Seagulls were clattering in the air. ‘Tell me!’ Erenora shouted.
Anaru cupped his hands and his voice came across the water, pursuing the schooner, dipping on white wings, quickly, quickly, and then soaring above her head, dropping its message. ‘Piharo came in pursuit of your husband,’ he yelled. ‘It was on Piharo’s order that Horitana was put in leg irons and chains and placed in solitary confinement.’
He threw a second object across the waves. It came tumbling through the sky and clattered on the deck. Erenora ran to pick it up. It was a small figurine, about 8 inches long, of a Maori warrior; Ruakere must have whittled it in his cell. But around the warrior’s head Ruakere had wrapped a shard of tin. As Erenora took a closer look, the tin silvered in the sun.
At the base of the carving, Ruakere had carved Horitana’s name, followed by a phrase that Erenora had never seen before:
Te tangata mokomokai.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ever, Ever Southward
1.
From the calm of Wellington Harbour, the Arikinui approached the gap between the heads. Beyond, the southerly was whipping the water and white-tipping the waves. The swell deepened and, with Whai at the tiller judging the contrary currents, the schooner sailed out into the open sea. The Arikinui hesitated, then her canvas cracked and she leapt into Cook Strait.
‘She’s keen to get home,’ Whai called to Erenora. ‘We’ve been away a long time.’
Erenora nodded and smiled at him. The wind was in her face. Ahead were the cloud-encircled mountains of Te Wai Pounamu, the South Island. She was thrilled, not a little afraid, and said a quiet prayer of safekeeping. How undreamed of — to leave one island of Aotearoa for the other. It defied all her expectations to have made it this far.
In her left hand Erenora still clutched the wooden figurine thrown to her by Anaru. For a moment, she grew afraid of it: the carved indentations, the rough whittled surface and, especially, the suffocating tin enclosing the head. And the name Ruakere had given it, te tangata mokomokai, what did it mean …?
She nicked her finger on the tin and blood welled from it. Suddenly she felt nauseous, as if the figurine was a devil-doll. Something horrifying had happened to Horitana. If she cast the effigy into the sea, perhaps whatever malevolent spell or incantation that had been cast over him would be undone.
‘Erenora?’ Meri’s voice interrupted her.
‘I’m so afraid, Meri. Oh, I’m so frightened.’
The sky was turning crimson, and night began to fall fast.
A few moments later, Ripeka joined Erenora and Meri. ‘There’s something I have to tell you both,’ she began. She was shivering with cold.
Meri grabbed her in her arms and held her tight. ‘No, Ripeka, don’t say it …’
‘If you haven’t already guessed,’ she began, ‘I am with child.’
Oh, and the glowing sun was falling quickly to the west, setting fire to the horizon.
‘We thought as much,’ Erenora said after a while. ‘You’ve kept your morning sickness well hidden but Rupi’s eyes unmasked you.’
‘Of course the child isn’t Paora’s,’ Ripeka continued. ‘When I was raped at Parihaka, one of those bastards planted his seed in me. Ever since, I have felt it growing like an unbidden vine in my womb. How I have wished I could rip the plant out and watch it shrivel and die.’ She burst into sobs. ‘What am I going to say to Paora?’
‘He’ll forgive you,’ Meri said, willing the words to be true. ‘He’ll know it wasn’t your fault.’
Erenora remained silent but, in her head, a selfish thought took root. If I am barren, perhaps I can ask Ripeka to give the child to me and Horitana to bring up. Wouldn’t that make it easier for Ripeka and Paora? They wouldn’t want the child as a constant reminder of what had happened to Ripeka, would they? Almost immediately she had the thought, however, Erenora felt ashamed.
‘Being with child is supposed to be a woman’s crowning joy,’ Ripeka continued, ‘but there is no joy in my heart. I will place myself on Paora’s mercy.’
‘You’ll have us with you when you tell him,’ Erenora said, kissing Ripeka on her cold cheek.
It was the morning of Christmas Eve when the schooner reached Arahura.
As they were disembarking, Meri asked Erenora, ‘Would you really have sent me and Ripeka back to Parihaka?’
‘Yes,’ Erenora answered. ‘I would have purchased a single ticket for myself on a vessel sailing across Raukawa.’ She sighed melodramatically. ‘Oh, why did Whai and his schooner have to show up?’
Meri gave a wide grin. ‘See?’ she said to Ripeka. ‘Our sister is all blow and no go.’ They began to wrap themselves up against the cold, hoisted their shoulder sacks and prepared for the walk to Hokitika.
Whai was reluctant to let them leave. ‘Are you sure you won’t come with us to our kainga for Kirihimete?’ Already his men were waiting for him to join them on the last few miles to their families. ‘Hokitika will be filled with miners wanting a good time. Not a safe place for women.’
‘Don’t worry about us,’ Erenora assured him. ‘Go to your loved ones.’ As they separated, she made a vow to herself. From now on, she would not let her disguise slip again, the risk was too great. She would be Eruera.
The sisters turned south along the beach. How majestic the mountains were. They rose into the heavens like poutama, great staircases, foaming with snow.
Bowing before them, Meri raised her voice in karanga. ‘E nga mounga tapu,’ she called in the dawn light, ‘oh, sacred mountains, we bring you greetings from your brother mounga, Taranaki.’ In her usual simple, affecting manner she attempted to clear a safe passage for the three sisters.
Again, Erenora set the pace. Silently, Ripeka and Meri followed her. And it came to Erenora that she loved her sisters, and that she was the least among them. How would she be able to protect Ripeka, who was with child now, and Meri, who had a son waiting for her at Parihaka? She looked up at the towering mountains and the blue void beyond.
‘If one of us is to die, let it be me,’ she prayed.
2.
At this point, the question needs to be asked:
How many men from Taranaki were sent to the South Island?
Let me answer by dealing, first, with those men forcibly removed from Parihaka. Think of it: estimates of the permanent male population of Parihaka range between 600 and 800, but nobody knows for sure. Put that figure against the one for the numbers initially exiled to the South Island, over 420 Maori ploughmen in 1879 and a further 216 fencers in July 1880, and, well, you are already above the lower male number.
Then, however, you have to add the prisoners who continued to be exiled; some of those would have been supporters from Waikato and other tribes who were staying at Parihaka. Whichever way you cut it, Parihaka was sadly reduced. When you think of the implications for the future, the birth statistics must have taken a huge dip. How could the settlement survive?
Now, what of the other men who had begun to be sent to the South Island during Titokowaru’s War ten years before the fall of Parihaka?
On this point, let me draw your attention to the excellent monograph by my friend Maarire Goodall. Speaking of Dunedin in particular, Goodall cites the case of 74 men from South Taranaki — supporters of Titokowaru — who arrived in Dunedin on the Rangatira, along with 71 guards, on Saturday 6 November 1869:
A huge crowd thronged the wharf and lined the streets as the Maoris were taken to the prison, on its present site by the foot of Stuart Street. Some were fine, stalwart fellows, reporters noted; others, elderly and frail, able to walk only slowly. All were downcast. On reaching the gaol, they were given prison garb in exchange for their blankets and other clothes; and, the Otago Daily Times assured its readers, ‘presented a much more comfortable appearance’. But within a few minutes of entering his cell, the first prisoner had died — Waiata, an elderly man serving a three-year term.18
The prisoners were from Pakakohe, of Ngati Ruanui. Sometime
s they were marshalled from Dunedin Gaol or from work at Andersons Bay — a mile or so away — at the inlet on the neck of the Otago Peninsula. Some reports state that they were held permanently in the caves at the end of Portsmouth Drive, but this is incorrect: it has been deduced that the three caves concerned were too small and probably used as offices or for storing equipment; a pole in one of the caves may have been used for chaining a prisoner for some infraction.
They worked with Pakeha convicts on constructing the causeway. Eighteen either pined away or succumbed to tubercular or bronchial ailments, before all who remained were formally released on 12 March 1872. In gratitude for the assistance of local Dunedin Maori, those who survived to return to the Taranaki changed their name to Ngati Otakou.
No women and children served with the Pakakohe prisoners.
It is likely that, despite the privations of their initial gaoling, two and possibly more of these Pakakohe men returned again as prisoners. This time, they came back as ploughmen of Parihaka. So, every gaol a Bastille? I know I’m being a Rottweiler; you can blame the mood I’m in.
How many Taranaki men kua ngaro ki Te Po? What was the number exiled to Te Wai Pounamu? Would a thousand be too high? And what about the number not sent to the South Island but gaoled in New Plymouth or other North Island prisons? The statistics are sketchy. We just don’t know.
Perhaps some university historian, with a grant behind him or more funds than I can muster, might give some attention to these questions.
And now, treading the same Trail of Tears, came three Taranaki women.
3.
No wonder Whai was worried about Erenora and her sisters.
The road to Hokitika was crowded with young miners, riding horses or driving carts and raising dust as they raced into town. They threatened to run the women down in their haste, their thoughts on alcohol. Even on the outskirts of the town rowdy miners had already begun to celebrate, though not the birth of the Christ child; rather, they were intent on drinking themselves into a stupor.
‘Hey, boy,’ a voice shouted. ‘Have you lost your senses? Get those women off the street immediately.’ The voice belonged to the wispy-haired and nervous keeper of a dry goods store. ‘The miners may be mothers’ sons but come tonight they’ll be an unruly mob.’
‘Thank you for the warning, sir,’ Erenora said.
Ripeka whispered to her, ‘We’d better stock up while we can.’
‘You’ll be my last customers of the day,’ the storekeeper said.
As he calculated the amount owing, Erenora asked, ‘Perhaps you could recommend a safe route for us? We’re seeking the gaol.’
‘You’ll be after Seaview Terrace on Misery Hill,’ he answered, giving her a curious look. ‘But I don’t think they have any Maoris left inside.’ He ushered Erenora and her sisters out of the store, closed and padlocked the doors and then tested the windows again to make sure they were shut.
‘Some of the prisoners may have been sent to another gaol in the South Island,’ Ripeka told him. ‘We’d like to know where.’
The store owner was on the point of venturing another possibility to Erenora but was warned by her look, No, don’t say it.
‘Well, good day to you then,’ he said, ‘and mark my words, boy, this isn’t a good time for womenfolk to be about.’
‘We followed the storekeeper’s directions and were relieved to escape the township. The darkness was falling quickly and the wind was chill from the sea when we came upon the aptly named Misery Hill. The prison stood in a large clearing overlooking the ocean.
‘Ripeka’s early eagerness became filled with hesitation. “What if Paora doesn’t forgive me?” she asked.
‘As we approached the gaol, we saw a couple just in front of us. They were walking slowly, the old man supporting his wife, and as we drew abreast I lowered my voice and greeted them. “Good day to you,” I said. They were a working-class couple, but wearing their best clothes. The old man was tall and barrel-chested; he looked as if could have been a prize fighter in his youth. “The same to you and your women,” he answered, doffing his cap. His voice had an Irish lilt.
‘“Oh, Seamus,” the woman said. She had suddenly become affrighted by the prison: the entire circling wall, maybe 20 feet in height; the guard looking darkly down from the watch-platform, taking in our approach. Through the main entrance, I glimpsed an oblong-shaped building within. “Halt where you are,” the guard ordered, his rifle at the ready. “The prison’s closed to all visitors.”
‘“We were hoping to see our son,” the old man said.
‘“And I my husband,” Ripeka added.
‘“They’re already locked in their cells,” the guard answered. “You must come back in the morning when visitors are allowed to bring Christmas cheer to their imprisoned men.”
‘The elderly couple were disappointed, especially the woman, who dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “We can wait one more day, dear,” her husband comforted her. He introduced himself as Seamus Donovan, explaining he had come from Kumara with his wife to see their only son, Charlie, imprisoned for robbery and assault.
‘“We met some of your Maori people,” Mrs Donovan said, “when we came to see our Charlie, almost a year ago now. Charlie so admired them. He told us they were kept separate in a day room where they could be more easily supervised. They were always at their prayers and their hymns, always singing.”
‘Yes, I thought, their voices would have called to God:
‘“Great Lord, you who flies on the wings of the wind, who unleashes the thunderbolt from the storming clouds, if it be thy will release us from those who keep us hostage! Return us, O Lord, to our iwi …”
‘Mr Donovan enquired where we were staying for the night.
‘“We’ve made no arrangements,” I answered. To be frank, I hadn’t given it a thought.
‘“You’d best return to town with us, then,” he said kindly. “The hotel Mrs Donovan and I are staying at has small but clean rooms and, who knows, there could be a vacancy. It might also be advisable, as far as the ladies are concerned, for you and me to combine forces. There’s safety in numbers.”
‘I soon realised the wisdom of Mr Donovan’s words. As we approached the main street of the town, I saw loud, drunken crowds moving through the pools of gas lighting from one hotel to the next.
‘“I hope you’re handy at fisticuffs,” Mr Donovan said. “I will lead, the women will follow and you bring up the rear.” I nodded but, even so, said to my sisters, “Keep your heads down and, Ripeka, hold tight to Meri and don’t let her go.” We began to shove through the groups of weaving miners. The commotion was extraordinary and the stench of vomit and sweat overpowering. I saw one young man open his buttons and piss where he was standing. Another staggered out of a hotel, downed his trousers and shat on the street.
‘Meri raised her head. “No, Meri!” I cried. She had seen a young Maori woman, stupefied by liquor, being forced by her pimp to service men in an alley. “That could have been me,” she whimpered.
‘A voice rang out, “Hey, lads, more Maori whores!” Meri had been seen and young miners were soon lurching into my sisters. Mr Donovan and I began fighting for our women’s lives. “Keep away,” I shouted, punching right, left and centre. Mrs Donovan, Ripeka and Meri were also lashing out with their fingers and kicking with their feet. Mr Donovan was forging through the crowd, roaring, “Keep up, Mrs Donovan! Bring the ladies with you!” Together we gained the relative safety of the hotel. Did I say relative? The din inside was extraordinary and frightening. Already made almost insensible by liquor, some of the miners were taking any excuse to fight each other.
‘And after all that, the hotelier told us there wasn’t a room to be had. Mr Donovan said, “Look, boy, Mrs Donovan and I could share our room with you and your sisters. The price is already exorbitant and you’d be doing us a service by assisting to pay for it. Does that sound reasonable to you?”
‘I nodded quickly, and we battled our w
ay through the crowd and up the stairs. The Donovans’ room was indeed small with a large bed that the women could share. There was no lock on the door. “Now you know why I suggested we combine forces,” Mr Donovan said. Throughout the night, we kept guard shoulder to shoulder in the corridor, shoving away the drunks and louts who tried to get in. Sometimes I showed my knife as a threat. Both Mr Donovan and I were glad when, in the early morning, the hotel began to quieten down.
‘I asked him about his son, Charlie. “We came all the way from County Cork,” he said, “hoping to make a good future in Maoriland. We were gold mining but our claim was taken from us by a crooked land agent. When our darling boy went to get our papers back, his temper got the better of him and, well, one thing led to another, and he was charged with robbery and assault. Mrs Donovan and I know what it is to have your family gaoled wrongfully. She’s taken Charlie’s imprisonment very hard.”’
4.
‘The next morning, Christmas Day, we made a feast of our kai and the Donovans’ food. On looking at the spread, Mr Donovan said, “To be sure, it is a banquet fit for royalty!”
‘“Let’s have a toast,” Mrs Donovan said. She was becoming sentimental.
‘Mr Donovan agreed, and measured out small nips from his flask of whiskey. “To family, friends and children,” he said.
‘We raised our glasses, and both Mrs Donovan and Meri burst into tears thinking of their sons.’
Around eight, the sisters returned with the Donovans to Hokitika Gaol. The morning was bright, the sky cleanly rinsed. A small number of other visitors, mostly women, were also on the road to Misery Hill. ‘Merry Christmas to you,’ they greeted each other. One wife had bravely brought her two children, who skipped along, eager to see their father.