are interminable pastures, the future home of flocks and herds innumerable. . . .

Well, that farsighted prophecy had been amply fulfilled, he thought; the fertile plains and the interminable pastures, the innumerable flocks and herds existed throughout the land of his birth, and brave explorers and settlers had pushed the frontiers farther afield than even Governor Phillip could have dreamed was possible.

He caught his wife’s hand, as they stood at the foot of the staircase in the shadowed hall, and answered softly, “Yes, you’re right, Magdalen. It is something to be proud of.”

Her Majesty’s corvette Pelorus, flying a commodore’s blue pennant, steamed into Sydney Harbour early in the New Year, and Red, with alacrity and anxious for news, obeyed the signal inviting him on board.

Captain Beauchamp-Seymour, his monocle firmly in his eye, offered a greeting with his usual heartiness and, in the day cabin, poured drinks with a lavish hand, beaming the while.

“Peace would seem to be the order of the day,” he said, settling himself in a chintz-covered armchair and waving Red to another. “And I must say, Broome, I have a profound admiration for Sir George Grey, who has brought it about. He won the promise of loyalty from the Ngapuhi and even talked them into accepting his notion of ‘devolved government’—tribal runangas, to which he proposes to give considerable power. But of course the Kingites and the Waikato would have none of it. The governor, with more damned guts than I’ve got, is talking of going unescorted by canoe and on horseback to Ngaruawahia, in the heart of the King country, to endeavour to parley with King Tawhaio and Wiremu Kingi and try to convince them that the road he’s building from Drury is for commercial purposes, not the prelude to war. He’ll have his work cut out to make them believe that, I can tell you!” He talked on, giving details of the governor’s peace moves and the political opposition he was meeting within the Assembly and from the dispossessed settlers.

“I’m afraid he was not best pleased when I told him I would have to withdraw my ships.” Seymour shrugged ruefully. “But Their Lordships still have this infernal bee in their bonnets concerning a threatened attack on Sydney by the Americans. I had no choice but to withdraw, Broome. They’re sending out my relief as commodore in the Orpheus—Captain William Burnett, an old Crimea hand—but until he arrives, I’m acting. The governor has asked for more ships, and—” Seymour eyed Red guardedly. “He asked for you.’

“For me, sir?” Red exclaimed, startled. “And my ship?”

Seymour shook his head. “No, not the Cossack, I’m afraid—I must keep her here.” He smiled, without amusement. “To defend Sydney! H.E. wants you in the capacity of naval adviser and, as you may know, to command the flotilla of river gunboats he’s asked the home government to supply.”

“Gunboats? No, I know nothing of any gunboats.”

“The matter is, as they say, in hand,” Seymour said vaguely. “And it’s a valid request, if the Kingites do rebel. H.E.’s idea is light-draft vessels, capable of ascending rivers, well armoured, under steam, of course, and mounting up to thirty-two-pounder guns. You would have a lively time with them, my friend, believe me.”

“Yes, sir, I don’t doubt that,” Red returned without enthusiasm. He was silent, considering what the acting commodore had said, and then asked bluntly, “Am I definitely to relinquish command of my ship, sir? And being posted to New Zealand?”

Captain Seymour smiled. “My dear fellow, nothing can be done immediately. But if Governor Grey fails to make peace, then I think his request for your services must be granted. As I mentioned, I am acting commodore, and at least until Captain Burnett relieves me, I have a free hand where appointments and postings are concerned. Grey seemed very keen to have you—you evidently impressed him very favourably during the passage from the Cape. And quite honestly, Broome, that road of his will stir up hostility among the Kingites. The military are to build it, with each regiment responsible for one section, and then, when it terminates at the Waikato River, Grey plans to have redoubts built, manned by imperial troops, and defended by guns. But . . .’’He rose and refilled both their glasses. “It hasn’t been started yet, and there’s still hope that H.E. may succeed in his efforts for peace . . . always provided he can manage to carry the politicians with him.”

“But you don’t think he will?” Red suggested.

“Frankly, no. They’re under too much pressure from the settlers, who are agitating to be allowed to reclaim their land in the Taranaki, and by new arrivals, crying out for land anywhere. Poor Sir George appealed for more ships and hopes to get them from India or China, if Their Lordships and the home government agree. If! So he does need you, Broome, and those river gunboats, you know.”

“It’s up to you, sir,” Red conceded reluctantly. “And what about command of my frigate? Have you an officer in mind?”

Seymour sipped his drink. Avoiding Red’s gaze, he said cautiously, “Yes, I have one in mind—a most deserving fellow, who has long merited a command. It would be temporary, you understand, and subject to Their Lordships’ approval, but—my first lieutenant, Brattiscombe. He was outstanding in our recent operations against the Maori. Indeed, I twice had occasion to mention him in my dispatches to the Admiralty. Your Cossack would be in very good hands with young Brattiscombe, I can promise you. She’s ready for sea, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir, she is ready for sea,” Red confirmed.

“Right, fine—that’s settled, then,” Seymour said heartily. “If Governor Grey applies for you officially, you will go to Auckland, and Brattiscombe will assume command of your ship. He’s ashore at the moment, but I’ll see that he calls on you. Another drink, Broome?”

“No, thank you, sir. I’d better make tracks.”

Red excused himself, his feelings decidedly mixed. But when he returned to the Cossack, a note from Magdalen, summoning him urgently because his father had been taken ill, put all other thoughts from his mind.

Reaching the house, he found his father in bed, the family doctor in attendance, and Magdalen, white of face but controlled, endeavouring to comfort Andy and Harry and their own little daughter, Jessie, who was in tears.

“Oh, Red!” Magdalen clung to him for a moment, as if seeking strength. “He’s very ill, I’m afraid. It’s another stroke, a—a very severe one, Dr. Maitland says. He’s doing all he can, but—” She did not complete her sentence, but he read her fear in her eyes, and his heart sank. His father had seemed so well of late, he thought wretchedly, spending his time with the two boys when they were not at school, as if their coming had given him a fresh lease on life.

“Take Jessie up to the nursery, will you, Andy?” Magdalen asked. “Tell her a story, if you can, or read to her from one of her books.”

“Yes, Aunt Magdalen,” Andy responded. “You take one of her hands, Hal, and I’ll take the other.” He turned, as the three of them reached the door, and said, with adult gravity, “Don’t worry about Jessie—we’ll look after her. And we’ll say a prayer, all three of us, for Grandpa Justin.”

“They are such good boys,” Magdalen whispered, as the door closed behind them. Tears welled into her eyes and ran, unchecked, down her pale, anxious face. “And it wasn’t their fault, Red. Your father had arranged the game, ready for when they came in from school. He put up the—the stumps himself, and he was looking forward to it, I know. But I’m afraid it was too much for him. They were playing on the lawn, and I was watching them from the window and—and thinking how happy they looked. Then—Andy was batting and he hit the ball right across the garden. Your father ran to—oh, to try to catch it, I suppose, and he just collapsed by the shrubbery.” She bit back a sob. “He was unconscious when I reached him—”

Red held her close until she recovered her composure and went on.

“Andy had done all the right things—loosened his collar and his belt—and Harry and Jessie were trying to pillow his head. The servants came, and we carried him into the house, and I sent for Dr. Maitland. He came very quickly. Lockhart’s helping him.”

What more could they—could anyone—have done? Red reflected. If he had been there, he could have done no more. He crossed to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy, putting it gently into Magdalen’s hands.

“Drink that, darling,” he begged her, when she turned her head away. “Please—it will ease the shock.”

She took a few sips and then gave him back the glass. “I—I can’t, Red. I simply can’t.”

He did not insist. They waited, virtually in silence, he with his arm about her slim waist, for, what seemed to them both, a very long time. Then Dr. Maitland came in, in his shirtsleeves, his round, red face beaded with perspiration.

“You had better come to him now,” he said, with gruff pity. “I fear the end is very near for your father, Red. He has suffered another stroke, and there’s nothing more I can do for him, alas.”

They followed him into the darkened bedroom, and Lockhart, who had been the old doctor’s coxswain and had served him since they had both retired from the naval service, rose from the chair beside the bed and stood aside, yielding his seat to Magdalen.

His father was not conscious, Red saw. He lay very still, his eyes closed, his breathing barely perceptible, and Red doubted whether he was aware of their presence. He leaned forward and took one of the limp hands that lay motionless on the coverlet, holding it in his own and wishing, with all his heart, that he might somehow put off the moment of his father’s dying.

As if his touch had roused him, Justin Broome opened his eyes, and a slow, warm smile spread across his face. His lips moved, and Red, leaning closer, just caught the words.

“I’ve been a long time . . . away from them. From your mother and Jenny, Red. It’s time I went to them now.”

The blue eyes closed, the hand he held slipped from his, and Red knew that his father’s life had ended. Magdalen’s fingers grasped his arm.

“Look, Red,” she bade him softly. “How calm his face is. He is at peace.”

And it was true, he realized, with wonder. The lines had gone from his father’s face, as if by some miracle, and the face of a young man looked back at him, still and silent. And, as Magdalen had whispered, it was at peace.

CHAPTER II

In the pa of Te Mata Atia, a chief of the Ngatihaua tribe, the elders gathered to hear the news brought to them by the mission-educated spy they had dispatched, two moons earlier, to report on the road the pakeha soldiers were building through the Hunua forest to the great Waikato River.

The spy, a well-built young man named Wiremu Tata— christened, in fact, William by his missionary mentors—had worn the blue serge uniform with the letters V.R. on the breast, which denoted a so-called “friendly” of Waaka Nene’s tribe, but he had stripped it off, as soon as he entered the pa, as if it were a badge of shame.

However, under questioning by Te Mata, a commanding figure in his ceremonial cloak of vivid kaka feathers, the youth conceded that his disguise had served to win the trust and confidence of the soldiers. He was, he claimed, on terms of friendship with one young soldier in particular, a beater of the drum known to him as Dickie.

“This red garment, this Dickie who beats the drum,” one of the elders questioned, “he is a man or a boy?”

“A boy,” Wiremu was forced to admit. To regain his prestige, he added, “No longer do the pakeha warriors dress in red. This colour is too easily seen in the bush. Now all wear garments of dark blue, such as those I wore when I returned here and like those from the ships, who are called bluejackets.”

“Do bluejackets aid in building the road?” The question came sharply from the chief, and Wiremu turned obsequiously to face him.

“No, O Great One. It is said that the ships have gone. I do not know if this is so, but I have seen no bluejackets on the road, certainly.”

“And what of the road?” Te Mata pursued. “Is it a good road?”

“Indeed it is,” Wiremu assured him, without hesitation. “The pakehas have worked all summer to make it good. They have felled trees, cleared fern, broken stone. They pack the stone and hammer it, so that even when there is rain, it takes no harm. Great guns are brought along it, drawn by beasts of burden, and—”

“Great guns!” Te Mata exclaimed. He looked about him, seeing his own alarm mirrored in the faces of the elders. “To what purpose, Wiremu?”

“Why, to arm the redoubt they are building at the riverbank. It is vast and very strong. Not constructed as our pas are, with palisades and ditches, but built also of timber and earth, with platforms for the guns and huts for the soldiers within the walls.” He described the redoubt in detail, sketching its outline in the dust covering the floor of the marae. “They call it the Queen’s Redoubt, Te Mata, after Queenie Wiktoria, and it is situated at Pokeno. Now that winter comes and the rains have begun, the pakeha warriors will withdraw to Otahuhu, leaving only some of their number to guard their redoubt.”

“How many soldiers will they leave?” Te Mata demanded his heavily tattooed face creased in a frown.

Wiremu had to confess that he did not know. “I have asked Drummer Dickie many times, but he could not tell me.”

“A boy, Te Mata!” one of the elders put in contemptuously. “Wiremu Tata depends on a boy—a common soldier—for the information he brings us. We need one of the pakeha officers to put to the question, one of their commanders.”

“Yes,” the chief agreed, still frowning. “But Wiremu Tata has brought us much information of value. He has done well. He has brought us proof that Grey, the governor, is not to be trusted. This road is for military purposes, not to carry our produce for trade, as he sought to make us believe. If he uses the road to carry guns into our territory, is that not proof that he means to make war?” Heads were vigorously nodded in agreement, and he continued, “True, Grey is a brave man and a valiant warrior, as we all know. He journeyed to Ngaruawahia without escort by red garments, as we had asked, and that is proof of his courage . . . but not of his peaceful intentions. For did he not say, after his meeting with King Tawhiao, when Te Tamihana asked him what his intentions were—‘I shall not fight against your king with the sword, but I shall dig around him, until he falls of his own accord’? Those are not the words of a friend but rather of an enemy!”

Almost with one voice, the council shouted their approval of the chief’s reasoning.

“Grey is our enemy”! one old warrior burst out angrily. “We cannot trust his word. He makes promises, he offers us these runangas, by means of which we are supposed to govern ourselves . . . yet at the same time he builds a military road into our territory and sends great guns along it, to threaten us!”

“It will be war,” another prophesied gravely. “Sooner or later, it must be war.”

“The brave Rewi Maniapoto bids us prepare to do battle,” Te Mata observed, as silence once again fell. “Governor Grey is more to be feared than Gore-Browne—he is quiet and cold, and he speaks our language and purports to give us justice. But he serves the Queen Wiktoria. We should never forget that. Will he give up the Waitara land to the Ngatiawa, as he told Te Tamihana he would, when hundreds of pakehas in New Plymouth demand that he yield it to them? Grey is a pakeha—it will be their voices he will hear.”

There was a chorus of assent.

“Kill the pakehas! One of the elders rose to his feet, his right arm raised. “Is that not the message from Rewi Maniapoto? Let us attack and destroy the redoubt the soldiers build, overlooking our river, before they have had time to install their great guns!”

A full-throated roar signified the feelings of the council. All looked toward the tohunga, the tribe’s witch doctor, and several voices demanded that he seek for omens. The emaciated old man emptied his bag of sticks on the ground in front of him and mixed coloured powders into intricate designs in the sand, studying them with half-closed eyes, his grey head on one side. He lit one of the powders, and a long blue flame rose almost to the roof of the marae as, in a trance, he called in a thin, high-pitched voice to Kahukura, the god of war, to make answer to his questions.

Silence fell over the assembled elders as they waited, without impatience, for their wizard to give them the verdict of the gods he had invoked—Ruhua, god of thunder and lightning, Tane, the forest god, and Whiro, god of darkness.

At last his deliberations came to an end, and the tohunga leaped to his feet, his scrawny arms forming a circle in front of him. Conscious that all eyes were on him, his voice rose to a shrill cresendo as he said, “The omens are favourable—Kahukura will lead us to victory, as he led our fathers before us! The spirits augur well. Death to the pakehas!Perform the haka and go into battle like brave warriors. Remember always—the death of a warrior is to die for his country!”

He motioned the elders to the carved door of the council chamber, and when this was flung open, it was seen that sun and rain had formed a rainbow in a great arc across the sky—the symbol of Kahukura, god of war.

Te Mata drew his mere and held it aloft, and from behind him came a roar, “Te riri! Te riri! War!”

“Tonight we will feast and our warriors shall perform the haka,” the chief declared. “And one day soon we will march with all the tribes of the Waikato to attack the pakehas in their capital of Akarana, which they call Auckland. Before that, we will destroy the redoubt at Pokeno.” He paused, waiting for silence, and then went on in ringing tones, “But it is needful that we should be well informed concerning its strength, the position of the great guns, and how many of the soldier-tribe are left to guard its walls. Te Motohi has said that we should take an officer captive and learn from him all that we must know. I have given this matter some thought, and I have a plan. Wiremu Tata, approach me!”

The young missionary schoolboy obeyed the summons, dropping to his knees before Chief Te Mata in token of submission.

“You will again don the traitor-garments in which you came,” Te Mata ordered. “And you will return to Pokeno. The boy who beats the drum—this Dickie—can you lure him to the river, to where our warriors will be waiting in their canoes, in the darkness, for your coming?”

“I will try, Great Chief,” Wiremu responded doubtfully. “But I—”

“You will do it, Wiremu. We shall allow you from now until the moon is but a silver sliver in the sky; then you will bring the drummer boy, and when we have seized him, you will run at all speed back to the soldiers’ camp and make report to the officer who is in command. You will tell him that the drum-beater is made prisoner and is like to be killed and beg him to send a search party to save him. In this way,” the chief added, addressing the elders and ignoring Wiremu’s frightened glances, “in this way, my brothers, we will seize an officer, who will be able to tell us all we shall need to know before we attack the redoubt.”

Nodding heads approved the plan. Old Te Motohi, who had first mooted it, was loud in his praise.

“An officer—the commander of the soldiers—yes, that is good, Te Mata. But can we be sure that he will come himself, if he orders a search for the drum-beater, who is but a boy?”

Te Mata smiled at him. “The drum-beater will scream and cry for mercy, Te Motohi. That will bring the officer.” His smile widened. “Armed with his knowledge, we will seize the pakeha pa and raze it to the ground! Ho, my brothers, that will be a night for celebration! We will hurl the great guns into the river, and no pakeha soldier shall be left alive to tell the tale! Go, Wiremu Tata, and do as I have bidden you. There is no time to be lost!”

It was useless to plead with his chief, the boy knew, and perhaps he could do as he had been bidden. The drummer boy trusted him; they were friends . . . he would think of some way to lure him into the trap. The promise of a woman, perhaps, or . . . Wiremu Tata stumbled to his feet. The offer of food—a feast that would make Dickie’s mouth water, for was he not always hungry, always complaining that he did not receive sufficient food to satisfy his appetite?

It was a pity that Te Mata had not given him permission to stay for the haka, which was a sight that thrilled him and set his heart beating faster. They would light extra fires, to give added light to the scene, and the picked warriors would prepare to dance, their naked brown bodies daubed in red ochre, their phallic belts girded about their waists, and their spears held aloft, as the chant began, slowly at first, then quickening to a throbbing crescendo. The dancers would bend each leg in turn, then leap into the air in unison, as if held together by a single cord, and come thundering down, beating their thighs with the palms of their hands, their voices rising in savage chorus, their mouths open, the tongues thrust out and downward, their eyes wide and rolling, with only the whites displayed.

Wiremu Tata passed his tongue over his dry lips, remembering the war dances he had witnessed and those few in which he had taken part. To dance a haka with the warriors of his tribe was infinitely more desirable than the docile hymn singing of the mission school, the wearisome lessons he had been compelled to learn, the ranting sermons to which he had had to listen in submissive silence—or face a beating administered by a muscular lay brother.

And, when the haka ended, the women and girls would be waiting. . . . Wiremu sighed deeply, as he obediently clothed himself once again in the blue serge garments of shame and prepared to return to the soldiers’ camp and the hated road. Not for him the rituals the warriors would follow, before going into battle, the precautions against evil sorcery, the symbolic cleansing in the river, which would render them tapu and under the protection of Kahukura, the god of war.

For him it was to be treachery, the betrayal of a true friend, whose death would be laid at his door. . . . He crammed on the peaked blue forage cap and watched sullenly as a group of women went out to gather kumera and hinan berries and some young men followed them, laughing and in high spirits, to trap birds and net fish for the feast that was to come. They paid him no heed, and Wiremu bewailed the day his parents had adopted the Christian faith and handed him over to the missionaries to be taught to read and letter, and to speak and understand the ugly, harsh pakeha language. Resentfully he shouted out a string of English obscenities, which, since the young men did not understand their meaning, occasioned no response.

The elder, Te Motohi, chancing to pass by, admonished him and bade him sharply to go on his way. Then, relenting, the old man laid a gnarled hand on Wiremu’s arm and said not unkindly, “The task you will perform is no unworthy one, Wiremu Tata. Victory for our warriors will depend on you alone. Be proud, boy, that you have been chosen to undertake it. When it is done, you may retun to your tribe with honour, and your valour shall be written in the moko on your countenance. Remember that, and do your duty well!”

Much heartened, Wiremu saluted, and his step was almost light as he set off on his long journey back to the soldiers’ camp.

It had been a long, hot summer, and the work of road building had been hard and monotonous, but with each regiment being allocated a measured number of miles to complete, friendly rivalry had helped to lighten the toil. Now the original twenty-five-mile-long road from Auckland to Drury had lengthened by a further fifteen miles, which carried it to the Waikato River, where the Queen’s Redoubt had been nearly completed and its guns installed.

Three companies of Her Majesty’s 70th Regiment were to occupy and defend it, the other regiments to be withdrawn to winter quarters at Otahuhu and Auckland; and with the coming of the first heavy rains, none of the departing regiments would be sorry to leave.

Adam Vincent’s promotion to the rank of sergeant had greatly improved his circumstances. Like the officers, senior NCOs were not required to undertake the backbreaking work of building the road. Occasionally, however, he had done it, in the hope of keeping up morale. Once Marcus Fisher had ordered him to join a timber-felling party in the Hunua forest, expecting him to refuse, Adam knew, with the aim of placing him on a charge and depriving him of his rank. But he had raised no objection, had simply picked up an axe and set to work with the other men, and soon after that Fisher had contrived to have himself posted to Auckland, and the regiment, now bivouacked not far from the Queen’s Redoubt, had not set eyes on him for over three months.

But now, alas, according to Sergeant Doran, he was back. “That bastard Fisher’s with us again,” Doran had said, and had spat on the ground at his feet as he made his announcement. “Back an’ more of a bloody swine than he was on board the old Pomona! He had poor Burnaby on the mat for dirty boots, if you please . . . as if any of us can have pukka polished boots on this job! And he gave Dickens and Lumley a week’s fatigues for what he was pleased to call dumb insolence! You’d best watch your step, Shannon my son, when you take the picket out tonight—Fisher’s in command of it.”

Indeed he would watch his step, Adam thought glumly. Fisher had never forgotten the aftermath of the loss of the Pomona and the part each of them had played in the rescue of the survivors, and he seldom lost an opportunity to belittle Adam or get him into trouble with his superiors. Fortunately, however, Captain Charles Shawe—a Crimean veteran and a onetime cavalry officer—was now his company commander, with Lieutenants Hobbs and Dudgeon as subalterns, all three of whom were first-rate officers and whose treatment of him left nothing to be desired.

If they had heard the rumours concerning him that Marcus Fisher had started, none of them—least of all the big, cheerful Captain Shawe—had given any sign of it. And that suited him, Adam thought; he was happy enough in his new life and was, he knew, well on his way to becoming a good soldier. He . . . The subdued murmur of voices outside his tent broke into his thoughts, and laying down the Enfield rifle he had been cleaning, he rose and opened the flap, to reveal the small figure of Drummer Dickie Smith, who came rigidly to attention. Behind him was his friend and constant companion, the Maori “friendly” Wiremu Tata, whose mission education and fluent English had led to his appointment as interpreter to the regiment.

“Well, lads?” Adam greeted them. “What can I do for you, then?” He liked them both, particularly the little drummer, who, at thirteen, was the youngest member of the 40th’s band. Dickie—everyone addressed him thus—was an orphan, whose father had been killed in the Crimea. Brought up by uncaring relatives in a London slum, he had enlisted to escape from them, lying about his age. But for all his skinny little body and poor physique, the boy never shirked his duty, and during the work on the road he had toiled as hard as men twice his age.

“I brought you a letter, Sergeant,” Dickie announced. “Mail’s just come, an’ the post corporal reckoned you’d want to have your letter right away, so I told him I’d bring it to you. ’Tis from Sydney,” he added helpfully, holding out the franked envelope. “You don’t get many letters, do you, Sergeant Shannon?”

In truth, he received none, Adam thought wryly, and wondered who could have written to him from Sydney Town. The writing, clear and childishly rounded, was unfamiliar, and still puzzled as to the writer, he thrust the letter, unopened, into the pocket of his blue serge trousers and invited both boys into his tent. The only hospitality he could offer was some of the lukewarm beer he had been drinking before their arrival, but he poured each of them a generous measure and motioned them to sit down while they drank it.

Dickie sipped his appreciatively. “Are you commanding the picket tonight, Sergeant?” he asked.

“I’m on it,” Adam confirmed. “But Captain Fisher’s commanding it, Dickie. Why?”

“You couldn’t take me with you, could you?” the boy requested eagerly, ignoring the jabbing elbow of Wiremu, which sought to silence him. “Wiremu doesn’t want me to ask you, but—”

Wiremu jabbed him again, his dark face curiously apprehensive. “You know the sergeant cannot take you, Dickie. It’s against regulations.”

And so it was, Adam knew, but to avoid wounding the boy’s pride, he said evasively, “The picket’s been detailed, lad. I couldn’t take you if I wanted to, without your name on the roster. Captain Fisher’s a stickler—he’d skin me alive if I tried.”

The picket was, as a rule, a dull formality, which most of the men avoided if they could. There had been no attacks on the road gangs; some of the local Maori chiefs had raised objections and had questioned the purpose of the road, but they had simply stated their objections to the senior officers and the chief engineer, and their people had seized the opportunity to trade profitably with the soldiers, displaying no animosity towards them as far as Adam could see.

He tried to explain this to the crestfallen Dickie, and Wiremu endorsed his words, with unexpected vigour.

“I’ll take you to a feast with some of my people, Dickie,” the young Maori offered. “I told you I would. They’ll eat well— you’ll enjoy it.”

Dickie finished his beer and nodded assent, though without enthusiam. “Yes, all right, Wiremu,” he said, cutting short the young Maori’s description of the delights in store for them in the way of food. He got to his feet and came smartly to attention.

“We’d better go. Thank you for the beer, Sergeant Shannon.”

When the two boys had gone, Adam finished cleaning his rifle and then, remembering the unopened letter, went to stretch out on his cot to read it.