by Dorothy Eden
Before she could finish the reassuring words, a flock of birds, small green parakeets, flew from the bush and circled around emitting sharp cries.
They would settle in a moment, Briar thought, watching them hypnotically. If they did, it would mean they had only been disturbed by a wild pig rooting or some other innocent cause.
They did not settle. They swept in another vociferous circle. Then one of the dogs barked.
Mrs. Whitmore started up in bed. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing. Just the fine morning—”
“Why is that dog barking?.”
“I suppose there’s a wild pig—” Her voice broke off. It was too far off to see clearly, but she thought she had caught a glimpse of a tall black feather rising above the low screen of bush. The dog was now barking furiously, and had been joined by others. Surely wherever the shepherds were, they would hear …
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Whitmore. I’ll just go downstairs and make sure all’s well.”
“Where’s your gun?” Vigor had come back into the old lady’s voice. It was crisp and authoritative.
“In the hall.”
“See that it’s loaded. Bring it up here.”
Briar was at the door. “I’ll just have the doors bolted, in case—” She didn’t finish the sentence, but flew downstairs and called to Mabel and Katie.
“Have you been watching the bush? Have you seen anything?”
Katie’s face was ashen white, and she was clutching the table. Mabel was staring out of the window. “Something’s scared those dogs, missus. And it isn’t owls this time.”
“Katie! Pull yourself together. Help me bolt all the doors and windows. Mabel, see that the guns are loaded. Quickly! I depend on you.”
The last window had just been bolted when Mrs. Whitmore called from upstairs. “Briar! Bring me a gun!”
Briar grabbed the gun Mabel handed her and flew upstairs.
“What is it, Mrs. Whitmore? Have you seen something?”
“I may be old and sick, but my eyesight has never failed me. There are at least three natives moving about on the edge of the bush. They may be friendly, but I don’t think so.”
The old lady, with a wrap pulled around her, was at the window staring out. She put her hand out for the gun, and opened the window a little to aim it.
“Are you—going to shoot?” Briar whispered.
“Not yet. Hold your fire, my husband always said. Let’s make sure these are the infidels.”
She looked so gaunt and strange, with her burning eyes and disheveled appearance that Briar wondered momentarily whether her illness had affected her mentally and she thought she was back in India being attacked by the mutinous sepoys.
“Briar! If this is an attack—Ha! There’s another of the devils! See! Beyond that flax bush.”
Briar clutched the window frame. “Then they are Hauhaus.”
“Now, listen!” Mrs. Whitmore’s voice was as curt and emotionless as Saul’s in similar circumstances. “As soon a they get near enough I’ll try to pick them off. At least, my fire will attract their attention. And while that’s happening you and Katie are to be ready to slip out and make for the forest.”
“Leave you!” Briar exclaimed.
The fierce eyes held her. “You’ll do exactly as I say. I’m an old woman about to die any moment. Oh, yes, that’s true enough. My heart has been troublesome for some time, and last night—But don’t let’s waste time talking. I may be sacrificing a few weeks, perhaps only a few days of my life. You and Katie have everything ahead of you. So do as I say!”
It was impossible to defy that intense formidable voice.
“Will it be safe in the forest?”
“Safer than here. Creep under the bracken and lie still. I’ll hold the devils off. If I can’t—” she shrugged with superb indifference, “I’ll save my last shot.”
“Mrs. Whitmore! I want to tell you—” Tears were running down Briar’s face, and she could scarcely see the gaunt yellowed face propped against the window, that gaunt, unloved face that was yet, in some strange way, loved because it held so much that was now painfully familiar. “Mrs. Whitmore, I lied to you last night. I am to have a baby. I want you to know—”
Swiftly the disheveled gray head turned. “You are just saying that!”
“No, it’s true. I’ve been sure for seven whole days, and before that—in myself—I knew, although I was too stubborn to tell you.”
She was not prepared for the blazing joy in the old woman’s face. For a moment both of them had forgotten the imminent danger. They were facing each other at last. Then, in an impulsive gesture, Mrs. Whitmore put out her hand.
But before Briar could grasp it the terrible barking cry rent the still morning. The brown forms came leaping out of the bush, hatchets and spears waving. Six, eight, ten … Briar had her hands pressed tightly to her ears to shut out the dreadful whooping.
“Quickly!” screamed Mrs. Whitmore behind her. “Run! Run, I tell you. Out of Katie’s window. Keep low in the grass.”
“I can’t”.
“Not for yourself. For my grandson! Go!”
Then, with careful unhurried aim, Mrs. Whitmore fired. The shock of the noise brought Briar to her senses. She was flying down the stairs, the yelling of the Hauhaus, the crash of the gun, and Mrs. Whitmore’s voice in her ears. “This is not my country, nor yours. It’s his. Give it to him!”
She hadn’t said those last words. Yet they were in Briar’s head as surely as if they had been shouted after her. She found Katie huddled in the hall, and grabbing her hand dragged her towards her room.
“We have to get to the forest. Hurry. Mabel! Come!”
But Mabel’s panic once again had vanished when danger was on her, and with true Maori ferocity she was making terrible grimaces, while she crouched at the window with a gun, ready to take aim.
The sun struck on their heads as they scrambled through the window into the long soaking grass. It was a hundred yards down the slope to the nearest screen of trees, and then another hundred to the bush.
Another shot rang out from the other side of the house, and the yelling increased. Running for their lives, their long skirts tangling in thorn bushes, their hair tumbling down, the two girls panted and stumbled to the protection of the trees. Briar could scarcely believe that they had not been pursued. The thudding of footsteps must have been nothing but the beating of her heart.
Katie was collapsing already, gasping for breath and clutching at her stomach. The next thing, thought Briar in a moment of clarity, was that she would be coping with a miscarriage in the middle of the forest.
“Come on, Katie! Come on!”
“Oh, ma’am! I can’t!”
“You can, and you will. Mrs. Whitmore isn’t going to die in vain.”
There was another shot, and the sudden explosion galvanized Katie into movement. It was she who led the way now, skimming across the field, her skirts held up above her knees.
“Hau hau!” rang the whooping cry. “Hau hau!”
But it was farther off, and when next Briar ventured to look over her shoulder even the house looked small, and the brown forms dancing around it no more than shadows.
“They haven’t followed us,” she gasped. “But we mustn’t stop yet. We’ve got to hide.”
Katie’s hand was on her arm. “Look!” she whispered hoarsely. “Look!”
Briar stared again, and saw the wisp of smoke. “Oh, no!”
“They’re—setting fire to the house!”
Briar pressed her hands to her eyes. The yelling sounded across the green fields, wet and shining in the early sunlight. The plume of smoke thickened. Another shot came—Briar knew instinctively which one that was. The one Mrs. Whitmore had kept for herself. Abruptly the earth tilted and the wet grass caressed her cheeks.
Katie was shaking her violently and dragging her upright. “Ma’am! We’ve got to hide. They’ll soon be looking for us.”
The yellow f
lames were leaping now, and their heat seemed to touch-her icy cold face.
“I shouldn’t have left Mrs. Whitmore! I shouldn’t have!”
“And be burned to a cinder yourself? Much sense that would be. The old lady was right. She was dying, you could see that. And you and me—” A look of adult wisdom crossed Katie’s grubby sweat-stained face. “I’m right, aren’t I, ma’am? We have to save our babies.”
“If we can,” said Briar grimly, not inquiring how Katie had divined her secret.
“Oh, look!” screeched Katie. “They’ve seen us. They’re pointing. Quick! Run, run!”
With one panic stricken look at the suddenly advancing savages who were gesticulating and waving their tomahawks, Briar turned and fled after Katie into the cool wet tangle of the forest.
XXXI
AT THAT PRECISE moment, as Briar and Katie fled from their pursuers, Sophie, Aunt Charity and Peter, continuing their journey to New Plymouth, suddenly saw three horsemen approaching riding hard.
“Hauhaus!” screamed Sophie, clutching her baby to her breast.
Peter had his gun raised to fire. Aunt Charity snapped, “Put that down, you fool! Can’t you tell a Maori from a white man?”
“The second one is a Maori,” Peter flung back. His face was already wet with perspiration. Had there been any cover he would automatically have fled for it, but there was nothing in this damned plain but tussocks no more than knee high: All the same, he could probably pick off the horsemen, one by one, if his hands were steady enough to fire and reload. The second one was undoubtedly a Maori. Even at this distance his black oiled hair gleamed in the sun.
“There are some friendly Maoris,” Aunt Charity declared, and with superb aplomb stood up in the jolting wagon and waved.
The leading horseman waved back. The little group rapidly drew nearer, and suddenly Peter shouted, “It’s Saul!”
“And you’d have murdered him,” exclaimed Aunt Charity in disgust, before she composed her face into a welcoming smile for the mud-spattered horsemen.
Saul slid off his horse and in a moment his eyes had taken in the occupants of the two wagons. “Where’s my wife and my mother?”
“They refused to come, Saul. Nothing would persuade them.”
Sophie, uncovering her baby’s face, thrust him forward with a proud smile.
“How lucky meeting you, Saul. Now you can see my baby. He’s just over two weeks old. You’d hardly think it, would you? Doctor MacTavish said he’s as big as a month old baby already.”
Saul, giving no more than a glance at the pink face of the infant, interrupted curtly, “Was all well when you left?”
“Oh, perfectly.” Aunt Charity looked at the other two horsemen, standing a little way off. Heavens, one of them was surely a Hauhau, with the curling tattoo marks on his face, and his air of proud disdain.
“When did you leave?”
“Early yesterday,” Peter answered. “We’ve made good time. The road’s not in bad condition. We thought it wise to push on as fast as we could.”
“More than wise,” said Saul. “You’ll have no trouble now you’re clear of the forest.”
“Was there likely to be trouble?”
“To Lucknow, yes. Rangi—” Saul indicated the silent Maori, “told me of it. I had the bad luck to kill Te Kooti’s best friend and capture the whip. So a personal revenge as a face-saver has been planned. Lucknow isn’t going to escape this time, unless we can get there quickly enough.” He paused to say in utter exasperation, “My God, why didn’t my wife do as I told her?”
Then he was on his horse again and shouting, “You’ve only ten miles to go, but don’t waste time. Good luck!”
As the horses thundered off, Sophie exclaimed in tones of deep offense, “He scarcely looked at the baby. He wasn’t the slightest bit interested. Poor Briar! I pity her, married to such a hard-hearted creature.”
“At least he’s concerned for her safety,” said Peter, and muttered to himself, “Thank God we got out. Thank God!”
“That Maori, Rangi,” said Aunt Charity thoughtfully. “Isn’t that name familiar? Where have I heard it before?”
“How could you possibly have heard it, Aunt Charity? A heathen like that. I wonder how ever Saul can trust him!”
Saul not only trusted Rangi, but was deeply grateful to him for his warning. For it was Rangi who had discovered the plan of eight or nine young hotheads to please their great leader, Te Kooti, by riding into Taranaki to take revenge on the hated and feared white man, Saul Whitmore, by destroying his home and family.
His upbringing in Maori pas and villages had never given his white blood a chance. But recently the memory of that slim pale-skinned woman with hair like fire had stirred strange feelings in him, and he had a great longing to return to her. With this longing had come a sickening of Hauhau brutality. It was wrong and it was bad.
He spent a long night communing with the spirits, not Te Kooti’s fierce and terrible God who demanded human sacrifice, but the gentle Maori spirits dwelling in forest and mountain. Then he deserted his pa, and at great personal danger sought out Saul Whitmore in the enemy camp.
But when Saul had been given leave by Captain Maltby to ride south and to take with him Tom Galloway and the Hauhau deserter, Rangi, it was only to find that rivers were in flood and impassable, and they had to travel down the longer coast route through New Plymouth. So they were a day later than they had meant to be, and now perhaps it was too late.
Saul had hoped against hope that everyone, as he had instructed, would have left Lucknow, and when he saw the wagons in the distance he had sighed with relief. Surely Briar and his mother would be there, with the rest.
But he might have known Briar, from pure perversity, would disobey him. This time it looked as if her perversity were going to be her doom.
The horses were tired. The men had been riding almost non-stop, getting fresh horses where they could, for three days. Rangi’s dark face with its innumerable scoring of whorls and circles showed no sign of fatigue, but Saul and Tom were red-eyed and tight-lipped.
Fifteen miles from Lucknow Saul’s weary horse stumbled into a hole and lamed itself. There was only one thing to do, and that was to leave Tom behind with the lame horse and ride on with Rangi. Although the track was reasonably firm and dry, it was dusk before they came in sight of Lucknow—or where Lucknow had stood. For the smoking ruins were unrecognizable.
Furiously Saul spurred his tired horse and covered the remaining distance.
The enemy had gone, for the figures he could see were occupied only with throwing buckets of water on the fragment of the house still standing. He recognized Doctor MacTavish, and Amos O’Brien, and the square form of Mabel Kingi. Mabel was the only woman there.
Saul leaped off his horse as Doctor MacTavish came running towards him.
“Saul! Thank God you’re here!”
“Where’s my wife and my mother?”
Doctor MacTavish indicated a form, covered with a tarpaulin, a little way off. “There’s your mother, Saul.” “Burned!” Saul exclaimed grimly.
“No. It was more merciful than that. Mabel tells us she kept her last shot for herself.”
“Briar?” Saul demanded.
“She and Katie made for the forest. We haven’t been able to find them yet. The men are still searching.”
“You’re sure they weren’t caught?”
“No sign of it, Saul. Mabel says the devils gave chase, but unless they’ve kidnapped the girls—”
“This enemy doesn’t kidnap,” Saul said briefly. “He doesn’t waste time. We’ve got to go on searching.”
Rangi who had been sitting silently on his horse in the background suddenly rode forward. “I find them, Mr. Whitmore. I know where. Little Rata Flower—” There was a secret look in his glowing brown eyes. Then he spurred his horse and rode towards the forest.
“Come back!” shouted Saul. “You’ll be shot.”
But the Maori, leaning low on his
horse, the feathered cloak flying out from him so that he looked like an enormous bird, continued his wild ride.
“Who’s that?” asked Doctor MacTavish. “What’s he up to? If he goes crashing into the forest the men will think he’s a Hauhau.”
“He is a Hauhau,” said Saul. “But it seems my wife’s red-headed maid has cast a spell over him.” He picked up his reins. “Come on, let’s follow.”
It seemed as if they had been lying in the dark mold-smelling hollow of the tree forever. At intervals they had heard distant crashing and unintelligible shouted words, and once Briar had thought she had heard her own name called. She would have ventured out then, but Katie clung to her in a panic.
“No, not yet. We must wait till dark.”
“But the men may be searching for us.”
“The Hauhaus might be! Let’s wait.”
Briar was so tired and shocked that she let Katie persuade her. Presently the forest grew quiet, except for the birds, and in the cool darkness her tension lessened and she almost slept. She must relax because of her baby, she told herself. If only for Saul’s mother’s sake, she must have this baby safely.
But the old lady was dead. She must be dead by now.
Then all the more reason to guard this life within herself …
She tried to realize that Lucknow was no more, that all her treasured possessions, the six airy bedrooms, the piano, the Persian carpet, the silver Uncle Hubert had given her, the portraits of the two impostor parents, all her clothes, were nothing but blackened wreckage, that in her torn and muddled gown she was a waif once more.
But the events of the day must have turned her brain, for none of that seemed to matter very much. “This emptiness,” Mrs. Whitmore had said. And now the emptiness was there no longer. Strangely, it was a relief.
Hours later, when both hunger and cramp were making the girls restless, and Briar was determining to venture out, there was suddenly a renewed crashing in the forest. It came nearer and nearer, and then stopped directly outside the hollow tree.
Katie whimpered with fright, and clung to Briar. She hid her face as the ferns screening the entrance were roughly pulled aside.
