Karlsen pushed forward. “No. It’s my brother, I’m sure of it. Those are the very clothes he would have been wearing.”
How he knew that was unclear, as he hadn’t seen his brother for years. But for Mette, it didn’t matter if it was Jens or Gottlieb; both were terrible possibilities for different reasons. She translated for the rest of the group and Constable Price nodded.
“Could very well be,” he said. “One or the other. Someone needs to go out and pull him in. Jimi?”
“Not me sir,” said Jimi. “I can’t swim.”
“I’ll go,” said Karira. “But I’m not getting my clothes wet if you don’t mind.”
He stripped off his shirt and trousers and stood there in his cotton underwear, much to Mette’s embarrassment. The young Maori woman was not so shy, and moved forward, eying the near-naked Karira interestedly. “Willi Karira looks better without his pants than I realized,” she said to Mette.
He dived in with a clean slice that hardly broke the surface and came out further into the river, downstream from where the body was caught, and then turned and swam back against the current, making headway.
Mette moved beside the young woman. “Are you from the pa?”
The woman nodded, her eyes lingering on Karira a moment before she turned to Mette. “I’m Wiki, Wikitoria. I saw you here before.”
“I don’t remember you…”
Wiki smiled. “You were with my grandmother,” she gestured with her head towards the group sitting in front of the two whare. “She told me about you, but I saw you across the marae as well. You were interested in our food and the way we cooked it. My grandmother said they called you Hine Raumati, the summer woman.”
“Yes, that was me,” said Mette. “My name it Mette.” She held out her hand to Wiki, who took it and shook it firmly. In the water, Karira was gradually making headway towards the body. “Do you know Will?”
“Willi Karira and I grew up together,” said Wiki. “But he’s five years older than me. And he always acted as if he was better than the rest of us. His father was chief…and he went off to England to go to school.” She put her hand above her eyes so she could see him better against the reflection. “We were lucky that Moana, the wife of the chief, made us learn English, or…”
“Why are you and your family still at the pa? I heard you say your grandmother and your brother, but is your mother here? Or your father?”
“My mother left to stay with her hapu, her extended family, up north – with Moana. We need to find a place in town before she comes back. And we can’t,” said Wiki. “Nothing. Nobody will rent to us. That’s my grandmother over there, the old woman. And my two younger brothers. The others are just part of our hapu. We don’t have much room. I sleep with all the old…with my grandmother and the other women in one whare and my brothers – I have two of them unfortunately – share the other one. The boys have plenty of room. I don’t know why they don’t let me share with them.”
“I could help you find a place,” said Mette. “And Will would help…”
There was a shout from the river.
Karira had reached the body, where it was caught in a tumble of logs lodged against a sandbank. He moved the logs, and grabbed the body by the shirt. A pull and it came loose, flipped over and floated free.
“You won’t want to look at this,” he called to Mette. “I think it’s Karlsen, Gottlieb Karlsen.” She was the only one who understood fully what he was saying, and she turned away and walked back up the bank, stopping at a distance. Her new friend came with her, holding her arm solicitously.
Karira swam ashore, pulling the body with him, or what was left of it as eels had been feasting on the face. But the shirt was intact, and Mette remembered it clearly. The last time she had seen it, the wearer had tried to push her to her death into the raging waters of the Manawatu Gorge. She felt bilious about the thought of seeing him again.
Constable Price helped Karira drag the body to the mud flats at the edge of the river and turn him over. The eyes were gone and the skin hung in strips, but it was certainly Gottlieb; the face, with mouth pulled back in a horrible grin, showed uneven, loose and discoloured teeth. On one side of his head a large deep gash cut through his hair, exposing his skull.
Constable Price said the words that confirmed it for her: “Looks like someone hit him with a tomahawk.”
Frederic Karlsen stepped out into the mud, ignoring the damage to his boots. “Ah, mein Bruder, mein Bruder, was haben sie dir angetan?”
He knelt beside the horrible remains and looked at the mark on the side of his brother’s head, where the tomahawk Frank had thrown to save Mette had cleaved it open. Then he looked up at Karira, his eyes glowing with anger, and said in German, “You see? It is just as I told you. He has been killed by a Maori with a tomahawk. And you insisted it was some plot by the Armed Constabulary.”
Mette translated. Karira ran his hands through his hair to remove the water and stared at Karlsen in astonishment. “Uh, yes - ja -I suppose…”
Once more Constable Price loaded a body into a small canoe and paddled towards home, as he had done with Paul Nissen a few short weeks ago. Mette watched him go, and thought about Jens, her poor cousin and friend. Paul had appeared from the depths of the river, and now so too had Gottlieb. But where was Jens? An idea bumped around at the edge of her brain, a faint memory, but she could not grasp hold of it. Somehow, she knew what had become of Jens, but…
By the time they reached Palmerston, Karlsen had changed his theory one more time. He had merged the two theories, making them into an even larger conspiracy.
“What I believe has happened,” he said, staring intently at Mette, “is that the Armed Constabulary have hired a Maori warrior to kill Gottlieb. He is somewhat like a gun for hire in a Karl May novel, only he carries a tomahawk. Now we must look to see if we can find such a man. Perhaps you have saloons in Palmerston, where the gunslingers hang out?”
Mette explained to Karira what the new theory was.
“The good thing is that if he ever comes up with the truth no one will believe him,” said Karira. “It will just be viewed as another of his crazy ideas.”
Karlsen looked at Karira suspiciously, his eyes narrowing. They’d need to be careful. He could understand more than they realized. German and English were not that different,
Before Mette could say anything to Frederic, a vision appeared on the verandah of the Royal Hotel to distract him: Agnete, wearing a sultan-red dress, cut short at the front hem to reveal the toes of her boots, and trailing low behind in a manner entirely unsuitable for the Palmerston mud. The vision was topped off by a pale grey bonnet with a coronet brim and an elaborate puffed crown cap, of a style unseen in Palmerston, although reported on in the Manawatu Times. Frederic Karlsen took of his broad-brimmed hat and swept it before him in a deep bow. He was clearly impressed with what he saw and eager to impress in return. His brother was forgotten for the moment.
“Agnete, Mrs. Madsen, allow me to introduce to you to Mr. Frederic Karlsen of Melbourne, Australia,” said Mette. Agnete did something strange with her lips and fluttered her eyelashes at Karlsen. If she had a parasol in her hand she could have twirled it, thought Mette, and then the scene would be perfect – or perfectly awful.
She left them to get to know each other and hurried back to the book shop. She’d been gone for almost two hours and knew she had neglected her duties. To her dismay, the “Open” sign was on the door and Mr. Robinson was moving around inside.
“Goodness me, my dear, you look very worried,” he said.
“I, I’m very sorry,” she said. “But a body was found out by the pa and I was afraid it was Frank, my fiancé.”
“You have some reason to believe Sergeant Hardy has come to harm?” he asked.
Mette spilled out the whole story. Half way through he stopped her and insisted that she sit down and catch her breath.
“If only I’d known,” he said. “I’m quite able to leave my bookshop
in Foxton and stay here for the week. You must be available in case you are called upon. Please do not come in for the rest of the week. And don’t worry about money. I’ll pay you as usual.”
Mette sniffed and squeezed Mr. Robinson’s hand in gratitude. He was the nicest man she’d ever met, and she knew he meant well. But staying in her room at the back of the book shop, or with her sister in the clearing, would not help at all. She would just worry about Frank all the time, especially now that she’d seen what the river could do to a body. An image of him floating to the surface of the river was constantly in her mind, and it took all her willpower to push it away.
7
No Signs of Life
Frank came up from the depths of the river into a flaming vortex. The forest he’d just left was consumed by fire, trees exploding with loud cracks. Flames shot out above the water, followed by showers of sparks. A wall of heat hit his face. He pushed himself under the surface and swam as far as he could towards the other bank without coming up for a breath. The flames had not yet crossed the river but the heat was intense. Downstream where the boats had been moored he could see one large canoe engulfed in flames, another sitting empty but for some large smouldering bundles which have once been human. But the rest of the boats were gone. Two bodies floated face down in the water beside the burning canoes, one with steam rising from its back as if the fellow had been on fire and jumped into the river to save himself. On land, there was no sign of life. The chances of any of the prisoners Frank had freed escaping were remote. He hoped the women had been taken off in the boats and not burned to death beside the cooking pots where he’d last seen them.
He’d surfaced near a clump of kuta reeds, and he wrenched out a stem and broke it at each end as best he could to reveal the hollow interior. With the addition of the kuta tube he could stay under the water for longer periods. They’d called the same stuff sedge when he was a boy, and he’d often swum under the water breathing through the stem for play.
He worked his way downstream, staying submerged for as long as he could with his makeshift breathing tube, keeping a lookout for falling branches and sparks.
Eventually he got beyond the burn, which was moving away from him and upriver, and into calmer waters. He caught the current and floated on his back for a while, letting the river take him downstream, watching for clues to his whereabouts. He’d been captured by the Armed Constabulary, obviously, and they’d taken him to the same prison where they kept their worst offenders. The Wanganui River then, but what part of the Wanganui River? The rumours he’d heard about the mysterious Armed Constabulary prison had not been specific. Beyond the reach of the paddleboats most likely, and up into the ranges, but not so far upriver to be accessible to the Maori King Movement in the upper reaches of the Wanganui River.
What puzzled him most was why he of all people have been taken to that prison. If he’d done anything wrong in his life, it certainly wasn’t recently. His life had been dull and without action for at least three years, until he’d run into Mette – or more correctly, until she’d run into him. What they’d been through together had surely not come back to kick him in the head.
After the Armed Constabulary had captured Anahera and taken him away in a cage, his old commander Captain Porter had written to him from Poverty Bay, thanking him for his assistance in the capture. He’d noted that the Poverty Bay tribes had calmed down to such an extent that he was considering a run for mayor of Gisborne and forgoing his duties with the volunteer force.
But more pertinent, why would the Armed Constabulary be involved if this was about the rebellion? He’d heard from other sources that the Gisborne settlers were still worried about Te Kooti, but Titokowaru and his followers had turned to pacifism, and Manawatu was considered safe, other than the occasional peg removal from the settlers’ lands and other nuisances.
What was it Anahera had said, just before he dived into the river? One word. Utu? Frank remembered Ringiringi, the army deserter who’d gone over to the other side, to the rebels, telling him what that meant. Revenge? No, not exactly revenge. More like…balance. Had he been saying they were even now? That he would no longer try to kill Frank? Small solace.
He floated further, enjoying the crispness of the water. What about the colonel in the South Sea Hotel and his strange reaction? What was that about? Had something happened in India? Seemed farfetched. His memory was good, and he could not recall any awful event, like the one that drove Anahera, anywhere in his own past. Was it something he knew or had seen? And if it was related to the colonel, was it something that happened in India, or more recently in New Zealand.
The light faded. He dragged himself from the river into a quiet spot in the bush and made himself a place to spend the night. The usual bush fare was there to sustain him, and he chewed on young fern roots and huhu grubs without trying to think too much about what was in his mouth. When he’d done, he flattened some ferns and made himself a rough bed. No need for precautions. There were a few wild pigs in the bush, and rats and possums, eels in the river, but nothing threatening. Man was the most dangerous animal in New Zealand.
As the night turned to total blackness, he lay in his bed of ferns thinking about the events of the past week. Some memories had resurfaced. He remembered being on the Stormbird, and how much he wanted to avoid Agnete Madsen. He’d left the saloon level soon after they boarded and bumped into someone large in the doorway -an image of a meaty hand grabbing him by the shoulder surfaced. Had he talked to the man? He didn’t know. But the memory of a distinctive hat – a bowler of some kind – hovered in the back of his mind.
The next memory was of a boat; not the Stormbird, but a smaller boat, a rowboat he thought, or a ship’s lifeboat. He’d awoken with a pounding headache, and had vomited over the side of a rowboat. That memory was brief, but he thought he’d felt a dress brushing against his leg, the swish of silk. He must be remembering Agnete Madsen. Why would a woman take part in a kidnapping, especially in a rowboat? Had he gone voluntarily? Had someone asked for his help and then grabbed him? That possibility was ridiculous. Enough that he’d been kidnapped; adding someone, a woman possibly, who sought his help before he was kidnapped stretched credulity.
Morning came and he was awakened by the dawn chorus, hundreds of song birds starting their day with their musical chirps. He recognized the song of larks, mingled with those of the black feathered huia, and the aggressive chatter of a parson bird with its call of tui, tui, and it lifted his spirits. Now his clothes were dry, he was reluctant to go back in the water. A rudimentary track ran alongside the river and he followed it downstream. He’d lost both his boots while escaping the fire, but his feet were protected by thick woollen socks, which made the hike bearable.
The land flattened gradually and he realized he was close to Wanganui. The days were long now, and the light would linger until nine o’clock, so he pushed on, hoping to reach town before darkness came.
The sun still sat well above the horizon when he finally came upon the outskirts of town. He recognized the cemetery, and heard noises coming from a raised area he knew was Cook’s Gardens. He climbed up to the gardens, concealed himself behind a row of poplars, and saw a group of volunteers – probably the Wanganui Rifles – practising with bayonets. He didn’t know how he stood with soldiers, volunteers or otherwise and stayed hidden. Every small town in the country had such a group of volunteers, and he’d often wondered about the effectiveness of using untrained men like those. Was it worth training them? It would be difficult to instill the military discipline, so necessary during a fight, into a motley group of volunteer shop keepers and farmers. Especially as the hovering presence of physical punishment did not exist for volunteers.
A sergeant, obviously one with some actual military experience, was demonstrating the way to run at a large bag swinging from a pole, plunge in a bayonet, pull the bayonet out and keep going. While some couldn’t stick the bag at all, some of the younger men were able to run towards it and stab at it
ferociously after stopping first and lining up the bag. One young man who managed to impale the bag performed a fling afterwards, as if the whole thing was a game. Frank wondered what he would do if he was faced with an armed, experienced warrior who continued moving towards him rather than swinging gently back and forward on a pole.
As if reading his thoughts, the sergeant bellowed, “Give it a good swing and hit it again. It isn’t going to be so easy when a mad savage is coming at you with a spear.”
The young man gave the bag a hard push, and, as Frank expected, was hit by the bag on the rebound before he could get his bayonet in position. He walked back to the line of waiting men to jeers and shouts, his shoulders slumped.
Further away from the river he came upon the playing fields of Wanganui Collegiate. He’d always thought that if he had a son one day he’d send him to Wanganui Collegiate, one of the finest boys’ schools in New Zealand. A cricket game was in progress and he stopped to watch, happy to be in a civilized place again where a game of cricket was all men were fighting about.
Shouts of “A six, a six,” drifted towards him, followed by a cricket ball coming at him from on high. Without thinking, he cupped his hands and caught it effortlessly. The ball whacked against his bare skin with a satisfying sting. It felt good. Normal.
Two men ran up, both too old to be schoolboys – early twenties, perhaps?
“Good catch, sir,” said one.
But the other sneered. “Lucky catch, I’d say. This fellow has clearly never played a game of cricket in his life.”
“Give it a rest, Mountjoy,” said his companion, a young man dressed in cricket whites, with light brown hair flopping across his eyes. “Begging your pardon sir. This is a game of Old Boys against the First Eleven, and we’re struggling to keep up with them. If you’ve had any experience, we could do with assistance.”
Recalled to Life Page 6
