Kiwi Wars (30 page)

‘Are you all right here, King? I mean, I can get you moved.’

‘I’m fine, sir. To be honest, don’t feel like being moved at the minute. There’s no one with diseases here, if that’s what you’re thinking. Everyone’s a war casualty. No body fever. It’s a fact you can’t catch another man’s bullet wound.’

Jack had not been thinking that. But King was right. If they started mixing the sick with the wounded, then that was the time to get his man out of there.

‘All right. I’m going now. If you want anything, send for me.’

King managed a creaking laugh. ‘Send for the captain? Me, a sergeant? That’s likely, sir.’

‘I mean it. Gwilliams will be in, no doubt. Send him if you have need of me.’

King’s eyes fixed on his, full of seriousness.

‘You’re a good man, sir. Too good, in that way. You need to look to your old ways a bit more, now you’re an officer.’

‘I don’t think that’s true. Colonel Lovelace would do the same. It’s because we’re such a small unit.’

‘Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, Colonel Lovelace might or might not come. If he did it would only be to listen, in case I had anything of import to tell him – not because he felt the slightest pity.’

Jack was inclined to agree with his sergeant, but he did not admit as much. He stayed with King for a short while longer, then felt he was able to go on his way. Once outside the hospital he breathed a little more freely, having been strongly affected by the misery within. It was not so very long ago that he had lain in such a bed with a crushed hand and other wounds and had thought he would never again feel normal.

The evening air on the way back to the billets revived his spirits somewhat. He could smell the sea, which always had an invigorating effect upon him, and also herbs and blooms amongst the greenery of the parklands close by. New Zealand had that refreshing element to it. There was a cleanness, a clearness, about this country which was what attracted him to owning a farm on its landscape.

A farm! He remembered the deeds in his pocket. Stepping into the light of a window, he took the papers out of his pocket and peered at them. His eyes travelled down the lines until he reached the name of the man who had previously owned the land. A shock went through him. He stared at the name disbelievingly. Then he recalled what he had been told about Abraham Wynter’s recent military activities. A second, much greater, shock went through him, coupled with a terrible fear.

‘Oh God, no!’ he moaned. ‘It can’t be. It must not be. Oh God, what has the man done . . .?’

Eighteen

N
aturally, considering the history between Abe and himself, Striker did not trust his old shipmate not to attempt to kill him any more than he would trust a rafter rat not to eat his cheese. The secret between the two of them was so ghastly they could hardly bare to look one another in the face. For his part, Striker was happy not to see Abe, even though this horrific bond between them had drawn him to New Zealand once he had lost his gold. Abe, however, was always coming round to ‘see how his old shipmate was doing’ and Striker could see in the man’s eyes that he was always disappointed to find Striker in good health. The pair of them kept up this false behaviour, this pretence, of being great friends. Certainly Abe’s Maoris thought they were, for the locals nodded and smiled when the two men slapped each other on the back and exchanged hearty greetings.

Yes, and the gold. Striker could not imagine how Abe had managed to keep his, and even turn it into a vast fortune. For his part he had felt a sense of relief once it was gone. It felt filthy. And when Striker had developed consumption, the ex-sailor felt it was fitting. He knew he deserved punishment and the Lord had decided to give it to him in spades. Striker took his just deserts like a man, accepted them for what they were, and tried to get on with his life.

But the sense of guilt was greater than the sense of relief he first experienced on ridding himself of his fortune. It returned to swamp him again. So now here he was, confronting his sins every time he saw his erstwhile companion. Yet Abe seemed to go from strength to strength; nothing bothering him except the living presence of an old shipmate. Striker had heard that recently Abe had been out with that rapid firing gun of his and earned himself a medal or two. Maybe that was what Abe was doing. Serving the pakeha cause in order to try to wipe clean the slate? It could not happen. There was no slate. It was a rock face engraved with their crimes and it could never be erased, not in this life.

‘We go out now?’

The Maori named Tarawa, whom he and Abe called Kipper (because of his fondness for smoked fish), stood in the doorway of his hut.

‘Yes, yes.’

Striker lifted himself gently from his bed, only to enter a fit of coughing that ended in quite violent spasms, causing his pale narrow chest to bend backwards and forwards like a sheet flapping slowly in the wind. The Maori viewed this display with a blank expression, waiting patiently for it to pass. Then, once Striker was able, he went forward and assisted the pakeha to his feet. He kept his face averted, not wanting Striker’s stinking breath in his nose or mouth, fearful that the disease could be passed on that way.

Striker gradually recovered his breath and, along with it, his composure. He pulled a nankeen shirt on over his head, then climbed laboriously into his pants and sandals. Tarawa brought him some fruit and bread for his breakfast, and coffee, which he sorely needed. Finally he spoke to the Maori again.

‘What’s the day like, Kipper?’

‘The wind is light.’

‘Enough to take us out?’

‘Yes, Striker. Enough to take us out.’

‘Good. Well, let’s get about it then.’

They left Striker’s hut and walked down the beach to a small sailing craft drawn up on the sands. Tarawa himself dragged the vessel down to the water’s edge, since such heavy work was beyond Striker’s strength. Then the pair of them pushed it out into the surf and jumped on board as it crested a wave. Striker tumbled into the bottom, but laughingly got to his feet and found a perch.

‘Bugger! I used to get into these things like a fairy settlin’ on a flower bud,’ he said, wheezing. ‘Don’t ever get this bloody disease, Kipper. It takes every ounce of power out of you. Not that any on us gets it on purpose. Some is lucky, some ain’t. I was just born unlucky.’ He paused, before adding, ‘Now that there
Captain
Wynter, he’s one of the lucky ones, give or take a setback or two. Whatever he does he comes out smellin’ of honey.’

‘The captain?’

‘Yes, the bloody captain. Shit, he’s no more captain than you or me. Not really. Money’s the only thing he’s got. Forms his character, it does. His whole person is fashioned of money. When he dies you’ll find a casket of coins where his heart should be. Same with his soul. It’ll have the Queen’s head on one side and a date on the other. He’s always been Newgate material, our Abe. His neck was made to wear a noose. But that luck of his keeps findin’ him silk collars ’stead of hemp.’

Striker knew Kipper only understood half of what he was saying, but he said it anyway. Kipper, having raised the sail, was now busy baiting the hooks with clams and the torsos of hermit crabs. They would manage two lines each, he and Striker. Striker much preferred line fishing to using a net. He liked the feel of a fish on the end of a line, the tug and jerk of a live creature deep below the surface of the water. It was like reaching into the unknown, testing, testing, then the quick bite and the yank. Then the zigzagging line cutting the surface about. This was much more thrilling than throwing out a net and dragging in all sorts of weird fish life. Why, only the night before Kipper had been throwing out a circle net around a rocky area and pulled in the ugliest fish you ever saw. A stonefish, he called it. It was like a lump of stale bread dough with a tail, covered in warts and bumps, sort of greeny-grey in colour. On its back was a set of spines that Kipper very carefully avoided and there were small fins coming from its sides. The eyes of the creature looked dead. Striker curled his lip in disgust on seeing the fish.

‘You ain’t goin’ to eat that, are you?’ he had asked Kipper, who had shaken the fish free of his net. It had landed in a rock pool and simply lay there, looking bloated; its miserable mouth curved downwards to its underbelly. ‘It looks poison to me.’

Kipper had nodded. ‘Yes, poison. The spikes.’

‘The spines are poisonous? Deadly?’

‘Yes. Takes one or two hours. Maybe.’

‘Shit. Well, we don’t want him for supper, do we? We don’t want him
at all.
Best leave him and be wary of where we tread in future if that’s what’s under the water. Bugger. Why God made such things is beyond everything. Had a bad day, I reckon . . .’

Striker’s attention was then taken by Tarawa pointing to a dark patch of ocean that seemed to be alive with silver knives.

‘Aha!’ cried Striker, the excitement rising in his corrupted breast. ‘Bonito if I ain’t mistook!’

Down came the sail and Tarawa rowed swiftly towards the shoal while Striker finished baiting hooks. When they got to the tunny the lines went over the side and they began pulling in large silver striped fish. Striker chortled the whole while and Tarawa grinned.

This was the life, thought Striker. Not dead gold, but live silver. This was what it was all about as far as Striker was concerned. Who needed a bank when there was the ocean’s bounty to reap for nothing? A morning’s work, that was all. Hell, he thought, Abe could keep his fortune. There was nothing like a fish roasted on coals to satisfy a man, then lying on his bed listening to the combers booming down the beach, curling and clawing at the shingle. Abe could keep his dishes of partridge and pheasant and his silk sheets and cushions. He could keep his power too. Striker wanted nothing more than a morning out on the shining sea, the sun on his neck, and the line in his hand taut enough to sing in the wind. The rest was all free and gratis, with no worries attached.

By the mid-afternoon Striker was feeling weary and asked Tarawa to take them in. The Maori raised the sail once again and they sped towards the shore. Striker was aware that much of the work had been done by Tarawa and so resolved to do the cooking, even though he felt exhausted by a day out on the ocean in the heat of the sun. He gathered some driftwood to use as kindling, then brought some logs from the shack, and made a fire on the beach. By the time he had stripped a green stick of its bark and skewered a bonito, the sun was falling down the face of the sky. A hazy purple glow turned the sea into a king’s robe. Striker looked up and caught it at its best.

‘Oh God,’ he said, reverently. ‘Would you look at that, Kipper? You couldn’t buy a sight like that in Liverpool. Worth a ransom, eh?’ He bent once more to his task. ‘And smell that fish! Does that make your mouth water, or no? Have we any bread?’

‘Yes, Striker, we have bread.’

‘You are a trump card, Kipper. Can we toast it a bit? Not too much – not so much so it burns, but just to warm it a little?’

‘Do put it by the fire, Striker.’

Not long afterwards they were enjoying their repast in the gloaming. The heat was still in the sand and it was pleasant to sit watching the stars speckle the heavens. Striker saw a falling star and watched its silver track streak down the evening shades. For some reason it filled him with sorrow, possibly because he had seen just such a sight as a boy of six, sitting on the back of his father’s tumbril. He felt tears come to his eyes, but wiped them away quickly in case Tarawa noticed them glistening in the firelight. He was not sure how Maori felt about men crying. He was inclined to think it was unmanly.

Tarawa rose just before the end of the meal.

‘Where are you off to?’ asked Striker, surprised.

‘I must visit a bush.’

‘Oh – off you go, then.’

The Maori rose and was soon swallowed by the twilight. He returned some minutes later and resumed his meal. Some roosting birds were making a racket in a nearby tree. Tarawa threw some stones up at the branches and the birds scattered into the darkness. They returned almost immediately and continued with their cacophony until they were settled for the night.

Striker suddenly felt exhausted.

‘I’m off to bed, Kipper. See you in the morning.’

‘Yes – in the morning, Striker.’

The sailor turned fisherman dragged his feet up the sea strand to the hut perched on the rocks above. The twilight had almost turned to darkness, but the starlight was bright enough for him to find the doorway. He knew exactly where his bed lay in relation to the door. He sat on its edge and removed his sandals, threw off the blanket, and flopped back.

An excruciating pain seared through him.

Striker’s eyes went wide with hurt and fear. He screamed at the top of his ragged lungs and fell out of the bed on to the dirt floor. He was in agony. Every nerve-end in his body seemed to be burning. An unbearable deep-seated pain was growing within his torso, as if he had swallowed a cache of sulphur and someone had put a match to it. For the next few moments he crawled around on the floor, clawing at the earth, gasping for breath, trying to fight the torment within. Then, somehow, despite the terrible pain, he managed to get to his feet. He staggered to the doorway and propped himself against the post.

‘Kipper! For Christ’s sake, Kipper!’

The Maori came to him, carrying a flaming log.