Kiwi Wars (10 page)

‘What a debacle,’ said Gwilliams. ‘Never seen the like.’

‘A debacle?’ Wynter questioned. ‘I thought that was some kind of boat made of animal skin?’

Gwilliams grunted, ‘You would, you bloody ignoramus.’

‘I never had no schoolin’,’ Wynter shouted back. ‘How am I s’posed to know stuff if nobody tells me?’

‘You could try readin’ a book.’

‘I an’t got no books. Books cost money.’

‘I’ll borrow you one.’

‘You bastard, you know I can’t read.’

‘Well, that settles that then, don’t it? Let’s go and get a drink. You comin’, Sarge?’

King replied, ‘No, I think I’ll stay here and recalibrate some of my instruments.’

‘You might want to recalibrate your head at the same time,’ sniggered Wynter, taking familiarity just a little bit too far for comfort, ‘eh, Yankee?’ He nudged the corporal, who remained stony faced as the sergeant’s head shot up.

King said sternly, ‘I’ll recalibrate your face for you, if you make another remark in that vein.’

‘All right, all right – testy, an’t we?’ grumbled Wynter.

‘You take it back now!’ said King.

Wynter grudgingly did so, but he also added that people lost their sense of humour once they got three stripes on their sleeves. He and Gwilliams then left the hut and went to the local alehouse. There they had a peaceful two or three drinks, before Wynter took issue with something a Catholic Irish sailor might or might not have said. The sailor carried a shillelagh, with which he laid out the incensed Wynter in three seconds.

Gwilliams was impressed by the way the sailor had wielded his national club and struck up a conversation with him.

‘What do you call that thing again?’ he asked.

The Irishman told him. ‘This here’s oak,’ the sailor added, ‘but some prefer blackthorn.’

‘Does the job though.’

Gwilliams invited the man to have a drink, which the sailor accepted without hesitation.

‘You must excuse my comrade here,’ said Gwilliams, nudging Wynter’s inert body with his toe as it lay amongst the slops of beer. ‘He’s one of life’s unfortunates.’

‘Flash temper – foights over nothin’?’

‘That’s about the size.’

‘Sounds loik meself,’ the sailor said with a laugh.

‘But I’ll wager you ain’t a complainer,’ Gwilliams said. ‘This one is – never stops complainin’. Wears a man down like a rough road wears down the sole of a shoe.’

‘We have one of those. Every army or navy has one of those.’

‘Not like him.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m certain sure, just loik him. We have a boatswain name o’ Desmond Cartwright. Always complaining, never stops for a minute. You know what we call him?’

Gwilliams was quicker than many.

‘Desdemona,’ he said, promptly.

‘That’s roight!’ exclaimed the sailor. ‘Des-de-moaner. You’re a quick one, you are, boy. Where’re y’from? Americy?’

‘Sometimes. Other times from Canada. I keep ’em guessing. I was a barber. Used to shave and cut hair – that was my profession. Still do it for the captain, who’s lost one of his hands and ain’t so steady with the razor no more. I’ve shaved Kit Carson, the famous frontier scout, along with others like Jim Bowie.’

‘Jim Bowie? Did you know, fellah, that we have a man here from the Mexico wars? Eh? Name of Major von Tempsky. Colourful bastard. Company commander of the Forest Rangers. Wears this red sash and carries a long knife invented by that other fellah just mentioned – Jim Bowie. Makes ’em for his men too, if they ask for one.’

‘He carries a Bowie knife?’ said Gwilliams. ‘Ain’t seen one of them in years. Wouldn’t mind one meself.’

From the floor there came a groan as Wynter sat up and rubbed the huge egg on the side of his head.

‘And here’s Harry-De-Groaner,’ said Gwilliams.

The Irishman shook his head. ‘Doesn’t work the same,’ he said.

‘Nah, you’re right,’ agreed Gwilliams. ‘Pity though – I’d love to find something that does, just to get his goat.’

They both took swallows of their whisky as they watched with mild interest Wynter’s failing efforts to get to his feet.

Six

J
ust when Jack thought his headaches were leaving him, they began increasing in ferocity and frequency. It meant he had to confine himself to his quarters for a few weeks. He found himself more and more dependent on the mysterious powders given him by the Maori woman and often took to his bed. His quarters were in a building that had been built by whalers to store their equipment: ropes, harpoons, spare sails and masts, and other paraphernalia. The shed, as it was, had once been a huge open barn-like structure with coffin-shaped storage boxes fixed to the floor, but was now sectioned off into small rooms to quarter many of the officers arriving from Britain and Australia.

There were now 2,600 officers and men in the region of New Plymouth, including nearly 900 militia. Another thousand men were scattered over the rest of New Zealand in towns like Wellington and Napier, the largest group being stationed in Auckland, all under the command of a General Pratt, who had just arrived from Australia to take command. Jack had never heard of General Pratt and for once knew absolutely nothing about the man in charge.

Jack was forever finding artefacts left by the whalers, many of whom had been from American ships. When he first moved into his room he discovered one of those teak coffins in the corner, which had been nailed shut. The previous occupant, a young ensign, had used the box as a bedside table, but the boy had been devoid of curiosity and had not opened it. Perhaps the shape of it deterred him and he had been afraid of finding bodily remains within. Curiosity soon had Jack prising the lid open, however, and inside he discovered a treasure trove of small objects. There were some beautiful scrimshaws carved out of whale ivory by some idle sailor whose profession belied his artistry; a knife with a handle fashioned from a sperm-whale’s tooth, which still had dried blood on the blade; rope; harpoon flukes of varying shapes; letters from home countries, in Scandinavian and other languages, as well as English; and one or two books.

One of the books was an American novel about whaling by a man named Melville. The book’s title was
Moby Dick
and one of its readers had marked the margins in various places with such phrases as ‘Knows his stuff’ or ‘Got it wrong, here’. During the periods when his headache was not thoroughly in command, Jack read this novel and was amazed by the skill and imagination of the author. He had never read anything like it before in his life.

He was lying on his bed absorbed by
Moby Dick
when a newspaper reporter came to see him. Jack had only a curtain for a door and the man had knocked on the partition and then held the curtain aside. Since the noise in the whalers’ shed was always at a high level, with officers coming or going, having friends in for drinks, or – on the far side but still well within earshot – some untalented fool of an elderly naval surgeon squeaking away on his fiddle, Jack had not heard the rapping the first time.

‘All right to come in?’ said a rather round, fat face.

Jack was annoyed at having to move his head, for he found if he kept it quite still the pain was bearable.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, testily.

The man entered without invitation. ‘How d’ye do? Sorry to disturb. My name’s Strawn, Andrew Strawn. Civilian.’ A hand was extended. Jack’s natural good manners made him reach out and shake it, but it caused him to wince in agony. ‘Oh, so sorry,’ said Strawn. ‘Heard you were laid up with a head wound. Hurt, does it?’

‘Like hell.’

‘You should take something for it.’

‘I’ve got these powders from a local woman,’ Jack said, indicating some little parcels of folded newspaper about the size of a postage stamp. ‘They seem to work a little.’

Strawn frowned. ‘You want to watch these local witches – they’re liable to poison you with slow-killing banes.’

‘I’m sure this one is not a witch,’ stated Jack, but he could not help feeling a twinge of concern. His headaches were getting worse and more frequent all the time. ‘Look, I’m not in any real state to receive visitors. What is it you want?’

‘Oh, yes – well, I’m from the
Te Pihoihoi Mokemoke I Runga I Te Tuana
.’

‘What the deuce is that?’ muttered Jack, irritably.

‘Newspaper. You won’t have read it. Published in the Maori language. Title means: The Lonely Sparrow On The Rooftop. Mouthful, ain’t it? Not sure where the relevance lies, either, but there you go. I’m just a lowly reporter and don’t have a say in these matters. There’s this other Maori rag called
Te Hokioi,
which extols the virtues of Maori kingship. We were sort of brought into being to counteract articles which appear in the
Te Hokioi.
You know the sort of thing, one gives a battle one sort of slant, the other the opposite. Similar to Whig and Tory papers – different political bents.’

‘I’m not sure I’m someone who can give you what you want. I’m not at all politically minded, you know. William Russell gave up on me in the Crimea. Told me I was a born soldier because I had no political bent and was prepared to fight for whoever was in government. I told him I fought not for Whigs or Tories, or even Independents, but for one person only – the Queen – whereupon . . .’

Strawn held up his hand to stop Jack’s rambling, and said in a hushed, awed tone, ‘You know William Howard Russell? Russell of the Thunderer? Why, he’s my hero. I would like to be just like him – a fearless man with the pen.
The thin red streak tipped with steel.
Had I written those words, I would have laid down my own pen and been happy. He is a god amongst mortals, Captain Crossman.’

Andrew Strawn, whose torso followed the same contours as his face, sat down on Jack’s coffin box making it creak at the seams.

Jack was slightly embarrassed by the man’s worship of Russell. ‘Yes, well, be that as it may, I’m still not good at politics.’

‘That’s all right, old boy – not here for politics. Doing an article on Mr Abraham Wynter. Understand you’ve got a soldier who’s his brother?’

‘Private Harry Wynter.’

‘That’s the man. What’s his background?’ Strawn took out a leather-bound notebook from his tweed jacket pocket. ‘Poor as a church mouse, I understand.’

‘Most private soldiers are,’ said Jack, placing
Moby Dick
by his pillow. ‘For some reason army life doesn’t attract wealthy gentlemen. It’s probably the weevils in the bread which puts them off or the worms in the pork and cheese.’ He warmed to his theme, hoping to alienate this unwelcome visitor. ‘Or possibly the thousand-mile marches and the diseases which kill them off like flies—’

‘Ah,’ interrupted Strawn, ‘sense of humour, eh, despite the debilitating injury? Good, I like that. I see you’re a reading man? What’s the work?
Ordnance For Boys
?’

Jack smiled, in spite of his mood. ‘Touché. No, I wish it were so. It’s a novel –
Moby Dick.’

‘Never heard of it. Must have had poor sales, because I read like a man possessed. Anyway, back to the Brothers Wynter. I understand you have employed Abraham Wynter to buy you some land? Good move, if you want to jump the queue. He’s very good at what he does.’

Jack coloured and lied. ‘Well – I wasn’t aware I was queue-jumping.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it. Settlers are mostly rough-heads and rogues in any case. You don’t want to stand in line with that lot. Employ an agent by all means, if you can afford one. As land agents go, Abe Wynter is one of the best. He knows how to use the army to shift the Maori. Would do the same myself if I had the blunt.’

Jack’s earlier misgivings rose to the fore. Did he really want a man like Wynter as his agent? It was true he wanted to surprise Jane with an established farm when she arrived, knowing how pleased she would be with him. His vision of their meeting again made him feel like a small boy, needing praise from a woman who had become almost a stranger in his head. Indeed, in the last few years it had even become difficult to picture her face, and he knew things would be very awkward between them for a while. It was those thoughts which spurred him to cut corners, though he knew the morals of doing so were dubious to say the least.

‘I’m a little bewildered by Wynter’s influence,’ Jack said. ‘I mean, I’m aware of his riches. Does he buy politicians?’

Strawn looked uncomfortable. ‘That I do not know.’

‘And the army? Why are they in his pocket?’

‘Oh, well, that’s easy. It’s the old back-scratching thing. You know he’s a captain in his own right?’

Jack sat up abruptly, making his head pound madly. He suddenly felt sick and likely to swoon.

‘A captain? How’s that?’

‘Why, he purchased himself a commission in the Honourable Artillery Company. He did it by mail, he tells me. He’s quite proud of the fact.’

‘Is-is that usual?’

‘Highly
unusual I understand. He employed a member in London to grease the wheels. It’s one of the reasons I came to see you. I was told you had a cousin in the Honourable Artillery Company. Abraham Wynter himself doesn’t seem to know an awful lot about the company – says he doesn’t need to know, just needs to be in it.’