by Sarah Lark
Kitten nodded. “Please don’t be angry,” she begged the merchant. “I had to get away from Piraki, so I hid in your wagon. I ate a little sauerkraut. I’m really sorry, but if you take me to a town, then—then I’ll look for some honest work and I’ll pay you back, and—”
“First of all, come out!” Carpenter ordered. “You’re upsetting my customers.”
Kitten climbed down from the wagon, trembling. As she did, she dared to take a quick look around, and was amazed that she seemed to be in a proper village. Surrounding the square in which Carpenter had stopped were decorative wooden houses with colorful roof gables. They had structures like porches built onto the fronts of them, which were ornamented with attractive carvings. The buildings were of various sizes and seemed to have different purposes. In front of one, food was being prepared. It seemed to be some kind of kitchen. In front of another were life-sized figures carved out of wood and colorfully painted.
She looked more carefully now at the dark-skinned, powerfully built, round-eyed people. Both the men and women wore wide, decorated belts and skirts made of strips of cloth, which made a sound like the whirr of a small bird’s wings when they moved. The men were not wearing shirts, but rather robes of a feathery material, and the women were clothed in woven tops. Their long hair was held back from their faces by broad headbands, and the men had tied up their hair in a kind of knot on top of their heads. The Maori looked strange to Kitten, but in no way threatening. When her gaze fell on Reverend Morton and his eyes flashed with lust, she found him more dangerous than the Maori.
“You!” The reverend walked toward her and held up his hands again as though he were thanking God. “The ways of the Lord are mysterious. You . . . and I . . .”
Kitten turned to Carpenter. “I don’t want to be sold,” she said. “I don’t want to be a whore. Please—please take me to the settlement on the Cook Strait. I’ll find some work as a housemaid or something . . .”
Carpenter laughed. He almost looked pitying. “Child, I don’t know what you’ve been imagining, but that one-horse town is no big city. There are maybe two or three farmers who brought their wives with them, and a barn full of kids. They don’t need maids. There are also a few missionaries and surveyors drifting around up there—for them, there’s a general store and a few pubs. You’d certainly find work in one of them, but not honest work.”
Kitten lowered her head in confusion. Again, her hopes were dashed. And then the reverend spoke in his whiny voice.
“Every man must accept his fate and take the place that God has destined for him!”
Kitten stared at him. As the reverend crossed himself, the men fingered their war clubs again. The gesture looked suspicious to them. The woman with the gentle features tried to encourage Te Puaha to translate. But the reverend’s mode of expression seemed to confound the Maori.
“Come off it!” Carpenter interjected. “It can’t possibly be God’s will that a child be sold like a piece of meat! Don’t you usually preach that whores are damned? Not to mention the men who pay them?” He narrowed his eyes.
“But that’s just it!” the reverend said with excitement. “That’s what I’m trying to explain to the girl. She’s not damned. God, in his endless mercy, has spared her virginity and sent her here. To me! I will do his will and take the girl to be my wife. We will have a good, Christian marriage.”
Kitten’s stomach cramped, and the world spun before her eyes. The aromatic food smells suddenly made her feel nauseous. Everything inside her revolted against the thought of marrying Reverend Morton. Even if he was her only chance to be an honorable woman. Among the Maori, audience to an incomprehensible drama, trepidation began to spread. Te Puaha translated for the tall woman again.
“A good marriage?” Carpenter howled. He was much shorter than the reverend, but his anger seemed to make him grow. “You’re three times the girl’s age, you bastard! Look at her! You should be ashamed that you’re even thinking about trying to get a child into your bed.”
The reverend shrugged. “Better a young bride than a young sinner,” he replied and took another step toward Kitten. “Now, tell me yourself, my lovely. With the help of God, do you want to be a good woman?”
Kitten recoiled. “No!” she whispered. “No, I—”
She searched desperately for a way to escape while the reverend pinned her with his eyes the way a cat watches a mouse. If she backed up any farther, she would soon be trapped against the wall of one of the houses. In panic, she dashed past the reverend and almost ran into the Maori woman who’d spoken. Kitten murmured an apology and was about to keep running, but then she felt large, warm hands on her shoulders. The woman indicated that she should stop, and in response to a tilt of her head, three of the powerful Maori warriors placed themselves between Kitten and the reverend. The woman obviously had some position of importance in the tribe.
Te Puaha looked questioningly at Carpenter. “This Ca-pin-ta friend?”
Carpenter sighed. “Not really,” he said. “Regardless, it’d be best not to hurt him. He—”
“Daughter of chieftain say, he should go!” the warrior ordered. “She keep girl. If you want, she give money for set free.”
Kitten could hardly believe it. She looked up gratefully at her rescuer while Carpenter accepted the deal. He certainly would have liked to be rid of the reverend, but he couldn’t just leave him in the wilderness. Kitten would be left with the chieftain’s daughter, for a small price, but Morton would have to find another place to sleep until they departed the next morning.
The Maori woman began to speak to Kitten.
“You ingoa?” she asked.
Kitten looked at her shyly. The word wasn’t one Carpenter had taught the reverend during the journey.
“I, Te Ronga.” The woman patiently indicated herself, and then Kitten. “You?”
“What your name?” Te Puaha said helpfully.
Kitten took a deep breath. She was sick of being called Kitten. If she was supposed to be grown up now—and no matter what happened, her childhood was over—then she also needed a new, grown-up name. Unfortunately, nothing sprang to mind.
“Cat,” she finally said. It was only logical.
Te Puaha laughed. “Poti!” he said, pointing at a plump tricolor cat that was cleaning itself in front of a house. “That is ‘cat,’ is it not? We say poti.”
The girl nodded. “Poti,” she said, imitating him, and smiled as she touched her chest.
The Maori giggled and clapped.
“Haere mai, Poti!” Te Ronga bowed theatrically to indicate that she had spoken words of welcome. “Haere mai to the Ngati Toa tribe.”
Cat stared at her in amazement. Were they really offering her a place among them? As part of their clan? She hesitated for a moment. But then she looked into Te Ronga’s smiling face, and the faces of all the other women of the tribe. All at once she was reminded of Linda Hempleman. These women might look unfamiliar to her, and their clothing and speech were very different from those of the elegant German, but they weren’t any less friendly. And they were doubtlessly honorable.
Cat took a deep breath. “Kia ora, Te Ronga.”
Part 2
THE SANKT PAULI
RABEN STEINFELD AND HAMBURG, GERMANY
BAHIA, BRAZIL
NELSON, NEW ZEALAND (THE SOUTH ISLAND)
1842–1843
Chapter 5
The winter had begun earlier than it had for years. Snow and ice were making things difficult for the people in Raben Steinfeld. Cold and damp found their way through Karl’s thin, worn-out jacket, and his trousers and shoes were soaked. Karl coughed and cursed the weather; the snow had begun to fall again just after he finished shoveling the path to Widow Kruse’s house. The woman had taken the opportunity to dock Karl’s earnings by half, as though the storm were the fault of the young day laborer. And Farmer Friesmann, whom he had helped rebuild a barn after it collapsed under the weight of the snow, had paid him only in goods. And not even a s
ide of bacon or a string of sausages. He’d given Karl a sack of flour and a few potatoes.
“You can thank God for what you’ve received. Your mother can make a good soup for the entire family out of it,” the farmer had said when Karl had cautiously broached the subject of payment in coin.
Afterward, the young man left. If Friesmann was oblivious to the fact that Karl had no family left—his mother had died in late summer, and his father and his younger brother long before—then it would certainly be impossible to convince him to raise Karl’s pay. He would do the opposite and dock it further, claiming one person alone couldn’t possibly need so much.
Karl sighed. He was deathly tired and frozen through after the long day, and the prospect of having to cook the soup himself after he’d split the wood and heated the stove in his hut sent a shiver down his back. But then he pulled himself together. He didn’t want to be ungrateful. After all, at least he had earned something on this day, which wasn’t to be taken for granted in winter. With the pfennig that the widow had coughed up for two hours of work and the goods from the farmer, he could feed himself for a few more days. This lousy way of life had killed his mother and brother. Now it was weakening him too.
Of course, he was still young and strong. Even if he coughed sometimes, he certainly wasn’t spitting blood, and he could manage the heaviest work without getting out of breath. But in the long run . . . Karl didn’t have any illusions. A day laborer in Mecklenburg didn’t have a long life expectancy. He no longer let himself think about marrying or starting a family. The responsibility would have weighed too heavily on his shoulders. Karl himself could stand to be hungry and cold, but he wouldn’t have been able to stand putting a wife in the same situation. And certainly not Ida.
The snow fell faster, almost obscuring Karl’s view of the road and the village. He could only make out the silhouette of a woman wrapped in a woolen cloak who was fighting her way along the path from the closest farmhouse. It seemed like the wind was about to blow her away, and she was carrying an obviously heavy sack.
Karl wondered if he should wait and help her, although he longed for the dry haven of his hut. Then he recognized Ida—and felt a shiver. He had only just been thinking of her, and now here she was. A strange coincidence, but then again, he thought about Ida all the time. He didn’t want to, but no matter what he did, her beautiful heart-shaped face always flashed across his mind.
“Greetings, Ida!” he called. She had her head lowered against the driving snow, and his sudden appearance must have startled her.
Ida looked up. Heavy snowflakes had transformed her eyebrows and dark hair into angel’s feathers. She smiled wanly when she recognized him.
“Greetings, Karl,” she replied and heaved her sack from the left to the right shoulder. “The weather is terrible, isn’t it?”
Karl nodded. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, and reached for the sack. “Let me carry that, we’re going in the same direction.”
Ida readily gave up her load, and Karl’s mouth began to water when he breathed in the smell issuing from the burlap sack. Fresh bread.
“Farmer Vieth just slaughtered. And my father called a meeting this evening at nightfall. I was sent to get some sausages to serve the men. Actually, I was supposed to be back a long time ago. But Mrs. Vieth just talked and talked; she wouldn’t let me leave. At least she gave me a loaf of bread, because now I don’t have time to bake . . .”
Karl sighed. The cottager’s daughter was paid more bountifully for a chat with the farmer’s wife than a day laborer was for three hours of work. The farmer’s wife had never given his mother a single piece of bread without making her work for it.
He decided to think about something else. After all, this was his lucky day. Not only because he’d found some work, but also because God had granted him this shared path with Ida, and a real conversation. They’d barely been able to talk at all since he’d left school—as Ida herself did just a year later. It was seldom that they met, especially after her mother had died during the birth of Ida’s youngest sibling. From one day to the next, the entire household duties of the Langes and the care of a sickly baby had fallen on her thirteen-year-old shoulders. She had cared selflessly for the tiny girl, but just half a year later, it had followed its mother to heaven.
“God gives and God takes,” Jakob Lange had said stoically. But Ida had been inconsolable.
“Your father is calling a prayer meeting?” Karl asked, and then moved closer to the shivering girl so at least his body blocked the wind a little. He would have given anything to own a warm jacket so he could take it off and put it protectively around her shoulders. “In this weather? On a Tuesday? Is someone ill?”
Karl wasn’t surprised that no one had invited him. The pastor had greatly valued the beautiful singing voice of his father, the deeply religious Friedrich Jensch, who had breathed life into the Sunday services with the compositions of Martin Luther. But it hadn’t helped Jensch any. When he was lying on his deathbed at home, the wealthy members of the community forgot him quickly. That bothered Karl, and he had made critical remarks about the pastor to the farmers and cottagers, earning himself a reputation for being argumentative and defiant. He was tolerated in the church, but not included in other village activities.
“No, not a prayer meeting,” she said, and shook off the snow that lay like a blanket on the scarf she had used to protect her hair. “It’s about—well, Father was in Schwerin recently.” That happened often. Jakob Lange was an excellent blacksmith and widely known as a horse expert. Even the squire recognized him as such, and took him along when he went to buy horses. Most recently he had purchased a team for his sleigh. Karl admired the impressive animals from a distance. “And he saw a poster, and then he met a man, a gentleman with a strange name. Well, his surname is Beit, that’s not so unusual. But his first names are something like Joon Nicholas.”
Karl considered for a moment. “Never heard of him. Who is he?”
“He belongs to—I don’t know, a trading company of some kind. In any case, it’s called the New Zealand Company. It has something to do with a shipping firm in Hamburg too,” Ida said. There was something about this business that seemed to be important to her.
“We read about New Zealand at the end of school!” Karl recalled. He was glad to be able to contribute something to the conversation. “The book by Captain Cook, you know the one.”
He smiled at her conspiratorially. Ida returned the look with certain disquiet.
“He wants to emigrate!” she let the words burst out. “I mean, my father. Mr. Beit is recruiting settlers for New Zealand. Apparently, there’s so much land that anyone can buy it. Not like here . . .”
In Mecklenburg, serfdom had only been ended about twenty years prior, and still, only farmers and craftsmen could apply for land on a long-term lease. It was supposed to be a safe deal, but the men of the old Lutheran community mistrusted the arrangement. The count of Mecklenburg had never persecuted them for their beliefs, but the last king, Friedrich William III of Prussia, had done so. His son had repealed the prohibition of Lutheran church services upon his father’s death, but Jakob Lange and others didn’t believe there would be peace for long. The squire could take offense to their adherence to pure Lutheranism at any time and use it to drive them from their land.
“Now Father wants to convince the other cottagers to go with him,” Ida continued. “We could take the entire community, Mr. Beit says, and it’s not very expensive either. Three hundred English pounds buys not just the voyage but also more than twenty acres of land. I don’t know how much pounds are in German thaler, but my father says we can all afford it.”
Karl sighed again. That might be true for the cottagers, and even for a few farmers, but for him even three hundred pfennigs would be unthinkable. But the thought of a new country made his heart beat faster. To leave everything behind, and start an entirely new life . . .
Ida looked despondent.
“Don’t y
ou want to go?” Karl asked.
Ida shrugged. “I’ll go wherever my father goes. Or wherever my husband wants . . .”
To Karl, the remark felt like a stab in the heart. Of course he knew that Ida Lange was betrothed to Ottfried Brandmann. The pastor had announced it to the council not long ago. The two of them could soon be married. Ida was seventeen, and by that age most girls were already married. But she was still raising her younger siblings, and Jakob Lange wanted to keep her in his household until the younger children were a little more independent. What was more, Ottfried didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to finish his carpenter’s apprenticeship. He worked for his father’s carpentry business, but still hadn’t completed his journeyman’s piece. But all that could only be a question of a few months.
“Ottfried!” Karl said, complaining. He didn’t know what had gotten into him. Perhaps it was the strange atmosphere of their walk together—the twilight in which the snow wove a ghostly veil to conceal them from harsh reality. “Do you really want to marry him? Do you love him?”
Ida stopped and stared at him with bewilderment in her large eyes. “He’s a good man,” she said. “He’s the older son, and he’ll inherit the business if we don’t emigrate. My father—”
“Forget your father, Ida!” Karl begged her. “Tell me how you feel about this wedding. Do you want—do you desire Ottfried?”
Ida’s face, already pale, seemed to lighten another shade as she took in the meaning of his words. Then it reddened with shame.
“What are you saying, Karl Jensch?” she said, scolding him.
Karl instantly regretted his outburst. Maybe she’d break off the conversation now and never speak to him again. But he was wrong. Ida needed a moment to collect herself, but then she searched for an answer.
