Kiwi Wars (19 page)

The naval officer turned on his heel and was striding away when a pale-faced Abe Wynter called him back.

‘Wait a bit – I meant no offence. It was just my little joke. Strickland, you say? Arthur Strickland?’

‘That was the name he gave us.’

‘Big man, hangs low at the shoulders, stoopin’ like?’

‘A reasonable description.’

‘Scarred lip, ’ere?’ Abe pointed to the right-hand corner of his upper lip. ‘Nose sort of twisted sideways?’

‘Captain,’ replied the officer, impatiently, ‘I do not have time to describe Mr Strickland from stem to stern. The colour of his underwear is unknown to me. We are speaking of the same man, I have no doubt. Now, do I tell him you have no interest in his plight, or shall we come to terms here and now?’

‘Coffee shop.’ Abe indicated with his cane, pointing with the end mounted with a silver hawk. ‘You drink coffee?’

‘I do indeed.’

‘Then let’s wash away the taste of last night’s brandy-wine and settle this man Strickland’s debts at the same time.’ Abe entered the coffee house, followed by the young man. ‘Now tell me all you know about Mr Arthur Strickland. ‘Ow did he come to be aboard your ship, eh? And what’s ‘is story so far?’

Abe Wynter learned all he could about his old shipmate from the young officer, who once he had been paid was quite willing to impart as much knowledge as was required. Finally, the officer departed leaving Abe still swilling down strong coffee. Twenty minutes later a large man in ragged breeches entered the coffee house. He peered around the gloomy interior until his eyes settled on Abe Wynter. A sort of twisted grin, which went the opposite way to the direction of his nose, appeared around his mouth. He walked over to Abe’s table.

‘’Ello, Striker,’ said Abe, not moving. His face having turned to stone.

‘Abe, me old shipmate. ‘Ow are yer? No handshake for your pal? What? You an’ me, we struck it rich together.’

Abe made no move, but nodded to the chair opposite.

‘And you’ve gone and spent yourn?’

‘Every penny,’ said Striker, sighing.

‘Don’t tell me – cards and dice?’

‘The very same.’

They both laughed loudly at this, making heads turn in the coffee house.

Abe said, ‘You was always one to gamble, Striker. You’d wager on a snail race, you would.’

‘And have.’

The tension between the two men was a physical presence in the room and many people there were aware of it.

Striker was then overcome with a violent fit of coughing. He took out a piece of old sailcloth and filled it with phlegm, while Abe looked on – not in disgust, but in alarm. Striker obviously caught the look for he said, ‘Yep, consumption. Me lungs are in shreds, matey. It was that trip we did around the Horn what was responsible. ‘Ow you got away free, I don’t know. You was always the lucky one, Abe.’ He put the damp piece of sailcloth back in the pocket of his breeches. ‘Australia was a bit ’arsh on the chest. I heard the air was good ’ere, in New Zealand, so I came.’ Striker sniffed loudly. ‘An’ it is, too, ain’t it? Nice clean air. Should put a couple years on what I got left.’

‘So that’s it? Dyin’?’

Striker’s expression hardened. ‘Not as quick as you might want, Abe – but gettin’ there gradual.’

Abe tried to look shocked. ‘I don’t want you to die, Striker. Gawd ’elp me, you’re my friend.’

‘Yes, an’ we share a dark secret together, don’t we, Abe? But don’t look so panicky, like a rabbit lookin’ down a gun-barrel. I ain’t goin’ to say nothin’ to no one.’ He paused. ‘I need you to stake me though. I need to earn a livin’. I don’t want to be a leech on you, Abe, an’ expect you to give me money when I want it. I ain’t a beggar. I’ve always worked for me bread, you know that.’

‘Of course I do. What is it? Gold prospectin’?’

‘Fishin’. I’m from a fishin’ family in Cornwall.’

‘I thought you was a tin miner?’

‘An’ fishin’. Mining and fishing. Them was the two main occupations of my folks in Boscastle. I need a boat, Abe. Somethin’ nice and neat I can handle. I’ll get a local boy to assist. What do they call ’em here? Abos?’

‘Naw, Maoris. Look, I’ll get you a boat. You’ll need nets and things, too, I don’t doubt. Is that what you really want to do, Striker?’ asked Abe Wynter, to whom fishing was a foul occupation. ‘Fishin’? Won’t the cold water bring on your sickness?’

‘Good clean air is what I want. An’ if it does bring it on, you won’t be arguin’, will you, Abe? Now, can you stand me a meal? I’ve a hankerin’ to fill my belly.’

Abe stood up, his feelings in turmoil. It was a great shock, having Striker here on his new stamping grounds, but the good thing was that his old shipmate would not be here for long by the sound of his chest. Abe had good reason to want to be rid of Striker. He did not believe that fishing would be a healthful occupation for a man with consumption, so he was more than willing to stake Striker in this enterprise. One of his Maori aides was an ex-fisherman. He would give him to Striker to assist with his fishing. And if Striker were to linger too long in this world, why the man would be there, available, to give his old shipmate a nudge into the next.

It was while Abe and Striker were in the harbour-side eating house that Gwilliams and Harry Wynter entered. Abe signalled to his younger brother to approach their table.

‘Harry, this is me old shipmate, Striker. He was one of them what was with me on the findin’ of the gold in the Ballarat fields, along with poor old Irish Danny. Striker, this is me younger brother, Harry. He’s an army man, as you can see. It’s his long-term career, an’t it, Harry? Goin’ to be a sergeant one day.’

‘Been one,’ snapped Harry. He nodded at Striker, seemingly wary as ever, but obviously found it prudent to be polite. ‘Pleased t’meecha. You stayin’ here, now?’

‘Yep, your brother has very kindly offered to stake me in the fishin’ industry.’

Harry looked understandably surprised. ‘But an’t you rich like him?’

‘I was,’ said Striker, with a grimace, ‘but I was unlucky at the cards. Misfortune follered me like a black dog and finally brought me down. Can’t even afford a shark steak, which my shipmate says he will kindly donate to me empty stomick.’

Gwilliams knew what was coming, just as much as Abe Wynter did, and he tried to steer Harry Wynter away. Harry was having none of it. He would have his say.

‘You stake
him
,’ he yelled at his older brother, ‘but you can’t think to help your own flesh an’ blood? I’m your next o’ kin, I am – it says so in the paymaster’s book. Next o’ kin! But do you treat me like the family I am? No. You let me rot in this man’s army. You’re a fuckin’ bastard, Abraham Wynter. I could kick you.’

‘I’m also a bloody captain in this man’s army, brother,’ Abe yelled back. ‘You have more respect for your seniors, you little twat. I’m an officer in the HAC. I could ’ave you court-martialled for insubordination. I’m thinkin’ about doin’ it, right now.’

‘Go on then, arse-face. Do it. I’ll tell ’em how you wet the bed when you was gone five or more. Yes, he did,’ shouted Harry, turning to the rest of the diners. ‘Proper little snot, he was. Had a punctured bladder. Wun’t be surprised if he din’t still do it, the wettin’. Cried like a babby when our dad belted him for it. Like a babby, he did.’

Furious, Abe was on his feet, his hawk-topped cane in his hand.

‘I’ll knock your fuckin’ block off, you lyin’ little squirt. Tell on me, eh? I’ll swing for you, you . . .’

Harry lifted his rifle and aimed at his brother’s chest. There was menace in his face and voice. His eyes glittered.

‘Swing for me, would ya?’ Harry said softly. ‘I’ll do the same for you, brother.’

‘Jesus!’ muttered Striker, his chair scraping as he moved out of the firing line.

Gwilliams stepped forward, but Harry said, ‘Back off, Corp. I got this one in me sights. I can drop him like a sack o’ spuds before you get near me.’

Abe felt the cold sweat ooze to his brow. He stared into his brother’s eyes. Who knew what went on in young Harry’s prematurely white-haired skull? His younger sibling had always been crazy and a lot had happened to him in the army to make him crazier. Look at him, with his milky blind eye, his ugly scarred countenance and his broken-boned body! A quiet madman if ever there was one. Why hadn’t the army got rid of him? Sent him to Bedlam where he belonged? But they hadn’t, for here he stood, a long black weapon in his hands and a thin evil smile on his features. Harry Wynter was just as likely to squeeze that trigger as not, for the consequences of his actions were always so far back in his brain they more often than not failed to emerge until after the deed had been done. It was of no use to Abe that afterwards Harry would regret those actions. Abraham Wynter would be lying on the floor, blood gushing from his carcass, departing this world in terrible pain.

‘Harry, Harry . . .’

‘Don’t you Harry me. You’re as rich as a king, you are, an’ you give me nothin’. Yet here you be, givin’ this man who an’t so much as a tenth-cousin what he wants while you leave your brother to the workhouse.’

‘You an’t in no workhouse, Harry.’

‘No, I’m in worse. I’m in a bloody army what whips me when they got the notion an’ tosses me in the clink when they feels like it. In fact –’ Harry squinted down the barrel – ‘I’d be better off dead. There’s got to be a better place up there, where Harry can rest ’is weary head an’ not worry about them who put upon ’im. A place o’ peace and quiet.’

There was a deathly hush from the patrons of the eating house now. Forks full of meat and vegetables were poised on their way to open mouths. A little man with cracked spectacles on the tip of his nose put his fingers in his ears. A large woman behind Abe began sniffling softly, but the now audible clattering of crockery and utensils from the kitchen – whose chattering occupants had no inclination of the life-and-death struggle going on in their dining room – would probably be the last thing Abe Wynter would hear as he left the world.

After two full minutes Harry lowered the Enfield and shrugged.

‘You an’t worth it, you black-hearted sod.’

A sigh of relief went round the whole room.

Harry walked towards the door, Gwilliams joining him, and to everyone’s amazement and indignation they were both laughing.

‘Weren’t even loaded,’ cried Harry over his shoulder, as if the joke were priceless. ‘Not even a pea up the spout. Nice t’meecha, Mr Striker, sir. Hope you enjoy your steak, brother. Don’t let it choke you.’

Striker let out a sigh of relief. ‘You was lucky there, Abe – he’s got junk in his attic, ain’t he?’

Abe sat down still staring balefully at the doorway.

‘I’ll give ’im junk, the little bastard. There was a time when I used to punch his ’ead just for exercise. Now he treats me like an equal. Well, never mind all that . . .’ He turned back to Striker. ‘Let’s get you sorted out with the fishin’ industry. I got this Maori who’s done a lot of that. He’d suit you fine as a helper.’

Striker gave his ex-partner a thin smile.

‘You wouldn’t be thinkin’ of doing away with me, Abe, would you? I don’t want this helper assistin’ me to a watery grave. You really ain’t got nothin’ to fret about, you know. I’m as fearful of treading the planks of the gallows as you are.’

Abe tried to look suitably shocked. ‘I wun’t do nothin’ like that, Striker, you know I wun’t.’

‘I don’t no nothin’ of the sort.’

But they left it at that.

‘Now,’ said Abe, after a suitable period of silence between them, ‘let me get you a beefsteak. They do a good one ’ere, nice and bloody in the middle, if you arsk ’em.’

‘No, thanks,’ replied Striker, ‘I only eat fish now.’

Abe looked sharply at his shipmate.

‘No meat at all?’

‘Can’t keep it down.’

Abe shrugged and let out a shout of laughter that was not shared by Striker.

‘Suit yourself,’ he said, signalling to the waiter. ‘You can eat garouper if you want. Me? I’m ’aving a nice fat juicy wodge of beef as rare as you like.’

Later Abe took Striker to the Maori village on the edge of town. Striker was impressed by the native houses he saw there. He admired the carved doorways, support posts and rafters in houses constructed of wrought timber. Not all the houses were elaborate, but they were all solidly built of seasoned wood, and Striker had once been a carpenter’s mate so he knew good workmanship when he saw it. He expressed the opinion that he would not mind sleeping in one of those dwellings himself.

‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ said Abe, a little puzzled by his shipmate’s admiration of the Maori architecture. ‘Tarawa would probably take you in, if you asked ’im. If you want fishin’ it might be better to build a little place near the beach. He’ll help you with that, too, if you want.’

‘Tarawa bein’?’

‘This helper I’m givin’ you.’

‘Ah, yes. That fellah.’

They found Tarawa and the Maori was delighted to be assigned to ‘Boss’s friend’ to teach him how to fish in local waters. They sat on the floor of Tarawa’s hut and discussed the details. To his own surprise Abe found himself just as fascinated as Striker by the local fishing techniques.

‘You like to fish with net or with line?’ Tarawa asked Striker.