Not the Faintest Trace Read online

  Wendy M. Wilson

  Not the Faintest Trace

  Copyright © Wendy M. Wilson, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  Wendy M. Wilson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

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  Contents

  1869: Retreat from Otaoto

  1877: The Watcher

  The Die Hard

  The Forager

  The Banshee

  Monrad's Barn

  Searching For the Boys

  The Attack

  On the Riverbank

  The Papaioea Pa

  The Ka Mate Haka

  The Posse

  Frank Finds Gottlieb

  Mr. Robinson's Book Shop

  Through the Gorge to Woodville

  The Funeral

  Ringiringi

  Return Through the Gorge

  A Body Under the Ferry Punt

  In the Estuary with Karira

  Anahera and Hop Li

  Captain Porter

  The Powhiri

  Finding the Boys

  At the Royal Hotel Once More

  Paul and Jens Reborn

  Epilogue: The White Ghost

  Glossary

  Sources

  Background History

  Next Books in the Series

  1

  1869: Retreat from Otaoto

  LAND WARS, March 1869: Patea River, New Zealand

  Latest from the Front: At the end of four hours the Hauhaus had retired through the dense undergrowth, leaving the bush fairly in our hands. Colonel Whitmore had sent Lieut. Colonel St. John up the opposite bank of the river to Gentle Annie, which prevented the enemy from crossing there. The enemy was consequently forced back with Kemp’s volunteers, following him closely up. All behaved equally well: Armed Constabulary, Arawas, and Kemp's men…We captured all the Maori clothing—piles of it, which was burnt— guns, tomahawks, revolvers, money, tents, axes, spades, and shovels; in fact, the whole of the enemy's baggage. Seven dead Hauhau were found, and two women made prisoners. The attack was planned with consummate skill, and carried out without a single mistake… Wanganui Herald, 15 March 1869

  LAND WARS, March 1869: Patea River, New Zealand

  They expected the government forces to attack today if the fog lifted. She lay on her back, wondering if she still had time to sleep before the soldiers came, when a large shape come though the reed curtain covering the doorway of the whare. She and Matangi had finished their nightly ritual, he pounding away, out of breath, taking forever, while she lay there wondering if this would mean another child. Surely two boys would satisfy him? Afterwards, Matangi had fallen asleep instantly, still inside her, and she had rolled him off, careful not to wake him, knowing he needed his sleep.

  “Tuahine, you must get up.” The large shape materialized into a man. He picked up her two boys from their sleeping mat and tucked one under each arm. “The soldiers are coming.”

  She grabbed a blanket to wrap around her nakedness, and felt the wetness run down between her thighs. “Matangi, wake up.” She slapped her husband on the face twice, one forehand, one backhand. He awoke slowly, yawning.

  “What is it? I’m tired…”

  “The soldiers are coming. We need to go.”

  He stumbled to his feet, shaking his head to wake himself.

  “Where will we go?” He asked the big man.

  “To the Great Ngaere Swamp.” The big man pushed through the reed curtain and called back to them. “Follow me. I know the track.”

  She followed him out of the whare, across the clearing and into the dense bush, running softly, the blanket now wrapped around her body and tucked in under her armpits. Matangi followed her, his feathered cloak over his shoulders so he would be recognized as a chief, his gun and his tomahawk in either hand. Outside, everything was white; the encampment had vanished in a dense fog.

  They ran through the fog towards the river, the boys bouncing under the big man’s arms, to where a small fleet of waka had been left, ready for an attack. She could hear the soldiers behind them, their voices echoing hollowly in the fog from the narrow track that led into the clearing. Once they reached the clearing they would stop and fight the few warriors who had been left to hold them off while the others escaped. At intervals she heard rifle shots, interspersed with shouted orders. A scream pierced the night, and one of her boys started to whimper.

  By the time they reached the river, Matangi had already fallen behind.

  “Hurry, husband, hurry,” she called urgently.

  The big man had tossed the boys into the waka, and they huddled together to keep themselves warm, their small naked bodies shivering with cold and fright. They would be hungry soon, and she knew they faced a terrible day. She prayed her sons would live to see the end of it, even if she did not.

  Matangi hobbled out of the fog, his thick grey hair standing on end, but wide awake now. He waded into the water, tossed his weapons aboard, and pushed the waka out into the river before jumping into it nimbly. He pulled his sons under his cloak and held them to him, sharing his warmth. She watched him affectionately – he was a good father who loved his sons. Her own father had insisted she marry him, saying the chief needed sons, and it had not been so bad.

  On the other side of the river they joined another group from the camp – a man, a woman and a child from their own hapu. She could hear the enemy approaching along this side of the river to cut off their escape, but the fog was thick and concealed both sides. They ran up Gentle Annie and over into a gully, Matangi stronger now he had his breath, until the enemy voices became muffled and unclear.

  “Matangi,” said the big man finally. “I must leave you here. Follow along the crest of the hill, and turn towards the mountain. At the Waingongoro, follow the river to the swamp.” He beckoned to the man with the other woman and child. “We two must return to the fight.”

  Matangi nodded and took his sons from the big man. “Boys, you must walk. Time to be men now. Do not cry.” They looked at him with wide eyes, the smaller one with his thumb in his mouth.

  They are not men, she thought, and said to the big man, “Will you catch up to us later?”

  He nodded. “After I have killed many soldiers.” His eyes narrowed and he stared back towards the camp. “And if God is willing, after I have killed the traitor Kepa and his Kupapa.”

  She watched him run back towards the river. He was fearless, and she loved him. If only he’d been with the rebels from the start.

  “Come wife,” said Matangi. “We must go. No time to watch your…”

  She took a last long look at the big man as he disappeared through the fog back towards the gully, then picked up her smallest son. They would reach the Great Swamp, which had many islands; the soldiers would lose their way, they would drown, they would leave themselves open to attack from warriors who hid in the ditches and trees. And she and her children would be safe.

  By the third day they were exhausted. They could hear gunfire in the distance, and knew it was not their people: their people had guns, but little ammunition. Once, they managed to hide when the thunder of hooves approached. A group of armed Arawa passed close to their hiding place beneath a clump of manuka bushes. She pressed her hand over her youngest son’s mouth, fearful he would give them all away; when she to
ok it away, he was gasping for air, his lips blue. But some manuka berries from the bushes and a few mushrooms had kept them going. A tiny amount of food, but enough to sustain them until they reached the Great Swamp.

  As they staggered away from the protection of a hillock on the second night, they heard hoof beats again. And this time there was nowhere to hide. A troop of Arawa, accompanied by three colonial soldiers, appeared. Matangi whooped loudly and ran away from his family towards the distant bush. She knew he was trying to distract the soldiers, giving up his own life to allow his family time to escape, but they no longer had the strength. One of the Arawa, a young warrior, raised his rifle and felled her husband with a shot in his shoulder. Matangi fell beside a pukatea tree, before struggling back to a squatting position, his empty gun across his knees, blood pouring from his shoulder. Two of the other Arawa placed their horses behind the rest of the group to keep them in place, while the young warrior forced Matangi down onto his knees and raised his axe. He was going to take his head.

  She pulled her sons to her and covered their eyes, afraid to look but unable to turn away.

  Suddenly, another man, one of the soldiers, stepped forward and pushed the warrior aside. He was going to stop the beheading, save her husband. But the man took hold of Matangi by the hair and stretched his neck across the exposed roots of the pukatea tree, pulled a tomahawk from his belt, raised it high, and started hacking at Matangi’s neck. She felt a groan of horror rise from the depths of her soul, and started wailing.

  “No, no, my husband, no.”

  It took long minutes before the man, grinning like he had merely cut off the head of a chicken, raised her husband’s lifeless head in his hand. By then she was doubled over in pain, no longer holding her sons, unable to bear what she had seen. She heard the other woman scream and looked up. The soldier was running towards her, swinging Matangi’s head, his eyes wild. He’s coming for our heads now, she thought, resigned to her terrible fate.

  “Corporal Adams, stop where you are.”

  She turned slowly towards the voice. Two soldiers had ridden up. A captain and a sergeant, both in the blue uniforms of the British – the same uniform worn by Adams. They were looking at the man holding her husband’s head with anger in their eyes.

  Please God, these men will at least save my children, she thought.

  Adams dropped Matangi’s head and stared insolently at the new arrivals. “Colonel Whitmore asked us to bring proof of death,” he said. “Especially for chiefs…this man is a chief, you can see by his cloak…

  “The Colonel specifically said to take ears,” said the older man. “And from the bodies of slain enemy. Take his ears if you must, but leave the head and for God’s sake don’t touch the women and children. What are we, Barbarians?”

  Constable Adams shrugged. “Not what I heard. I heard heads…”

  The older man shook his head. “You’re mistaken. Too late now I suppose. But leave it alone. Put it back with the body.”

  Was Adams not to face any kind of punishment?

  Evading the Arawa, she ran forward and picked up her husband’s head, clutching it to her breast. The neck was still bloody, and she could feel his blood seeping into the blanket she had wrapped around herself.

  “What should we do with the women and children?” asked one of the Arawa. He was eying her boys. Perhaps they would take them as slaves. Better than decapitation, but not much.

  The other soldier spoke finally. He was a big man, dark-eyed, his skin darker than most of the English invaders.

  “Captain Porter, sir, shouldn’t we treat them as prisoners of war? Send them to Wanganui or to the redoubt at Patea?”

  Captain Porter glanced at him.

  “I suppose we should, Sergeant Hardy. But who’s going to take them there? We have far too much to do and no horses to spare.”

  “I could…” began the sergeant, but the captain shook his head.

  “Not you Sergeant Hardy. I need you with me. Adams, escort these women and children back to headquarters. I trust you will behave yourself or I’ll see you in the stockade.”

  The captain jerked the reins of his horse and left. The sergeant didn’t follow him immediately, but held his horse in place, staring down at her, his expression unreadable. She put her hands together in supplication, her husband’s head still cradled in her arms, and looked at him. Please save my sons. Please. He wanted to do something, but he was a soldier; he would obey his leader. He turned away from her and glared at Adams. “I’ll be checking on you in Wanganui. I expect these women and children to be in good health. Remember you’re a Die Hard. Act like one.”

  Adams waited until the two men had left, then wrenched Matangi’s head from her and pushed it into his saddlebag.

  “Not wasting ten quid for that arse,” he said. “Look, Parika, you take the children. Do what you want with them.” He leered at the two mothers. “I’ll take the women back to Wanganui, if that’s what he wants me to do. Or better still, Patea. Much closer – and they’ll know what to do with a couple of women like this in Patea.”

  She was tied by the hands to his saddle, her face pressed against the saddle bag containing her husband’s head. As Adams dragged her away from her boys, she struggled around for one last look. Parika and his men had dismounted and were circling her boys cautiously, tomahawks in hand. She felt herself die inside.

  2

  1877: The Watcher

  8 YEARS LATER: July 1877, Manawatu River, New Zealand

  He had watched them all afternoon, wondering if it was worth the effort to kill them. He was down in the shallows of the river, humming to himself, looking for eels and saw two men come down the path from the logging camp up in the Tararuas. Two young whitemen, one tall with light-coloured hair and a strong build, of the warrior type he respected, the other who reminded him of a Turehu, the creature of the forest his mother had used to scare him, small and pale with the strange red hair of the Europeans; both wore the clothing of loggers. He could hear them laughing and talking in sing-song voices. Yaya,he thought contemptuously. Not part of his mission, but still thieves, arriving from far shores, cutting down trees with their strange axes, making farms on his people’s land.

  He put down his hand net and shrank back into the shadows, saw them drag a small rimu log from the riverbank from where it sat drying in the sun. One pointed across the river and said something to the other. A hundred yards down on the opposite bank he could see a broad spit of gravel pushing out into the river. They would aim for that.

  The big one removed his boots and clothes, jumping around and shivering in his underwear. The other helped him roll everything into a bundle using his belt. He sat astride the log like a child on a kite kite. Laughing and calling back and forth, they manoeuvred the log out into the current towards the spit of gravel. The river bore them quickly on their log, and spilled them on the gravel; they jumped ashore and pulled the log between them, still laughing and pushing at each other. The big, half-naked one dressed quickly, and the watcher could hear him cursing the cold as he did. His passenger, the red-haired Turehu, waded back in and pulled the log further up into the shallows, wedging it in the gravel, partly submerged in a secure spot.

  He watched them as they walked along the opposite bank, keeping in the shade of the forest, not caring if they saw him. Even if word had arrived here, he was unrecognizable with his full dark beard and his blue forage cap pulled low over his forehead. He could pass for a European. He’d dropped the feathered kahu huruhuru that indicated the wearer was a chief, back beside his fire and his eel sack; for now, he wore the clothes of the pakeha - the white man. It was not yet time for people to learn of his presence. They would learn soon enough.

  He watched the boys as they reached a campsite across the river, the tent belonging to another Yaya, and called loudly for him. “Knud, Knud.” He saw the Yaya come from behind the tent, a bottle in either hand, and he shrank further back into the shade again. That’s what they were after, the you
ng men. He should have known. He had seen what pakeha cooked up in the bush, and knew what terrible things it did to men, especially young men like these.

  Sitting in the bush across the river from the Yaya’s tent he kept half an eye on the young men, and half an eye on the river, still looking for eels. He would need to find one soon if he was to eat. As the sun sank lower in the grey winter sky, he saw the men come out of the tent. They were laughing still, and pushing at each other as they staggered towards the river. The big one went ahead, and he heard the other call, “Paul, Paul, vente par mig.”

  The big one took a small bottle from his shirt pocket and waved it at his companion.

  “Komme og fa det, Jens, or I will drink it all.”

  “Save me some or I will tell Mette you are a drunkard!” said red hair.

  They stumbled back to where they had left the log and dragged it into the water. This time the big one did not stop to remove his clothes and bundle them up, and neither of them searched for a landing spot on his side of the river. Red hair fell in the mud as he lifted the log, and stood up sputtering and laughing. The big one took hold of it and pushed it out into the water with the other lying across it awkwardly.

  They moved out into the fast-moving part of the river and within seconds of leaving both were in the water, grabbing at each other and the log.

  They’re going to drown, he thought, the two of them. Good. These intruders were building on the land of his people, cutting down the trees of his people; building roads and railways on the land of his people. They deserved to die. He could kill them himself, perhaps, although that would be a distraction from what he had sworn to do, those many years ago in Otauto.

  The river moved them quickly while they tried to stop the log from rolling and turning. He stood and jogged along the track beside the river, keeping up with them. The river curved to one side and the current threw them into the shallows in front of where he stood trying to catch his breath, near a stand of willow trees. For a moment, it seemed that Atua, God of the Rivers, had decided to save them, and he rested his hand on his tomahawk. But the pull of the water caught at them and dragged them back to the centre. They started to panic.