The Trespass (55 page)

The Maori chief’s gaze took in the white, angry, upturned faces,
how dare he mention our own beloved Duke,
and then he seemed to look beyond the crowd, to somewhere else in the darkness. And then he said, so quietly that many people did not hear,
‘He iwi rua tatou,’
and a sigh seemed to echo from somewhere in the hills.

And then he stepped down from the platform and stalked away again and was almost at once lost in the darkness where the lanterns did not shine.

‘What’s that? What did he say?’ Sir Charles leaned towards the Lieutenant-Governor who was looking anxious as the crowd murmured angrily.

‘He was quoting what we said when we signed the treaty with them. The Governor said then, I expect he got carried away, that we, the British and the natives, were one people. The chief has just said,’ and the Lieutenant-Governor looked apprehensively towards the hills, ‘that we are two.’

Suddenly one of the settlers leapt on to the platform brandishing a shotgun: Sir Charles and the Lieutenant-Governor quickly moved away slightly. ‘We have been cheated by the New Zealand Company,’ shouted the newcomer. ‘And now the British Government with no understanding of our situation is hindering our growth and our prosperity. They send us soldiers but they do not want the soldiers to fight the natives. From London they indulge these Maoris. They do not understand their shiftlessness, their trickery, the way they try to take back the land that we have purchased in good faith. But we understand the natives only too well, and with the help of God we – every man here – will deal with them ourselves.’ The Lieutenant-Governor, alarmed now at the turn the meeting had taken, muttered to Sir Charles that he thought they might withdraw but the settler added loudly, raising his arms in triumph, ‘—with or without the assistance of our Lieutenant-Governor and the soldiers of Her Majesty’s 65th Regiment!’ and he fired his gun into the air.

The crowd erupted, a hundred lanterns raised into the night, a hundred shouts of agreement, so that the new shot was not heard. It caught the darkness by surprise, someone on the platform fell forward suddenly to the ground below.

Pandemonium exploded. Soldiers fired into the air, women screamed, settlers ran in all directions. A space was cleared round the wounded man, a doctor came forward, knelt down. Benjamin moved towards the platform. He saw the Lieutenant-Governor kneel also, saw the wounded man try to rise, heard quite clearly the wounded man say, ‘My daughter. Send for my daughter.’ And then fall back, as the doctor probed the wound. A soldier pushed Benjamin away with his gun, then saw his attire, realised he had pushed a gentleman, apologised, moved on to push other, less well-dressed people. A group of soldiers passed, dragging natives. People held lanterns for the doctor, the face was seen to be deathly pale, there was much blood on the ground. The wind blew and Sir Charles whispered, ‘My daughter. I must have my daughter.’

But it was Peters who appeared. He whispered to Sir Charles but Sir Charles could not hear. In his agitation he tried to sit up, but could not.

‘Where is she? Where is Harriet?’

Peters still had to speak much louder than he would have preferred and Sir Benjamin Kingdom and others beside him heard Peters say, with terror on his face as he looked at his master, ‘She has disappeared again, Sir Charles,’ and they saw Sir Charles fall back. And then there was a loud, angry cry of anguish which was caught by the wind and echoed round the harbour and into the hills.

‘MY HARRIET!’ cried Sir Charles Cooper.

Benjamin felt rather than saw someone very close behind him; turned to see his brother Ralph, wild-eyed and without his cloak, staring down at the man, and at the blood that seeped into the mud and the sand along the quay.

And then the eyes of Sir Charles Cooper opened.

*   *   *

Harriet opened her eyes suddenly, as if she had heard something. For a moment she wondered where she was, wondered if she had fallen asleep. She realised with deep embarrassment that
the native girl was holding her,
could smell the oil on her hair; she pulled away, heard the sea, heard the native language they spoke: the girl, the old woman, saw their faces in the firelight.
What is happening? Was I asleep? I must hurry. I must hurry,
yet her body felt somehow heavy. Her mouth tasted sand and tears, still she could smell the oil of the girl’s hair.

The Maori girl, feeling Harriet move, waited for a moment and then spoke to her.

‘My grandmother asks:
the person who has been your mother has died?
’

Harriet gasped in surprise. At first she could not speak at all.
Did I fall asleep and say something? I must have said something, I must have fallen asleep and said something.
She stared at the old woman and the old woman stared back across the firelight from old, unreadable eyes. Harriet took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes. The person who has been my mother has died.’ And then suddenly her face was close to their faces across the dying embers of the fire: ‘I must escape from my father. Please help me.’

‘Hoatu he hoiho ki te wahine pakeha.’
And then the old lady looked away altogether, as if Harriet was no longer there.

‘Come,’ said the girl.

‘Hurry!’ said Harriet.

The girl moved quickly across the windswept, seemingly empty village, past shadowy huts and piles of flax. Harriet followed, clutching her precious embroidery bag. She did not see the little faces, the small, curious, silent faces inside the huts that watched her go by. Behind the huts some horses were corralled within a fence of branches, there was a whinnying and stamping in the wind. The girl spoke softly to them in her language, threw a rope round one of them; its neck reared up as she caught it but still she spoke softly and at last the dark horse allowed itself to be led away from the others.

‘Where’s your saddle, girl?’

Harriet looked confused. ‘I have nothing. I must buy a saddle.’

‘We don’t sell saddles. No-one has
wahine
saddles here.’ She looked again at Harriet. ‘Could you ride a man-saddle?’

‘I could ride anything I think, if I try. But I must hurry. I cannot wait.’ Far down the quay she thought she saw lights moving.

‘You give me a petticoat. I lend you my brother’s saddle.’

Harriet looked astounded. ‘My
petticoat?
’

‘I don’t think you can ride man-saddle with all the petticoats. I will have your petticoat. I will lend you my brother’s saddle but you must return it.’

‘I might be gone a long time.’

‘Never mind. Give me your word-on-the-Bible.’

‘I give you my word-on-the-Bible. But hurry!’

‘Now give me your petticoat.’

Harriet quickly took off the biggest black petticoat underneath her skirt.

‘What is your name, girl?’

Harriet suddenly froze. ‘Forgive me. I do not want you to know my name. They will come looking for me.’

‘Give me your petticoat,
koreingoa,
’ said the girl and she grinned at Harriet. Then she disappeared into one of the native huts with the petticoat and returned almost at once with a man’s saddle and a bridle. She quickly put them on the horse, at last taking the money from Harriet, then helping her up. The horse shied slightly as Harriet, for the first time in her life, put one leg right over the horse; she would have fallen if the girl hadn’t steadied her. She saw that her biggest petticoat would indeed have been a hindrance; her corset dug into her hips. The horse turned and tossed its head, feeling a stranger, feeling someone unsure; Harriet tightened her hold on the bridle, tried to balance sitting in this new way on the prancing animal.

‘What is that word you called me?’ Harriet stumbled over it.
‘Kore – ingoa?’
It could not be worse than whore. The horse stamped and shook its mane, the Maori girl handed up the embroidery bag, Harriet placed it in front of her as the horse moved off. Again Harriet pulled at the bridle.

‘I am calling you No-name. If they come I will say No-name hasn’t been here, at
Pipitea.
’

For the first time Harriet managed to smile. ‘Thank you. And – I should know your name,’ she said, ‘for I will return the saddle.’

‘My name is Piritania of course. After your country.’

And then, becoming still for a second, as if she heard something, the girl was quite suddenly gone in the darkness and Harriet Cooper was left alone in the night with her impatient horse. She turned it quickly past the carved statues at the entrance but as she came out of the village she heard shouting in the distance. Suddenly her instinct told her that there were other people here, quite near, that Piritania had heard them. Yet she could see no-one. Fear made the hair at the back of her neck suddenly quiver.
I must go now.
She knew that the road north, the one she had taken with Edward and Hetty and Miss Burlington Brown, ran along behind the native village to the sea. In the dark she had only the windswept moon to guide her; quickly she turned towards the dark coast road away from the town; as she turned she heard more shouting and then suddenly the sound of shots. The horse whinnied and reared: figures appeared out of the darkness, men running on silent feet, towards her, past her, melting away again as they turned into the
pa.

Suddenly Piritania was again beside the horse. ‘Get off, girl, get off.’

‘What is it?’

‘Quickly! You cannot get away now. There are soldiers everywhere.’ She helped Harriet dismount, slapped the horse’s side hard, it disappeared at once. Harriet stood clutching her embroidery bag, realised she was not wearing the big petticoat, her dress hung oddly. Piritania grabbed her arm, dragged her down on to the shore away from the village and on to their knees in the sand where they would not be seen; they heard horses’ hooves, soldiers appeared with lanterns, they saw they were carrying guns. Still Piritania held her, motioning her to be silent.

There were scuffles and shouts, then a gunshot nearby. Soldiers were pulling some of the natives away. Then Harriet thought she heard her own name being called in the distance and she turned to Piritania in terror. The voices called out of the darkness along the quay.

‘Harriet Cooper! Harriet Cooper! Where are you?’

‘Don’t let them find me, don’t let them find me.’ She clung to Piritania.

‘Harriet Cooper, Harriet Cooper! Your father has been shot!’

‘Dear God,’ whispered Harriet.
Dear God, dear God, dear God.

It was as if Piritania understood. ‘Now go back, girl,’ she whispered. ‘I will keep the horse for you.’

‘Harriet Cooper!’
called the voices all over the town.

‘Go now,’ whispered Piritania.

And Harriet moved forward into the light of the lanterns.

‘I am Harriet Cooper,’ she said.

*   *   *

The soldiers escorted Harriet back along the quay; in all the confusion no questions were asked about where she was going, where she had been; nor was her torn dress or her lack of a petticoat observed in the excited, charged night. A soldier carried her embroidery bag.

She asked only one question.

‘Is my father dead?’

The Regimental Officer looked embarrassed. All they had were carts, they could hardly place her in a cart; if only they had a carriage, a closed carriage to take her, as they would have in England. ‘He has been taken to the Government House, Miss Cooper.’

‘Is my father dead?’ she repeated, as if he had not spoken.

And now the Lieutenant-Governor himself came hastening towards the little procession. ‘Oh my dear, I am so very sorry, so very sorry, these are troubled, troubled times,’ and he took her arm as they hurried back the way he had come.

Ralph and Benjamin Kingdom stood in the shadows and saw the pale and beautiful figure of Harriet Cooper, who had brought them so far, being escorted in the moonlight along the unpaved road. But they did not call, fell back into the shadows until she had passed.

Then the two brothers turned to a boatman down on the shore, called to him quietly to row them back to the
Seagull.
As the oars splashed, phosphorescent light rippled outwards along the dark water. Lord Ralph Kingdom shook; he did not stop shaking when Benjamin gently put his own jacket around his brother’s shoulders.

And Benjamin understood the premonition at last.

THIRTY-TWO

Wellington town could not sleep. The lights continued to flicker along the beach and on to the quay, nervous lanterns could be seen everywhere, settlers stood about in excited, angry groups planning reprisals and revenge. The Maori villages were dark, silent and uneasy at each end of the town. The 65th Regiment was on full alert, soldiers stood on corners in the night, their guns ready. The wind dropped.

Then the news came: three natives had been arrested and charged with murder, justice would be done.

But the settlers muttered sullenly as they slowly made their way back to their rough houses and their sheds and their land and their farms along unfinished roads; many were men like Edward who had come with high hopes: this was not how they had foreseen their lives.

The sea, calmer now, broke gently on the shore.

Out in the harbour the
Seagull
waited until dawn.

*   *   *

In the Government House, at midnight, in a dark formal room at the back that was used only for very important official occasions, Harriet Cooper said goodbye to her father.

She was not alone: they did not feel she should be, nor had she asked to be: the Lieutenant-Governor’s wife and Mrs Burlington Brown stood beside her, to give her support.

They saw that Harriet did not cry, that she stared down at the body of her father with a strange look that they could not read. But they knew, and said to each other later, that grief takes many forms.

And then Harriet closed her eyes and they moved slightly, looked away, in deference to her prayers. For some time Harriet could not form any words. At last she prayed.

Dear Lord,

forgive us our trespasses.