Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  Cobb wasn’t through. Would the man never shut up? “I understand he fought bravely, sir.” As if suddenly remembering something half forgotten, Cobb hunted through his shoulder bag to extract a small packet bound with dirty twine. “I was told to give this to you.”

  Coffin accepted the package without looking at it. “Thank—thank you, Sergeant Cobb. You’ve come a long way on a difficult mission and I know you must be anxious to be on your way home.”

  “That I am, sir.” Cobb headed for the doorway, paused to glance back. Coffin had not moved, stood staring at the far wall. “Sir, I’ve done this many times. Too many, thinks I. They keep asking it of me. I’d rather they didn’t. He was your only son, sir?”

  “My only child, yes.” Coffin’s voice was raspy, quiet. He’d absorbed the news now, as he absorbed everything sooner or later. “He was a fine young man.”

  Cobb nodded understandingly. “So the report led me to believe, sir. A pity you didn’t know about him joining up. Might’ve made it easier. Hard to tell these days where anyone is or what they’re doing with their lives.” He adjusted his hat, tugging the brim snugly over his forehead. “I won’t intrude on you any longer, sir. At least he didn’t die for naught, picked off by a sniper while cooking supper. He helped put an end to Rui.”

  “Yes, of course.” Coffin sat down on one of the wooden work benches, convulsively clutching the unopened package as he stared across the room.

  Cobb was about to close the door when Coffin looked up sharply. “I want the body.”

  “There’s a soldier cemetery near the site of the battle, sir. Having been on many campaigns yourself, I’m sure you know we’ve no means for transporting the dead. Barely make do by the living. I’m sure his grave’s marked. If you want to disinter the casket and bring it all the way back to Auckland I’d say you need to take a proper mortician with you.”

  “I know. Was there anything more, Mr. Cobb?”

  “No, not really, sir. Oh, there was a senior militia officer tried to save him. Got himself killed too for his trouble. They buried him next to your son because of that. Him being a senior officer and all, he’ll have a slightly larger marker. Might help you find your son’s site.”

  “Tried to save him, you say? What was his name?”

  “Just a moment, if you will, sir.” Cobb opened the book again, the same one he’d been reading when Coffin had entered the tack room. He flipped through half the pages until he found the one he wanted. “A militia Captain. Also from Auckland, I believe. Yes. Tobias Hull.”

  “Hull?” Coffin rose so quickly from the bench that Cobb flinched. “What do you mean?”

  “Well sir, the story as I got it, and you’ve got to understand I didn’t see it for myself, is that this Captain Hull risked his life trying to pull your son to safety and was cut down while doing so. They say it was a gallant thing.”

  Coffin looked past his visitor. “Can’t be. It can’t be.”

  “Did they know each other, sir? This Captain Hull and your son?”

  “No!” Cobb eyed him askance. Noting the sergeant’s reaction Coffin forced himself to lower his voice. “No, they didn’t know each other, Mr. Cobb. I’m sure of that. He died trying to save Christopher?”

  Cobb nodded. “That’s the story they tell, sir. That sort of thing goes on all the time. Not so much of a coincidence really, when you think about it. Most of the colonials who took part in the assault were from this area.” He looked sideways at his host. “You okay, sir? Should I send for your man?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  “Again, I don’t enjoy being the bearer of bad tidings, but some poor sod’s got to do it and they keep picking on me. I’ve already informed Mr. Hull’s family, in case you’re curious.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Hull’s family. I went there first. Seems he has a daughter.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s right. Rose her name was. She would be the only surviving relative. I would imagine she took the news quite well.”

  Cobb looked genuinely surprised. “That she did, sir. Now how would you know that?”

  “I know the girl. Enough to guess how she’d react.”

  “Handled it calmly she did, sir.” Cobb opened the door of the tack room preparatory to departing. “Though I wouldn’t call her a girl, quite.”

  “No, that’s so.” Coffin’s brows drew together. “She’d be in her twenties now. Like Christopher.”

  The sergeant looked thoughtful. “Hardly blinked when I gave her the news. Not a tear. That’s one strong young woman, Mr. Coffin. Well, I’d best take my leave. Listen, sir. I’ve lost one of my own boys in this stinking war. So when I say I know what you’re feeling, I do so honestly, from the heart.”

  He backed out, closing the door behind him.

  Coffin stood motionless. He happened to be staring at a pile of old leather, worn-out bridles and straps Jack had stacked in a corner. They were a dirty, tangled mass, the leather black with age and horse sweat. He was shaking his head as he stared even though none were present to observe the gesture. There was no hope or joy in the room. Only darkness.

  Why had Christopher done it? And if he was that determined why hadn’t he insisted on being assigned to his father’s unit? Coffin could have watched over him, protected him, shielded him. Which was why, he knew, his son hadn’t come to him. He’d done that once, only to have Coffin all but order him back to Auckland, back to Elias Goldman’s side. Christopher knew his father well enough not to try a second time. So he’d run off to join another regiment without his father’s knowledge. Was it without his mother’s knowledge as well?

  Coffin moved to the single window and gazed up at the big house atop the manicured hill. Did Holly know? He doubted it. Christopher would have told her he was going off on business. He knew how his mother felt about her son exerting himself physically, much less about soldiering. No, he wouldn’t have told her because she would have been more vehement in her refusals than Coffin had been.

  As he exited the tack room he passed the stableman. “Sir? Are you feeling unwell, Mr. Coffin, sir?” Coffin didn’t acknowledge the query, didn’t look in his direction. Suddenly he was more tired than he’d ever been in his life.

  As he forced himself up the stone steps that led to the back entrance of the main house he thought he caught a glimpse of a shape off to one side, a tall figure clad in flax and a simple shirt who carried a long wooden staff. But when he paused to look behind the tree where he’d seen it there was nothing but neatly pruned bushes and flowers.

  The door was unlocked. He entered the empty kitchen. It was mid-morning now and Cook would be occupied elsewhere, but the downstairs maid saw him.

  “Mr. Coffin! It’s good to …,” she broke off as he trudged past her. Then she put a hand to her mouth and rushed up the servant’s stairs. He could hear her yelling as she ascended. “Mrs. Coffin, Mrs. Coffin!”

  Having no actual destination in mind, he stopped when he entered the library, sat down on a small couch. The walls were lined with books, thick leatherbound volumes he would never have the time to read, books he’d bought because a gentleman’s library was supposed to be filled with such things. The room was awash with the trappings of wealth and success: finely wrought furniture, Persian carpets, Italian crystal and hand-painted lamps. A meaningless blur of ostentation.

  The sound of feet running sounded in the hall. Then a voice: “Robert? Robert!” The joy of it was like a sword in his side. Was that how Christopher had died, he wondered?

  “Robert, it’s so wonderful to.…” She stopped, the smile vanishing from her face.

  Still beautiful, he thought as he stared back at her. She doesn’t age.

  “Robert, what’s the matter?”

  Maybe if he’d been given more time, if he’d received the news a day earlier, then perhaps he would have had time to prepare. Subtlety had never been his forte. Though he could be diplomatic at times, now he was too consumed by grief to think of tact.
/>
  “Christopher’s dead.”

  She stared at him, then leaned on the nearest chair. She didn’t look like she was going to faint, for which he was grateful. As with him it took time for the real shock to set in.

  “He was with the regiment that killed Alexander Rui and destroyed his pa.”

  He sensed dampness on his cheeks, was astonished to find that for the first time since he was a boy he was crying. Silently, steadily. It was strange. The tears fell of their own accord. Otherwise he felt no different. His chest didn’t heave, he had no trouble breathing. The water simply dripped from his eyes.

  “They told me Tobias Hull died trying to save him. Can you believe that? Tobias Hull.”

  She strode over to him and her palm slammed across his face. He looked startled. “You should have been with him! You! Not Tobias Hull!”

  “I know. I know. But I didn’t even know he’d joined up to fight. God, Holly, I didn’t know!” He rose to embrace her but she skipped back out of his reach like a frightened water bug.

  “Don’t touch me,” she whispered, eyes wide and staring. “I don’t want anybody to touch me!”

  He spread his hands helplessly. “Holly, I didn’t know. We talked once, briefly, on the road. I told him not to join up. Told him to stay with Elias and concentrate on the business. He—he seemed to agree with me. He didn’t tell you either?”

  “No. No, he didn’t tell me.” She looked up at him, her face agonized. “It should have been you, Robert. Why was Tobias Hull there and not you? Why?” Her tone was shrill, unstable, and it worried him.

  “I told you. I thought he’d agreed to stay here, at work.” He advanced slowly toward her. She kept backing up until she bumped into the reading table. Both hands were cupped over her face now, hiding everything except wide, frightened eyes.

  “It can’t be. It’s a mistake.”

  “It’s not a mistake. I wish to God it were but it’s not. The man who told me didn’t seem the sort to make those kinds of mistakes.”

  “Then it’s a lie. He lied.” Suddenly she was furious. “It’s got to be a lie!”

  She kept repeating it, over and over, as he finally grabbed her in his arms. She began pounding both fists against his chest and he let her flail away, holding her as tightly as he dared. Gradually her fury and her strength ebbed. She sagged against him, sobbing uncontrollably. He didn’t know how long they stood there like that. Eventually she pushed away. The blank look she wore scared him.

  “I—I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to tell Cook.” She turned and walked halfway to the door before she crumpled like a doll made of straw.

  “Holly!” He rushed to her side, turned her over. She stared back, but not at him. Not at anything. He screamed into the hall. “Mary! Mary, get in here!”

  He picked her up. She’d always been slight but now she seemed tighter than ever. The downstairs maid arrived and gasped at the non-expression on her mistress’s face.

  “Get Jack. Tell him to take the best horse and ride to Dr. Hamilcar’s. Get him back here fast.”

  “Yes sir.” She turned and ran without remembering to curtsey.

  “Tell him to hurry!”

  He carried Holly up the stairs, slid back the covers on the big bed and set her down gently. The bed was an ornately carved mass of walnut that had belonged to some Portuguese duke or baron. It had been brought around the Cape in sections. Holly looked very small alone in the center of it.

  He placed his hand over her breast, felt her heart beating steadily. A filled water basin stood nearby. He soaked a small towel, wrung it out and gently dampened her face. She moaned and turned away from him.

  Coffin rose, staring down at her. He did not need to look heavenward as he thought.

  If there is a just God you will make my wife well again.

  He did not expect a reply and in this, at least, he was not surprised.

  8

  “She’ll live.”

  Hamilcar was a young man, too handsome to be a doctor. Physicians should look like kindly uncles, Coffin thought. Not like heroes from Byronic poetry. A recent immigrant, Hamilcar had quickly established himself as one of the most knowledgeable men of medicine in the colony, as well as its most skillful surgeon. Like everyone else, Coffin forgave him his appearance because of his talent.

  “She’s had a shock, a terrible shock, and she hasn’t taken it well. I’ve administered something that will help her to sleep comfortably. Right now that is what she needs more than anything else. I’m sorry about your son.”

  Coffin had explained the circumstances of his arrival and Holly’s subsequent collapse. “Never mind that now.” He nodded toward the bed. “It’s her I’m concerned about. Are you sure she’ll be all right?”

  “I said she would live. Beyond that we cannot be sure of anything until she awakens. Sometimes,” the young physician hesitated, “a shock like this can have lingering effects.”

  “I’ve been fighting a war for three years. Before that I fought Malay pirates on the high seas. I know what shock can do.”

  “Keep an eye on her after she awakens. She’ll need some nourishment. Soup would be good.”

  Coffin spoke to the maid without looking back at her. “Mary, tell Cook.”

  “Yes, Mr. Coffin, sir.” The girl vanished down the hall.

  Hamilcar closed his bag. “I’ll come back and check on her tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for your help.”

  Hamilcar left Coffin standing by the bed, staring down at his sleeping wife. I’m afraid she may need more help than I can provide, the doctor thought, but said nothing as he exited. He might be wrong, and one could always hope he was.

  Coffin spent all the rest of that day sitting by Holly’s bedside, waiting, watching as she moaned in her sleep. She tossed and turned but didn’t wake. Afternoon became night, then morning. He’d fallen asleep in the chair without realizing it. When he awoke she was still asleep. Well, the doctor said she would sleep.

  He washed his face with water from the same basin he’d used to try and revive her, took a last look at the bed, and left the room. The house, the grounds, had become oppressive, a place of grief instead of joy, despair instead of exhilaration.

  The maid saw him descend the stairs. “Mr. Coffin, sir?”

  “I’m going out, Mary.”

  “Can you tell me where, sir, in case the Mrs. wakes up?”

  “If she wakes up she’ll be all right and then it won’t matter where I’ve gone. If she does, just tell her I’ll be back soon.”

  “Yes sir,” said the maid dubiously.

  Coffin disdained the riding horses, the scrupulously maintained carriages, in favor of walking. He needed to burn some frustration. He headed for the busiest part of town, wanting to surround himself with the sounds of contented people, people engaged in ordinary mundane tasks. People whom tragedy had bypassed. When he found himself instinctively angling in the direction of Coffin House he forced himself to turn onto another street. He didn’t want to see Elias or anyone else he knew right now. Nor would he seek pity from his other employees. He didn’t want to have to guess whether it was genuine or not.

  He walked for hours. When he finally stopped he found he was standing outside Hull House. Rose might be here, he mused. Or she might be at home. Not that it much mattered. Wherever she was he doubted she’d be in mourning.

  Anyway, this was where he was.

  On impulse he entered. A receptionist eyed him curiously. Coffin was aware that after a night spent sleeping in a chair he might present something less than a reassuring sight.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Coffin looked past the man, into the bustling offices beyond. “Is Rose Hull here?”

  “I believe so, sir. She can’t see anyone. She’s very busy. As you may know, the company has suffered a tragedy recently and.…”

  “Spare me the tears. She’ll see me. Tell her Robert Coffin’s downstairs.”

  Clearly his name
if not his appearance was instantly recognizable. Not only the receptionist but several nearby clerks looked up in surprise. Coffin favored the others with a hard stare and they immediately returned to their work.

  “Robert Coffin. Yes sir, Mr. Coffin.” The receptionist rose hastily, all but tripping over the legs of his chair. “If you’ll just give me a moment, sir.” The man vanished around a corner.

  Coffin took the time to study what he could see. In their own way the offices were as impressive as those of Coffin House. That was to be expected. Tobias Hull had been almost as successful, almost as wealthy, almost as influential as Coffin. Almost.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there when the breathless receptionist finally returned. “Miss Hull will see you now, sir. If you will follow me?”

  The man led him up two flights of stairs. Unlike Coffin House, Hull House was still located close to the water. From the windows on the upper floors one could look out upon ships and busy crews.

  There was a single desk in the middle of the office and Chinese carpets on the floor. A few drawings of ships and animals had been placed indifferently on the walls. Compared to Coffin’s own luxurious facilities the place was positively Spartan.

  He expected the handsome young woman seated behind the desk to rise with his entrance. What he did not expect was for her to come around to shake his hand. He knew he was staring but couldn’t help himself. How old had Rose Hull been the last time he’d seen her? His mind held vague remembrances of a filthy, mistreated little waif with torn clothes and stringy hair. It was hard to match those to the tall, self-assured young woman standing before him.

  “I was sorry to hear about your son,” she said.

  Memories broke apart like cobwebs. “How did you know? Did the sergeant tell you?”

  “The sergeant? Oh, the man with the wide shoulders and long face. No, I knew before he came to me. There are other sources of information besides the official ones.” She returned to her seat behind the desk. “Please, take a chair.” Coffin complied, wondering what he was really doing here. It would have been more appropriate to call on her at home. But his presence did not appear to have upset her.