by Ed Hillyer
‘Rangatira,’ he said again, and nodded approvingly.
‘Ranga-tee-ra,’ repeated Sarah. ‘What does that mean?’
He made a waving motion with his hand, and then splayed fingers behind his head, as if to show a crown. ‘Rangatira,’ he said again.
‘You mean the king?’ she asked. ‘You mean Tippahee?’
What else was a crown, but a hat with a hole in?
Presuming it a word in Cole’s, Brippoki’s, own language, Sarah continued with her reading.
The king embarked, and the Lady Nelson sailed on her destination. During the passage, Tippahee was taken dangerously ill, when I was appointed to attend him. I acquitted myself so highly to the king’s satisfaction, that I was honoured with his special favour, and on our arrival, the king requested that I should be allowed to remain with him at New Zealand, to which Captain Simmonds consented, and I was received into the family of Tippahee, where every effort was used to instruct me in the language, customs, &c. of the inhabitants.
Being very circumspect in my conduct from an early habit, I was fully determined to persevere in acquiring the knowledge prescribed by my patrons. I accordingly communicated to Tippahee my wish to travel to the country, with a view to become completely acquainted with its local situation, languages, and the customs of the Inhabitants. Tippahee, with the greatest cordiality, acquiesced to my proposal, and added that his son Pouver should accompany me; we accordingly proceeded on our journey, which we continued for seven months.
I found the country healthy and pleasant, full of romantic scenery, agreeably diversified by hills, dales, and covered with wood; the people were hospitable, frank and open, though rude and ignorant, yet worshipping neither images nor idols, nor aught that is the work of human hands, acknowledging one Omnipotent Supreme Being.
Sarah paused, ostensibly to make a note in the margin. She looked the Aborigine over. He calmly returned her gaze. She read on.
On my return from making the tour of the country, Tippahee proposed to place me at the head of his army, and invest me with every authority of which he was himself possessed; this proposal was sanctioned in one voice by nineteen of the principal chiefs. It was however necessary that, prior to my taking the command, I should undergo the ceremony of being tatoow’d, without which I could not be regarded as a warrior: the case was urgent, and admitted of no alternative. I therefore submitted resolutely to the painful ceremony, my countenance presenting a masterly specimen of this art.
The Hospital clerk had said of Bruce, ‘His face was horribly disfigured.’
Being now tatoow’d in due form, I was recognised as a warrior of the first rank, naturalised as a New Zealander, received into the bosom of the king’s family, and honoured with the hand of the Princess Aetockoe, the youngest daughter of Tippahee, a maiden of fifteen years of age, whose native beauty had probably been great, but which had been much improved by the fashionable embellishments of art, that all the softer charms of nature, all the sweetness of original expression, are lost in the bolder impressions of tatoowing.
I now became the chief member of the king’s family, and was vested with the government of the island. Six or eight months after my marriage, the English ships Inspector, Ferret, a South Sea whaler, and several other English vessels, touched at New Zealand for supplies, all of whom found the beneficial influence of having a countryman and friend at the head of affairs in that island; they were liberally supplied with fish, vegetables, &c. &c.
I and my amiable consort were now contented and happy, in the full enjoyment of domestic comfort, with no wants that were ungratified; blessed with health and perfect independence, I looked forward with satisfaction to the progress of civilisation which I expected to introduce among the people, with whom, by a singular destiny, I seemed doom’d to remain during life. While enjoying these hopes, the ship General Wellesley, Captain Dalrymple, touched at a point of New Zealand where I and my consort then chanced to be. This was some distance from the king’s residence. Captain Dalrymple applied to me, with a view to assist him in procuring a cargo of spars and benjamin, and requested specimens of the principal articles of produce of the island, all which was cheerfully done.
Captain Dalrymple then proposed, that I should accompany him to North Cape, about 25 or 30 leagues, where it was reported that gold dust could be procured, Captain D. conceiving that I might prove useful to him in the search for gold dust.
With great reluctance, and after many entreaties, I consented to accompany Captain D. under the most solemn and repeated assurances of Captain D. that he would, at every hazard, re-land us at the Bay of Islands, the place at which we embarked. Being at length all on board, the Wellesley sailed for the North Cape, where we soon arrived and landed. Finding that we entirely had been misinformed as to the gold dust, the Wellesley made sail, in order to return to New Zealand, but the wind becoming foul, and continuing so for 48 hours, we were driven from the island.
On the third day the wind became more favourable, but Captain D. did not attempt to regain the island, but stood on for India. I now gently remonstrated, and reminded him of his promises; to which Captain D. replied ‘that he had something else to think of, than to detain the ship, by returning with a valuable cargo to the island; besides, he had another and a better island in view for me’.
On reaching the Feegee, or Sandal Wood Islands, Captain D. asked me if I chose to go on shore, and remain there, which I declined, on account of the barbarous and sanguinary disposition of their inhabitants. Captain D. desired that I would choose for myself, and then took from me several little presents, which he himself and his officers had given to me at New Zealand; these were now given to the natives of the islands in the boats then alongside.
Leaving the Feegee Islands, we sailed for Malacca, where we arrived in December, 1808. At Malacca Captain D. and I went on shore; I was anxious to see the Governor, or commanding officer, to state my grievances; but it was late in the evening when we landed, and I could not see him till the following morning, by which time Captain D. had weighed from Malacca Roads, leaving me on shore, and carrying off my consort on board the Wellesley, to Penang.
I then acquainted the commanding officer at Malacca with the case, expressing my wish to regain my consort, and return with her to New Zealand. After waiting for three or four weeks, accounts were received of Captain D.’s arrival at Penang, upon which I obtained the commanding officer’s permission, and left Malacca in the Scourge gun brig, for Penang, where, upon my arrival, I found that my consort had been bartered away to Captain Ross.
Kidnap, and worse! As far as she could tell from his sphinx-like composure, Brippoki was willing and able to follow the drama, even through such a tangle of names, dates and events. She cleared her throat.
On waiting on the Governor of Penang, I was asked what satisfaction I required for the ill treatment I had experienced. I answered that all I wanted was to have my consort restored, and, if possible, get a passage to New Zealand. Through the interference of the Governor, my consort was restored to me. With her I returned to Malacca, in hopes of the promised passage to New South Wales; but as there was no appearance of the expected ships to that port, I was now offered a passage for myself and my consort to England, in one of the homeward-bound Indiamen from China. By getting to England, I hoped from thence to find a passage to New South Wales, but I could not be accommodated with a passage to Europe, without the payment of 400 dollars. Not having that sum, nor the means of raising it, I came on with the Sir Edward Pellew to Bengal, where I and my consort, the affectionate companion of my distress, were most hospitably received, and where our hardships and long sufferings were forgot in the kindness we experienced.
Sarah turned the page.
‘Literary Panorama for May, 1810.’
‘The following passage is shown within quotation marks,’ she explained, ‘taken, I imagine, from the above-named document.’
‘Aetockoe, the Princess of New Zealand, was presented on Monday, June 19 las
t, at the Government House, to the Right Honourable the Governor General. She was introduced by Governor Hayes, and was most courteously received. The Princess appeared slightly embarrassed at the first moment of introduction, but she soon recovered her usual ease and affability of manner. She has made such rapid progress in English, that she clearly comprehends whatever she hears in that language, and gives a distinct and intelligible answer in the same tongue. The dress of the Princess had a striking and shewy effect: it was formed of ribbons, and other materials, so as to resemble, as nearly as possible, the dresses of fine flaxen matts, and ornamental feathers of the ladies, of the highest quality in New Zealand. After a short audience, the Princess took leave of Lord Minto, highly gratified with her reception. Aetockoe is an interesting girl, of about 18 years of age, sensible, and far superior to what could have been expected in an unlettered native of New Zealand.
‘The lady is of an interesting appearance, remarkably fair, – but her features rather of the Malay cast. Bruce is not much above 30: – he is completely tattooed, according to the custom of the Southern Islanders.’
The impartial tone did not accord with the remainder, suggesting a newspaper report, or similar. Portions only of the Memoirs rang heartfelt and true.
‘I suspect,’ declared Sarah, ‘the hand of more than one author.’
Precedent aplenty existed among street literature such as this, often compiled from many sources. In truth, she wasn’t sure what to make of it; for that, Sarah relied on Brippoki. She laid the papers down flat.
‘And that, I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘is as far I was able to get today. The Memoirs of Mr. George Bruce…sounds like our man, wouldn’t you say?’
He would not.
Feeling short-changed, Sarah shuffled her various papers. George Bruce – from Shadwell, one of London’s poorest hamlets, a ‘naturalized’ prince of New Zealand – presented indeed a most singular destiny.
New Zealand, however, was not Australia.
‘Why do you want to know about this man?’ asked Sarah. Understanding well enough that Brippoki disliked direct questions, she saw no way around them. ‘What is he to you?’
Apparently unable to look her in the eye, Brippoki just shrugged.
Sarah slapped her notebook shut. Whatever Bruce meant to the Aborigine remained unclear, yet the text or else her line of enquiry had taken effect – an effect too profound for him to entirely conceal. Seeing his hackles bristle, she demanded to know the reason.
Brippoki rolled his eyes by way of special pleading, or else as a warning: their whites flashed through the gloom in a lighthouse rotation.
‘Red Ochre Men!’ he gasped. He clamped a hand over his mouth. This was not simply a matter of mimicking her actions in the kitchen, but something far more serious.
Brippoki got up to leave.
Sarah understood the man to be terrified out of his wits. Mystified, somewhat taken aback, she felt all resentment instantly drain from her. It was gone midnight. Where could he go, at this time of night? She still had no idea of his lodgings. With Mary gone they had a spare room, but…
Instead of the door, he made for the window. He waited alongside, anxiously willing for her to open it. She moved to comply.
‘London is so large,’ she protested, ineffectually. ‘To think of you out there, alone…’
Brippoki had hopped onto the sill, and crouched within the frame of the open window. He turned, the expression on his face unreadable.
‘Not alone,’ he said.
He leapt, disappearing into the dark. Sarah could not bring herself to look after him. She stood for a time, blinking, thinking to pinch herself, and then reached out to close the sash window.
She sealed the window-frame firmly shut. She would have to discourage such dramatic entrances and exits.
The notebook still in her hand, Sarah recovered her seat. She turned over the leaves of later pages. Bruce’s adventure was leagues distant from that ‘polite’ literature suitable for a lady, fit for the drawing room, to be read aloud – and thankfully so.
The Princess Aetockoe.
Sarah yawned. She recovered a crumpled scrap of paper and smoothed it out – her note scribbled in the civic offices of the Royal Naval Hospital, Greenwich.
George Bruce.
Age: 40.
If married: no.
A consort, yes – by English standards he was unmarried. And there was mention of a child, a daughter?
Girls: 1.
Born: Shadwell.
Last residence: Gloucester Court.
Lost 2 fingers right hand.
The relation of Bruce’s Memoirs had badly shaken her visitor. She wished to make doubly certain of the man’s identity. They had, at present, only half the story. Enough – she was overtired, bed calling.
Tattooed on the face. What must that look like?
The large framed map of London still lay on the occasional table. She took it up, carried it across the room, and restrung it to the nail on the far wall. Since taking the sleeve of her blouson to it, she barely recognised the old heirloom. The sickly and yellowish tinge erased, delicate lithographic hues refracted what little light reached them with a subtle brilliance she rather admired. Catching sight of her reflection in the glass, she noticed the heightened colour in her own cheeks.
‘Read in book like whitefellow’ – that had been his only instruction. She had little hope of understanding Brippoki, and yet she felt compelled to help. Unsure of his reasons, let alone hers, it was enough to know that he relied on her.
Sarah took the map down again. Keeping it hidden behind the opened door seemed too great a shame. She would seek out a new situation, somewhere more in the light.
CHAPTER XXVI
Wednesday the 3rd of June, 1868
LOST, AND FOUND
‘Strange friend, past, present, and to be;
Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
Behold, I dream a dream of good,
And mingle all the world with thee.’
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam
Sarah could not sleep.
Sailor. And princess.
Fingertips rasping on dry fibres. Queer fabric. Indefinite shapes.
Something nagged from the shadows of sense memory, something long lost; an emotional recall more than any specific event or action, close enough to touch, yet remaining just out of reach. The suggestion alone was enough to make her heart ache.
The sailor and the princess, rough paper held in her hand. Bright colours.
George Bruce’s story provoked her on a level deeper than any she consciously understood. She had never before been acquainted with the text, she felt sure – and yet, somehow, she knew better. She had the feeling that she already knew the tale. How, then, and where?
Sarah churned in her bed, frustrated. Taking up her pillows, she turned them over, one, then the other, hoping for a cool side that might yet soothe her to sleep.
Eyes open, she stared into the blackness of night; eyes closed, into inner dark. Maybe if she went over it, one more time.
Brippoki. Brippoki had led her to a grave. According to records, the grave belonged to a sailor-Pensioner, one George Bruce. Brippoki appeared as mystified as she was, yet urged her to uncover his life story; the story of his Life.
The sailor. George Bruce.
According to the Naval clerk Dilkes Loveless, prior to his death George Bruce had presented the Hospital secretary with the book of his life story, a book entitled The Life of a Greenwich Pensioner. So far, she had been unable to trace a copy. There was, however, his Memoirs, and Sarah felt sure…
But wait a moment. All along, she had assumed that she was looking for an item in print. What if…? Of course! If the book had never been published, it would only exist as a manuscript. There might only be one copy.
Her heart sank even as it leapt: unearthing a single artefact presented that much greater a challenge. If it survived, there was of course no guarantee it would have found i
ts way into the library collection of the British Museum. It could lurk almost anywhere. Even so, even so, a manuscript! Fool! The likelihood was much too great to have been so simply overlooked – Bruce’s book, an unpublished manuscript!
Opening hour at the Museum could not come soon enough.
The princess.
Sarah imagined Aetockoe herself, floating directly overhead. Wearing a feathered headdress, she exactly resembled the Indian chieftainess from the Naval Hospital’s painted ceiling.
Disappointed at such a limit to her imagination, Sarah Larkin finally slipped into unconsciousness.
Dawn, barely perceptible, threatens to break.
Brippoki hasn’t slept in three days. Drawn as before towards the dread Well of Shadows, he resists the urge. Those parts of the city most familiar to his Dreaming are too filled with sadness. Instead, he lets the wind dictate direction.
He wanders beside London Docks. Next to the River Thames, the Great Serpent Himself, here alone he finds space for contemplation.
The huge, unnatural lakes stretch as far as the eye can see. From in amongst these trapped waters sprouts a forbidding forest, limitless, and petrified. A low wind whistles through the leafless black spars.
Stern brick formations rise to either side. Even so, the taller mastheads and yardarms overtop their roofs. This puzzle of angular rhythms mesmerises, yet makes Brippoki sad. The bolt uprightness of clay and wood betrays the hand of man, as do the squared sides of each deep lagoon. The curve and flow of natural forms is nowhere to be seen, nowhere a single natural growth, not plant, or living flower.
Played out in great long lines, the bowsprits stitch each ship to shore. Brippoki prefers them swamp and woods, as once they were.
In the empty early morning, amidst so much timber, the pungency of turpentine is almost overpowering. His keen nose is able to detect an underscore of subtler aromas: the welcome fragrance of coffee and spice, plus headier fumes of rum, tobacco, and rank, untanned hide.
