He was in a large, sloping clearing with the crossed halberds he had glimpsed earlier sitting menacingly in the centre. Down through the trees he could see a river bustling with activity as men pushed out boats and ran back and forward with supplies. Near the river was an abandoned camp, cooking pots overturned and horses running loose, eyes white with fear. They’d released the horses to let them get away from the flames. A group of Maori women ran from the camp down to the river and back carrying supplies. As he watched, a small totara tree burst into flames, showering sparks on the women, who screamed and beat their clothing.
That sight was bad enough, but the scene uphill filled him with horror.
About a hundred yards away, a row of cells lined a bank between the roots of giant totara, and in each one the face of a man was pressed against the bars. Above them the smoke billowed as the fire raced towards them. They would not be able to see the dark grey smoke yet, but they could certainly smell it. Higher, further up the hill, he glimpsed the outline of a broken lookout tower. The fire must have started up there when the earthquake shook a signal torch loose, or caused someone to drop a lit pipe into dry brush.
“You there, get back in your cell or I’ll shoot.”
Frank turned. It was the voice he had recognized the first time he heard the carbines being engaged, and now, suddenly, he knew who it was. He turned slowly, his hands raised above his head.
“Wilson?”
The man looked at him, his carbine pointed towards Frank’s heart, a man with whom he had once played cards, laughing and joking about bounty heads. Back then, a few short months ago, Wilson was a member of the Armed Constabulary, and apparently still was: he was dressed in a shawl kilt, the bush uniform of the constabulary, and a trooper’s hat. If this was a camp run by the Armed Constabulary, they were operating outside the law.
“Wilson?” he said again. “It’s me, Sergeant Hardy, Frank Hardy, from Palmerston. Surely you remember me?”
Wilson stared at him blankly, then nodded. But his face was void of emotion. “Yeah mate,” he said. “I remember you.” He raised his carbine and looked down the barrel at Frank. “Doesn’t mean I can let you live though.”
Frank had been in close fighting before and knew he should attack before his opponent had time to steady his aim. He didn’t wait to reason with Wilson, but threw himself at the sergeant’s legs. Wilson stayed on his feet, staggering slightly, but the carbine went off, deafening them both with its noise.
Frank moved before Wilson could raise the gun again – it was a dual action with a second shot already chambered – punching at Wilson’s jaw as hard as he could. This time Wilson fell back against the halberd, smacking his skull against one of the axe heads with a loud crack. A line of blood formed on the side of his skull and he slipped to the ground.
Frank was on him instantly, kneeling on his chest. He ripped the gun from his hands and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the ground fifty yards away, kicking up dirt. He tossed the gun aside and gripped Wilson by the throat. “Now, give me the bloody keys…”
Wilson writhed beneath Frank, trying to free himself. “You’re never going to get away. They’ll shoot you…”
“I need the keys,” said Frank. “There are men up there who’re going to die…”
“You’re going to let them out?” said Wilson. “Are you insane? You’re committing suicide if you go up there. If you don’t burn to death those bastards will kill you.”
“You can’t just leave them to die,” said Frank. “You wouldn’t treat your dog that way. At least give them a chance, the same way you’ve done for the horses.”
“They’re not worth it,” said Wilson. “Look Hardy, I’ll give you a chance. Start running and I won’t raise the alarm. But you can’t let the prisoners go.”
Frank raised Wilson by his collar and slammed him to the ground. “Give me the damn keys.”
He started to lift him again, but Wilson waved his hand weakly and said, “On my belt, underneath me. But it’s too late to set them free. The fire is almost… I’m supposed to leave…” He struggled, trying to push Frank off his chest. “They’re bad blokes, all of them. Let them burn…”
Frank looked up at the row of cells above them on the slope. The men were screaming now and shaking the bars, pleading to be freed. “I’ll get to them,” he said. He dragged Wilson onto his front, unhooked the ring of keys from Wilson’s belt and backed away.
Wilson staggered to his feet rubbing his head. “You’ll die with them you fool. Just be careful who you let out…there’s one there…a bad one…”
He took off running down the hill towards the water, stopping to scoop up his carbine on the way. Frank put his handkerchief over his mouth and started uphill towards the oncoming smoke. The men saw him coming and began begging him to release them first, but the only fair way to do it was to let them out in order. He started at the end closest to him.
The first man staggered out and Frank grabbed him by the arm and yelled into his ear, “Run down the hill. Get into the water and swim out as far as you can. When you see flames coming get under the water as much as possible.”
The man ran off and Frank released the next one. Soon several of them, a mixture of Europeans and Maori, were tumbling between the trees, down the hill towards the river. The gunshot sounded as the first man he had released reached the water, the noise ricocheting through the trees and back to him from all directions. The runner fell, his legs kicking up behind him, and lay without moving.
“Hell’s teeth,” he said aloud. “Why not leave them a small chance?”
He grabbed the next two who were about to leave and held them in place, facing him.
“It isn’t safe,” he said. “They’re shooting at us. Go that way.” They stared at him with stunned faces, unable to cope with what was happening to them so suddenly. “They’ll shoot you down there. Try to reach the water upriver from the boats and get to the other side. That’s your best chance.”
Even as he spoke another prisoner stumbled past him and ran towards the river. He saw two more bodies fall as a tree above the row of cells suddenly exploded with a loud crack. A spark landed on one of the men and flames shot from him as he screamed in agony. The remaining freed men began running blindly towards the part of the river they could see. They were either going to die in the fire or be shot. But he had to carry on.
He reached the last cell in the side of the hill. It appeared empty at first, and he almost left it locked. No prisoner shook the bars, and he saw only darkness inside. But he thought he heard a noise - the sound of someone speaking quietly. Peering in through the gloom he saw a figure kneeling, his head down as if in prayer. One more, he thought. The last one, and then I can save myself. He unlocked the door, not focusing on the figure. The man did not move, but kept up his prayer.
“For God’s sake man, this is no time to pray. Save yourself.”
He wrenched open the door and looked in. “Time to go. Quick.” His throat felt raspy and he started to cough. “Please…I can’t just leave you here to die.”
The head raised slowly and the man looked at him. Frank felt a chill run through his veins. Another face he knew well. The last time he had seen it was when the Armed Constabulary were rushing this man away from Papaioea Pa, squatting in a cage that was too small for his massive body. Anahera. Angry brown eyes stared at him from a face covered by moko, etched in the form of an angel – the Angel of Death.
Frank took a step back, but the sound of crackling and an intense blast of heat made him forget about his old foe.
“Whakaora koe.” he yelled, gesturing wildly towards the water, but further upstream. “Save yourself. Head away from the boats. Go upriver. The soldiers are shooting us from the river.”
He headed downhill at an angle to the boats. Anahera was behind him, running fast, crashing through the undergrowth; he neither knew nor cared what would happen to him. His instinct to survive had taken over. As he reached the riverbank a hundred yards up
stream from where the boats where pushing off, Anahera caught up with him. Frank was bent double, gasping and coughing from the smoke, and he waited for the fatal blow on the back of his head. It didn’t come. He straightened slowly and looked at Anahera, who returned his gaze, emotionless.
“You should get…” said Frank, gesturing towards the river. “Haeri atu…”
Anahera tilted his head backwards and said something. It was drowned out by the sound of a shot; a bullet bounced off the water in front of them three times like a tossed stone. Frank saw a figure standing in the last boat leaving shore. It was Wilson, who had spotted Anahera…the bad one…on the bank. But the single shot was all he had time for. He turned away and screamed at the other men in the boat as they pushed out into the centre of the river.
Turning from Frank, Anahera dived into the water and went under, surfacing a few seconds later in the middle, from where he swam with strong strokes towards the far shore. Frank followed him into the water. He’d worry about what came next when he got to the other side.
6
A Body Surfaces
Karira returned from Foxton the next day, and his news was not good.
“I talked to the men working on the dock and no one saw him disembark,” he told Mette. “The Stormbird went on to Wanganui and won’t be back in Foxton until next week at the earliest.”
“Could you go to Wanganui and talk to people at the port?” she asked.
“I’ve sent a telegram to the police there,” he said. “A constable will meet the boat and talk to the captain and crew.”
Mette sat down, her arms wrapped tightly around her body.
“Oh Will,” she said. “What can have become of him?”
“I did find out one new thing,” he said. “It confirms what Agnete said about the large Maori.”
“He really exists?” she asked.
“I spoke to a crew member who disembarked in Foxton. He was working as an attendant in the saloon. He said he saw the man Mrs. Madsen described - a large native wearing a high-crowned bowler hat, he said - although he didn’t see him speaking with Frank.”
“Could he tell you anything about him?” she asked.
“Nothing important,” said Karira. “He said he was either a killer or a copper. Said they look the same to him. I’m wondering if he was a special constable. Sometimes the Armed Constabulary hire men from the Native Police to act as guards for important people. The attendant thought the Maori might be guarding someone so that fits with my theory. It seems there was someone important on board, someone who kept to his cabin. He didn’t know who it was, and the person didn’t disembark in Foxton. I asked about that in my telegraph to the police in Wanganui.”
“Do you think it’s important?” asked Mette. “How would a special constable talking to Frank mean he would disappear? What would the Constabulary want with him?”
“I have no idea,” said Karira. “But I intend to find out. If I had a name for the mysterious person on board the Stormbird, that would be a start. Of course, it may be nothing to do with the Maori constable, if that’s what he was. Frank may have disappeared for a completely different reason.”
Mette started rocking back and forth. “Oh Will. I don’t know how I can bear this.”
“Let’s talk to Hop,” he said. “He has his finger on the pulse of the town. And he’ll feed us drop scones with jam. That will make you feel better.” Sometimes Will understood her better than Frank. She put the closed sign on the door and hooked her arm through Will’s. He patted her hand and said, “Frank will be safe, I know it. Don’t worry Mette. He’s following up on something and didn’t have time to contact us. You know he would have if he’d had time.”
Hop Li was fussing around his kitchen mixing up strange concoctions of fruits and vegetables. He’d planted a kitchen garden with a variety of plants, vegetables and fruit trees – hawthorn, quince and apricot – behind the Royal Hotel and some of it was just coming into season. The kitchen table was covered with piles of rhubarb, gooseberries and strawberries, surrounding a basin of crushed sugar. Mette and Karira watched as he whipped up a batch of pikelets, dropping them on the grill two or three at a time. He served the pikelets hot with quince jam and a dollop of cream scooped from the top of the milk in the billy, which sat on a shelf opened to the outside to catch the cool air.
“Need to keep the milk colder,” he grumbled as he mashed sugar into the top milk with a fork and whipped it to a smooth consistency. “Not much ice in this country except in the mountains. Cream goes off quickly. In America, they have ice boxes. Keeps everything cold.”
The scones melted in Mette’s mouth and calmed her slightly. It reminded her of everything good in the world and for a minute she imagined that Frank was working in his office next door, and not vanished without a trace.
Feeling comforted, she stood to leave just as the door swung open and Constable Price’s round pink face appeared. He, too, was a regular in Hop Li’s kitchen. In fact, it was becoming the de facto meeting place for the townspeople. He was not there for a social occasion, however, but on an errand, and he managed to shatter her calm with a few words.
“We’ve found a body.”
The three of them stared at him in shock. Was it Frank?
“Who…?” said Karira finally.
“Not sure,” said Constable Price. “It’s been in the water a long time from what we can see. Can’t tell. And no one has been out to bring it in yet. I sent Jimi, my assistant, out there to watch it until we get there.”
Karira put his hand on Mette’s shoulder, squeezing it tightly.
“It isn’t Frank, Mette,” he said. “It can’t be. He’s only been gone a few days.”
“I thought you could help me out,” said Constable Price to Karira. “You might know who it is, seeing it’s in your territory.” He looked at Mette and asked, “Sergeant Hardy is missing? Is this true?”
“He went to Wellington to fetch Pieter Sorensen’s sister and she arrived here without him. We haven’t heard from him,” said Karira shortly. “What do you mean, my territory?”
“Ah,” said Price. “Sorry. I mean the body is in the river beside the Papaioea Pa. I thought it might be someone you know, considering. Would you come along and help me identify him?”
Mette bit her lip and said, “I’d like to come as well please Constable Price. I want to be sure it isn’t Frank.”
Constable Price glanced at Karira and said, “Of course, if you must. It may be an upsetting sight, you know.”
“Miss Jensen is a resilient woman,” said Karira, smiling reassuringly at Mette.
“One other thing,” said Constable Price. “That Karlsen fellow, the one who’s been in town looking for his brother. He overheard me talking about the body with the mayor, and he’d like to come along as well. His brother Gottlieb has been missing for a while, and it may very well be his body.”
Mette shivered. She’d thought things could not get any worse. She caught Karira’s eye and looked away. Of course it would be Gottlieb’s body. Who else could it be? And what would happen to them all once Gottlieb was found? Constable Price would see the gash in his head made by the tomahawk and would start investigating what he would assume was his murder. And he’d know that Gottlieb had disappeared when the Gorge was closed off at either end by the Constabulary looking for Anahera. It would take no time at all for him to realize that Frank had been driving his coach through the Gorge at the right time, just days after he’d beaten Gottlieb.
They formed a small party, Constable Price and Karira on horseback, Frederic Karlsen and Mette in a borrowed pony trap, as they rode out to the pa.
The state of the pa shocked Mette. Most of the buildings, including the beautiful red-ochre meeting house with the wood carvings on the front, were gone, pulled down by workmen who were levelling the land, making it ready to be sold as sections for smaller homesteads. Further away from the river, the dry winter bush had been burned in preparation for crops, although it would
take some time to make it completely ready. On the north side, horses and drays were ploughing land where potato and kumara had once flourished. The palisade with its zig-zag entranceway was also gone, replaced by a heap of rubble and rocks to be used for the road that would pass through the centre. Two small whare, the huts families slept in, still stood at one end, near the river, and a cluster of Maori women and children sat in front of them watching Mette and her group with empty gazes.
They stopped near a small jetty lined with canoes, where Constable Price’s assistant waited for them.
“Now then, Jimi,” said Price. “Show us where the body is. Who found it?”
A sturdy young Maori girl with dark wavy hair parted in the centre and cascading below her shoulders came from the trees at the edge of the river. She was holding a bundle of washing. “I did,” she said. “I was washing clothes further up the river and saw a body rise up and move this way. I followed it until it stuck on the logs out there, then sent my little brother into town to tell Constable Price. It’s there, you can see it from here.” She pointed out to the middle of the river where what looked like an inflated plaid shirt twisted gently in the current, trapped by a stack of logs swept down from the logging camp. The back of a tow-coloured head bobbed above the shirt.
Karira removed his boots, pulled up his trousers and waded out.
“I can’t get it from here, but it looks like another Scandi…”
He stopped and looked back at Mette.
“Min Gud,” she said, her hand on her heart. “Could it be Jens at last?”
Recalled to Life Page 5
