Coffin often reminded his friends that despite the fact that Auckland could now call itself a proper city, the colony still survived largely on the sufferance of the Maori. Whites were still seriously outnumbered. Parts of Auckland might now resemble those of an English town of similar size, but size alone did not ensure security. They still had no permanent armed garrison or standing armed force. If the Maoris ever chose to attack en masse there would be little the city’s residents could do to stop them.
Unnecessary talk, Halworthy and the other merchants insisted. Why, the natives couldn’t settle differences among themselves, therefore it was foolish to think they could ever pose a serious threat to the community. The Maoris who did not like the pakeha still preferred to fight each other. They held no ancient blood feuds with the settlers. All the New Zealanders had to do was stand aside, smile tolerantly at their bloodthirsty brown brothers, and look on as they methodically butchered themselves. Meanwhile the colony grew stronger with each passing day.
Maybe Halworthy and the rest were right. Everyone told him he worried too much. Holly was most concerned, convinced he would worry himself to death one day.
Something down on the docks caught his eye, breaking his reverie.
Christopher had not gone to the office. He still stood at quayside. Of all things, he seemed to be chatting with some filthy ragamuffin of a girl. She appeared to be about his age, a dark-eyed waif dressed in what once might have been a neat little pinafore. It was grimy and stained as a ship’s bottom.
Coffin couldn’t imagine what she might be doing here. This was no place for girls. They belonged at home with their mothers, tending to gardens or cooking or washing and cleaning, or if they came from a well-off family, promenading down the burgeoning shopping district. Not here alone among gruff and unpredictable men of a dozen races who hailed from every degenerate corner of the Pacific.
Yet as Coffin eyed her he saw she seemed quite sure of herself, not nervous at all. Her lustrous dark hair was cut unnaturally short. He wondered if she’d recently been in an accident. That’s when he put everything together and recognition struck home. It all fit: the dirty dress, the confidence, the confidence at dockside, the severe, almost punishing haircut.
He shouted and saw Christopher turn to look at him.
“Boy, get your bum up here fast as she’ll move!”
“But Father,” the thin, piping voice protested distantly, “we were just.…”
“RIGHT NOW!”
Christopher turned to face the girl. He must have said something to her because Coffin could see her nodding her head. Then the boy turned to come running back toward the dock. As he did so the girl looked up and straight at Coffin. Noncommittal, her stare, but not vague either. As if moved by something unseen she suddenly turned and bolted up the road that lined the harborfront, a bit of leggy rag swept away by an unsensed wind.
Christopher slowed as he arrived at the top of the ramp, panting hard as always, eyes downcast. He was clearly puzzled, conscious of having done something to displease his father but utterly dumbfounded as to what it might be.
“Father, did I do something bad? We were just talking.”
Kneeling, Coffin brought his face close to his son’s. “Christopher, listen closely. I don’t ever want you talking to that girl again.”
“But Father.” Christopher tried to make a joke of it. “What harm could it do? She’s just a girl.”
His father didn’t smile. “My heart’s in this, boy. Never again. You’ve plenty of playmates. If it’s girls you want to start talking with, fine and well. But not that one.”
Christopher didn’t reply, turned instead to stare down into the crowded quayside. She was gone, that was sure. When his father roared like that it could frighten the paint off a man-o’-war.
“Where’d she go? Back to her mother, I guess.”
“Her mother’s dead. Been dead some time.”
“Oh?” Odd how the boy could sound so grown-up all of a sudden, Coffin thought. “She didn’t say anything about that.”
“Wouldn’t be likely to. Just stay clear of her, that’s all.”
“Her name’s Rose.” Christopher made it sound like a protest. “She knows who you are but she didn’t know who I was. I don’t understand, Father. It’s not like she’s dangerous or anything—is she?”
“No.” Coffin rose and looked toward the city. “No, she isn’t dangerous.” He was aware that by making Christopher too curious he might end up achieving the opposite of his intentions. “I just don’t want you associating with her. It’s not her but her father who’s the problem. Her father and I, we don’t see eye to eye. Never have. I prefer it stays that way. Right through the entire family. Understand?”
“As you say, Father.” Christopher was still enough of a child to shift emotions without warning. “I’m bored. Can we go home now?”
“I thought you wanted to help Mr. Goldman with his counting.”
“Not anymore. I’m hungry.”
That was an event in itself. It was a wonder the boy found the energy to arise in the morning, so little did he eat.
“All right. I’ll take you home. But then you’ll have to play by yourself. I’ve business to attend to.”
“You’re always doing business.” Christopher started down the ramp. “I hardly ever see you. You don’t get home till I’m asleep and you leave before I’m awake.”
Coffin smiled and tousled the boy’s hair as they stepped off the ramp together. “Someone has to pay for your toys and books and tutors. Hard work is what makes our fine house and the horses and ships like the Holly possible.”
Christopher shrugged. “I guess so. Father, what do you do for fun?”
The question surprised Coffin. He smiled thoughtfully. “Your mother and I have our small pleasures, and I have toys you aren’t old enough to understand. My work is part of my play.”
Christopher mulled it over, discarded it. “Can we stop at Mr. Vanderlaan’s for a sugar tart?”
“Of course! You can have anything you want, but you must promise to eat all of your lunch.”
“I will, Father!” Christopher promised excitedly. His mother rarely took him with her to the city’s best bakery.
They were nearly there when a Maori boy appeared on the street alongside them. He seemed to pop out of nowhere, though Coffin soon realized he’d emerged from the alley on their left.
He looked to be about fifteen. A battered cap rode his bushy hair like a skiff in a storm. His shorts and shirt had seen equally rough times. He was barefoot. Without preamble or introduction he stepped in their path and extended one hand.
“Sir, I was told give you this.”
Coffin reflexively took the sheet of pounded flax and tossed the youth a coin. The boy turned to leave but Coffin held up a hand for him to stay as he unfolded the sheet. “Hold a moment, lad.” The youngster paused.
The writing was crude but legible. The characters had been sketched in an odd sort of maroon ink, of a color and consistency one might obtain by mixing octopus ink with a bright red liquid. Paint, Coffin thought. Or blood. His brow furrowed as he read.
“‘Robert Coffin. This city a good city for you. Make it your only city.’”
That was the entire message. There was no signature. He couldn’t tell how fresh the letter was though it was fading already. He looked up sharply at the activity which filled the streets, found no gaze waiting to meet his own.
“Who gave this to you?”
“A normal person, sir. An old one.”
“Tall?”
“Sir, he was the tallest person I have ever seen. I think maybe he was a tohunga.”
Coffin’s eyes snapped down to meet those of the youth. “What? What makes you think that? Did he tell you that?”
The native drew back from Coffin’s sharpness. “No sir. Sometimes you can just feel it. The wise ones are different from the rest of us.”
“Where did you see him? Where did he hand this to you to gi
ve to me?”
The youth turned to point. “Around there, sir, back in this alley.”
Coffin started toward the narrow street. “Christopher, stay here.”
“But Father, I want to come too!”
“Stay here!”
The alley running behind the row of shops and stores was deserted, the narrow accessway muddy and cut by wagon ruts. No sidewalk here to protect promenading citizens. He ran down the alley heedless of the mud and grime that splashed over his fine boots to darken the legs of his trousers. His eyes searched every recess and doorway. The road deadened in a brick wall fifteen feet high. He encountered no Maoris, tall or otherwise. A quick examination of the ground proved equally unenlightening, the slick surface a farrago of shoeprints, footprints, and the tracks of horses and mules.
It didn’t matter. The youth’s description was proof enough. Only one human being could have written Coffin the cryptic note. He was confused and puzzled as he slowly headed back towards the main street.
Of course the note had been penned by a tohunga. As it was necessary to read in order to study the Bible, many Maoris had learned to do so. But few could write. His eyes continued to flick over the recessed doorways and shadowed windows. He could still be here, hiding, watching. He raised his voice.
“Tuhoto!”
He called repeatedly, but there was no reply. Only the distant murmur of people out on the street mixed with the sloshing of horses treading the muddy road. Christopher was standing impatiently where he’d been left. Of the Maori messenger there was no sign, nor had Coffin expected him to linger.
“You didn’t see him?”
“See who, Father?”
“A tall old Maori, like the native boy said. A very tall one.”
“No, Father. I saw Mr. Voleinder. He waved to me, but I stayed here like you said to. I don’t understand, Father. What’s going on?”
“Nothing, son. Most likely just a joke.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and turned him around. “Come on now. Let’s get your sugar tart and hurry home. Your mother will be worried.”
“Aw, Mother’s always worried, isn’t she? It’s because of her I can’t go to sea with Captain Markham, isn’t it?”
Coffin hesitated, replied against his will. “No. Your mother and I make those kinds of decisions in concert. Perhaps next year you can go, when you’re a little older and stronger.”
Christopher looked away, his voice keen with disappointment. “That’s what you told me last year.”
The subject of going to sea was not mentioned again, for which Coffin was grateful. It made him uncomfortable to lie to the boy, but he had no intention of driving a wedge between himself and Holly in the child’s mind, however wrong-headed was his mother’s reasoning. Next year, he promised himself. Damn the bloody doctors! At least he could send the boy to Sydney, if not Canton or Shanghai.
He considered the strange message one last time before tossing it aside. Perhaps it hadn’t originated with Tuhoto at all. It could be a veiled warning from any ariki with a grudge against Coffin. The warrior chiefs who lived near Auckland were not a happy lot, grumbling and complaining as the city expanded onto their lands. They got drunk and fought and argued among themselves. Any of them could have paid a wise one to write the note.
Coffin shook his head. If it was a warning it should have been made clear. They wouldn’t frighten him with riddles.
2
The pa was full of dissension and bad feeling. There had already been two serious fights. That would solve nothing.
Now the chiefs sat in the meeting house and made faces at one another. They did not know what else to do and they were frustrated. Everyone calmed down only when Anita spoke. As eldest present he commanded respect from all. As senior ariki he could remember the times before the pakeha had come to Aotearoa.
“It will only anger them,” he finished.
“Then I say let it anger them!” This from Kaneho, one of the younger ariki.
“You would ruin our trade,” said another of the chiefs.
Kaneho turned on him sharply. “In what? In kumara? In eggs? Is that how the Maori were meant to live, by growing food for the pakeha?”
“It is a good business,” the chief who’d spoken reminded him.
“Pagh! We need nothing from the pakeha.”
“No? Show me how to grow a rifle and I will think more seriously of what you say.” There were murmurs of agreement from the assembly. The speaker rose, eyed his colleagues. “We need guns to fight our enemies in the south, the Opou and Arake. The only way to get guns and powder is to trade with the pakeha.”
“The Maori do not need guns,” shouted Kaneho. “We have defended ourselves before without guns.” He held up his greenstone club. “This is all the Maori have ever needed. It will split the skull of a pakeha as easily as that of an Opou.”
“But not from a distance,” observed old Aruta sagely.
“We must do something.” All eyes turned to the new speaker. Motawi had become an ariki through accomplishment and skill rather than heredity. He was proud but quiet, and men listened when he talked. Kaneho deferred to him immediately.
When he was sure he had their attention, the young chief continued. “We must show these pakeha they cannot treat us like chickens and kick us aside when it suits them. Te Rowaka is right: we must continue to trade with them, to get guns. We take from them what we need: their god, their weapons and their tools. But we must show them we can cast everything into the sea if it is our will to do so.”
“Could we do that? They are many now,” Aruta reminded him.
“Do not doubt it, wise one.”
“I know what troubles Kaneho,” said Te Rowaka suddenly. “He is not mad because we trade with the pakeha. He is mad because the tribes of the west now have most of such trade since the pakeha built their great new pa on the big harbor there.”
“I have all the trade I want.” Kaneho sneered at the older chief. “I don’t need the pakeha.”
“None of us need the pakeha,” Te Rowaka replied patiently. “We deal with them not out of need but for profit. They sell us wonders we cannot make for ourselves for baskets of eggs and grain and piles of flax. We grow more than we ourselves can use. Why risk this trade over a war just to make a point?”
“Because they are growing strong,” said Motawi. “We must show we are stronger while there is still time to do so.”
“Must we be stronger?” Aruta sounded tired. He was old and wanted only to enjoy his grandchildren. “We are men, the pakeha are men. It is not necessary to fight to prove this thing.”
Motawi shook his club, though not in the old chief’s direction. That would have been unnecessarily disrespectful. “Many pakeha do not agree with you, wise one. They call us names and regard us as inferior to them. These new pakeha are different from those who first came to settle here. They have no mana. They care nothing for us or our ways. Many of us have learned the pakeha’s words, but how many of them speak the tongue of the Maori?”
“We need to learn to live with them. They are here and we can learn from them even as we teach them our ways.” Te Rowaka did not enjoy the position of adversary but he refused to let the young chiefs have their way. “They can be managed, as we manage our pigs. Take this business of their god, this Christ, whom they insist is superior to all the old gods. We say we accept him and this makes them happy. They need not know we only put him in a place of honor alongside our own gods.
“This matter of writing, for example, is a good thing.”
“We do not need it,” Kaneho snapped. “It is not Maori. We have always been able to keep our memories without it.”
“Writing history is better than oral history.” Te Rowaka was not so easily put off. “Just as guns are better than spears. Now that many tribes have begun to sell land to the pakeha we must learn how the pakehas record these transactions.” He shook his head in wonderment. “They will not abide by word or promise but must have record of it in th
is writing of theirs. We must learn how they do this so we will not be cheated.”
“You would have us become more like the pakeha each day,” said Kaneho.
“If there is good in it, then what is the harm?” Aruta protested.
“The harm,” Motawi put in quietly, “is that we will forget that we are Maori and that this is our land. We will forget that the pakeha are here only because we say it is all right for them to be here.” His gaze swept over the circle of chiefs. “Already there are some among the pakeha who speak of taking all the land for themselves.”
That provoked some real indignation among the ariki, as Motawi had known it would. Even Te Rowaka was stunned.
“Surely they cannot think such things! They must know we would not permit it.”
“I have heard such talk.” Aruta made a dismissive wave of his hand. “The pakeha are just like Maori. A few will say anything when they have had too much beer.” There was laughter in the meeting house then.
When it died down Motawi continued. “I do not mind that we trade with the pakeha. I do mind that they continue to buy our land.” He nodded deferentially to Te Rowaka. “You are right when you say we should trade with them for guns and powder to fight the southern tribes. But they must be reminded who is master here and to whom they owe their continued presence in this land.”
Kaneho rose, too furious to sit still any longer. “What has happened to the Maori, that they sit and debate this matter like children?” He glared at Te Rowaka, impatient with Motawi’s conciliatory approach. “Does it not bother you that the pakeha sailors take our young women? That they come back to us corrupted and despoiled?”
“Women will do what women will do,” murmured one of the other chiefs. “You cannot keep them from the jewelry and money the sailors offer them. What is the harm in a little love between pakeha and Maori? Besides, many of those who go to the sailors have been corrupted before they lie with them.”
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