The Wives of Henry Oades (15 page)

“Now Josephine, take John’s arm, or Oscar’s, but not both. A gentleman may take two ladies upon his arms, but under no circumstances may a lady take the arms of two gentlemen.”

“Oh, Mum,” they groaned. “Oh, Mum, please.”

“You’ll thank me one day,” Margaret repeatedly said.

They were all exhausted at lesson’s end. Some nights Margaret closed her eyes without worry, grateful for sleep alone. On her own she might manage. She’d learned to do without, did not waste away pining for sheets and soft blankets, for sweets and tea and tooth powder. Given sufficient food and rest, she’d likely rationalize her own lot. But the same could not be said of her children, and that is why she rode them night after night, regularly depriving them of an hour’s more sleep. It was her duty to prepare them for their return. She refused to accept the possibility that they might grow old and die a natural death here. Margaret never once considered setting her children free to be slaves.

North Island
1897

S
OME
M
AORI WOMEN
give birth surrounded by their kinswomen. Others go it alone. Once labor has started, some will take their mats and find a quiet place in the open air. Margaret was gathering stones for the roasting pit when she came upon the laboring mum, partially hidden behind a thicket of ferns. The woman rocked on her haunches, mewling pitifully. Margaret came closer, letting herself be seen, thinking the woman would shoo her away. But the expectant looked up with wet, pleading eyes. Margaret put down the sack of stones and went to her, squatting alongside, encouraging her with gestures to lie back. Birth was not imminent. The perspiring woman rolled onto her side, keening still. Margaret began to rub the woman’s tight neck, gingerly at first, uncertain about
tapu.
The woman jerked and then quieted. Margaret continued rubbing, kneading her shoulders with both hands, concentrating on the knotty spots, recalling the lovely relief. Henry had done the same for her during the long labor with the twins.

The woman in the ferns delivered a boy. Six months later she was pregnant again. When her time came she insisted that Margaret attend. Another live boy was born. Rumor started that Margaret’s hands pleased the gods. All the women began requesting her presence at their births. Rows occurred, resulting in Margaret being awarded to the highest-ranking mother.

The following summer, Margaret attended the chief’s niece, a big-breasted, pigeon-toed girl of about sixteen. Aroha was gigantic with her first child, long overdue according to her calendar stick. Margaret was summoned the moment she began wailing and went straight from the
kumara
field to the fetus house. Inside the crude shed, Aroha squatted, naked but for the
roimata
worn around her neck, a love token made of greenstone, most likely a gift from her husband. The girl clutched the
roimata
, her lips moving in prayer, her tattooed chin trembling. Other women were present, chanting, rocking to and fro. Margaret made her way through them, mute as a cob, her eyes cast down. In the next moment the girl’s water bag burst, causing the others to yip with glee. Aroha threw back her head and emitted a long, piercing cry, like that of a boiling kettle. Between her legs the baby’s head was already crowning. An old woman was on Aroha in an instant, pushing on her belly. Margaret gasped, fearing for the infant’s soft skull. A baby boy with a head full of black hair slipped out like an eel and Aroha received him, panting happily. His cord was cut with an obsidian chip and the same old woman tenderly rubbed his stump with oil, bandaging it afterward, smiling an ecstatic gummy smile.

Margaret squatted before Aroha in preparation for the afterbirth. She was determined to stay put and protect the girl from further assault. She placed both hands on either side of the navel and felt first a slight wave of movement, then a good solid kick. Margaret patted Aroha’s taut belly for attention, completely forgetting herself.

“Another baby! Another
peepe
!” She’d broken
tapu
by speaking, but the women were too excited to make anything of it.

The second wee warrior arrived as alert as the first, screaming lustily, waving his mucousy arms. A single afterbirth followed in a great bloody gush ten minutes later. Aroha sank back against Margaret, but the elders did not allow Margaret to linger. The grandmother began poking her with a long stick, prodding her toward the shed’s opening.

A slave’s presence during birth was traditionally
tapu.
Margaret vaguely understood that she was an exception. She was brought out of the fetus house and doused with rank water. She returned to the
kumara
field, released from the
tapu
earned by helping.

Two of the chief’s daughters by different wives were due the following month, and there was some argument over who would have Margaret should their labors begin simultaneously. But the smallpox came that same month. Josephine was stricken first, then Margaret, Beadie, and two of the other South Island women living with them. Five tribesmen with rifles came to their hut in the night and summoned them all outside. The older slave, the sickest among them, refused to move and was shot in the head where she lay. Margaret cried out, fevered and confused. John spoke sharply. “Hush, Mum.”

They were goaded forward in a tight knot and herded briskly through the village and across the dark field in the direction of the bush. John pulled Oscar and Martha along by the hands. Margaret had a lock on Josephine. She could not think for the slicing pain behind her eyes. She whispered to John, “Where are they taking us?”

He whispered back, “Be prepared to run.”

Margaret stumbled on, blindly concentrating on not falling. From behind came footsteps and shrill female voices. Margaret glanced over her shoulder. In the moonlight the women seemed a single flailing, shrieking entity. The tribesmen stopped to listen to their magpie demands. The biggest, her chest heaving, pointed at Margaret and spoke stridently.

Margaret stood shivering, an arm wrapped around Josephine. John murmured close to her ear. “She says you’re a favored one. Harm to you will bring harm to their sons.”

One of the men argued. The big woman spoke louder, rivulets of sweat running down her breasts. The other women chimed in noisily. Another man spoke over them. The big woman launched into a heated speech. The lead man barked something and she went silent, crossing her arms triumphantly. The same man turned to John, giving an order, jabbing his rifle toward the bush. John snatched up limp Josephine and hoisted her onto his back. “They’re letting us go,” he said, corralling Oscar and Martha. “Come now, Mum. Quickly.”

Margaret did as she was told, falling in behind John, bewildered and cold. He was moving too fast. They entered the trees and she lost her peripheral vision. A moment later shots were heard, three in a row.

“Beadie.” John said her name and nothing more for the longest time.

North Island
Late 1898

T
HEY WERE DESCENDING
and therefore headed east, according to John. Margaret tried to make sense of the words.
Does a mountain not
have a west face as well as an east?
Lucid thoughts reared within the dizziness, the headache, the confusion of seeing and then not seeing people in the trees. Once down, they’d follow the river to civilization, John said. It seemed at first logical, then utterly impossible.

John led them, carrying fever-addled Josephine on his back. Margaret had Martha and Oscar by the hand, until bawling Oscar broke off to trail behind. They tramped downhill long into the night, quitting finally, coming to a black thicket, spongy damp from the earlier rain, and collapsing there. Tall trees made a canopy above them, eclipsing moon and stars. Margaret found herself propped against rough bark, unable to move. John stooped and put a calloused palm to her forehead.

“Poor Mum. You’re hot as a stove lid.” He fanned her face with his hat, a black brimmed felt, already old when his father passed it down. “I’m going down a bit farther,” he said. “You’ll be all right here. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Her tongue was thick in her head. “You’ve taken very good care of your hat.”

“That I have.” His voice came from a distance. “It was Dad’s. Do you remember? We’ll be seeing him soon, won’t we?” The fanning stopped. “We’re going home, Mum! Do you believe it? Mum, please. Give a sign if you can hear me.”

Margaret nodded, feeling weighty, pleasantly warm, as if melting. Then came a rustling, a meandering presence along her bare leg. Her body seized, cold perspiration breaking. “Snakes!”

The fanning started up again, causing the snakes to writhe in fury. “You’re dreaming,” said John, so very far away. “No snakes here, Mum. Come on, now. No snakes, no wolves, no bears. It’s the lizards you hear scuttling.” He drew a gritty thumb across her eyelids. “Get your rest.” He stood. “I’ll see to things.”

She slept for a time, waking to Martha beating herself, fist to forehead, a common Maori gesture of worry. Margaret captured her tight little hand. “Sleep, my baby. Your mum loves you. Your dad loves you.” They both drifted off again. The idea of dying occurred, but Margaret was too ill to fret over whether or not she was.

It was light when she woke with pain in her back. She was able to move her stiff arms, but not her legs. Oscar popped up like a turtle, putting his heavy head in her lap, and falling back to sleep. Martha did likewise. Margaret stroked their matted hair and called to Josephine.

“Wake up, Pheeny.” Her big girl lay out of reach, knees to breast, hands tucked beneath her chin. “Wake up, wake up.” High up, a bird screeched. John was nowhere in sight. Margaret attempted to whistle, but nothing came out. “Josephine Oades! Wake up this instant or I shall fetch a switch. Don’t think I won’t. Don’t think you’re too grown for it.” Her chest hurt, as if weighted by rocks; her eyes felt misaligned, reversed in their sockets. “Pheeny, sweetheart, please.”

John appeared. “Hush, Mum. Hush now. The area reeks of Maori.”

She’d mistaken him for Henry for a moment, with his same thatch of ginger hair and something else. She couldn’t say what. “Oh, thank God you’re here. See to your sister.”

He’d brought back a hat full of stinking mussels, rancid wet weed still clinging. He knelt beside Josephine and sprinkled river water across her forehead. Pheeny whimpered, lifting a hand in protest. The relief started Margaret quietly weeping.

John shook Josephine. “Come on, Pheeny. Open your eyes. You’re scaring Mum. She imagines you dead.”

“Leave her be,” said Margaret. “Let her sleep.”

“We haven’t time to waste,” he said.

“How far must we travel?”

“We’re a good ten miles from the river,” he said. “From there we’ll turn south.”

“Are you certain?”

John attempted to feed Josephine, poking extracted mussel meat to her lips. Josephine clamped a hand to her mouth, shaking her head. “Yes, I’m certain,” he said, impatiently. He left Josephine and came to Martha. Martha turned a fat, ruddy cheek, accepting the mussel, chewing wetly, audibly swallowing. She opened her mouth for more. The smell was nauseating. Margaret dipped her head, her throat filling with acid bile.

“Ah, Mum,” whispered John.

He’d been the sweetest of all babies, gleeful, responsive, a pure joy. From the moment they met he was more hers than Henry’s. “John, if I should—”

He cut her off, his eyes pleading. “Please don’t.”

Margaret was struck by love for him. She’d only meant to tell him to do the practical thing. Bury her body swiftly and keep moving, for Josephine’s sake. But she let it lie. Surely their resourceful son would do just that.
Don’t you agree, Henry?
She closed her eyes. Her husband opened his arms to her and she fell right in.

F
OR THE NEXT THREE
days they lumbered along at a hideously slow pace, following the river. At dusk they climbed the wooded slope and moved up behind the trees, so as to be out of sight. Bloodthirsty sandflies descended the moment they settled. The Maori used the crushed leaves of the
ngaio
tree to repel them, but the
ngaio
grew only in the marsh. They swatted the air and each other, listlessly, futilely, trying not to mind them.

They built no fires for fear of attracting Maori. The children lived on wild celery and raw shellfish. John was the only one willing to consume wood grubs, picking them from the bark, closing his eyes and swallowing them whole. Margaret kept the river water down for the most part, but ate nothing of substance. Waking was a surprise each time.

She’d improved significantly by the fourth day, the day they became lost. They’d arrived at a narrow, seemingly shallow place in the river. “We should cross here,” said John, studying the water, looking doubtful.

“We crossed no water coming,” said Margaret.

“Your memory’s not what it once was, Mum.” He walked off a ways and stopped, surveying the lush, hilly surroundings. Next he removed his boots and rolled up his trousers and ventured into the rushing river. The water rose quickly. He returned to shore, cutting his heel along the way, swearing under his breath. Margaret started toward him, but he waved her off, and sat to nurse himself.

She examined Josephine while waiting. Her girl was still lethargic, but the fever had fallen, as had her own. A good sign. Pheeny’s fresh rash was confined to her face, whereas Margaret’s had already spread to the soles of her feet. The rash would turn to pustules, the pustules to crusts that would shed and leave deep pits. It was only a matter of time, assuming they survived it, and it seemed likely now that they would. They were fortunate then, scarred future notwithstanding.

Perhaps strides in medicine had been made. The thought occurred to Margaret while inspecting Josephine’s scalp. Perhaps a salve had been invented that would repair a damaged complexion. Think of the demand for such a product. It would not come cheap, she imagined, and began mentally justifying the cost to Henry. He relented quickly within the same fantasy, so overjoyed was he to have them returned. Her heart thrummed like a bride’s. He felt particularly close this afternoon.

John elected not to cross. “We’ll forge ahead.” He sounded dubious, but Margaret said nothing. They walked in silence for several hours, the river widening all the way. “We’ll have to go back,” he said finally, weary-eyed, his voice full of dejection. “I’ll carry you over one at a time. Oscar can manage on his own.”

They were perhaps two miles into their return when John began to limp. The sun had gone behind the clouds. Margaret judged it to be four o’clock, time to clean the village latrines, battle flies the size of ravens. John walked a little farther and staggered. He pried Josephine from his back and set her on the ground. He tottered off a few yards and folded, burying his face in his hands. Margaret so wished to go to him, to hold him and rock him, but she resisted. That sort of solace would likely strike him as
tapu
now. He stood after a bit, blotting his eyes and nose on his filthy sleeve, thrusting his chin toward the bush. “We’ll rest now. Start out again later.”

They arrived at the passable spot early the next afternoon. John carried Josephine over first, then Martha, and then Margaret. He toted them like infants, cradled in two ropy arms. They were easier to manage that way, he said. “Don’t be embarrassed, Mum. You weigh no more than a feather.”

But she was embarrassed, both by the helplessness and the intimacy. His odor was dank and musty pressed close, wholly masculine. She tried to joke. “The mum’s meant to carry the child, not the other way round.”

The next day they came to a salt marsh as wide as any ocean and were forced to turn around once again. Late the following day they crossed back over. John raged and wept in turns, cursing the fates one moment, beseeching God and His angels the next. He deposited the girls on the opposite shore, and then returned for Margaret, picking her up roughly, still raving on and on, like mad old Lear himself. He released her in shallow water, railing over the three lost days, a ludicrous lament considering the six lost years. She waded to shore and sat, pulling on her brown leather hightops, soles patched with flax, laces long gone—taken by the Maori for reasons unknown.

The girls were sprawled on flat rocks, eyes closed, faces to the sun. At least there was daylight left, progress yet to be made. Margaret went to Oscar, who was sitting by himself at water’s edge, humming away like a loon. He was covered with red bites and warm to the touch. Her hand left streaks in the oily grime. His ear hole was packed; she could not see down it for the green-black stuff. The lad stank, as did they all. It was amazing to be so perfectly putrid and still continue to function. A believer might declare their beating hearts bona fide miracles, not one miracle, but five. She waged a small argument in her mind, but was hard pressed to arrive at a more satisfactory explanation. A doubter’s creed is as confounding as any other.

She roused her girls. “Let’s have a washup, shall we? For your father’s sake?”

That night Margaret ate, managing three clams and four bites of wild celery. She kept it all down, too. If a miracle were in progress, she did not wish to queer it by starving.

T
HEY WERE FOUND
on the eighth morning by a Caucasian man on horseback, a prospector in search of greenstone or gold, preferably the latter, he said. He might have ridden right on by, he claimed, if not for the snoring.

John sprang to his feet, licking the heel of his hand, slicking back his mangy mane. He greeted the man and began racing through the details of their ordeal.

The man gazed down, his rheumy blue eyes puddling. Certainly, of course, he’d carry one of them back to Wellington. “Not a sick one, no offense.” He pulled taffy from a saddle bag. Martha and Oscar accepted shyly, putting the unfamiliar food to their nostrils, but not to their mouths. “I’ll take one of you boys. You can bring a wagon back for your mam and the others.”

John began gabbling instructions to Oscar.
Don’t venture off. Share the sweets.
The gentle man reached again for taffy, saying he wished he had more. John’s eyes were wet with elation. “You’ve been more than kind, sir.”

The prospector offered a hand, a farewell, not a hand up, as John obviously thought, his foot slipping from the stirrup. He tried again to mount, his face flushed with confusion. The man put a boot to John’s chest, pushing him off.

“I can’t take you back today, son. I’ve work to do.”

Martha threw the taffy to the ground, howling to the sky. John shushed her, staring up at the man, breathing hard.

“I’ll try to get back tomorrow,” the bounder said. “Day after at the latest. You have my word.”

“Please reconsider, sir,” said Margaret. “My husband will see that you’re compensated.”

“My mother and sister are sick,” said John, incredulous.

The man gave a sympathetic cluck. “Look for me tomorrow.”

“That’s not good enough,” said John, latching on to the saddle horn.