by Sarah Lark
“Fancy! What are you doing here? I thought you were with Carol on the North Island. Is she here too?” The man looked around. His gaze became mistrustful when he saw Fancy trot back to Bill, who approached, ready to introduce himself. The man assessed him with sharp blue eyes. “What are you doing with Carol Brandmann’s dog?” he snapped before Bill could say anything. “And don’t pretend that’s not Kiward Fancy! I’ve known the dog since she was a puppy. This is her son.” He pointed to a black-and-white dog lying peacefully on the dock. Fancy trotted over to greet him as well. She was hardly limping at all anymore.
“Of course it’s Fancy,” Bill replied, and finally introduced himself. “Carol—” He bit his lip. He didn’t quite know how to answer the question that was in the other man’s eyes. The man had doubtlessly known Carol, but should he speak candidly about her fate?
The stranger gazed at him searchingly. He seemed to sense Bill’s turmoil.
“William Deans,” he said finally, introducing himself. “Sheep breeder from the Canterbury Plains, friend, and well, neighbor to Chris, Cat, and the Jensches. To the girls, I’m something like an uncle. So would you please tell me where Carol is? Something must have happened; she would never have left her dog. Is she—” Deans’s voice became a whisper. “Is she dead?”
Bill rubbed his temples. “She’s missing. It’s a long story.”
Deans paused for a moment and then pointed to a pub at the edge of the harbor. “It’s probably one of those stories that’s only tolerable with whiskey,” he grumbled. “Come with me. It will be some time until the ship with my new sheep arrives from Australia. Let’s go have a drink, and you can tell me everything.”
It did Bill good to tell the attentive sheep breeder about the events on the North Island. He felt almost relieved when he had to end with the speculation that Carol and Mara could still be alive.
“I don’t want to believe that they’re dead!” he said fiercely. “Why would the Hauhau drag them back to their fort if they were just going to kill them?”
Deans shrugged. “Maybe as hostages? They could threaten to kill them if they were under siege. Either that or the fellows decided they liked them and wanted to keep them. You never know what’s going through their heads. No matter. The chances that they’ve survived are rather small. Your general was right about that. He couldn’t set an entire army into motion just to find their bodies. Hope can be deceptive, young man. Especially when we are very fond of someone. What hopes we all had for Cat and Chris’s return. The girls didn’t want to believe they were dead.”
Deans sighed as he drained his glass, and then ordered two beers. “Do Ida and Karl know yet?”
Bill slumped against the bar, then nodded slowly. “I sent a telegram as soon as I got here. She’s—” He hung his head in his hands. “Mrs. Jensch has been very gracious, thanking me for trying to help, but I can tell they don’t know whether to mourn their children or storm the pa themselves.”
“No, no,” Deans said, “we can’t have them putting themselves in danger too. Between Ida’s skill with a shotgun and Karl’s past as a mediator, they might convince themselves they have a chance! I’ll get in touch right away, tell them what I told you about respecting the general’s decision so they don’t make things worse. Convince them to stay in Russell while I make some discreet inquiries.”
Bill nodded grimly. “Thank you. Something like this . . . It’s almost too big to even let yourself feel it. And then to be told there’s nothing you can do?”
“A parent’s worst nightmare,” Deans agreed. “My heart breaks for the whole family. It’s almost a relief Cat’s gone. I can make Ida and Karl hear sense, but there’d be no stopping Cat rushing off to save the girls and getting herself killed too.”
“How are things at the farm?” Bill asked, needing to change the subject. “Have you heard anything about Linda? Do you think someone should tell her?”
Deans’s brow creased. “No. God, no. Poor thing would worry herself to death over her sisters, and she’s got enough to deal with just now. Linda wrote to us from Otago in the first few weeks. There was nothing left of the gold rush. She was quite circumspect, but it’s clear she’s barely scraping by, and the misfortune goes beyond that. It’s that Fitz character she married. At least that’s what my wife says. I don’t read between the lines much. As for the farm, well, Jane knows that no one is happy about her stealing her neighbors’ land. The Maori aren’t really going along with it. They never really understood why they had to keep working so hard, even though they’ve long since had everything they wished for. Besides, they liked Chris and Cat, and the girls practically grew up in their village. Rumor has it that’s also why Jane and Te Haitara’s son ran away. Jane doesn’t like to admit it. Whenever the subject comes up, she dishes up some tale about a school on the North Island. But people say he just left. He was angry about what she did to Rata Station. He was also in love with the little Jensch girl.”
“Mara?” Bill asked, pained at the thought of the beautiful, self-assured girl.
William Deans smiled sadly. “Yes, it turned out to be quite a tempest in a teapot. Jane was dead set against it, even though Mara surely would have brought quite a few sheep into the marriage. Pity about the girl—and the boy. Because if he ran away to the North Island as a young warrior, I can only say ‘Hauhau.’”
Bill rubbed his temples again. This was becoming too much to bear.
“What are your plans now?” Deans asked. “Are you going back to Fiordland? Do you know how you’re going to get there?”
A little later, Bill had a ride to Christchurch, and for the few days until his departure, he even had a job. William Deans had brought only one helper to drive the sheep. He was very pleased about the idea of a second, especially with a dog like Fancy, and he happily provided Bill with a horse.
“I’ve never done any shepherding,” Bill admitted.
Deans laughed. “Oh, you’ll learn fast, boy. It’s not much different than with the army. You’re the general, the dog is your officer, and the sheep are the infantry. Sometimes they’re a bit dumber than your soldiers. They’re also much louder, but at least they don’t get drunk.”
To Bill’s surprise, Deans was right. The former lieutenant figured out very quickly how to work with the dog and sheep, and he even enjoyed it. Of course Fancy made it easy for him to succeed, and it also helped that he felt closer to Carol when he was working with the animals. What was more, the ride along the wild, spectacular east coast of the South Island made him feel a bit better. For the most part, the land here was untouched, aside from the occasional fields and pastures. There were no army bases, and no one had burned down the forests or driven away their denizens. Bill began to feel more at peace. His anger and uneasiness faded, even though his sadness remained. The closer he got to Christchurch, the more often he considered remaining in the Canterbury Plains and working for Deans.
But the notion of living close to Rata Station was too painful. So he said goodbye to William Deans and his farmhand at the estuary of the Waimakariri, as he had originally planned, and made his way to Lyttelton. There he quickly found a ship that was bound for Campbelltown. He spent most of the voyage holed up in his cabin, trying not to think about the lighthearted journey with Carol, Linda, Cat, and Chris that had ended so tragically. This time, the ship arrived safely in Campbelltown harbor, and Bill took a room in a hotel. He could have stayed at his aunt’s, but that, too, would have reminded him of the painful days that he’d spent there with Carol and Linda. He planned to look for a good horse the next day, to buy it and ride home. First, he would help on his parents’ farm. He’d figure out the rest later.
He’d planned to go to bed early, but felt caged up in the room. There was a pub next to the hotel where he could get a drink so he could relax enough to sleep. Unhappily, he went in and ordered a whiskey, then hid in a corner of the bar with it. The last thing he was interested in was company, so he looked up reluctantly when someone spoke to him.
“Excuse me, mayhaps I mistook ye for someone else,” a man said, “but weren’t ye among the survivors of the General Lee?”
Bill frowned. “Yes. But to be honest, that’s not something I really want to talk about.”
The man smiled wanly. “I understand—ye lost someone. I won’t rub salt in yer wounds, it’s just that I knew yer face. Ye were at the docks so often whilst I was searching fer survivors with my ship. Perhaps ye remember, Captain Rawley of the Hampshire.”
Bill did have a vague recollection of the ship’s name.
“It was a tough time,” Rawley said, and took a swallow of his beer. “May I sit with ye?”
Bill still didn’t feel like having a conversation, but he didn’t want to be impolite. Without smiling, he pulled out the stool to his left for the short, strong man. Rawley had an open face, a full beard, a hooked nose, and intelligent-looking dark eyes.
“I survived a shipwreck once meself,” he said, after he’d taken a seat. “I sat on a deserted island for three days afore I was rescued.”
Bill’s interest was piqued. “You were a castaway? Do you think it’s possible that anyone from the General Lee is still alive?”
Rawley shook his head. “Back then, we searched all of the islands around. ’Course, the boats could have drifted farther toward the Antarctic. But it’s hard to say if anyone could have survived there for a year and a half. Mayhaps we’ll soon find out. At least the boat might still be found, even if the people have died.”
Bill blinked in confusion. “You’ll find out soon? How can that be?”
Rawley took another swallow of his beer. “I managed to squeeze the budget for the voyage out of the government,” he declared proudly. “To the Auckland Islands, the Antipodes Islands, and the Bounty Islands—all the cold, barren islands along the Great Circle shipping route.”
The Great Circle route was the preferred shipping route from southern Australia to Europe.
“What are you planning to do there?” Bill asked. “Are you seriously considering searching for castaways? Do so many ships sink?”
The captain frowned. “Enough of them sink, believe me. But not many castaways can survive for more than a few days in that cold. They barely get out of the water with their lives. They lack warm clothing, food, and shelter. Even if there are animals about—ye’ve surely heard that on some of the islands pigs or goats were released—they have no weapons to hunt them. That’s exactly where I want to go.” The captain glowed with enthusiasm. “The Hampshire will make landfall at as many islands as she can and leave emergency supplies. Sea chests full of warm clothing, blankets, compasses, tools, matches, cooking utensils, and fishing gear. A little jerky and hardtack for the first days, and guns with ammunition for the islands with animals. If we pack properly, mayhaps we’ll also be able to bring some livestock aboard the Hampshire. If the islands seem fine for them, we’ll set them out there. It’s a good plan, isn’t it?” He smiled. “It just wouldn’t go out of me head since I was sitting on me little island; I would have been too glad to count a few sheep.” He laughed at his joke.
“A very good plan,” Bill agreed.
He suddenly saw a chance to do something, after all. He probably couldn’t help Cat and Chris at this point, or Carol and Mara either, but at least it would ease his conscience.
“Do you have work for me on your boat, by chance? I’m no sailor, but an experienced seaman. I know how to use a compass, and I’m used to close quarters. I was a soldier.”
Rawley considered for a moment. “How good of a chronicler are ye? Bookkeeping and such? The government will want to know what has happened with all the goods they so generously financed. Unfortunately, writin’ isn’t really one of me strengths.”
Bill smiled broadly. “I don’t mind it at all,” he said. “I’d be happy to keep the logbook for you. And otherwise, I am willing to work and have practical skills. Just tell me what I should do, and I’ll do it. I can even herd sheep. At least, with some help,” he said, gesturing at Fancy, who was lying under his chair.
Rawley raised an eyebrow. “Ye want to take yer dog aboard?”
Bill nodded.
“Won’t she get seasick? There’s a lot of wind down there.”
Bill shrugged. “In the Cook Strait, too, and she survived it fine. In any case, I can’t leave her here. She has no one but me.”
Rawley considered for a moment, and then offered his hand to his new two-legged crew member and patted the head of the four-legged one.
“Good, then ye’re both hired. Ye will keep the books, and hopefully the mutt knows somethin’ about rat huntin’. The beasties could be a nuisance with all the food we’re going to have on board. What was yer name, again?”
“Paxton. Bill Paxton. And this is Fancy.”
The next morning, Bill reported for service aboard the Hampshire. The ship was a double-masted brig, and Captain Rawley would sail it with a rather small crew. So far, he’d hired three experienced sailors, and now Bill had joined. He was the youngest aboard. The others greeted him and his sheepdog with good-natured teasing. “Are you lost, boy? The next sheep farm is inland!” they said, but were happy about the reinforcement. In general, one needed about ten people to sail a brig, but few sailors had wanted to sign on for such a long, uncomfortable voyage. The other men didn’t wonder about Bill’s personal interest in the mission. No one there was on board for the pay; the other men, too, were concerned about castaways. Peter had been shipwrecked with Rawley, Gus had lost two friends when a ship had sunk, and Ben had survived two such disasters.
“I was treading water for hours before help arrived. The first time it was so cold that my balls froze solid, and the second time I was afraid that sharks would bite them off. To the joy of all the ladies, they’re still attached!”
They all remembered the sinking of the General Lee. Peter and Gus, too, had originally helped search for survivors. Ben had been at sea at the time but had heard about it later. They all thought that Bill’s enthusiasm for the voyage was good, as a way to thank God for his rescue. But they didn’t share his tentative hope of still finding the castaways.
“We would have found them if they were anywhere in the area! And Billyboy, if they drifted as far as the Aucklands, they surely must have frozen on the way.”
Bill didn’t bother arguing. He would see with his own eyes if it might be possible to survive on one of the islands.
His first job was loading the ship, bringing aboard the chests full of clothes, blankets, tools, and all kinds of other things. The men stowed most of it in the hold. Anything that wasn’t sensitive to water was lashed to the deck, to spare as much space below as possible. Fancy made herself useful herding a small group of goats on board. She barked aggressively at the rabbit hutch that the men also carried up the pier.
“She doesn’t like rabbits; they compete with the sheep for the grass,” Bill said apologetically and helped pull up the gangplank. He was excited, and could hardly wait to get underway. For the first time since the General Lee had sunk, he felt like he was doing the right thing.
Bill didn’t look back as the ship left the harbor. It was a clear winter day in July, and chilly in spite of the sunshine. The wind was sharp on his face, but he didn’t mind. Finally, at last, he felt something like hope again.
Almost eight hundred miles to the north, General Cameron’s troops took Weraroa pa. The men searched the deserted fort thoroughly, and toward the evening, a young lieutenant approached his commanders.
“It’s about the kidnapped women,” he said excitedly. “Lieutenant Paxton was right—they’re alive! Or at least they were. We found a message.” He held out a piece of paper to Cameron onto which he’d copied the plea for help. “This was carved into a beam in one of the huts.”
MARA JENSCH
CAROL BRANDMANN
SLAVES
HELP!
General Cameron read it thoughtfully. “Well . . . ,” he said slowly, “of course no one could have know
n that. And now they’re no longer in my jurisdiction. Inform the governor and General Chute. The Maori in Taranaki are their problem now.”
Chapter 49
“I’ve heard that you’re planning to give up service entirely.”
Four months after Carl Voelkner’s murder, Franz Lange was standing in front of George Selwyn, the bishop of Auckland, with his head bowed. After his escape from Opotiki, Franz had found shelter in a quiet parish near the city. The priest there had been a friend of Voelkner’s. He had received the news of his death from Franz, and had offered the young missionary refuge and work. “You surely need some time to get over all that,” he’d said in a kind, fatherly manner, and had kept Franz busy helping with church services and in the Sunday school. But in the long run, the little community didn’t need two pastors.
Franz wasn’t surprised when the bishop had summoned him, but he hadn’t expected such direct words at their first meeting. Franz’s face turned red. He’d shared his plans with the pastor in Auckland under the pledge of secrecy.
“I—” Franz searched desperately for words. There was no way he could admit that he almost died of fear every time he even thought about entering a marae again.
But the bishop raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t even begin with excuses. I’m not going to accept your resignation anyway. You can’t quit serving God, Reverend Lange! I will assign you to a new location, and you will go there joyfully, with full trust in the goodness of God. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes—no—I—” Franz bit his lip. He certainly couldn’t tell the bishop how much he’d been doubting the goodness of God.
“Fine,” the bishop said. “Then we come to your new assignment. We have chosen you because you are particularly good at working with children. That much I have gleaned from your records.”
Franz nodded and felt a burst of hope. Perhaps he would be given a teaching position at a school like Tuahiwi, near Christchurch.
