I Got His Blood on Me: Frontier Tales

by Lawrence Patchett

  Marcus scanned the water but saw nothing; then Burtt rolled up, plastered with wet and insensible. His face looked slack, as if he’d been knocked unconscious. Instantly Marcus reached out towards him, but Burtt was too far away and being carried further. Marcus turned Pono and began back towards the main bank. Soon they were in the shallows and Marcus leapt from the saddle and buckled as soon as he hit the sand, the weight of his clothes and coat crushing him.

  Lying on his side there he glimpsed two lads near the scrub. They must have been watching. He stood and tore at the buttons and fabric of his coat which, sodden, would not cooperate with his cold fingers.

  ‘Āwhina mai!’ said Marcus.

  But they were just lads. When he beckoned and shouted they hedged back. He gave up on them and tore his coat away and wrenched at the laces of his boots, then broke the laces and kicked them free.

  Then he ran to the water and surged in. It was soon to his thighs, then it was carrying him. He struck out with his arms and was taken downstream. The water was all round him to his chin, the bank moving fast beyond. He tried to remain upright by treading water, and was turned and carried further. Across the surface he saw Burtt’s body roll to the surface and sink again. He ducked his head and swam towards him, the current pushing loudly over his ears. He collided with Burtt. He caught him under the arm and dragged him above water—and there was nothing in the face of his friend. His eyes were open but there was no sign. Holding him by the armpits Marcus slapped his face and the head swayed to the side and they turned again in the current and were carried further, as if partnered in some horrid dance.

  ‘John!’

  There was nothing. It was impossible. John had lost consciousness so quickly. A wave eased over and swamped them both lazily and when Marcus spat it was salt water. He tried to touch the bottom and sank instead, Burtt’s weight pushing him down. He resisted and tried to kick up; he held Burtt by the armpits and the weight pulled down with astonishing force, and he heard himself say, Lord. Help.

  They rose to the surface and another wave came and the undertow of it sucked and teased at his grip on Burtt, and then the next wave took him away. Marcus felt the body leave his hands, felt the graze of Burtt’s coat as he scrabbled for it with his fingers. Then they were separated. Marcus sensed him suspended somewhere behind, a dark shape hanging a few feet down, but when he dove and swam deeper and groped out in the murk he found nothing. He looked towards the shore and it was far away. There was nothing he could recognise—not the horses, not the boys—and with the water massaging his chin he sploshed with his arms and felt a sucking cold dread.

  He was struggling just to stay above water. He had no strength left; he had to leave Burtt. Deliver him, O Lord. Deliver Burtt. He kicked out to swim towards the shore, but the undertow eased him back effortlessly. He pulled feebly with his arms and they had no power and he panicked blindly, thrashing—the sea wanted him; it was pulling him—and then he was in the shallows. He tried to walk from the water and fell instead and lay there until the sensation of water sneaking cold in his topmost ear-canal stirred him. He struggled to stand again and water streamed from his sodden clothes as he walked, and he fell on the sand.

  The boys came. He tried to lift his head but vomited instead, bile stinging distantly from his mouth and drooling into the sand. The boys went away and came back with blankets from somewhere. They lowered them towards him.

  With an effort he lifted to a sitting position and looked around. There was no one else, just the boys. He couldn’t speak yet through his numbed lips but with his hands he indicated that they should help him remove his wet clothes. It was a slow process, his fingers unworkable in the cold, and shaking. Finally the clothes were off and he wrapped himself again in the blankets and sat while the boys built a fire as the rain eased.

  They quickly had a spark and fed the fire until it was blazing, one boy tending it while the other ran to the scrub and dragged back fuel. They were industrious now that they had a clear plan. The larger boy propped the wet clothes on sticks to dry them. Soon Marcus could work his mouth into sentences, and he thanked them in chattering half-sentences for the fire. They both froze while he spoke—perhaps they knew who he was, perhaps they’d seen him with Burtt, or perhaps his accent wasn’t clear to them.

  The older boy worked up to a question. His first attempt was a murmur that Marcus couldn’t catch properly.

  ‘Āno?’ said Marcus.

  This time the smaller boy spoke loudly. He was asking if they should fetch his horse for him, and he made the gestures of a man riding, the reins held out before him, his face serious. He could not have been more than ten.

  ‘Āe,’ said Marcus. ‘Ko Pono tāna ingoa—Pono.’

  They ran off and he hunkered in the blankets before the fire, his hands held towards it, working to get warm. Already his breathing had tightened—asthma, his old adversary, returning with the long fight in the water, the cold that had wrapped round his lungs. He stared at the fire and concentrated only on that, on getting warm. He would wait until his shivering had stopped and his clothes dried before riding back for Te Awanui. To ride before he was warm would only bring on severe asthma and halt him half an hour up the trail.

  He kept his eyes on the fire. Once only he turned to look out towards the river mouth and the sea and pray that somehow Burtt might survive, at the same time dreading that what he knew—what he’d seen—was inevitable. Then he hoped that at least the sea would bring in Burtt’s body. It would be much better if the body came in. He trusted it would. It might take days, but it would come in.

  He turned back to the flames. He shifted his clothes on their propped sticks to put them nearer the drying heat and rubbed his hands together to get their feeling back, to get himself usefully warm.

  The boys returned with Pono and, much later, with Pegasus. The latter horse, it seemed, had bolted some distance. Watching Marcus gravely, the boys stood with the reins in their hands, awaiting his instructions. They were like any young boys anywhere, deferring to someone older in the face of a disaster that awed them.

  ‘Ka pai,’ said Marcus. ‘Thank you.’

  Silently they took this in. They stared and did not come any closer.

  He thanked them again and said they could go, then sank back against the logs they’d propped behind him. He closed his eyes.

  When he woke the boys had been replaced by two young men who stood almost in the same position, watching him. He greeted them without getting to his feet, pausing according to the demands of his breathing. They averted their eyes while he collected his clothes and dressed. His clothes were mostly dry, the boots squelchy but serviceable.

  He addressed them again, and they knew already—the Reverend was lost out there, drowned—but they let him explain where Burtt might be, let him gesture towards the deepest place of the river-mouth, the sea. The Reverend was lost out there, he said. He could not be brought in. Nobody should attempt to bring him in—only the sea could do it. Only the sea. It was too dangerous for men.

  They waited until he had finished speaking. Then they helped him remount Pono. He offered them Pegasus but they refused, so he secured the spare horse to his own and began the ride back towards Te Awanui. Pono was rested now and went along eagerly. The rain had ceased and there was no wind, and Marcus was grateful for the respite, as it made the going easier for him, for his breathing, and for the two young men who ran at his side.

  It was a ride of about twenty miles. The young men ran with him until about halfway; then Marcus stopped and prevailed upon them to return. They were reluctant but he urged them. He was within safe distance of Te Awanui now, and for his sake they should return to their homes and spread word that he was alive. More than once a report of his own death had been allowed to travel the coast and he’d returned to widespread consternation at Ōtaki and Waikanae. The pair submitted at last and he thanked them and waited until they had run out of sight towards the Turakina.

  Then he turned and gave Pon
o the way, Burtt’s horse trailing behind. It was hard not to despise the creature. In his work a missionary required few material things, but trust in his travelling equipment was one of them. A horse that could not be relied upon reduced a man’s capacity to serve in the Lord, and this horse of Burtt’s—Marcus put it out of his mind.

  His priority was to reach Te Awanui. By the grace of God and his own industry Burtt had baptised more than eight hundred of the Māori people of the area, drawn from the pā and the places beyond. It was a credit to him. It would be his legacy, but so would the uncertainty and grief among the congregation that would entail upon his death now, and to assuage it would be Marcus’s work. He would have Burtt’s teachers to support too—and there would be Mrs Burtt.

  He rode on and the day drew down and his asthma steadily worsened, his breathing becoming very noisy and rasping. It would be difficult to sleep tonight, but at least he would sleep warm at the pā. The people there had always sheltered him well. He’d baptised a number there before Burtt came, and many he still counted as dear friends, and all were familiar with the trials of his asthma—more than once he’d been laid low at the pā and aided back to health there. He would forever be grateful.

  He kept his mind on these things, on the thankfulness he owed to the people and to his God, to the Love he could never hope to redeem. He gave Pono the trail and held the reins loose and swayed with his movement through the scrub, recounting these mercies, recounting that old pathway of prayer.

  As he neared Te Awanui he was met again and escorted. The news of his coming had travelled swiftly. Once within the pā he went directly towards Burtt’s mission whare. It was a squat but long building with raupō roofing and tekoteko, made dark by the angled light of the afternoon. He halloed it while still mounted, but no answer came from within.

  He dismounted and tethered the horses. He did not unsaddle or water them. Then he walked from the horses towards the whare and someone came from it—it was Mrs Burtt, and her hand flew to her mouth, then down. It was her husband’s tethered horse, it seemed, that had done it. Riderless and entire at the fence, it confirmed something unbelieved until now.

  Marcus tried not to watch as she recovered, smoothing her hands over her face as if washing it without water, then smoothing them on her clothes. Coming close under the low roof he heard the wheeze of his own breathing as he faced her.

  ‘Mrs Burtt,’ he said.

  She flinched. She had a hand on a pole that held up the roof.

  ‘Mrs Burtt, I am very sorry,’ he said. ‘You have heard, I presume.’

  She nodded, and it was hard; he looked away. Beyond the straggly foreyard he could see the other buildings of the pā, and the new church that John and the people had built, splendid in its new timber and catching the sun.

  ‘Mrs Burtt, I am very sorry,’ he said. ‘I tried to bring John from the water but I couldn’t. I am very sorry. You know he was a dear friend to me.’

  She tried to smile, and he was grateful for her bravery. Lift her up, Lord. Give her the strength—strengthen her.

  ‘I am sorry I couldn’t bring him to you,’ he said. ‘I wanted above all to return him to you. I wanted to bring him back to this place—to his mission.’

  She nodded again. She was brave but he feared for her spirits. She would be alone now in the pā with her sorrow and her unborn child.

  ‘Reverend Burtt is with the Lord now,’ said Marcus. ‘We remember he has gone to God. We remember to rejoice for him.’

  At this, her face hardened—then she dropped her eyes to her hands.

  ‘I will be here overnight, and for as long as required,’ he said. ‘I will go about the people. I will be just up the pā, should you need me.’

  She worked the thumb of one hand over the knuckles of the other.

  Marcus rasped a deep breath in. ‘I will see to our horses now. I will send for Mrs Williams.’

  She nodded again, then turned and went inside speedily, as if she would soon lose composure. Suddenly alone, Marcus remained there near the door a moment longer, then went towards the horses. His boots were still damp with river-water and he was conscious as he walked in the yard of the loud squelch they made.

  He could have asked any lad of the pā to help him unsaddle the horses, but he chose to do it alone. He removed the saddle that was cinched around Pegasus, and the saddle blanket, and put them with the bridle on the veranda. Then he came to Pono; the great horse nickered and nosed him, then shivered as the saddle was removed. Marcus moved his hands over him, brushing and warming him with the saddle blanket. Then he removed the bridle and Pono remained still until he was a safe distance away, then shook his head and mane, happy in his loyal way to be freed of the restraining bit, the water-stained reins.

  For the remainder of the afternoon Marcus left Mrs Burtt to herself and went about the pā. There was considerable distress among the people at the loss of their Reverend. With the assistance of Burtt’s teachers he attempted to relieve it. He gave advice about how Mrs Burtt might best be supported, and asked some women of the pā to call on her. Some people from the new Pākehā settlement might come, but most succour, he knew, would come from these women of the pā, Christian women whom Mrs Burtt had taught and befriended through her school, and whom Reverend Burtt had baptised.

  It was long past dusk when he returned to the mission whare. Light was flickering through the gaps in the walls. He stepped loudly on the boards and knocked on the doorpost to announce himself, then went inside. A lantern on a table made of boxes threw a sphere of light, beyond which Mrs Burtt sat on the low bed of mats and blankets. In the darkness it was difficult to make out her features. He glanced over the rest of the whare. The fire was cold, and no one was with her. It was irregular—perhaps, he thought, they’d come and she had sent them away.

  ‘I have sent for Mrs Williams,’ he said. ‘I trust she will arrive soon.’

  He saw the movement of her outline as she nodded, then she propped herself on one hand to stand up, and he couldn’t watch, a wave of unhappiness going through him. Only two days before she’d risen in just this way when he’d come in with Burtt in search of refreshment, having travelled down the river that day. This was too much. He wasn’t equipped to deal with Mrs Burtt. He wasn’t able. Slow in her pregnant condition, she came towards him.

  ‘Have you found somewhere to sleep, Reverend?’ she said.

  ‘I am very sorry, Mrs Burtt,’ he said. ‘You must know I feel your loss keenly. Lord knows I valued John tremendously. He was a brother in Christ—and a true friend. I admired him. He has performed such excellent work here. You both have.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t bring John from the water,’ he said. ‘I swam to him but I couldn’t bring him in. He was—’

  ‘Please go on, Reverend,’ she said.

  ‘The river was not unduly flooded,’ he said. ‘We could have got across safely, but it didn’t go well, and once John fell in, the current was very strong. If only he—perhaps if I—’

  Mrs Burtt gestured at the table. ‘Would you like to sit with me, Reverend? Would you mind?’

  They sat opposite each other on stools and he put his hands on the table, then underneath it. His fingers had the washed and white pallor that followed a prolonged swim, and he didn’t want her to see them.

  ‘I will light the fire,’ he said. ‘You will need a fire, shortly.’

  ‘Please don’t do that, Reverend.’

  He went to it anyway. There were some still-glowing embers, and some kindling stacked at the side, and he broke it small, then built on larger pieces. Blowing on the coals forced a cough from him but he persisted and soon had the flames fanning up to catch the tinder and spread. This small achievement cheered him, but even as he worked there, crouched inelegantly before the fire, he was conscious of Mrs Burtt at the table, watching him.

  ‘May I ask you something, Reverend?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, but he remained at the fire.r />
  ‘You were describing how it happened, sir,’ she said. ‘I still don’t have it clear.’

  Marcus poked about in the fire, turning unburned wood into the flames.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it is hard for you. But it seems so strange.’

  Marcus put down the poker and straightened. He brushed his clothes. The odour of river-mud was in them. He hoped the smell wouldn’t reach her as he warmed up with the room.

  ‘It would help me sir, if you could tell me.’

  ‘I’m afraid Reverend Burtt had a poor horse,’ said Marcus. ‘I’m afraid—at least this morning, his horse was poor.’

  ‘His horse?’ she said. ‘Pegasus?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marcus.

  She watched him, and he came to the table and sat down—and again put his hands below the table.

  ‘Perhaps he’s not a poor horse,’ he said. ‘Perhaps that is too strong. But he did not serve John well today.’

  ‘The river was flooded, I heard.’

  ‘It was not in flood. It was swollen. We had both crossed rivers in worse condition. John’s horse let him down. It pains me to say it, Mrs Burtt, but that is how I observed it. I’m afraid that horse was not a wise purchase. The man who sold it to your husband should not have done so—not when he knew John was a new missionary and would need a horse he could rely on. It was not Christian.’

  ‘Are you sure it was Pegasus?’ said Mrs Burtt. ‘He has not given us trouble before. John loved Pegasus. He valued him.’

  ‘That is something,’ said Marcus.

  ‘I find it hard to credit that it was Pegasus,’ said Mrs Burtt.

  Marcus paused. ‘Perhaps there was a bad current. Perhaps a current caught Pegasus and John in a way it did not catch Pono and me. It was not too flooded to cross, though.’ He looked away. She could see in his face that he had more to say, and he was not willing to give it to her. He would not discuss John’s bizarre manner of riding with her.