‘The captain?’
‘Yes, the bloody captain. Shit, he’s no more captain than you or me. Not really. Money’s the only thing he’s got. Forms his character, it does. His whole person is fashioned of money. When he dies you’ll find a casket of coins where his heart should be. Same with his soul. It’ll have the Queen’s head on one side and a date on the other. He’s always been Newgate material, our Abe. His neck was made to wear a noose. But that luck of his keeps findin’ him silk collars ’stead of hemp.’
Striker knew Kipper only understood half of what he was saying, but he said it anyway. Kipper, having raised the sail, was now busy baiting the hooks with clams and the torsos of hermit crabs. They would manage two lines each, he and Striker. Striker much preferred line fishing to using a net. He liked the feel of a fish on the end of a line, the tug and jerk of a live creature deep below the surface of the water. It was like reaching into the unknown, testing, testing, then the quick bite and the yank. Then the zigzagging line cutting the surface about. This was much more thrilling than throwing out a net and dragging in all sorts of weird fish life. Why, only the night before Kipper had been throwing out a circle net around a rocky area and pulled in the ugliest fish you ever saw. A stonefish, he called it. It was like a lump of stale bread dough with a tail, covered in warts and bumps, sort of greeny-grey in colour. On its back was a set of spines that Kipper very carefully avoided and there were small fins coming from its sides. The eyes of the creature looked dead. Striker curled his lip in disgust on seeing the fish.
‘You ain’t goin’ to eat that, are you?’ he had asked Kipper, who had shaken the fish free of his net. It had landed in a rock pool and simply lay there, looking bloated; its miserable mouth curved downwards to its underbelly. ‘It looks poison to me.’
Kipper had nodded. ‘Yes, poison. The spikes.’
‘The spines are poisonous? Deadly?’
‘Yes. Takes one or two hours. Maybe.’
‘Shit. Well, we don’t want him for supper, do we? We don’t want him at all. Best leave him and be wary of where we tread in future if that’s what’s under the water. Bugger. Why God made such things is beyond everything. Had a bad day, I reckon . . .’
Striker’s attention was then taken by Tarawa pointing to a dark patch of ocean that seemed to be alive with silver knives.
‘Aha!’ cried Striker, the excitement rising in his corrupted breast. ‘Bonito if I ain’t mistook!’
Down came the sail and Tarawa rowed swiftly towards the shoal while Striker finished baiting hooks. When they got to the tunny the lines went over the side and they began pulling in large silver striped fish. Striker chortled the whole while and Tarawa grinned.
This was the life, thought Striker. Not dead gold, but live silver. This was what it was all about as far as Striker was concerned. Who needed a bank when there was the ocean’s bounty to reap for nothing? A morning’s work, that was all. Hell, he thought, Abe could keep his fortune. There was nothing like a fish roasted on coals to satisfy a man, then lying on his bed listening to the combers booming down the beach, curling and clawing at the shingle. Abe could keep his dishes of partridge and pheasant and his silk sheets and cushions. He could keep his power too. Striker wanted nothing more than a morning out on the shining sea, the sun on his neck, and the line in his hand taut enough to sing in the wind. The rest was all free and gratis, with no worries attached.
By the mid-afternoon Striker was feeling weary and asked Tarawa to take them in. The Maori raised the sail once again and they sped towards the shore. Striker was aware that much of the work had been done by Tarawa and so resolved to do the cooking, even though he felt exhausted by a day out on the ocean in the heat of the sun. He gathered some driftwood to use as kindling, then brought some logs from the shack, and made a fire on the beach. By the time he had stripped a green stick of its bark and skewered a bonito, the sun was falling down the face of the sky. A hazy purple glow turned the sea into a king’s robe. Striker looked up and caught it at its best.
‘Oh God,’ he said, reverently. ‘Would you look at that, Kipper? You couldn’t buy a sight like that in Liverpool. Worth a ransom, eh?’ He bent once more to his task. ‘And smell that fish! Does that make your mouth water, or no? Have we any bread?’
‘Yes, Striker, we have bread.’
‘You are a trump card, Kipper. Can we toast it a bit? Not too much – not so much so it burns, but just to warm it a little?’
‘Do put it by the fire, Striker.’
Not long afterwards they were enjoying their repast in the gloaming. The heat was still in the sand and it was pleasant to sit watching the stars speckle the heavens. Striker saw a falling star and watched its silver track streak down the evening shades. For some reason it filled him with sorrow, possibly because he had seen just such a sight as a boy of six, sitting on the back of his father’s tumbril. He felt tears come to his eyes, but wiped them away quickly in case Tarawa noticed them glistening in the firelight. He was not sure how Maori felt about men crying. He was inclined to think it was unmanly.
Tarawa rose just before the end of the meal.
‘Where are you off to?’ asked Striker, surprised.
‘I must visit a bush.’
‘Oh – off you go, then.’
The Maori rose and was soon swallowed by the twilight. He returned some minutes later and resumed his meal. Some roosting birds were making a racket in a nearby tree. Tarawa threw some stones up at the branches and the birds scattered into the darkness. They returned almost immediately and continued with their cacophony until they were settled for the night.
Striker suddenly felt exhausted.
‘I’m off to bed, Kipper. See you in the morning.’
‘Yes – in the morning, Striker.’
The sailor turned fisherman dragged his feet up the sea strand to the hut perched on the rocks above. The twilight had almost turned to darkness, but the starlight was bright enough for him to find the doorway. He knew exactly where his bed lay in relation to the door. He sat on its edge and removed his sandals, threw off the blanket, and flopped back.
An excruciating pain seared through him.
Striker’s eyes went wide with hurt and fear. He screamed at the top of his ragged lungs and fell out of the bed on to the dirt floor. He was in agony. Every nerve-end in his body seemed to be burning. An unbearable deep-seated pain was growing within his torso, as if he had swallowed a cache of sulphur and someone had put a match to it. For the next few moments he crawled around on the floor, clawing at the earth, gasping for breath, trying to fight the torment within. Then, somehow, despite the terrible pain, he managed to get to his feet. He staggered to the doorway and propped himself against the post.
‘Kipper! For Christ’s sake, Kipper!’
The Maori came to him, carrying a flaming log.
‘Help me, man,’ groaned Striker. ‘I’m hurt.’
‘I am sorry, Striker,’ said Tarawa. ‘I am very sorry.’
Striker blinked away the hot tears in his eyes. He could not comprehend what the Maori meant. Tarawa seemed so calm, so distant, so unmoved by his plight.
‘Wha—? What do you mean you’re sorry? Can’t you see I’m in agony?’
Tarawa was looking over Striker’s shoulder. Striker turned his head and in the light from the torch, saw the dying stone-fish. It had been placed in his bed so the dorsal spines would pierce his flesh when he lay down. Tarawa was trying to kill him. Tarawa had killed him. God, it hurt. It hurt so much Striker knew he was going to swoon.
‘Murder!’ he moaned. ‘You’ve murdered me, you bloody bastard. What did I ever do to you?’
‘Nothing to me, Striker.’
Striker knew who had killed him of course.
‘It – it was him, weren’t it? The captain?’
‘I am truly sorry, Striker. I will pray for you in church. Your soul will go to heaven.’
‘Sorry? You fucking bastard. Sorry don’t do it.’ A wave of agony went through him an
d his legs went from under him, his body folding and sliding down the doorpost to the floor beneath. ‘Fetch me a fucking priest, Kipper. You can do that much for me. I’ve been good to you. A good friend,’ he managed to blurt before he passed out. ‘I need a priest. Help me. Oh Christ, I’m dying. The pain . . .’
The Reverend Chatterton had lit his lamp and was carrying it to his kitchen when there was a rapping at the back to his house. He went to the door and opened it. A Maori stood there, his facial tattoos glistening in the lamplight. Reverend Chatterton was a great champion of the Maori cause and immediately believed one of them – a man named Tarawa – had come to him to enlist his help in some dispute over land rights or something of that nature.
‘Come in,’ said the priest. ‘Don’t be concerned.’
‘No, no. You must go down to the shoreline, sir. There is a man there who asks for you. He is dying.’
The shocked reverend took a step backwards.
‘The shore? Where on the shore?’
‘By the Two Maidens.’
Chatterton knew the Two Maidens, a cleft stack whose shape suggested two women holding hands. Everyone knew the landmark.
‘Where is he? On the beach?’
‘No, sir – in a hut. You will see.’
With that the Maori drifted away, into the street beyond.
Chatterton was still in a state of shock. Dying? Why? How? Was this a trick of some kind? Perhaps he would be ambushed, not by renegade Maoris, but by settlers. He was not liked for his support of the Maori people. It would not have been difficult to find a Maori who would betray him, however. All races, all manner of men, had their traitors. What should he do? Take this at face value, or call out the troops, go down to the shore with a bodyguard?
But if the man was dying? It would take some time to gather soldiers. If he were to help this man he would have to go now, this instant, and trust in the Lord. Yet he admitted to himself, he was afraid. He was, besides being a priest, a human being. He was capable of fear. Oh, yes, fear had been a companion on many occasions. What should he do? He had to make a decision. Yet the Maori had looked calm enough. Why had he not helped the person in trouble?
But of course he had to go, danger or not.
There was a woman who helped around the church, cleaning and assisting with the flowers.
‘Missie? I am going out.’
A faint ‘Yes, sir’ came from the depths of the house.
‘If – if I’m not back within an hour, call Major Nielson.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Chatterton was still wearing his cassock from evening service. He swept out into the night and headed for the beach. Two Maidens rock was only about ten minutes away. He hurried along a track strewn with crushed seashells; the hem of his cassock swishing against his legs. Now that he was out in the night, he felt braver. In fact his confidence had returned and was high. It was just the shock of those first few words uttered by the Maori. He is dying. Hopefully that was an exaggeration. Perhaps the man was simply drunk. Some of the Maoris tended to embellish when they retold situations. A man flat on his face, arms outstretched, would not necessarily be inspected closely.
The vicar looked up as he walked. Ah, a crescent moon. How attractive. Golden horns. The horns of a dilemma. Could he work something in to his next sermon about the moon? Of course he had to beware of animism. You had to be careful when dealing with a people whose pagan gods had only just been tucked in the bottom drawer. It would not take much to get them to open that drawer again.
Now there – there was the Two Maidens. No sign of the man or his hut – wait, there it was! He had forgotten to ask whether it was a Maori or a pakeha. Did it matter? Not really. A man was a man, for all that.
‘Help me!’
For the second time that night the vicar felt a great shock wave pass through him. A gaunt pale figure had staggered out of the dark and now clutched him around the neck. Chatterton reached up behind and unclasped the hands with his own. He found himself staring into a haggard visage in the moonlight. Then the man, now he was not supported, slipped down to the ground. Feeling guilty at his own reaction, Chatterton bent down and took the man’s head, resting it on his knee so that the fellow’s back was supported by his leg.
‘Are you ill?’ he asked. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Strickland. I’ve been poisoned,’ groaned the man. ‘Great pain. Terrible pain . . .’
‘Don’t talk, sir. I know you. Yes, I know you. You’re the fisherman. I remember – you bring Missie fish. Poisoned, you say? Who? How do you know?’
Strickland stared with wild eyes into Chatterton’s face.
‘I’m dying.’
‘Well, perhaps not,’ said the vicar in the most reassuring tone he could muster. ‘If we can get you help . . .’
A hand came up and clutched at his shoulder.
‘I’m dying, I tell you. Stonefish. I’ve been stung by a stonefish. That bloody Maori put it in my bed. There’s no way back from that. I’m slipping away now. I’m not a strong man. Too much liquor. Too much work on the ships. The consumption. My body’s weak. A strong man might last another hour, but . . .’
‘A stonefish?’ Chatterton, like many vicars of his time, was an amateur naturalist. He knew what this man was talking about.
‘Oh dear. Oh dear. You are going, most certainly.’
‘Yes, I must confess.’
Chatterton was a little distressed by the urgency of the tone.
‘Oh dear. I’m not a priest of the Catholic faith. I can’t give you absolution, or last rites, not the Roman kind. I can give you comfort, if you wish, and of course if you are truly repentant of your sins, let me hear them.’
‘I just have to tell somebody. I don’t want to go to my Maker like this. And somebody’s got to pay. Abe Wynter. He was with me. He’s the man who murdered me.’
‘Murdered you? With – with a stonefish?’
‘Yes, yes. It were like this, vicar.’ His burning eyes were boring into Chatterton’s own. ‘There was three of us in Australia. We struck it rich, see – found gold. There was me, Abe and Danny. Daniel Kilpatrick. We – we felt like kings. We was kings for a time. Then we did somethin’ stupid. We got ourselves lost, out in the desert. It’s a rare desert that Aussie outback! Nothin’ there at all. Just broken white trees, rocks and dust.’ Strickland licked his lips as if speaking of the dust had made them dry. ‘You can walk and walk, the sun blazin’ down on your neck and head, and after several days everythin’ still looks the same. It’s as if you’re standin’ still, just moving your legs, the earth goin’ under your feet. Crazy. It drove us all crazy, the sameness of it. Nothin’ changed. Every day we woke up parched and desperate hungry, and all there was was these broken white trees.’
‘But you had water? You had to have water.’
‘We had water but no food. Some Abos found us the water, but then they wandered off, wouldn’t come back when we called to ’em and we was too weak to give chase. They didn’t have no food to give us, though they’d scratched a hole out of this dry dust bowl, which let up some dusty water. Well an’ all, we stayed lost and looked to die. It weren’t no good being rich as kings when we had no food. Looked like we was done for – would’ve bin – then Abe ups and takes a rock in his fist, and walks up behind Danny and cracks him on the head. Killed him stone dead.’
‘Mr Wynter – Captain Wynter killed his comrade?’ whispered Chatterton. ‘Why, what good would that do? Did this Danny have food hidden away? Had he been hiding it from the pair of you?’
‘No – no, he didn’t have no food. Abe killed him to eat. We ate Danny’s legs an’ arms, and Abe had some of the soft meats. I think Abe ate Danny’s heart, which is why he’s always nudgin’ them Maori, saying as how him and the Maori are alike. You know the Maori used to eat their enemies, so I’m told. Abe thinks that makes him and them brothers under the skin.’
‘Oh my dear God,’ murmured the Reverend Chatterton. ‘You can’t mean it? He ate an
other man.’
‘Our shipmate, Danny. I ate him too. Had to. Starvin’ to death. You’d do it too. We killed him and ate him.’
‘But – but to eat human flesh when you’re starving to death is bad enough – to kill a man in order to do so . . .’
Strickland tried to stand up. He started shouting. ‘That’s what I’m tellin’ you, you silly old fool. It were a desperate enterprise. That’s why I’m confessin’ it. I – I gotta go now. It’s gettin’ cold and dark.’ He held up his hand. ‘Is my fingers there? I can’t feel my fingers. Oh Christ, this pain. It will go, won’t it, vicar? It will go when I . . .’
The body convulsed so hard it jerked itself out of Chatterton’s arms. When he next lifted Strickland’s limb it was limp and lifeless. Horrified by this, and by what he had heard, Chatterton got to his feet and began walking back to his church. He needed desperately to pray for a while, to get his mind back in some order. He was far from calm. His nerves were shot and his thoughts ricocheted wildly around inside his head. To kill and eat a friend! How dreadful. How terrible. Someone would have to be told, of course. Major Nielson. He would tell Major Nielson then leave it to the army to deal with.
After a short session on his knees, murmuring orisons that were meant to ward off future nightmares, but would fail in their purpose, the good Reverend Chatterton went to see the major. Nielson immediately sent out a party of soldiers to recover the body, then he questioned the vicar closely. Had it seemed as if this fellow Strickland was in his right mind? Could there be some fantasy here, provoked by the poison he had supposedly ingested? In Chatterton’s opinion, was there a case to answer or were they the ravings of a dying madman?
‘Fetch the Maori,’ said Chatterton, realizing this was the best idea he had had all evening. ‘I know the man. Tarawa’s his name. Bring him in and question him about the stonefish. Inspect this Strickland’s bed for the deadly fish. If that part’s true, then I expect the rest of it is too. Why would a man make up a story like that, when he knows he’s dying?’
Kiwi Wars Page 23
