CHAPTER IV
TE KAREAREA[1]
As Englishman and Maori faced one another, they afforded admirable examples of opposite types. The one tall and superbly moulded, fair-haired and blue-eyed, and with winning frankness and generous high-mindedness in every line of his well-cut features; the other not quite so tall, but equally well made, with coal-black hair, furtive brown eyes, and an expression indicative of courage and intelligence, but also of a high degree of cunning.
'Salutations to you, O friend!' began the Maori in his own language. 'How are you called? I am Te Karearea. It seems you speak with the tongue of the Maori.'
'To you also salutations, O chief!' returned George. 'I am called Hortoni.' He gave his name according to Maori pronunciation, adding: 'I would rather that you spoke the speech of the Pakeha, for it is long since I was in the land of the Maori, and I have forgotten much.'
Te Karearea took no notice of this appeal. 'There are some things it is wiser to forget,' he said sententiously, with a backward glance at the shore. 'Let us forget that I have been a—what I have been. It is better to remember only that I am Te Karearea, an Ariki.'[2]
'I will remember, O swift-flying, quick-striking one!' replied George, with a slight inclination.
This allusion to the significance of his name pleased the chief, whose fierce features relaxed in a smile. 'It is good,' he said. 'Fear nought, Hortoni; I mean you no evil. No one shall suffer at my hands.'
'Yet the captain of the brig lies dead upon the sand,' observed George, with less than his usual tact.
'He was a fool,' answered Te Karearea, with darkening brow. 'He resisted, and my young men slew him.' He studied George intently for a moment, and resumed: 'They who are wise will not walk to Reinga. You, for instance, Hortoni, would rather that they should carry you there. Is it not so, my friend?'[3]
George gravely inclined his head.
'Then hear the word of Te Karearea,' pursued the chief. 'Can I not swallow the Pakehas on this ship as the inrushing tide swallows the beach? Can I not slay or spare, according to my will?' There was a deep, booming note in his voice, as of distant thunder, threatening a storm, and he paused, glaring at George, who held his respectful attitude, not being a fool, as Te Karearea had admitted.
'I hate the Pakehas, though there are some whom I am able to esteem,' went on the chief, accompanying the softening clause with a sly smile in the direction of the listener. 'Yet, though I hate, I can be merciful. I can spare as well as slay. Is it not so, O Hortoni?'
Still George only bowed acquiescence, wondering what the chief would be at. He knew perfectly well that all this circumlocution meant that the chief wanted something of him, but what it was he could not imagine. So he tried the effect of a direct question: 'What are you going to do with us?'
But the wily Maori was not to be caught. 'Time will show, Hortoni,' he replied. 'At present I say nought.'
'To what end all this talk then, O Chief? Are we not as rats in a trap? Why should the hawk converse with the rat, if not to devour him? Will you then spare the lives of the rats in the hold?'
'What is all this talk of taking life?' the Maori demanded. 'Behold, they who speak of Reinga are on the road to Reinga. You are young and strong. I set you over the Pakehas. It is the desire of Te Karearea to set them free, and to that end let them bring the ship to Turanga and go. Do they wish to be turned loose in the water?' he finished with a sinister grin, and stalked out.
It was out at last—the end of this roundabout parleying was in view. Not for nothing had Te Karearea spared the lives of the sailors. Without the crew the ship would have been of little use to him; but by sparing the men he would be enabled to reach New Zealand as speedily as the brig could sail thither. Otherwise, at the mercy of the winds and waves, he might be months in completing the voyage—if, indeed, it ever were completed.
'So that is his little game,' thought George. 'He offers us our lives to bring him and his brother rascals to New Zealand. I must see the mate and talk it over with him. I can't decide upon my own responsibility."
At this moment the door opened and the mate was ushered in.
'Well now, Mr. 'Aughton, this 'ere's a rummy go, and no mistake,' he began. 'And the poor skipper gone, too. I saw it all, Mr. 'Aughton, as you may say, and——'
But George had had too much experience of the mate's garrulity to scruple about cutting it short; so he briefly put before the sailor the proposal of the chief—for it amounted to a proposal—and wound up by asking his opinion as to the best course to pursue.
Mr. Bigham's opinion, tersely stated, was that he hated to give in to a nigger.
'I says, let us seem to agree, but round on the blankety niggers if we see a good chance,' he suggested joyously.
'If we promise, we must perform, Mr. Bigham,' said George gravely. 'Perhaps news of the rising will reach New Zealand before we do, and a cruiser may be sent to intercept us.'
'No chance of it. That smart chief has seen to that,' returned Bigham gloomily. 'The only vessel belonging to the island was a ketch, and the beggar sent her drifting out to sea.' Once again he expressed an extremely uncomplimentary opinion of 'niggers' and all their works and ways.
'Then there is nothing for it but to accept, if we wish to save our lives. But we must play fair,' said George.
'I can't see as we're bound to keep our word to a lot of darned niggers,' objected Mr. Bigham, with heat. 'If we get a chance to knock the brown brutes on the head, why shouldn't we take it?'
George answered the fool according to his folly.
'Can't you see, Bigham, that, as we are outnumbered by more than ten to one, we must submit?'
'But only till we get the chance to square the account,' persisted Bigham, who hailed from Bolton, and had all the native obstinacy of the Lancashire man. 'Well; I'll go and tell the men.' And he went.
The voice of the chief roused George from meditations of a somewhat mixed character. 'Have you decided, Hortoni?' he inquired, and there was a note of triumph in his tone which convinced George that he knew a great deal more English than he chose to admit.
After a moment's consideration George replied for himself. 'I give you my word that I will help to navigate the brig to Turanga, and that I will not attempt to embarrass you while I am on board. On your part, you undertake to set me free as soon as we touch land. That is our bargain; is it not?'
'And will Big Man promise, too? Will the sailors help?' asked the chief. 'Ha! here he comes. Let us hear what he has to say.'
'We agree,' the mate announced, but with a wink so portentous that George was made fully aware that the acceptance of the chief's terms covered some deep mental reservation. But he took no notice of the stupid fellow's side-hint, and, turning to their captor, said: 'It is well, O Hawk of the Mountain. We will bring the ship to land, if you will thereafter let us go free.'
'It is well,' echoed Te Karearea, flashing a glance at the mate. 'You have dealt fairly with me, Hortoni, and I am minded to be your friend. The eyes of the hawk are very keen, and he sees what is good and what is bad. So, too, I read the hearts of those upon whom my eyes are fastened.' Just then they were blazing upon Bigham with a malignity which even that dullard should have perceived. But as he regarded George, the chief's glance became milder.
'You have chosen wisely, O Hortoni!' he concluded. Then with a final ambiguity, 'I shall not forget what I have heard,' he folded his mat about his shoulders and stalked out of the deck-house.
'You also will do well to remember what you have heard, Mr. Bigham,' George said, translating Te Karearea's speech for him. 'I hope you were sincere in what you said just now,' he continued with some severity. 'We have to deal with a very clever man, and I earnestly advise you not to measure your wits against his.'
Bigham's grin widened, and he winked more portentously than before. Otherwise he made no reply.
[1] The Sparrow-Hawk.
[2] A chief of the highest class.
[3] By one familiar with Maori metaphor this would be understood to mean that a man would prefer to await death in the natural course of events, rather than anticipate it by resistance.