Rangatira

  ‘Even I don’t know him,’ Horomona Te Atua said, ‘and he’s my brother. Which one am I?’

  Mr Maunsell thought he was perhaps one of the standing figures, holding the taiaha, next to an even taller man we agreed was Hare Pomare. I didn’t want to offend Horomona, but I could see no reason on earth why his brother should stand at the heart of the picture, gesturing to the sky as though he could see a vision of God hidden to the rest of us. Perhaps he was thinking of the lights beckoning him from the Alhambra Theatre!

  I’m afraid that looking at this painting I had many of these unchristian thoughts, for it was not clear to us why this or that person had been arranged in this or that spot.

  Mr Smetham mumbled for a while, and Mr Maunsell told us that the figure of Wiremu Pou was pointing up at John Wesley’s portrait.

  ‘But he is no Wesleyan,’ Horomona Te Atua said. ‘I think the only Wesleyan among us is Hapimana Ngapiko. That’s why he stays with Jenkins now.’

  The groups in the painting were divided into two clusters, much as we had been divided on the stage in Birmingham Town Hall. Various Pakeha were seated to the right, and again, we were unsure of their identities. The gentleman was Reverend Jobson, Mr Maunsell told us, and after I peered a while at his whiskers and jowls, I did remember meeting him, at the house of John Wesley.The two ladies, with their ballooning skirts, I did not know at all, and I even imagined one might be Mrs Colenso until I remembered that she was not a Wesleyan.

  Sitting in the front row with these unknown ladies was the figure of Tere Pakia, as Mr Smetham informed us, pronouncing her name in the oddest way, the paper shaking in his hand. She wore a fine dress of deep blue that I had never seen before, so this must have been a costume of Mr Smetham’s devising. Behind this group stood two swarthy gentlemen, possibly Italian, like some of the sailors who walked the streets of Limehouse. But these dark fellows were wearing cloaks, so, said Mr Maunsell, they must be members of our party. One was meant to be Hirini Pakia, looking far more upright and distinguished than he ever managed to appear in real life. The other man, who seemed youthful and wore his hair styled in the manner of the late Prince Consort, was, Mr Maunsell insisted, Kihirini.

  ‘This is Kihirini here,’ Horomona said, pointing to the group on the other side of the painting. ‘Next to Ngahuia and … is that Haumu?’

  ‘It must be Hariata Pomare.’ Mr Maunsell was squinting at the painting just as we were. ‘Haumu was never sketched by the artist, I believe, because she was staying in Bow. And that is not Kihirini next to them. It’s Reihana.’

  We disagreed with this, because Reihana seemed to be seated next to the piano, in the shadow of Wiremu Pou. But this figure, according to the artist’s plan, was me.

  ‘He has a full moko,’ Mr Maunsell pointed out. ‘So it must be Paratene and not Reihana.’

  ‘But is this not Paratene here, in his dogskin cloak, trying to look over my shoulder?’

  ‘That is Takarei Ngawaka,’ Mr Maunsell said, consulting Mr Smetham’s list. The artist himself appeared to have grown disconsolate, and had flung himself down on a couch, his notebook trembling in his hands. I didn’t see myself at all in any of these faces, in part because the moko were indistinct, smudges on some faces, or scratches on others. Whether I was the one peeping over Horomona’s shoulder, or the one seated on a low stool next to the piano, I don’t know. Either person was evidently unimportant, given very little space. Even worse, both these figures appeared to be looking at Wiremu Pou.

  Hapimana and Wharepapa, pointed out to us by Mr Maunsell, sat huddled near the doorway, like shrunken old men. The more I looked at it, the more I thought that Horomona was right, and I was the small figure on the edge of things. This looked more like me than it did Takarei, though the moko was wrong. But all the moko were wrong. Truly, if we were not dressed in our cloaks, and standing with Jenkins, we could have been a group of Lascars crowding into a chophouse.

  The painting had been finished for some time, Mr Smetham told Mr Maunsell, but he was uncertain as to the plan of action as to where it would hang or to whom it belonged. There had been talk of an engraving made and sold around the country, but all had come to nought, and now we were leaving, he supposed there would be little demand.

  Mr Maunsell asked if we wished to convey our impressions to the artist. We had no desire to complain, of course, and Mr Smetham was already fearful and agitated enough. So we praised the size of the work, the richness of the carpet depicted, and the detail of our cloaks, and said the ladies in our party would be most pleased to see themselves in such a setting and in such fine costumes.

  ‘And Ngahuia and Tere looking so much younger than they do in life,’ Horomona said to me, but Mr Maunsell didn’t seem to hear.

  ‘Jenkins stands before us again!’ I declared, and when Mr Maunsell spoke, the artist looked happy. We left his house soon afterwards. When she heard we’d seen the painting, Tere Pakia demanded to be taken to Smetham’s house as well, but Mr Maunsell said that Mr Smetham was not a well man, and his nerves would not stand another round of curious visitors from New Zealand.

  There was little time left, in any case. We were to sail from Gravesend on the fourth of April, on the Flying Foam. That good lady Miss Weale had arranged cabins for us all, so this time we were not to be held deep in the ship, with the cargo and the rats. Instead we were ‘saloon passengers’, sleeping in airy cabins under the poop deck, and invited to sit at table with officers from the 40th Regiment, Lady Wiseman, and the missionary Mr Ireland and his wife, who were charged by Miss Weale with our care.

  Kihirini, too weak to walk, particularly needed this care. He had to be passed up onto the ship like a bundle. I hadn’t seen him for some time, as he’d been staying in the hospital. The sight was shocking. His face was sunken and yellow, his body wasting away. At least on this voyage he would not have to share a bed with Hapimana. He would have his own mattress and pillow, and fresh meat for dinner. I wasn’t sure if that would be enough to keep him alive throughout the long journey home.

  Mr Lightband was there as well, in his own cabin, as eager as we were to return home. It was at his suggestion, I think, that we set about composing farewell letters to the Queen. Mrs Colenso was arriving on the steamer from London to say goodbye to us, and would translate our letters and hand them to the Duke of Newcastle. Horomona Te Atua and I, who were sharing a cabin, set to work immediately.

  I don’t know what Horomona wrote, but in my letter I asked Her Majesty to show love to the Maori of New Zealand. I quoted the Bible verse about faith, hope, and charity, declaring charity to be the greatest of the three, and asked God to bless us and keep us all. I thought of the Queen and her sadness, and told her that God’s love would last forever.

  Before I had finished my letter, Reverend Stack was knocking on the door, announcing his arrival, and that of Miss Weale and Mrs Colenso, for they were all eager to say their goodbyes. Perhaps I would have written a longer letter if they had not arrived so soon. There are other things I would have liked to say to the Queen.

  But no, this can’t be the way it happened. I have the order of things wrong, I think, because later Ngahuia told us that in the letter she wrote, she thanked the Queen for the great gift sent with Mrs Colenso. For when that lady arrived on board, she was carrying a parcel from the Duke of Newcastle. This included something from the Queen herself for each of us – a piece of notepaper with a thick border of black, bearing the Queen’s signature and the date of our visit to her at Osborne. We were all very pleased to get this, even Haumu, who was in the asylum when we all visited the Queen. She grabbed the piece of notepaper intended, no doubt, for the absent Wiremu Pou, and clasped it to her breast, crumpling it considerably.

  Mrs Colenso also had instructions from the Duke to present Ngahuia with something very precious. This was a brooch, a cross of gold set with pearls and other jewels, and it was a gift from the Queen herself. That long-ago summer’s day at Osborne, Ngahuia had given the Queen her greenstone heitiki,
and now Her Majesty was taking the opportunity to reciprocate before we sailed away forever. She understood our ways, as they were her ways as well. For every deed, every gesture, there must be a suitable response.

  So this is why we wrote the letters that day on board the Flying Foam, while there was still time to thank the Queen for all the kindness she’d shown us. When Reverend Stack knocked on my door, it was to say he and Miss Weale and Mrs Colenso were leaving, and the letters must be collected. Ngahuia had delayed us all with her excited chatter about the magnificence of the Queen’s gift, especially as her tears of joy had set poor Haumu off as well. Miss Weale had spoken sharply to both of them, though her English words still meant nothing to them. Wharepapa told me once that Miss Weale thought Ngahuia too proud, and doubtless felt the Queen’s gift would make this pride, this vanity, even worse.

  No. It was Mr Lightband who knocked on our door, and said the letters should be finished at once. A further two people had arrived on board the Flying Foam, eager to bid us farewell, and he wanted us to see them.

  These two people were Mr Lloyd, and Jenkins. We hadn’t seen them in person since that terrible night at the Birmingham Town Hall, though Horomona and I had seen the painting of Jenkins, where he stood in the centre of us all, under the picture of John Wesley. Now here they were, many miles south of Birmingham in Gravesend. They stood on the deck wearing thick coats, for the weather was still cold. Mr Lloyd was no longer so nervous and unhappy, perhaps because he was not required to pay for our passage home. He shook hands with whoever stepped forward to greet him, and stood about laughing too loudly with Mr Lightband.

  Jenkins stood a few steps back, watchful. He was anxious, I think, that we would denounce him once again, or demand that the captain throw him off the ship. We were all assembled there on the deck, apart from Kihirini, who lay coughing and shuddering in his bed, and Hare and Hariata Pomare, who had sailed at Christmas, and the three Maori of our original party who had chosen not to sail with us now – Hapimana and Takarei, and Wiremu Pou. We had one addition to our group, Wharepapa’s young wife, who stood among us clinging to her new husband’s arm, her yellow hair blowing in the wind.

  Miss Weale was not happy. That was plain for all to see. Even Mrs Colenso, who was a kind lady, and had once been a friend to Jenkins, was frowning, talking in a low voice to Reverend Stack. They were afraid, too, I think, of an unseemly scene like the one they had read about in the Birmingham newspaper. But by this day none of us had the appetite for such carry-on, not even Reihana. Jenkins stood tall and erect as ever, but there was a sadness in his eyes. He had risked his all to bring a group of rangatira to England to see its wonders and its multitudes, and together we had climbed to great heights. None of us had imagined that we would tumble from those heights in such a manner, or that the trip would end quite this way.

  I thought of the letter I had been writing, moments earlier, to Queen Victoria. As I wrote, I was thinking of the words from Corinthians. ‘Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.’

  When Tere Pakia stepped forward and began to sing a farewell lament, all but Reihana joined her. I did not hesitate in adding my voice to theirs. We swayed together as though the boat was already surging through the sea.

  Haere, haere, haere. Our great adventure in England was at an end. None of us would ever return. None of us would ever see Jenkins again.

  The time has come for the Bohemian to sail. I walk along the wharf, looking for him, and he’s easy to find, despite the press of the crowds and the great mounds of trunks and barrels still to be hauled onto the ship. No one else in Auckland wears a round hat made of a piece of carpet.

  He shakes my hand, and introduces me to his wife, who wears a grey dress and bonnet. Her name is Rebecca, and her sharp face, as bird-like as his, softens when she smiles. She is his second wife, and not as young as I expected. Perhaps this is why they have no children. She is English, the Bohemian has told me, so she must have some idea what to expect of this long journey.

  ‘We travel in second class,’ he tells me, and I think that this is not so bad, as long as the biscuits are not rotten with worms, and the sugar doesn’t run out. In one of our sessions the Bohemian told me that he travelled from Germany in steerage, so he is pleased that Mr Buller is paying for a cabin.

  ‘My husband tells me your trip back from England was very exciting,’ his wife says, speaking very quickly. ‘A mutiny!’

  I smile and nod, though I don’t say anything. I don’t want to be seen or heard chattering in English on the wharf. In our last meeting, I told the Bohemian some of the foolishness of our voyage home, and this is what his wife mentions now. I spoke of the mutiny as an amusing thing, but at the time it made everyone on board quite anxious.

  It began when one of the seamen kicked a second-class passenger who’d insulted him, and after he was placed in irons and locked away, a number of the other sailors took up his cause. The regimental men in the cabins near ours took up arms at the captain’s request. For a time no ladies were allowed on deck, and several passengers were paid to help the captain sail the ship. Some of the second-class cabins were turned into gaols, and the men confined within them made much commotion by shouting oaths, sawing through their chains and smashing up their stocks. For a time Mr Lightband was obliged to sit up through the night on the poop deck, keeping watch, and later, when more of the seamen joined the mutiny, he had to take his turn guarding the prisoners. Wharepapa was eager to fight them, or at least to be permitted to brandish a gun, but Mr Lightband said that this was not necessary. When we arrived in Auckland, more than a dozen mutineers were marched off to Mount Eden gaol.

  ‘And there was a ghost,’ says the Bohemian, mischief dancing in his eyes, for I told him this story too, of a spirit reported to haunt the female apartments of steerage. Later the ghost was revealed to be the ship’s still-living third mate, up to no good.

  ‘Such great excitement,’ his wife says, and then the Bohemian talks to her for a while of Wharepapa’s baby, born at sea. Wharepapa is nowhere to be seen today, among the crush of people on the wharf, but of course he is a topic of conversation, as ever. Many Maori are here, inspecting and admiring the ship. It’s a brisk day, with a good wind for sailing, and a number of them, I think, would like nothing more than to climb on board and set off across the oceans.

  Wharepapa is from a soggy inland place, so perhaps he doesn’t feel the same urge to sail away. Although I’ve had my chance to travel to the other side of the world, and have no desire to make that journey again, I know that feeling, of wanting to stand on a deck and course through the waves, however short or familiar the trip. I feel that way myself right now, because I’ve been stuck in Auckland too long. I’m surrounded here, and I don’t like that.

  After Mr McGregor takes me back to Tutukaka, I’m going to find a way to get out to Hauturu. I’ll send a message down to Tenetahi’s crowd at Omaha, and one of his boys will come for me. It’ll be cold there, the clouds drifting down from the mountain, but at least the only noise at Hauturu is made by the birds and the crashing waves, and the tui will still be fat and delicious.

  Before I leave the Bohemian and his wife, I whisper in his ear in English.

  ‘May God watch over you and keep you,’ I tell him.

  ‘God and Mr Buller,’ he replies. I know he means this as a joke, so I say nothing else. But I feel very strongly that the Bohemian and his wife should put all their faith in God, and none in Mr Buller, and not depend on that gentleman for everything in England. We can never know the minds and hearts of other men. We can never truly understand what drives them, or where their frailties and ambition may lead.

  Late that night, in bed at the Native Hostel, I’m restless – half-dozing and half-awake, because it’s hard for me to sleep through the night now. It’s especially difficult at the hostel, with the hum of snoring, and too much laughter and talk. A distant boom sounds, and for a
moment I think I’m back on the Ida Zeigler, or the Flying Foam, and we’ve run onto a sand bar. But I’m still in my bed, not shaken to the ground, and after a moment I realise where I am.

  I don’t know what that noise is. It resembles the sound of a thick stand of kauri falling all at once, or lightning carving a slice out of a tree. I wonder if it’s the Bohemian’s ship, but he sailed this morning, and should be well beyond the waters of the gulf by now.

  Now it’s impossible for me to sleep, because I’m wondering if I dreamed the terrible booming noise, and if, like Reihana’s twitching hand, this is a bad sign. I hope no evil comes to the Bohemian on this trip of his. I want him to return home safely, as I did.

  The things I told the Bohemian about the voyage home from England were true. There was talk of a ghost, who was not a ghost at all, and there was a mutiny, which was quite real. On our arrival in Auckland the prisoners were led from the wharf in chains and marched to Mount Eden. And, as the Bohemian was telling his wife, during the voyage a daughter was born to Wharepapa and his wife, Elizabeth. I had suggested they name the child Dorotea, to appease Miss Weale, but when the baby was born just as we rounded the Cape, they decided to name her Maria Good Hope.

  I didn’t tell the Bohemian the rest of the story of our return. It was a long time ago, and he doesn’t know these people. They would be just so many Maori to him, like the photographs that stick to his wall, or the sketches he makes at the Native Land Court. But as I lie awake in this narrow and uncomfortable bed, their faces appear before me, as clear as though we returned just last week.