by Dorothy Eden
Peter Fanshawe, also, was determined to stay where he was, for how could he do otherwise, even though his hands were so wet he could scarcely hold the slippery gun, and it was quite impossible, because of their trembling, for him to take aim. He tried to call out to Briar, with her smoke-blackened face, but she was not taking her eyes off the menacing bush, and anyway his voice had been merely an almost inaudible croak. Perhaps, now that first baptism of fire was over, he would be less afraid …
Then suddenly Briar shouted, “Te Wepu! The Whip!”
Surely enough, there it floated, that long crimson pennant, over the tree ferns and raupo bushes. Te Kooti’s emblem of battle. Te Kooti was here!
Saul leaped back to his post, pushing her out of the way.
“Keep down! Don’t fire, anybody, until they’re on us!” But the attack did not come. Instead, the silence was sinister, oppressive. One of the brown forms in the ditch groaned and writhed. Sophie, in the hut, suddenly began to scream and was as suddenly silent, as if someone had placed a hand over her mouth. The serene crimson pennant floated over the green bush.
“Come on!” muttered Aunt Charity restlessly. “Come on, you devils!”
“It’s going,” said Saul suddenly, in a low voice, as if unable to believe his eyes.
“What?” demanded Briar.
“The Whip! It’s moving away. They’re retreating. Now why the devil—”
His question was answered less than five minutes later, when a wild flurry of shots sounded beyond the village. There were yells, and the sound of galloping horses.
Saul sagged momentarily against the palisade. He had not realized how tired he was, nor how empty of feeling.
“The militia’s here,” he said flatly. “It’s all over.”
XXV
SAUL WAS ALREADY in the saddle, and his horse fidgeting. He leaned down to Briar.
“I’ve told you—Lucknow still stands. Captain Maltby passed that way. I wonder,” he reflected, “why the Hauhaus left it untouched?”
“Perhaps because I mended their flag,” Briar suggested.
“Perhaps, who knows? Now do as I have said. Remain here until all danger is past.”
“Must you go?”
“Of course I must.” His tone was tinged with impatience. “This is our chance to capture Te Kooti. He’s taken to the forest, but Captain Maltby has an Arawa guide who knows all the native tricks about disguising a trail. And most of his men have been trained by von Tempsky himself. But there may be a big battle at the end, and we’ll need all the men we can get. It’s my duty to go and help to end this war, once and for all.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You must look after the others. Don’t let my mother or Aunt Charity become too overbearing. See that Sophie is well while Peter is away.”
“Must he go, too?” Briar asked in a low voice.
“He’s insisted on it. But we shouldn’t be away too long, with luck.”
“How long?”
“Three or four weeks, perhaps. Perhaps longer.”
“Sophie’s baby will be born by then, most likely.”
“Well, that’s a woman’s affair, isn’t it? There’ll be plenty of you.”
He was glad he was going, she thought resentfully. Already, now the dreadful day was over, he was full of energy again, and eager to be off.
“You haven’t washed your face.” His eyes held an unexpected gleam of amusement.
She must look a sorry figure, standing there exhaustedly with her aching eyes and her powder-smudged face.
She tried to smile, then thought of Amy Perkins and her face stiffened. “I have no more vanity.”
He slid off his horse. “And I don’t mind your black face.”
He had already kissed her goodbye, a quick perfunctory kiss that indicated his impatience to be off. But now he did so again, and this was not the polite kiss of farewell. In spite of her dulled exhaustion, a flame coursed through her veins.
“Saul—take care—”
But he did not hear her whisper. He was on his horse again and riding off, not looking back. She stared at his straight shoulders, his high dark head, until she could see them no longer in the dusk. Then she began to cry, and forgot she had not said goodbye to Peter who had ridden off a little earlier with the jingling troops.
The tears made a poor effort to wash her grimy face. She was still crouching there when Martha Peabody found her.
“Come, love. We’re all going home.”
“Home?”
“Not to Lucknow. Not tonight. But we’ll find beds for everyone. What we all need most is a good square meal.”
“Food!”
“You’d be surprised,” said Martha serenely. “And my husband will say a special grace. We prayed to stay alive, so those of us who are must be thankful.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Martha.”
“Not at all. It’s natural that you hated to see Saul go.”
“Yes, I did.” Her voice was low and full of a private surprise. “Do you think he knew?”
“Why, he’d be a fool if he didn’t. Come then, my lamb. I need help, and you’re to be my right hand, if not my left one, too.”
It was all over, the headlong flight, the tension, the waiting and the boredom, and then the sudden horrifying striking of death in the sunny afternoon.
Now it was safe to return to their homes, those whose homes still stood. And those who were alive to go.
Only now could Briar begin to realize the horror of the Masefields, dead on their way home from dancing, and Amy Perkins wastefully giving her life for a piece of finery. Though no man should judge her, for a man did not understand the hunger in a woman’s heart for pretty things which she was forever denied.
As for the rest, Fred Potter’s wound was painful but not serious, and Elisha Trott, a bandage around his head, had already reopened his store, as business might be profitable with so many people about.
Sophie, although blotched with tears after her farewell to her husband, and still complaining endlessly that she was on the verge of collapse, had come through the ordeal remarkably well. So had Aunt Charity, who walked about restlessly in her grand disheveled dress, her cheeks flushed and her hair tumbling down, an actress not recognizing that the curtain was down and the play over.
It was discovered, however, that Mrs. Whitmore had sustained a bullet wound in her upper arm. This she had wrapped up herself and concealed from Saul, but after his departure had nonchalantly asked Doctor MacTavish to look at it, and had sat stiffly upright, refusing his customary sedative of a neat brandy. She had behaved as everyone would have expected her to behave, veteran of much bloodier battles than this one had been, but afterwards her face had a gray tinge which the doctor found disturbing. He advised that she be got to bed as soon as possible.
But of all the defenders of the little fort, perhaps Katie O’Toole had behaved in the strangest manner. For she showed a morbid interest in the fallen enemy. Five Hauhau warriors in full war paint had died in the trench. Their companions had not been able to carry off their bodies, for the arrival of Captain Maltby and his troops had sent them fleeing silently through the forest.
Wishing to spare the women distress, Saul had ordered that their bodies be decently covered with fern branches until dark, when they would be removed for burial.
But Katie, wild-eyed and white-faced, had thrust her way among the men and stared painfully at each stiff and silent body. Then she had fainted.
She, too, had had to be carried from the field of battle. But when she regained consciousness she could not be persuaded to explain her behavior. She seemed to have lost her tongue. Her little, white miserable face, on which the freckles stood out like dark stains, was dumb and secretive. She only wanted to go home, she said at last.
“To Lucknow?” asked Briar.
Katie nodded, her tumbling hair a fiery pillow for her three-cornered, woefully plain face.
“Then you shall, Katie dear. Tomorrow we will be safe.
”
“It was safe today,” said Katie stubbornly.
But she would not say why. The secret had to stay locked in her heart, together with that awful nightmare of staring at the twisted brown bodies, each one, with its gleaming shoulders and long muscular legs, Rangi. Until the faces were turned to the sky and she saw that none was Rangi. And in her vast relief the sky had tipped upside down and she had fainted.
Beds were arranged for the night as best could be. The tin-roofed public house, scarcely more than a shack, was filled to overflowing. Sophie and Aunt Charity were to share one room, and Briar and Prudence another.
It was an uneasy night. Prudence sought her bed early. She was still shaky and on the point of tears after the dreadful day, and did not know where to turn for comfort. Sophie was too wrapped up in her own importance of having survived such a day in her condition, Briar seemed temporarily to have lost her keen wits and become vague and inattentive, and Aunt Charity, Prudence knew, had always despised her. After today there would be even more cause for Aunt Charity to scorn her, for she had been petrified with terror. She had crouched in the hut with Sophie, and had not been able to bring herself to venture out, even when the hideous howling of the savages and the noise of battle had died away.
It was useless to wonder why she could not be like Briar or Aunt Charity or Mrs. Whitmore, firing a gun and stimulated enough by danger to be almost unaware of it. She was not like that, and could never be. She was timid and shy and not even pretty, and it was small wonder that even Edmund had decided to forget her.
So, desperately tired and shocked and unhappy, she crept off early to the tiny makeshift room which she was to share with Briar. It was merely a lean-to at the back of the public house. When she set the candle down on the dressing table, that was an upturned packing case covered with a rather grubby piece of printed cotton, she saw that there was only one bed, and that a narrow iron one with bedding that did not look particularly clean. However, this was no time for finicky behavior and, so long as she could loosen her petticoats and lie down and rest, she would not be too critical.
She had scarcely done this, leaving the candle burning because she could not bear to be in the dark alone, when she heard a faint scrabbling beneath the bed.
She lay, frozen into rigidity, listening. Had she imagined it? No, there it was again, followed by a low moan.
Heavens, had one of those savages, wounded, sought refuge beneath her bed!
Prudence sprang out and then stood shivering, unable to bring herself to look beneath the bed.
It was a pathetic hiccupping-sob that brought her to her knees at last. Peering into the darkness she could see nothing but a minute, even darker form. Its size gave her courage. She thrust her arm underneath and dragged out the child.
A very small Maori boy stood blinking enormous eyes in the candlelight. He had been crying a great deal, as his woeful little face showed. Now he hiccupped again and said something in his own language.
“Who are you?” Prudence asked.
“Honi,” the boy whispered, his eyes downcast, immensely long beautiful lashes resting on his tear-stained cheeks.
Honi! The big Maori woman Rima’s child! A sensation of horror possessed Prudence. Rima was dead, she had seen her still body lying in that nightmare stockade this afternoon. But since Honi had taken refuge here, this must be Rima’s room. She and Briar were to sleep in a dead woman’s room! Prudence shivered, feeling sick with revulsion.
Then she realized that enormous tears were rolling down Honi’s cheeks, and all at once something happened inside her. She lost her fear, and her inclination to faint. Instead, anger and indignation swept through her, making her heart beat fast, and bringing color to her cheeks. She hurriedly put on her gown, buttoning it awry, then gathering the child into her arms went into the passage and along to the door marked BAR.
There was a great deal of noise coming from within. All the brave white men were no doubt celebrating the fact that they were still alive. They had forgotten that everyone was not so fortunate.
Prudence had never been into a bar parlor in her life. She momentarily winced at the thought, then boldly pushed open the door.
There were perhaps half a dozen men there, lounging over the counter, and behind the counter her host, Amos O’Brien.
He looked startled at her entrance, and said, “Has that little devil Honi been worrying you, miss?”
“He hasn’t been worrying me,” Prudence said clearly, in tones remarkably like Aunt Charity’s. “It just happens he’s lost his mother and no one seems to have given it a moment’s thought.”
Amos twisted his long moustache and shrugged. “Well, what can I do besides feed him? But they’re tough, these little brown devils—begging your pardon, miss.”
“He needs more than food!” Prudence declared indignantly. “He has feelings the same as us, I imagine.”
A limp, untidy-looking man with sad eyes, bleared from liquor, or weeping, one could not tell which, moved away from the bar to stand in front of Prudence.
“Honi’s not the only one to lose his mother today. My own kids have, too.”
Prudence looked at the man’s sad defeated face. This must be Joshua Perkins, Amy Perkins’ husband. He was more than half drunk already, she realized incredulously. And yet his wife lay dead and his children must be left to fend for themselves.
“More shame to you!” she declared hotly. “Standing there drowning your sorrows.”
The man nodded. “Aye, I suppose it looks bad. But the kids are all right. Jemima Potter put them to bed. They’re all asleep. And I couldn’t stand it there alone, thinking of Amy. Seeing her die like that. Yes, I guess it looks bad, me being here drinking.”
“A man has to drown his sorrows sometimes, miss,” Amos put in. “Josh doesn’t know how he’s to manage now. Three kids and no woman. And you standing there hugging that Maori brat!” he finished, with sudden anger.
Prudence could feel Honi’s arms twined around her neck. He was sketchily dressed and did not smell too sweet, but his little body had a warmth and trust that was strangely moving. She thought of Briar teaching the children to read and write and remembered how she had admired her. Here was a much greater crisis than learning letters. Was she equal to it?
A great determination and excitement suddenly possessed her. She felt oddly as if she were emerging from a cramping shell.
“This Maori brat has nothing to do with any war we’re fighting,” she said, with spirit. “And neither have your children.” She looked at the lugubrious face of Joshua Perkins. “So someone must make up to them for what they’re suffering. If you’ll allow me, Mr. Perkins, I’d be very glad to look after your children until you can make some better arrangements.”
She was aware of all the men watching her with startled eyes. Was she, she wondered with indignation, such an unlikely person? She knew she looked as if she had never washed a dish or a child’s face in her life. But she would show them she could do it as well as the next woman, and certainly better than that whining Amy Perkins, who had no doubt been responsible for a great deal of her husband’s fecklessness.
Her head went up resolutely. “Don’t be afraid I can’t manage, Mr. Perkins, because I can. I’m one of five sisters, and my mother taught us all to cook and housekeep. But I’ll only do it on condition that Honi comes, too.”
“By God!” said Joshua Perkins slowly. “By God, I believe you mean it!”
“I certainly don’t waste my time making offers I don’t intend to carry out.”
“But you’re a lady!”
Prudence’s usually pale cheeks had a flush, her eyes a sparkle. “Will that do your children any harm?”
“No, ma’am. Not at all.” Joshua’s eyes were fixed on her face almost hypnotically. “Nor me neither. Seeing as you seem to mean the offer, I’ll be glad to accept. I’m grateful to you, ma’am. And so would my poor Amy be.”
Prudence nodded. “Then let’s go, shall we?”
“I’ll take you there, but I’ll come back here to sleep. It’d hardly be the thing, a young lady—”
“As to that,” Prudence interrupted calmly, “do as you wish. But today’s been strange. I believe I’d be happier to forget the conventions and have a man close at hand.”
“The young lady’s right, Josh,” said Amos. “In these times, the main thing’s staying alive, isn’t it?”
Joshua Perkins straightened his shoulders, and looked almost sober already. “You’re quite right, ma’am. Here, let me carry the kid.”
Sophie, the next morning, did not want to go back to Lucknow. She said that never, after that dreadful time in the early morning, could she stay in that house again.
“And what do you propose to do?” asked Aunt Charity, with deceptive softness.
“Go back to Wellington, of course.”
“And how, without your husband?”
“Oh, I expect I shall have to wait until he comes back,” Sophie admitted fretfully. “Why he needed to go off on this campaign, I can’t imagine. Only seasoned soldiers are expected to do such a thing.”
“Well,” said Aunt Charity thoughtfully, “Amos might put us up here, or Jemima might let you share her loft with the children. But it wouldn’t be suitable for your baby to be born either in a public house or a loft.”
“Oh, Aunt Charity, you’re talking exactly like Uncle Hubert. Stop teasing me. I know I’ll have to go back to Lucknow for a time. But I warn you, my baby will be born much too soon.”
“If you could go through a day like yesterday and not miscarry, you can face anything, my dear. I won’t waste sympathy on you. You’re as strong as a horse. It’s your sister who’s worrying me. I believe she’s out of her mind.”
“Prue! What’s she been doing?”
“I’ve just found out that she’s not only spent the night in Perkins’ cottage, but that she intends to stay there and take care of the children, and that ne’er-do-well, Perkins.”
“Prue!” screeched Sophie.
