Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  “What?” Coffin was startled.

  “You see she is beautiful. Do not let that prevent you from making her work. She said she can do anything. This I have come to believe. She can sew and wash and cook and till a field. All these things she does well, but only if she wants to. It is good when marching to war to have a woman to look after such things.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s so.” Any man, be he soldier, volunteer, or Oxford-educated officer would take one look at Te Ohine’s panther of a daughter and make his own inferences about the services she would provide. But that was all she was going to do, Coffin told himself firmly. He would take her along because everyone seemed powerless to prevent it, but only as a favor to Te Ohine. As for himself, he had a wonderful wife waiting for him back home. There would be rumors, inevitably. Robert Coffin of Coffin House could stand aloof from such gossip. He knew exactly how he was going to handle it.

  The only thing he could not be sure of was how Merita was going to handle it.

  2

  There was plenty of whispering at first, as expected. Not because Coffin had chosen to take on a servant but because that servant was a young woman of extraordinary beauty. But as the campaign continued and Coffin’s friends saw Merita doing only cleaning and cooking and washing, the talk died down and the insinuating speculation along with it.

  Te Ohine had been right: Merita was efficient, clean, and thorough. She always seemed to be the first one in camp to awake and would not go to sleep no matter how tired until she had polished the last of his clothing. There was only one problem. He tried to ignore it and, finally failing, decided to confront it head on.

  She was washing out socks when he found her. Bending over the wash basin thrust her backside up and out toward him, as smooth and perfect a curve as a mathematician’s proof of some higher theorem. He swallowed and moved around in front of her. As he did so she looked up and smiled. The thin top she wore was soaked with soap and water and clung to her breasts.

  “Merita, you’re going to have to change your clothing.”

  “My clothing?” She looked down at herself, wringing out a sock. Water trickled into the basin. “What’s wrong with my clothing?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it.” He offered what he hoped was a paternal smile. “It’s just that there isn’t enough of it.”

  “Isn’t—ah, I understand.” She looked at him sideways. “Don’t you like to look at me?”

  “Damnation, girl, are you always so direct?”

  “So father tells me.”

  His voice fell farther than he intended. “Of course I like to look at you. There isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t want to look at you. That’s the problem. You’re distracting half the army, parading around like that. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were a secret weapon planted by the Kingites, to keep our pickets from watching the forest and hills.” She giggled and rose. Her breasts thrust out at him from behind their thin cotton covering.

  “But I like to wear this!” She executed a quick pirouette which sent the strands of dried reed she wore for a skirt swirling up as high as her waist.

  Coffin deliberately looked away, anywhere else but at her. “I know you enjoy the freedom, but if you’re going to stay in my service you’ve got to learn to wear European clothes.”

  “Pui!” She was pouting now. “All that clothing!”

  “You’ll get used to it, and when winter comes you’ll be glad of it. We’re going through Pemberton tomorrow. There’ll be a store there and we’ll find you some dresses or something.”

  “If you insist.” Her eyes flashed defiantly. “But I will not wear any of those ridiculous undergarments the pakeha women bind themselves with. I’d rather you tied me up.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” What he didn’t add was that if he insisted she wear a corset, he would be forced to show her how to put it on and take it off, and he knew any lingering physical contact would be more than dangerous.

  With the aid of a saleswoman they found Merita a couple of plain print dresses. Coffin breathed easier until he saw her returning from a stream where she’d gone to get water. In filling her bucket she’d managed to get half again as much water on herself, with the result that the dress clung stickily to every curve of her body. The result was twice as tantalizing as what she’d worn previously. Coffin could only sigh and turn away, and hope his men would do the same.

  Months into the campaign, Coffin found a surprise waiting in his tent. As he entered, a tall, slim young man turned to greet him with a familiar shy smile.

  “Hello, Father.”

  “Christopher!” Coffin embraced his son affectionately, hugging him hard before standing at arm’s length to look him up and down. “You still don’t eat enough, boy.”

  “Father, I’m twenty-four and you’re still calling me ‘boy.’”

  “You’re right, you’re right.” He gave his son a last hug, then directed him to the small folding table that was set up in the center of the tent. “I won’t do it again. Sit here. Will you have a drink? A little brandy would be good. There’s a chill in the air already.”

  Christopher took the indicated seat. “I’d like that. It’s going to be an early winter, Mr. Goldman says. Will that be good or bad?”

  “Both. Good because the fighting will slow. Bad because we haven’t caught Rui or Kingi or any of the other important Kingite leaders.” He yelled to his right. “Merita! Company! Bring the brandy!”

  “It’s not going well then? Back in Auckland you’re afraid to believe what you hear.”

  “Then believe half. That much is usually true.” Coffin grinned, overwhelmed with delight at the unexpected visit. “Maybe Rui and the rest are still free, but we’re wearing them down, Son, we’re wearing them down. Took a bunch of the dirty buggers just the other day. Stoke thinks we’re closing in on Rui’s main force. Of course, he’s been saying that for weeks. Just when you think you’ve got them trapped, you wake up to find they’re burning fields in the next province over.” He shook his head. “There’s never been a war like this, Christopher. But we’ll hold on, press ’em hard. So long as we do that the rest of the Maoris will refuse to join the rebellion. Eventually they’ll lose heart.”

  “How long is eventually, Father?”

  Coffin sat back in his seat. “I don’t know. No one knows. You can’t make predictions when your tactics and strategies change from day to day. The Maoris don’t stand still. They’re always probing us, looking for a weakness.” He leaned forward again and lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you one thing you keep to yourself. If Gold hadn’t brought in artillery I’m not sure it wouldn’t be the Maoris pressing the attack now instead of us.” He straightened and shouted a second time.

  “Merita, dammit! Where’s that brandy?”

  She entered carrying a tray with bottle and glasses. Christopher’s eyes locked on her, following every step. It neither surprised nor troubled Coffin. She had that effect on every man seeing her for the first time. She wore no jewelry and her rippling black hair was combed and bound in back. Beneath the thin dress her body moved fluidly.

  “Merita, meet my son, Christopher.”

  Christopher rose half out of his chair, nodded awkwardly. Merita replied with a curtsey. She’d been practicing, Coffin noted approvingly. This time she didn’t stumble.

  She put the tray on the table and stepped back. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Coffin sir?”

  “No, Merita. You can retire for now.”

  “Yes sir.” She was trying to be utterly formal and failing utterly. Her mischievous eyes burned into him as she curtsied again. She flashed her smile at Christopher and turned to sweep out of the tent.

  “Who,” said Christopher, still dazed, “was that?”

  “A servant girl. She was given to me by chief Te Ohine, an old friend from my Kororareka days.”

  “I remember you speaking of him.”

  Coffin nodded toward the back of the tent. “His daughter. She’s a hard worke
r.” Christopher nodded. “And rather attractive.”

  “Attractive! Father, she’s—I wish I was better with words.”

  Coffin poured until both glasses were half full. “She does have an effect on people, doesn’t she? She does all my cleaning and cooking, looks after my gear very efficiently.” His gaze came up sharply. “That’s all she does. Her father wanted her to enter pakeha service in the hope she’d learn some discipline. She’s very independent. If she wanted to I’ve no doubt she’d up and leave tomorrow and nothing I or her father or anyone else could do or say would make her stay. She’s not as pretty as some, though. Your mother when she was the same age, for example,” he half-lied.

  “At least you’re being well looked after.” Christopher sipped at the brandy. “Mother worries about you being so long on the march. I do too, you know.”

  “Do I look ill? I’m fine, son, just fine. Never felt better. How goes Coffin House?”

  Christopher sounded slightly embarrassed. “Well enough, I should say.”

  Coffin knew his son was being unduly modest. “More than that, according to the reports I receive.” He chuckled. “Poor old Tobias frets that his employees will steal him blind while he’s off fighting Kingites, while I can relax in the knowledge that you and Elias are looking after things as well as I could myself. Hull can’t leave to check on his commerce because he’d risk accusations of cowardice. I’ve seen him rant and rave when some messenger brings him news of doings in Wellington or Auckland. His face fairly crawls with frustration.”

  “You shouldn’t enjoy another’s misery so much, Father,” Christopher chided him. “I know you and Tobias Hull were never friends, but don’t you think this feud’s lasted long enough?”

  “You can’t make up and be friends with a man like Hull.” Coffin knocked back the rest of his brandy, refilled his glass. “Oh, you could try, fake the appearance of it. The old devil’s an expert at grinning and fawning. Ten years later you’d discover he’d bought you out or sold you blind. No, it’s better this way. Each of us knows where the other man stands. It’s an honest relationship, even if it is founded on something other than love and kisses.”

  “I’ll be damned, Father, if I don’t think you two enjoy hating one another.”

  “Hate?” Coffin was surprised. “There’s no hate involved. An active dislike, surely. Hate involves a lack of rationality, and neither Tobias Hull nor myself is an irrational man.” The warm imported brandy left a trail of fire as it slid down his throat. “It’s the spirit of competition that keeps Hull and me apart. Because we know that we’re the best, the cleverest. If Hull wasn’t around to keep my wits sharp, life would lose its edge. If we truly hated each other in the way you think, we wouldn’t be able to fight together against the Kingites, though it’s true we have our little disagreements on tactics. Hull, for example, would rather treat the rebels much as Alexander Rui treats his captives. He has to be watched constantly or we’d never take any prisoners.

  “Enough of Hull. What of yourself and your mother? What of home? Tell me everything.” He leaned forward eagerly.

  Christopher talked on, of friends and gossip, of the good life in the city. When his father finally steered the conversation around to matters of business, Christopher produced detailed reports written in Elias Goldman’s methodical hand. Goldman’s figures were as near to print quality as human fingers could produce.

  “Wonderful, excellent.” Coffin finally put the sheaf of reports aside. “I hesitate to say it, but this endless war’s been good to us.”

  Christopher nodded. “We’ve certainly made money these past few years. People have needed to import more, since they can’t trade with the natives.”

  Coffin nodded admiringly. “You’ve learned fast and well, Christopher. I can’t tell you what a blessing and joy you’ve been to me. Your work frees me to pursue these rebels with a clear mind.”

  “We still miss your judgement and shrewdness, Father.”

  “No, no.” Coffin waved a hand. “You and Elias have done as well as if I’d been there or not.”

  “Well—I have learned a lot. Mr. Goldman’s a marvelous teacher.”

  “Yes. I don’t know what I’d have done without Elias these past years. He’s been my strong left arm. And now you’re to be my right one.”

  “So you find that the business has been well looked after?”

  “How could anyone think otherwise after looking at these?” Coffin held up the pile of reports.

  “And that Elias has done properly in your absence?”

  Coffin eyed his son uncertainly. “Haven’t I been saying that all along?”

  “Good. Because, Father, I need to help with the war. It’s time. It’s more than time. If my presence would make you uncomfortable I’ll join one of the other regiments. Major Thierry has already offered me a commission.”

  It grew cold in the tent. “Christopher, I don’t.…”

  “Listen to me, Father!” Christopher rose and began pacing the narrow confines of the canvas shelter. “Every man of my age and station strolls about Auckland in uniform. All the girls fawn over them.”

  “If it’s women you want, son, of any status—you have money, position, power, and you’re not unattractive to look upon.”

  “It’s not that, Father. It’s what they say, the way they talk about me.” He was almost pleading.

  “What do you mean?” Coffin asked darkly.

  Christopher took a deep breath. “I mean that I’m the only man of my position and age who hasn’t participated in at least one expedition. There’s talk—there are people who say I’m a coward.”

  “No Coffin is a coward!” Aware how absurd it was to be shouting when only he and Christopher were present to hear, Coffin hastily calmed himself. “It’s ridiculous! Everyone knows that in my absence you’ve taken charge of Coffin House.”

  “But don’t you see, Father? That’s just it.” Christopher leaned forward, resting both hands on the table as he stared down at the older man. “I don’t have to run it. Mr. Goldman is there. He knows more about the business than I ever will, and he has men of his own to help him. I need to fight, Father. I don’t feel right riding home every night in that fancy carriage, taking tea with Mother’s friends while everyone I know is off helping. Look at me, Father.” He straightened proudly.

  “For the first time in my life I’m completely healthy. Even the doctors say so, and you know how they vacillate over such things. Of course, Mother still persists in treating me like an invalid, but I haven’t had a spell or attack in over a year and a half. I have to participate, Father. I have to. Otherwise I’ll have no friends left when this war is over.”

  Coffin couldn’t meet the younger man’s gaze. “You’re no soldier, Christopher.”

  “Who was, before this war began? I’m not good with a sword, but I’m an excellent shot and a decent horseman.” He lowered his voice. “You know what else they say?”

  “No, what?” Still Coffin didn’t look up.

  “They say that the presence of another Coffin would be good for the morale of the colonial troops.”

  Coffin couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “I’ve no doubt it would, but I can’t give my approval, Christopher. You’re too valuable where you are. You must understand that. I know it’s difficult for you.”

  “It isn’t fair, Father. I can’t stand aside while my friends are fighting and dying. Besides, I can speak Maori, which makes me doubly valuable. Yet I spend my time sitting home drinking tea and listening to the pianoforte, when I’m not behind a desk totaling figures. It isn’t right.”

  “Of course it is.” Coffin rose and came around the table to put his arm around his son’s narrow shoulders. “The future of the colony depends as much on keeping commerce going, on maintaining the flow of supplies and war material, as it does on the actual fighting. We need generals in logistics as badly as we do in the field. We’re more in danger of being starved out by the Maoris than we are of being beaten by th
em in combat. Business must be kept going, lines of communication kept open. If the colony’s commerce is left to men like Hull, we’ll have little to return to when the war is over.

  “Don’t you see? This way we wage a war on two fronts. You’re sort of a quartermaster general, seeing to the health and well-being of the colony, protecting their interests against raptors like Hull. That’s vital, Christopher. Absolutely vital.” He stood back, studied his son earnestly. “Can you understand that?”

  Christopher was clearly confused. He’d gone over what he intended to say to his father numerous times, until he was confident of his reasoning. As always, his father had out-maneuvered him. He’d been so sure of what he wanted before he’d arrived. Now he no longer was.

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t considered it that way.”

  “It isn’t easy because it isn’t obvious. That’s the way war really is, son. Confusing as it is complex. Keep to your work in Auckland. Only you can do that. There are plenty of others to wave sabers and pistols at the rebels but none to take your position.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Father. Maybe.”

  “Of course I’m right!” Coffin fought to conceal his relief. “You’ll stay, the night. Merita’s a fine cook and she’s learning how to use spices and pakeha utensils. I’ll tell her there’ll be two for supper. Tomorrow you can accompany us awhile, get a taste of what life on the march is really like. There’s no glamor in it, son, you’ll see. No glory. Just cold and fear and dirt. As soon as you see what it’s like I think you’ll be glad to rid yourself of these unreasonable thoughts. Though you will,” he added with a twinkle in his eyes, “have the consolation of looking at Merita for another day.”

  Christopher managed to smile at that. Thanks to the brandy, father and son were soon laughing steadily and easily. Their conversation on the road the following day was relaxed and inconsequential. Christopher made no further mention of wanting to join the militia. Coffin plied him with additional liquor later that evening. When the two men parted, it was respectfully and with affection. Christopher continued waving to his father until at last the night swallowed him up.