Tamar (47 page)

‘You done all right, boy, you got guts,’ Cass said, still giggling like a loon. ‘You be fine.’

He grasped both trouser legs and pulled them halfway up, revealing a well-muscled and scarred calf on the right, and an extremely battered wooden leg complete with its own boot on the left.

‘This my demonstration leg, eh,’ he said, and fell backwards again, hands over his eyes, overtaken by another fit of giggles.

‘That was a good one,’ said Kepa, wiping his eyes and struggling to contain his laughter. ‘You get better every time.’

Even Te Kanene was allowing himself a smile. The expression looked out of place on his customarily dour face. ‘He does that to all his crew before he signs them on,’ he said to Joseph dryly. ‘He says it takes the measure of a man, and he is usually right. Some men have been known to vomit.’

Joseph experienced a twinge of anger as he realised he had been tricked, then felt it subside almost immediately as he saw in his mind’s eye how horrified he must have looked. With a sheepish grin stealing across his face, he asked, ‘Did he fool you, Father?’

Kepa nodded. ‘He fools everyone, boy.’

‘Did
you
vomit?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Kepa.

This elicited renewed giggles from Cass. ‘No, but for a Maori you went very white, eh? You was one very pale Ngati Kahungunu.’

He was pleased. He didn’t perform the ‘demonstration’ so much to gauge a new crew member’s squeamishness, but to find out if the man could laugh at himself. Crewing a fast and temperamental schooner was a matter of dedicated teamwork, and a man who couldn’t laugh at himself would never fit in. He got laboriously to
his feet and wiped his big hands on the seat of his trousers. ‘You be all right,’ he said again. ‘Welcome to
Whiri
.’

Joseph’s first voyage was a short run from Napier to Auckland, around the top of the North Island to Kaipara to pick up timber, then back to Auckland. When the
Whiri
sailed into rough weather on her second day, Joseph spent six windy, cold and very uncomfortable hours hanging over the stern rail behind the wheelhouse heaving his roiling guts out. He had started off near the bow but moved when the crew complained the contents of his stomach were ending up all over the deck. After those miserable first hours he gained his sea legs, accepting the crew’s teasing in the light-hearted vein it was intended.

He soon adapted to life at sea and his duties as ship’s boy. He tied his shoulder-length hair back, abandoned footwear in favour of bare feet, which made climbing the rigging much easier, and tacked his trousers up to stop the constant flapping of wet fabric around his ankles.

The crew numbered eight, including Joseph and Cass. They were all Maori — a mate, three able seamen and an ordinary seaman — except for the cook, a taciturn Irishman named O’Leary. His speciality was a tasty and filling boil-up, made from pork bones and watercress or
puha
, together with incongruously delicate bread rolls baked every second day in the small galley oven. On longer journeys when fresh green vegetables ran low, they would be substituted with potatoes and
kumara
, or succulent yams if the
Whiri
was sailing through the Pacific Islands. Fresh meat was always plentiful on the shorter journeys, and the crew often brought their own contributions of preserved mutton bird and other fowl.

They ate heartily but even so, Joseph noticed his waist band was
loose by the end of his first week. He wasn’t surprised; he had never worked so hard in his life. He was on duty for eight hours, then had a meal and as much sleep as he could manage, woke to another meal and a further eight hours of scrubbing the decks, privy and sleeping areas, checking the cargo and hauling the thick ropes of the standing and running riggings for up to an hour at a time. By the end of the third day his hands were blistered and bleeding and his knees, inner thighs and buttocks raw from the chafing of his salt-soaked canvas trousers. His muscles and bones ached and the skin on his face was red and sore with wind and sunburn.

He was exhausted, in considerable pain and missed his friends and family, but uttered not a single word of complaint. Instead, he made sure he was out of his berth on time at the start of every shift, did everything he was asked, and volunteered for extra work on the rare occasions he had a few spare minutes. His crewmates were hard men, tough, resilient and given to occasional, if somewhat harsh, practical jokes, and Joseph won their respect and admiration. The mate, a wiry, wild-looking man named John Hohapeta with missing front teeth and a heavy
moko
covering his thighs and buttocks, gave him a jar of evil-smelling grease to heal and harden his battered palms, and a salve for his chafed skin. The rest of the crew showed him how to work the ropes in a way that minimised damage to his hands, and never gave him jobs beyond his size. And although he teased Joseph about his ‘poor colleen’s hands’, O’Leary took it upon himself to stuff him with as much extra food as possible, because he was ‘still fekkin’ growin’, to be sure.’

By the time Joseph realised he would probably not die from his physical exertions and fatigue, he was beginning to enjoy his new life. He began to feel comfortable within the camaraderie, and was mesmerised by the crew’s tales of strange, far off places. And the allure of the ocean herself was having a profound effect; at home, he had only been up the coast as far as Gisborne, and
inland to Taupo, but now he became aware of endless new lands to be visited and explored.

Cass was pleased with Joseph. He had never doubted the boy would be up to the task, but now he would be able to report to Kepa when the
Whiri
returned to Napier that his son had both mental and physical stamina, and was more than capable of looking after himself on board ship. He had yet to be tried on shore. In fact, that had been the only point of contention; Joseph had wanted to go ashore in Auckland and Cass had denied him, pointing out they were only calling into port long enough to pick up a cargo for Kaipara and he would be needed to help load it. In truth, none of the crew would be available to chaperone Joseph, and Cass was sure Kepa wouldn’t want his son running about the Auckland waterfront by himself. Joseph shut up after that, but not before Cass glimpsed a look of determination on his young face.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

I
t took until December for Joseph to convince Cass he would be safe ashore. He had been home to Maungakakari twice since August and his family had expressed delight at his growth and obvious good health, although Tamar was unimpressed by the calluses on his palms and the wide pink scar on the back of one hand caused by the careless use of a sharp knife. During these short visits Joseph argued vehemently with his father about shore leave, pointing out that if he was old enough to sail with an experienced crew, then surely he was capable of going ashore in a strange town without too many problems. After all, there were gangs of children younger than himself living on the streets, and nobody worried about them. Kepa didn’t quite follow his logic but eventually agreed his son should be permitted ashore the next time it was appropriate, provided Cass approved, and at least one of the crew was with him.

The opportunity arose when the
Whiri
called in at Wellington on the way back from Dunedin. With the schooner berthed at Queen’s Wharf, the crew had an evening’s shore leave while they waited for a cargo to arrive from Australia.

Cass and O’Leary stayed on board, while Joseph went into town with the rest of the crew. John Hohapeta and one of the able
bodied seamen, Noho Reti, were charged with his care.

John, Noho and Joseph parted company from the others and headed for a favourite tavern of coastal traders, a nefarious premise in Willis Street named the Blue Lady. According to John, a drink at the Blue Lady was an essential part of Joseph’s education.

Inside, the dimly lit bar was crowded, the reek of sweat, tobacco and fish from the fishmonger’s next door almost as overpowering as the noise. John and Noho elbowed their way expertly to the bar, Joseph close behind.

‘What do you want to drink?’ asked Noho. Neither he nor John spoke English well and preferred Maori while not in the presence of their captain.

Joseph had no idea what to ask for. He shrugged apologetically.

John and Noho exchanged glances. ‘Better give him beer,’ said John, the more responsible of the two.

‘One beer, two rum,’ barked Noho to the man behind the bar.

As they waited, Joseph looked around. The room was packed: every table and booth was taken and people stood three deep at the bar. Most were seamen, although clearly not all were from New Zealand. Joseph saw several men whose skins were black, their white teeth shining unnervingly in the gloom, sailors speaking rapidly in strange languages, and what had to be an American Indian, a copper-skinned man at least six and a half feet tall whose long hair was braided and entwined with small blue feathers.

Noho elbowed him in the back, handed him a large mug of foaming beer, and pointed at a table whose occupants were rising from their stools. ‘Get over there and grab that table, boy,’ he said.

Joseph wove his way across the room and sat down at the newly vacated table. John and Noho joined him a moment later, both emptying their mugs before Joseph had barely begun to sip his own drink.

John got up for refills while Noho looked on with amusement at Joseph’s beer moustache. ‘Nice, eh?’ he said, pointing at Joseph’s still brimming mug.

‘Mmm,’ replied Joseph. His nose was tickling from the bubbles in the ale and he was stifling the urge to sneeze his head off. Not wanting to appear un-seamanly, he raised the mug to his lips and emptied it in one long, belly-bloating draught. For a terrible moment he was sure he would vomit, then, with considerable relief, emitted the loudest, longest burp he had ever manufactured. ‘God,’ he muttered in English, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Good boy,’ said Noho approvingly. ‘More?’

Joseph nodded as the older man returned to the bar. John sat down in his place. ‘You should be careful how much you drink, eh?’ he warned, emptying his own refill in a single draught and looking longingly back at the bar. ‘Might get us a flagon.’ And he was up and off again.

In less than two hours, John and Noho had almost finished the flagon. Joseph had consumed four large mugs of beer and was feeling light-headed, although very pleased with himself. A sensation of warmth and contentment had spread from his stomach to the rest of his body and he had the sure feeling all was right in his world. He had proved he was a seaman, was inordinately proud of the fact he was developing a man’s body, and he had two marvellous friends in John and Noho, who were looking after him so well. No, he thought to himself, things couldn’t be much better.

When the second flagon of rum arrived, Joseph poured several generous tots into his mug.

John enquired solicitously, ‘Is that wise, boy?’ He and Noho, both somewhat the worse for wear, eyed each other and burst out laughing. Joseph smiled too, but he wasn’t sure why. The rum
burned its way into his gut and he felt his face flushing with the heat.

‘Who are those ladies?’ he asked, pointing towards a cluster of gaudily dressed women near the bar.

‘They are not ladies,’ replied John. ‘They work here.’

‘They look like ladies to me,’ replied Joseph.

Noho snorted into his rum. ‘They are whores, boy. You know what a whore is?’

‘Yes,’ said Joseph, ‘a woman who exchanges her physical favours for money.’

‘That is one way of putting it, I suppose,’ said Noho. ‘Ever had a woman?’

‘No,’ said Joseph, his face going even redder.

‘Noho, I do not believe Cass would approve,’ interjected John. The twinkle of amusement in his bloodshot eyes belied his serious tone.

‘Cass is not here,’ replied Noho. ‘The boy will do it one day. Might as well be now, while we are here to watch out for him.’

‘Do what?’ asked Joseph. His head was beginning to spin.

‘
Onioni
,’ Noho said, adding emphasis by crudely thrusting his hips backwards and forwards, bumping the table and spilling everybody’s drinks.

‘Oh,’ said Joseph. He felt weak all of a sudden. He had been sexually aware for some time, and was well versed in the ways of procreation, as far as it applied to dogs, pigs and horses: he was hazy on the details of how men and women did it, but had pieced together snippets of information with Wi and Ihaka. One thing he had no doubts at all about, however, was the reaction of his body on the rare occasions he had inadvertently seen naked female bodies. Even the sight of young mothers in his village nursing babies at their full breasts had aroused him, a response which left him feeling shamed but squirming with guilty excitement.

The thought that he might be about to have his first real sexual experience quickened his pulse, and he took another long swallow of his rum.

‘Do any of those women take your eye?’ asked Noho.

Joseph nodded. One definitely did; a young-looking
Pakeha
girl with long dark hair wearing a bright green dress. He pointed at her and almost died of embarrassment when she turned around suddenly and caught him.

He whipped his arm down, stared hard at his mug and muttered, ‘The one in green.’

Noho nodded, stood up and beckoned. The girl rose and he crossed the floor to meet her: they stood in the centre of the crowded room with heads bowed, talking. Eventually the girl nodded and accompanied Noho back to his seat.

As she came to a halt in front of Joseph and smiled, he eyed her surreptitiously up and down, determined not to demonstrate his nervousness.

She was not tall; about five foot three and a good inch shorter than Joseph. She looked no older than sixteen, but her breasts filled out the front of her cheap dress and her hips, below a small waist, were wide and well padded. Her face was pretty but not beautiful, with bright, youthful features. She was also drunk.