Amber

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘What the hell are you doing!’ he cried as he hit out at Ropata, whose arms were wrapped around his legs.

  Ropata dodged the blow and sat up. ‘I think it is the entrance to a tomo. If you go too close it may fall in. On top of her.’

  Rian stared at him for a second, then rolled onto his belly and started inching his way towards the depression. As he neared he saw that it was indeed a hole.

  He thrust his head over the rim and there she was, standing in a pool of sunlight surrounded by darkness, gazing up at him. She had been crying and her face was dirty and there was blood on her lip, and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  Fear and relief washing over him, he barked, ‘What the hell are you doing down there?’

  ‘Baking a cake,’ she shot back. ‘What do you think I’m doing?’ Then her face crumpled. ‘I’ve been stuck down here for hours, Rian. And I think I’ve found Uncle George.’

  Part Two

  The Found Child

  Chapter Nine

  Auckland, 13 March 1845

  It’s more settled than I thought it would be. You know, for a new town,’ Kitty remarked to Simon, who was leaning on the ship’s rail beside her.

  Before them lay the short sweep of Commercial Bay, the principal water frontage to the town of Auckland. The bay itself was very picturesque, though the buildings that lined it had all the scruffy and untidy hallmarks of a rapidly established settlement, and the beach was crowded with ships’ boats, waka, barrels, crates and stacks of timber. Behind the town rose a series of rolling, fern- and bush-covered hills, and in the middle distance, a range of low mountains that were curiously flat across their tops. Puia, Haunui had said they were called—volcanoes. Kitty sincerely hoped that they were all extinct.

  Simon agreed. ‘And it’s growing by the day, it seems. I was here only last October, and I can see already that more buildings have gone up since then. Still, it is the capital, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s a pretty spot, isn’t it?’

  Simon pulled a doubtful face. ‘From here it is, yes. It’s not quite so pretty close up.’

  They were aboard the government brig Victoria, along with approximately a hundred refugees from the sacked town of Kororareka. Behind them at various points in the Waitemata Harbour were four more ships carrying the remainder of Kororareka’s evacuated residents—almost five hundred in total—and the imperial troops who had fought there.

  When the powder magazine had exploded in the basement of Polack’s Stockade and it became clear that almost all the ammunition available for the town’s defence had gone up with one very loud bang, Lieutenant Phillpotts had decided, to the anger of most of its inhabitants, to evacuate the whole settlement. In the end, though, they grudgingly consented to board the waiting ships; several buildings were already ablaze and everyone assumed that Heke and his followers would soon enter the town itself.

  Indeed, Rian, Kitty and the crew only just made it back to the Katipo’s rowboat before the Maoris swept down from the hills. By the time they had rowed out to the middle of the harbour, Kororareka was completely ablaze, black smoke curling into the sky and drifting across the hills behind and to the south of the town. They sat and watched; then, when there was little left to see, they continued across to Paihia in the wake of the ships carrying the evacuees.

  At Paihia the beach bustled with activity as the missionaries, together with their colleagues from Waimate, worked to sort the seriously injured from the merely frightened and exhausted, and administer spiritual succour and what medical care they could. The overriding sentiment was one of stunned disbelief: now that Heke’s attack had actually happened, and with such utter destruction, the residents of Kororareka were overwhelmed. Many had lost their homes and their possessions, and all had lost any sense of security they might have once had. The only slightly cheerful person was Sarah, when Kitty presented her with the cross she had taken from the skeleton in the tomo.

  ‘I’m truly sorry, Aunt Sarah,’ Kitty said, ‘but I really do think it was Uncle George.’

  ‘Lying there all this time?’ Sarah marvelled as she slipped the cross into the pocket of her apron and tried to arrange her features into an expression suggestive of someone who had just received terrible news. ‘So close and we had no idea. He must have been running away.’

  Kitty thought so, too, and for a moment imagined her uncle stumbling through the bush, gasping for breath, terrified that Tupehu would catch up with him, only to plunge into what would become his own grave. He must have lain there for days, perhaps crying out in fear and pain, perhaps waiting in silence for death to claim him.

  ‘I wonder how he got across to Kororareka?’ she said, but Sarah had already turned away and was tending to a woman with a toddler wailing monotonously with exhaustion.

  That evening Kitty and Rian had the worst argument of their married lives when Rian ordered Kitty to go to Auckland for the duration of the war that he was convinced would follow the sacking of Kororareka. They had argued upstairs in their bedroom at Sarah’s house, downstairs in the parlour (to the horrified fascination of Ngahuia and Rangimarie), and outside on the verandah—from where they could see across the bay the orange glow that was Kororareka still burning—until Kitty finally, and very reluctantly, agreed.

  So at ten o’clock that night, Rian arranged for Kitty’s passage to Auckland on one of the evacuee ships, and also for Simon’s, whom he had coerced into accompanying her, insisting that it wasn’t seemly for a woman to travel alone aboard a ship also carrying soldiers. Kitty thought that was a lot of rubbish, but she suspected Simon badly needed a break from the stress of the past few months, so she had agreed.

  The next morning a few of Kororareka’s residents returned to their smouldering homes to salvage whatever they could, while Henry Williams and Bishop Selwyn also went across to recover the dead and give them Christian burials. Kawiti’s people were still in evidence, and even helped the settlers transport their salvaged possessions out to the ships. Then, inexplicably, Lieutenant Phillpotts ordered the Hazard to fire her guns into the town to deter looters, even though there were both settlers and rebel Maoris on the streets. As utu for this unchivalrous behaviour, Heke ordered most of the buildings still standing to be destroyed, although the Anglican and Catholic churches and Bishop Pompallier’s house were to be left untouched. The evacuee ships sailed for Auckland later that day.

  Now, Kitty shifted her weight from her left hip to her right to ease the stiffness developing there. She was bruised from her left ankle all the way up to her waist and her elbow still throbbed, but Mrs Williams had examined her and declared that nothing appeared to be broken.

  ‘Are there any decent stores here?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘Depends what you’re looking for,’ Simon replied.

  ‘Nothing, really. I’m just wondering what on earth we’re going to do. We could be here for weeks.’

  Privately, Simon thought it more likely to be months. ‘There’s quite an active social scene, so I’ve heard. Not that I’ve ever been invited to be part of it, but Bishop Selwyn is apparently quite the social butterfly.’

  The Victoria’s anchor chain gave a prolonged and deafening rattle as it paid out, and the ship turned slightly as her weight settled.

  ‘We must be getting ready to disembark.’ Kitty pointed towards the shore. ‘What’s that building with the flag?’

  Simon followed the line of her arm. ‘That’s Government House, on Waterloo Quadrant.’

  ‘And that two-storeyed building just below it?’

  ‘I think that might be the Royal Hotel. I’m not sure. But that building down on the flat is the Commercial Hotel, and the one to the left of it is the Exchange, and the one further along is the Victoria. There are plenty of grog-shops here, too.’

  ‘That’s a lot of hotels,’ Kitty remarked. She pointed again. ‘Is that a stone building in the middle there? The big one? Aunt Sarah said all the buildings in Auckland were made of wood.’


  Simon squinted. ‘No, it’s brick, but there are plenty of stone buildings. The brick one is Gibson & Mitchell’s store.’

  ‘That sounds promising,’ Kitty said. ‘What do they sell?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve never been in there. There are more shops on Shortland Street as well, the main street.’

  Kitty frowned. ‘But where are all the houses? Where do people live?’

  ‘Everywhere, really. On Queen Street—that one going up the hill? And on Albert Street, and up near the barracks on Britomart Point. There are also quite a lot of homes at Official Bay. You can’t see it from here, it’s around the point.’

  ‘Where do the well-to-do people live?’

  ‘Official Bay, mostly. Or so I was told.’

  Kitty grinned. ‘Oh dear, that’s a shame, I seem to have misplaced my “at home” cards.’ She indicated the shoreline around Commercial Bay. ‘And are all those buildings warehouses and what have you?’

  ‘No, most of them are shops, businesses and professional rooms. That one you can see just on the left of Gibson & Mitchell’s is the theatre.’

  ‘Really?’ Kitty said, surprised. ‘That’s quite civilised, isn’t it?’

  ‘This is the capital,’ Simon reminded her, ‘and the social hub of New Zealand. All the smart and cultured people live here.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, Simon, it doesn’t suit you. What’s that building up there? The really big one on the ridge?’

  ‘St Paul’s Church. Opened the year before last by Bishop Selwyn himself, no less.’

  ‘It looks rather large for a town of this size,’ Kitty remarked.

  ‘Well, they say there are over three-and-a-half thousand living here now.’

  ‘It’s quite grand, isn’t it?’

  Simon looked disapproving. ‘It’s grandiose. But you know what Anglicans are like—everything has to be wildly ambitious.’

  Kitty eyed her friend, noting that he needed a haircut, that the collar of his shirt was slightly grubby, and that his normally cheerful face was pale and weary-looking. Only half in jest, she said, ‘That isn’t a note of censure I hear in your voice, is it?’

  Turning to face her, he blurted, ‘Yes, it is, actually. I’ve had enough, Kitty.’

  Surprised by his vehemence, Kitty waited for him to say something else, but in silence he turned once again towards the shore. Suspecting she knew what was at the root of his distress, she prompted gently, ‘Of the Church Missionary Society, or of religion in general? Or of God Himself?’

  Simon said nothing for a long moment, and when he did, Kitty was alarmed to hear tears in his voice. ‘I don’t think I’ve had enough of God. I’ve questioned my faith over and over and I think it’s still as strong as it was. I think it is. But I’m fed up to my back teeth with the CMS. The missionaries always have to be right, don’t they? Right about what’s best for people regardless of any other beliefs those people might have, always making moral judgements about what’s right and what’s wrong.’ He turned to face her again, lowering his voice as several people had come to stand at the rail nearby. ‘But it’s the same no matter what religion you belong to, I’m sure of it. I’ve seen it. The Catholics are just as bad as the Protestants. They’re all right and everyone else is wrong, and God help you if you don’t or won’t think the same way they do. Why is there such a drive to interfere with other people’s lives, Kitty? Why can’t they be happy just to live their own and leave other people be? I don’t think it’s right, and I don’t think they’re right. Not any more.’

  ‘The Society, you mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ Simon answered bluntly. Then he sighed, partly in frustration and partly in defeat. ‘I think it’s time I left the CMS, Kitty. I don’t think I can continue to do good works as a missionary. I’d rather just get on with living my life and keeping my faith the way I think I should.’

  Kitty wondered how much of this had to do with Simon’s very private preference for loving men rather than women. She wondered if he was lonely. But because she knew him well, and knew what an honest, honourable and decent man he was, she was sure he would never let his private needs get in the way of his faith.

  ‘Can you leave the Society?’ she asked. ‘Officially?’

  ‘Yes, or I can leave the same way you did,’ Simon said. ‘I can get on a ship and sail away.’

  She looked at him admiringly. ‘But would you? It would be a momentous thing to do, Simon. They’d never have you back. You’d definitely be burning your bridges.’

  The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘My britches?’

  Kitty laughed. ‘Your bridges, and you know very well that’s what I said.’

  There was another rattle of chains as the first of the Victoria’s boats was lowered into the slate-coloured waters of the harbour. There was no wharf, so everyone and everything would have to be rowed ashore, and the passengers had all been advised that the wounded would be disembarked first.

  An hour or so later, Kitty and Simon stood on the beach alongside Kitty’s small travelling trunk. They had been told to find private accommodation: as a woman with no children, Kitty was not eligible for one of the empty houses being made available to the evacuees.

  ‘Any ideas about where you’d like to stay?’ Simon asked.

  ‘We’re not refugees so we’ll have to pay,’ Kitty said, adding sourly, ‘I’m only a wife whose husband doesn’t think she can look after herself.’

  Simon gave her a look. ‘That’s good, coming from a woman who recently spent six hours in an underground cave, calling for help and with nothing but a skeleton and a weta for company.’

  Kitty ignored him. ‘I think we should enquire about boarding houses. If there are any.’

  ‘I’m sure there are,’ Simon said, stooping to hoist Kitty’s trunk onto his shoulder and grunting with the effort. ‘What have you got in here?’

  ‘Clothes, bits and pieces,’ Kitty replied as she hooked her arm through the strap of Simon’s knapsack. ‘My God, what have you got in here?’

  ‘Books, my Bible, a spare shirt. My shaving things,’ he said as an afterthought.

  ‘Well, come on then, let’s go and find somewhere before they all get taken,’ Kitty grumbled, and headed off towards the unpaved road that was Auckland’s main thoroughfare.

  His boots kicking up sand as he went, Simon trudged behind her, dodging knots of people and their belongings on the crowded beach. They crossed the street and stopped at the first hotel they came to, the Commercial, and Simon went inside to ask about accommodation, leaving Kitty standing guard over their luggage.

  He was back a few minutes later, clutching a grubby scrap of paper. ‘They have rooms in there, but I thought it looked a bit rough. But the proprietor gave me the names of a couple of women who run boarding houses suitable, according to him, for the “needs of a respectable lady”.’

  ‘So ladies only?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘I imagine so.’ Simon slipped the piece of paper into his pocket.

  ‘But where will you stay?’

  ‘I’ll find somewhere. I stayed out at St John’s College last time I was here, but I might try a hotel this time.’

  The first boarding house Simon and Kitty tried was already full, but the second, in Eden Crescent, had a room available. The landlady, Mrs Fleming, was a short, stringy woman with very thick spectacles.

  ‘Only for ladies, mind,’ she said. She gave Simon a hard look. ‘Single ladies.’ Then she glanced at Kitty’s left hand. ‘Or are you married?’

  ‘Well, actually, Mrs Fleming, I am,’ Kitty explained, ‘but my husband is up in the Bay of Islands at the moment. He’s a trader, the captain of a schooner, and he’s sent me down here for safety. The sacking of Kororareka, you know.’

  Mrs Fleming’s hands flew to her small, rather pinched mouth. ‘Oh, my Lord, yes, that was a terrible business, wasn’t it? We heard the day before yesterday. And now I hear that John Heke is on his way down here, with more rebels than you can count and every one of them ar
med with the latest in muskets and those dreadful poisonous spears they carry.’

  ‘Is he?’ Simon asked interestedly.

  Mrs Fleming nodded vigorously, the lace flaps on her house cap wobbling in sympathy. ‘So they’re saying. But I for one refuse to leave Auckland. I will not be driven off by a band of bloodthirsty Maoris, even if they do number in the thousands.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Kitty said. ‘Now, about this room?’

  But something had occurred to Mrs Fleming. ‘Excuse me, but if your husband is fighting in the Bay of Islands, who is this gentleman?’

  Simon took off his hat. ‘My name is Simon Bullock, Mrs Fleming. I am a missionary at Waimate—’

  ‘Waimate?’ Mrs Fleming interrupted. ‘That’s the mission at Paihia, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, Paihia has a mission of its own. Waimate is a little further inland.’

  ‘Have you all come down to Auckland, then, all the missionaries? I can’t say I blame you,’ Mrs Fleming said.

  ‘No,’ Simon answered patiently. ‘I believe almost everyone has stayed at Paihia and Waimate. But Mrs Farrell’s husband, a personal friend, asked me to accompany her to Auckland.’

  ‘You would know Bishop Selwyn then?’ Mrs Fleming said. ‘A fine man.’

  ‘I have met him,’ Simon replied.

  Losing patience with the gossip, Kitty interrupted. ‘About the room, Mrs Fleming?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s an attic room and it has a lovely view.’

  ‘How much is the tariff?’

  ‘Three guineas per week and I’ll require two weeks in advance.’

  Kitty thought that was rather steep, but didn’t argue. ‘Fine, I’ll take it, thank you.’

  Mrs Fleming looked slightly taken aback. ‘Do you not want to inspect it? Although I keep a very clean house, of course. No dirt, no cobwebs, no vermin. Certainly no cats, rats or mice. Filthy disgusting creatures, I can’t abide them.’

  Kitty supposed she had better cast her eye over the room. ‘All right then, but I expect I’ll still take it. I gather there will be a run on accommodation because of the evacuees from Kororareka.’