by Sarah Lark
The warriors arrived as Franz was carrying a sack full of flour on his back. Voelkner and Gallant were also unloading the wagon full of supplies, with the assistance of the Maori helpers.
“The good people of Auckland have donated much,” Voelkner told them.
Franz noticed that the helpers were quieter than usual. They hadn’t joined in with the ceremony in the village, but they doubtlessly knew what kind of danger the mission was in.
And then the Te Whakatohea men strode through the gate into the mission, led by Kereopa and Patara, all heavily armed and dressed in traditional garb. Silently, they formed a circle around the missionaries. Franz’s heart raced. Voelkner remained calm, and even smiled.
“What a welcome!” he said. “This looks like a powhiri. But haven’t we been one tribe for a long time?”
“We will never be one tribe!” Kereopa declared, and spat at the missionary’s feet. “Why should we join forces with thieves and traitors?”
He spoke in Maori, but it was translated in accent-free English by the young warrior by his side with the entirely tattooed face.
Voelkner stepped toward Kereopa and his men. “Those are strong words, my friend. But I don’t know you, and you know nothing about me. Shouldn’t we talk to each other first, and perhaps pray together? I’ve heard that you are ambassadors of Pai Marire. And doesn’t Te Ua Haumene preach love and peace, just like my brothers and I?”
The missionary tilted his face toward Kereopa in an offer to exchange hongi. Franz didn’t know if the gesture was brave or simply crazy. Kereopa reacted unambiguously, at lightning speed. He struck Voelkner to the ground.
“Rire rire, hau hau!” Patara cried.
The warriors took up the words and chanted them rhythmically. For the first time, the look of calm and blind trust left Voelkner’s features.
“What have I done to you?” he asked them.
A young man stepped forward. “I am Pokeno, a son of Te Aporotanga.”
Franz’s breath caught in his throat. Te Aporotanga was the chieftain who’d been killed by the Te Arawa. The tribe blamed the government for his death.
“I know, Pokeno,” Voelkner said in a gentle voice. “I christened you.”
The young man ignored this. “I accuse you of my father’s murder! You sent him to the pakeha troops, where he met with their knives. You were spying for the governor. You told the army about our plans.”
“What plans, Pokeno?” Voelkner asked kindly.
“Shut up!” Pokeno shouted. “You have betrayed my people, and poisoned them! And sold them! There are surely settlers waiting to steal this land . . .”
“Rire rire, hau hau, rire rire, hau hau!”
When the boy didn’t know what else to say, Kereopa prompted the warriors to chant again.
Voelkner shook his head uncomprehendingly. The accusations made no sense. He’d worked so hard to protect the tribe’s land.
“Take him prisoner,” Kereopa demanded. “Take them all prisoner!”
The ring of warriors closed more tightly around the missionaries, then pushed them toward the church.
“What will happen to us?” Franz asked, his voice breaking. He was too panicked to remember the words in Maori, so he spoke English to the young interpreter.
To his surprise, the man answered. “You will be tried. And you will probably be killed.”
The day passed in a nightmare of prayer and song, both inside and outside the church. Voelkner wouldn’t let the threats discourage him. He prayed and sang in front of the cross, while outside in the churchyard, a niu was set up. All the old and new Hauhau devotees gathered around it. Kereopa and Patara spoke to the villagers. The warriors danced around the pole and shouted invocations while worried mothers brought their children out of the hospital ward and lay them on the ground in front of the niu. The mission doctor and his helpers were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they, at least, had been able to escape in time.
“Can the prayers heal the children?” a woman asked fearfully. Her little daughter whimpered.
Kereopa shook his head. “No, wahine. The only thing that will heal her is the blood from the heart of the traitor.”
“Kill!”
Again and again, the prisoners heard the word ringing through the air.
While Voelkner prayed, seeming as sanguine as ever, Franz cowered in a corner of the church and surrendered to his terror. He was convinced that he would die the next day.
Chapter 41
Eru watched with fascination as the Te Whakatohea tribe was transformed from a herd of obedient sheep to a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. He was more than a little proud of his role. After all, Te Ua had told them that this iwi in particular would be difficult to sway, because the people there were in thrall to the Christian missionaries. He’d wanted to cheer when the missionaries were locked away the day before.
After a night full of enthusiasm and invocations of the archangels, though, Eru began to fear the wrath of heaven. When the last notes of the morning hymn had faded, the villagers brought out wood and tools. Several others had had the same idea as Eru: a trial. They had been amused by the idea of parodying a pakeha court. Laughing, they appointed witnesses, lawyers, and judges, who passed whiskey bottles among themselves. The missionaries didn’t keep alcohol, but it turned out that the mission doctor had hidden a supply in his own quarters. In hopes of finding something valuable, the warriors had ransacked everything. But the only truly valuable thing was the bejeweled cross that Mara’s young uncle wore around his neck. Eru had seen it first but hadn’t told the others. He recognized the necklace as Ida’s. Mara wouldn’t approve if Eru took it.
During the trial, Voelkner had been sentenced to death by hanging. He was sentenced in absentia; no one felt it necessary to bring him out of the church to face the “judge.” Eru himself had joined in celebrating the sentence with cheers, but he hadn’t believed it would truly be carried out.
Now his body grew cold as he watched the Whakatohea build a kind of platform under the willow tree that shaded the churchyard. A noose already dangled from its branches. The women were carrying out their children so they could be healed with Voelkner’s blood. Eru was shocked. Of course, he and the other Hauhau warriors had promised the people something like this. But they couldn’t take it literally!
“Kill, one, two, three!” Kereopa sent the warriors to march around the niu again, swinging their spears.
“Now go get him!” Patara cried, raising his arms.
The new recruits stormed the church and dragged Voelkner outside.
“Kereopa, what’s happening?” Eru turned to his leader in shock. “What are they going to do to him?”
The warrior laughed, his face twisting. “What do you think, great warrior?” he said sarcastically. “They will kill him now. We will kill him! Rire rire, hau hau! Rire rire, hau hau!”
The words stuck in Eru’s throat. Of course they would kill him. That was the point of war. Voelkner was the enemy, and now he would pay with his life.
Eru attempted to sing and dance with the others as Voelkner was led to the gallows with calm dignity. But he couldn’t do it. So far, everything had seemed like a game, an adventure. Sure, there were the heads in Patara’s sack, but even they seemed like props in the play they were performing to recruit followers for Haumene. But now blood would flow. Kereopa wasn’t playing a game. And the enemies weren’t English soldiers, as Eru had always imagined when he’d thought about defending himself in battle. They were all united against one aging man with an oval face, sparse hair, sideburns, and gentle eyes. A black raven, true. Eru had often cursed the missionaries in Tuahiwi. But you couldn’t just kill someone like this!
Frozen with terror, Eru watched as young Pokeno followed the missionary onto the platform with Kereopa and Patara. Voelkner ascended with his head held high, and apparently without fear. He kneeled and prayed in front of the dangling rope.
“I forgive you,” he said, his voice sonorous, and then turned to Pokeno.
“I’m ready.”
Eru managed to watch as Pokeno put the noose around Voelkner’s neck, but then he turned away. He staggered behind one of the mission houses and vomited as the Te Whakatohea cheered at Voelkner’s death. When he returned, torn by stomach cramps and shame, the corpse was swinging from the gallows. The recruits surrounded the niu again, singing and howling, and the women brought out food.
Eru hoped Kereopa and Patara wouldn’t look for him. He remained at the edge of the celebration and thought, appalled, of Mara. Her uncle would surely be the next victim of this deadly mob—a mob that he, Eru, had helped create. How could he? And how could he ever look Ida Jensch in the eye again?
But soon, after more fanatical celebration, singing, and drinking, things got worse. Eru watched in disbelief as Kereopa and a few other men took down the dead body of the missionary. To the shrill cries of the Hauhau warriors, Patara cut the head off and splashed blood onto the sick.
“This will heal you, this will heal you!” he cried, as the children cried and squeezed their eyes shut.
Kereopa, intoxicated with dance, conjuring—and, of course, whiskey—laughed as he cut the dead man’s eyes out. Eru almost vomited again as the warrior swallowed them.
“Watch me eat the English Parliament!” he shouted through his blood-smeared lips. “And the queen, and English law!”
Eru staggered away. Trembling, he rolled himself into a ball in the shadow of the mission house and waited for the nightmare to end. Perhaps he’d wake up later and everything would be the way it had been before.
Hours later, his stomach had finally settled and his head still hurt, but Eru could finally think clearly. Only then did he remember Franz Lange. He couldn’t allow Mara’s uncle to die the same horrible death.
No one noticed Eru slipping into the dark church. The men were still in the side chapel where Eru had helped lock them the day before. Now he tore off the boards nailed over the chapel door. His fear and desperation seemed to give him superhuman powers, but he was bathed in sweat when he finally revealed Franz Lange and the other missionary. Both were pale with terror. Thomas Gallant held up his crucifix in front of him.
“God protect us from the devil,” he whispered.
Gallant was trying to speak as calmly and clearly as Voelkner had sounded hours before, but it came out in a whimper. Franz only stared at Eru. It was the terrified gaze of a trapped animal.
It suddenly struck Eru how unworthy it was for a true warrior to direct his anger against the weak. No matter what Te Ua Haumene said, killing people like Lange and Gallant surely wasn’t righteous.
Eru made a placatory gesture. “Be quiet,” he said harshly, before he finally stepped through the door. “Come with me. I’m helping you escape.”
Franz Lange didn’t understand what was happening when the tattooed young man, whose speech the day before had fired the bloodlust of the mob, suddenly led him to freedom. Franz had already come to terms with dying. His knees shook. No courageous last words came to him; he could remember no prayers. He only felt emptiness and fear. Now, he straightened his shoulders and followed the Hauhau warrior into the church. The young man looked around anxiously.
“Is there a back way out of here?” he asked in that crisp English accent.
Thomas Gallant shrugged helplessly. Franz would have to take the initiative.
“Yes,” he replied hoarsely. “Through the vestry.” He pointed to an inconspicuous wooden door nearly covered by a folding screen. “It leads out to the barn.”
The warrior nodded, relieved. “Go out that way, and don’t let yourselves be caught. Take horses from the barn and run. Good luck!”
Franz hesitated. He wanted to ask why the warrior was freeing them, and what had made him change his mind. He wondered if perhaps the whole thing was a trap. But Gallant ran ahead. Franz followed without saying a word to the young man who spoke English. He had a vague feeling of shame. Fleeing felt undignified. Perhaps they should say something, words of forgiveness, as Voelkner had. But if Franz were honest, he didn’t feel forgiveness. The only thing he felt was relief, mixed with fresh fear.
The way from the vestry to the horse barn was clear. Gallant hastily threw a saddle on the closest animal, and Franz did the same.
“I can’t ride very well,” he admitted.
Gallant shrugged. “I can’t either. God will guide the horses. Just the way he enlightened the young savage and guided him to us.” He looked at Franz, his eyes wild. “We—we should pray.”
Franz shook his head. This day had permanently shaken his faith. No one could have more faith in God than Voelkner. And how had the Creator rewarded him?
“We should ride,” he said.
The barn door was open, and Franz shuddered with fear at the thought of what lay beyond. To leave the mission, they didn’t have to cross the churchyard, but they did have to pass close by.
Franz thought for a moment, and then lifted the saddle off the back of the peaceful gelding he’d sometimes ridden for a leisurely visit to Maketu. Instead, he saddled an elegant little bay stallion that Paora had said ran like the wind. The words that Franz had scolded Chris Fenroy for a lifetime ago popped into his head.
“We should ride like the devil.”
As soon as Franz was on its back, the little stallion shot out of the barn. The animal bucked and shied as it galloped past the gallows, saw the dancing people, and picked up the scent of blood. Franz kept himself in the saddle with a strength born of desperation. He clung to the horse’s mane as cries rang out behind him, and Gallant’s large black gelding flew past him. His brother in the Lord was hanging onto the saddle just as desperately. Falling would have meant certain death.
The horses raced between the mission buildings, villagers diving out of their way in surprise. The howls faded as they passed through the gates of the mission and the marae.
“Where to?” Gallant shouted.
“Maketu! The coast!” Franz called back.
There was a military base in Maketu. However, it was more than fifty miles away, and Franz was already exhausted. The horse had slowed to a fast trot, which was shaking him up even more. If he could stay on at all, it was only thanks to the few riding lessons that Linda had given him at Rata Station. Arrogant as he’d been back then, he hadn’t even thanked her properly.
It was already twilight, and soon it would be dark. The path they were on ran parallel to the coast, but it was quite craggy and led through dense woodland. The riders could hardly see their hands in front of their faces. But Franz’s little stallion led the way unflinchingly.
“Maketu’s still too far. What about Whakatane?” Gallant asked. After an hour of riding, he was sitting crookedly in his saddle with a pained expression on his face.
Whakatane was the closest town to Opotiki, and had originally been a Ngati Awa settlement. A mission had been there for a long time, too, led by Catholic priests, and the town had flourished. There were fields, farms with livestock, a mill, and a school. The local Maori were known to be friendly to the pakeha. But now? What if other Hauhau recruiters were rampaging there? Would they just be putting themselves in danger again?
The decision was finally made for them by the little bay stallion. On the Whakatane River, there were not only the mission and a well-known Maori pa but also several pakeha farms. At the first one they passed, several mares were grazing in the meadow. Franz had neither the strength nor the riding ability to stop his horse from heading toward them. He barely managed to fall out of the saddle before the whinnying bay pushed his way through the wooden fence, knocking out the crossbars.
Four excitedly barking dogs roused the farmer, who came out of the house with his sons to find out what all the noise was about. After he’d caught the stallion and handed the reins to one of his boys, the man looked up. His torch illuminated the missionaries’ pale, exhausted faces.
“Where the devil did you come from?”
A little later, Franz Lange and Thomas Gallant, still trembling
with exhaustion and tension, were sitting by a crackling fireplace in the Thompson family home. They gratefully sipped hot tea while the farmer and his sons saddled horses. They, too, were ready to ride like the devil, and they could do it. They reached the military base at Maketu that night. At dawn, a regiment of the English cavalry sped toward Opotiki.
Eru awoke late the next morning in the Te Whakatohea’s community house. Kereopa and Patara slept by his side, both still smeared with blood. When Eru got up and looked around, he found a few quiet women making fires and baking flatbread. Others were weeping and preparing graves. Many of the children had died during the night. The blood of the slain missionary hadn’t healed them, nor had the belief of their fathers in Te Ua Haumene’s cause. To the contrary, the trauma and cold of the night had worsened their condition. They had been better off in their beds in the hospital ward than on the ground around the niu.
Eru realized then that no one was attempting to sing the morning hymns. The few warriors who were awake seemed more afraid than invulnerable. Eru briefly wondered if he should speak to them, but then gave up the idea. Kereopa could figure out for himself how to rally his followers again. Instead, Eru approached a fire to ask an old woman for some flatbread. She gave him herbal tea, some bread, and kumara, and sat down across from him. Eru recognized her as one of the village elders. Like some of the other old people, she had withdrawn when Kereopa began preaching to the tribe.
“What will happen now?” she asked quietly as Eru ate and drank.
Eru looked down. “I don’t know. I—I’ve never done anything like this before, or seen such a thing. To cut off a man’s head and eat his eyes—”
The old woman laughed without humor. “No,” she said. “You’re still too young for that. When I was your age, it happened more often. It’s tikanga, you know. Part of war. The strength of the enemy enters the warrior who kills him and eats parts of his body. That’s what they said, anyway. Later, we learned from the pakeha that it was a sin.”
“What do you believe, karani?” Eru asked.
