Valuable as he knew the greenstone mere to be, both intrinsically and on account of its romantic history, it was with a new and deeper interest that George regarded it at the conclusion of Te Kaihuia's legend of its origin. Of course the story of its supernatural appearance and manufacture was a fairy-tale which—he gave an unmistakable start, and a grim smile curled the thin lips of the old Maori, who was watching him intently.
There, on the narrow end, or handle, of the club were three deeply set impressions, which exactly resembled the imprint of two fingers and a thumb.
The mineral nephrite, or greenstone, is singularly hard and unyielding, and how these peculiar marks came to be made upon the club George concluded to leave to the antiquaries to solve; for, needless to say, the old chief's version of their cause counted for nothing with him. But he was far too courteous to allow his incredulity to appear before the venerable narrator, whom he warmly thanked as he rose to take his leave.
Te Kaihuia took the young fellow's strong hand in both his own.
'I have yet a word for you, Hortoni,' he said gravely. 'Never allow the mere to be far from your hand. Danger lurks we know not where. Hear now my word.'
Wondering whether the old man's mysteriously given advice held a covert warning of impending trouble, George went below and locked the greenstone club in a sea-chest which the dead captain had lent him. Moreover, he determined to wear the weapon during his night-watches on deck, in case of treachery such as his aged friend had seemed vaguely to hint at.
Trouble, indeed, was nearer than he thought; but it was not to come—in the first instance, at all events—from Te Karearea and his Maoris.
Late that night as George swung in his hammock, he was awakened by something jolting against his body, and, peering drowsily over the edge, saw a line of dark figures stealing cautiously up the ladder. In a flash he leaped lightly to the floor and collared the hindmost of the procession.
'You, Bigham!' he exclaimed as the fo'c'sle lamp illumined the face of his captive. 'How comes the leader of the mutiny to bring up the rear?'
Bigham gave himself away at once. 'We knew you wouldn't approve,' he whispered, 'so we thought we'd surprise you when the thing was done.'
George flew into one of his rare rages. 'You ass! It will be a mercy if one of us is left alive when the thing is done. Call back the men. Quick! There is no time to lose.'
But Bigham's Lancashire obstinacy resented this interference, and with a sudden twist he darted on deck, saying huskily, 'Let them laugh as win.'
Slipping on his trousers, George made all haste after him, but the night was so dark that he could not make out the stations of the conspirators. Neither could he hear the soft pad, pad of the bare-footed sentries.
'Curious if the guards have been withdrawn on this night of all others,' he mused. 'If I don't encounter our men in another minute, I'll shout and rouse the ship. Better Bigham's wrath than the slaughter which is sure to follow this senseless provocation of a friendly foe.'
Fearful of delay and its bitter consequences, he drew in his breath for a shout, when, sudden as a lightning flash, a column of fire shot into the air, illumining the black recesses of the brig. And, as it flared, the quiet night was shaken by an appalling yell, shouts and oaths, the tramp and shuffle of naked feet, the sound of shots and heavy blows, all horribly mixed with screams of rage and hate.
'It is all up!' muttered George, filled with resentment against the stupid mate. 'The rising is none of my doing; but parole or no parole, I can't stand by and see white men done to death by Maori criminals.' He raised his voice to a shout. 'Bigham! Call to me!'
No answer! Then out of the gloom a tall figure leaped at him with uplifted arm and smote strongly downwards.
George had neither heard nor seen the Maori's approach, though he actually turned at that moment as if to face the threatening danger. The first thing of which he was really conscious was the sound of a blow and the jarring shock which ran from his fingers to his shoulder. Then to his amazement a stalwart Maori fell with a thud and lay dead or badly wounded at his feet.
Experience has shown that, during the excitement bred of extreme peril, one may perform many actions by instinct, or, at least, that one's conscious intelligence does not appear to be fully at work. And now so stupefied was George at the sequence of events, that he stood staring down at the body of the Maori without the slightest comprehension of what had happened.
The light of the fire flared towards him, illumining the thing he held in his hand. It was a greenstone club—his own; for he could distinctly see the odd markings upon it.
How was this? he asked himself. Was it possible that Te Kaihuia's story—Oh, nonsense! ... Still, how came the mere to his hand? He had locked it away in his sea-chest.... He had never thought of it when he rushed on deck at the heels of Bigham.... What could it mean?
Thoughts are lightning quick, and but little time passed, as George stood fixed and immovable beside the prostrate Maori, before another tall form loomed suddenly out of the dark, and a familiar voice said in Maori: 'Salutations, O friend! The fight is begun. Let the wise look on while the fools strive with one another.'
'Come and help me stop the conflict,' began George, when Te Karearea, catching sight of the still form, interrupted sternly: 'What is this, Hortoni? Had I not your promise? Wherefore have you slain my young man?'
'I—I hope he is not dead,' stammered George. 'I suppose I struck him, but—oh, I dare say you won't believe me, Chief; but I knew nothing of this foolish affair until a few minutes ago, and I did my best to stop it.'
Te Karearea drew a lantern from the folds of his mat, held it up, and looked keenly into George's eyes. Then all at once his haughty glare gave place to a look of abject terror. 'W-w-what is that in your hand, Hortoni?' he asked, in a voice vibrating with intense feeling.
'The club? It is a present which Te Kaihuia gave me after I pulled him out of the water. He—why, what's the matter?'
For Te Karearea, in what appeared to be mortal affright, reeled backwards to the bulwarks, and only saved himself from a heavy fall by clinging to the rail. 'The mere! The mere of TUMATAUENGA!' he shrieked, in a voice so shrill that it rose above the lessening din of conflict.
George was growing confused amid the maze of events through which he was threading his way, but the incongruity of the position struck him even then. Only a few yards distant strife was raging, bullets actually sang over their heads, and yet there they stood, discussing other matters, as if nothing out of the common were happening. There was, however, an explanation of Te Karearea's unconcern with the fight, which George did not receive till later.
All that had occurred since he came on deck occupied far less time than has been required to write of it; nevertheless, he was growing anxious about the fate of Bigham and the crew. So, pointing aft, where the struggle waned to a close, he said: 'While we talk here, O Chief, blood is flowing over there. It is time to stop the mischief.'
'The blood of the Pakehas is upon their own heads, Hortoni,' retorted Te Karearea, who had recovered his equanimity, and now slowly sauntered after George towards the scene of the fray.
As they came up, Bigham, who was unhurt, greeted George with words of scorn. 'There you are, Mr. Haughton, with your brown friend, safe enough, I dare say. I hope you like your position. Had you joined us, things might have been different.'
'They would, indeed!' A voice close to George just breathed the words.
'Did you speak, Chief?' he asked sharply.
'Nay; I said nought, Hortoni,' was the smooth answer.
'Of course he would deny it,' thought George. 'What was his meaning, I wonder.' He turned to Bigham. 'I gave you fair warning that I would take no part in your wild schemes. However, we can discuss later your grievance against me. How many of your men are hurt?'
Another surprise, but this time an agreeable one. It was Te Karearea who replied: 'None, Hortoni. I had knowledge of Big Man's plot—it matters not how.' George thought that he knew. 'I gave orders, therefore, that at a certain moment every Pakeha on deck should be secured—save only yourself,' with a courteous bow. 'So Big Man and those with him walked into my trap which I had set, and my young men have done as I bade them—all save the stupid Paeroa, who blundered up against you, and—and—the mere of TUMATAUENGA smote him.'
There was a tremulous note in his voice, and he glanced furtively over his shoulder, while his lips moved as he muttered something beneath his breath.
At their chief's last words the Maoris huddled together in awed surprise, and some of them followed his example and murmured a karakia, or charm, to keep off invisible powers.
Again George was puzzled. What was the matter with every one to-night? At the same time he was greatly relieved; but, not wishing to show his satisfaction too plainly, rallied the chief upon his manifest trepidation.
'Since there are no dead men, why do you mutter a karakia, O Hawk of the Mountain?' he said. 'Are you afraid that Taniwha will come out of the sea and——'
He broke off in amazement, for Te Karearea's teeth were chattering and his eyes rolling wildly. Evidently he was under the dominion of some fearful emotion. Thrice he essayed to speak and thrice failed, while the Maoris, comprehending nothing but the one awesome word, and perceiving, as they thought, its effect upon their leader, shrank away, quaking with dread and muttering, 'Taniwha! Taniwha!' in terror of what might happen even now.
In the light of the dying flare Bigham caught George's eye. His look plainly said: 'You have thrown these fellows into such a mortal funk by something you have said, that, at a sign from you, the crew will take heart and sweep the whole lot into the sea before they know where they are.'
Something like this George read in the mate's expression, and for one instant he hesitated. Was he indeed bound to keep a parole given under such circumstances? And then the deeply rooted principles, early implanted, asserted themselves. The word of a gentleman, once passed, even to a 'darned nigger,' must be sacred. With an almost imperceptible shake of the head at Bigham, he turned again to Te Karearea, whose composure was by this time restored, and demanded his intentions with regard to the twice-taken prisoners.
Te Karearea, with his head turned aside, laughed shortly and waved his hand with a gesture implying that the behaviour of a few foolish Pakehas was unworthy of his serious consideration, and his men, quick to understand him, released their hold of the dejected sailors and allowed them to make their way below.
Truly no great harm had been done in the scuffle, save for a broken head or two; for the mate and his men, unarmed as they were—even their jack-knives had been taken from them—had relied upon the shock of surprise to drive the Maori guards below and batten them under hatches, among the mass of sleepers.
Even chance could hardly have favoured so stupid a plan, and, had it not been for Te Karearea's foreknowledge of the time of the attack, the white men must have fared ill in the struggle. As it was, the Maoris had obeyed orders, and contented themselves with overpowering their prisoners, while for greater moral effect they discharged their guns in the air—to the infinite danger of George and Te Karearea, past whom the leaden missiles sang spitefully during their conversation in the waist.
Feeling that he could do no less, George now sought a fitting compliment upon the generous clemency of the chief; but, as the latter faced him, there was something so sinister in the whole aspect of the man, so basilisk-like was the stare of the stony and, for once, unwinking eyes, that the young Englishman thrilled with the conviction that beneath this seeming forbearance lurked an unsatisfied hate, which would presently demand a sterner, because belated, vengeance.
He now felt sure that Te Karearea had only held his hand from a general massacre from interested motives, and knew that he would not be able to breathe freely until the Maoris had been set on shore and gone their way into the interior.
Determined to warn Bigham, George sought out the mate next morning, and to his annoyance found him already engaged in entertaining the chief with the few words of Maori he had at command. These he eked out by the free use of English, which he seemed to think was certain to be understood, provided that each word was delivered in a stentorian bellow.
Te Karearea greeted George very civilly, and smilingly claimed his services as interpreter. Presently he inquired, carelessly enough, what the mate intended to do after setting him and his Maoris ashore. George put this question with the greatest reluctance to the thick-skulled Bigham, who replied with genial truculence that not only would he raise the countryside in pursuit, but would take a hand in it himself, just for the pleasure of having a smack at the 'brown beast,' as he styled the dignified chief.
George toned down this senseless bombast as far as he could, but the ill-suppressed sneer upon Te Karearea's thin lips convinced him that the latter perfectly understood all that the mate had so absurdly threatened. However, the chief laughed heartily, and, when George at last got Bigham away from him, the mate would listen to no suggestion of a disguised ill-will. But he promised to abstain from further plotting, and from this George extracted such comfort as he could.
Towards evening George paid a visit to the man whom he had so mysteriously felled the night before, and who was reported to be doing well. He still carried the greenstone club in his belt, and when he entered the deck-house—which had been converted into a sick-bay—found Paeroa with a bandaged head and looking ill and weary, but with a fire in his eye which argued deep resentment.
But to the Englishman's amazement, no sooner had he crossed the threshold, than Paeroa clasped his hand in both his own, sank upon one knee, and poured out a torrent of musically sounding words.
'Hortoni, beloved of the gods, master of the mere of TUMATAUENGA,' he said, 'Te Kaihuia has spoken with me and has given me a word. O great one, who callest up the wind at will, I thank thee for my life; for surely hadst thou struck to slay, I had been slain.'
'Stop! What are you saying?' interjected George, but Paeroa's speech flowed on.
'Behold now, Hortoni, because thou heldest back the strong arm of TUMATAUENGA, I will follow thee. Whithersoever thou goest, be it over the mountain or along the plain, through the deep forest or in the green meadows, over the land or across the sea, whether there be peace, or whether there be war, I am thy man, and I will follow thee. Hear now the word which Paeroa has spoken.'
George was wonderstruck, and, though far from understanding the motives which moved the Maori to this extraordinary act of self-abasement, was touched by the poor fellow's sincerity and by his devotion to one who, however unwittingly, had done him serious injury. He knew that it would be utterly useless to try to disabuse the man of the belief that he had held back some potent force from destroying him, so, smiling in his peculiarly engaging way upon the young Maori, he replied:
'O Paeroa, I thank you. When you get ashore, you must leave the rascals by whom you are surrounded, rejoin your tribe, and try to keep out of trouble for the future.'
This speech sounded like bathos after the high-sounding periods in which the Maori had addressed him, but Paeroa's sole reply was: 'I have spoken, Hortoni'; whereupon George, a good deal embarrassed, wished him a speedy recovery and rather hurriedly took his leave.
Young Haughton was by no means too credulous, and with regard to the incident of the previous night had come to the matter-of-fact conclusion that he must have unlocked his chest and withdrawn the greenstone club without, in his excitement, noticing what he was about. Yet he very clearly recognised the powerful influence which the tradition of its origin would exert upon the superstitious Maoris, and he determined to wear it continually during the short remainder of his association with them.
As he was pacing the deck after his interview with Paeroa, Te Karearea approached him, and with a grave salute requested permission to speak with him upon a matter of importance.
The chief lost no time in coming to the point. For an instant, as his eyes fell upon the greenstone club, the same extraordinary change passed over his face as on the previous day; but he speedily recovered himself, and in tense, vibrating tones began:
'I have a word for you, O Hortoni!'
'Say it, friend,' answered George laconically.
'There are no lies under my tongue, and my heart is clean,' pursued the chief. 'Ha! I am not as the Pakehas, in whom is nought but guile. I except you, my friend.'
George bowed.
'I will swallow the Pakehas as the sea swallows the little pebbles upon the shore,' went on the chief. 'War shall there be round about the land until the last of the accursed race be driven into Moana (ocean); for God is with me and with them whose priest I am, and His strength shall dwell in our arms until we make an end of slaying because there is no longer a Pakeha to be slain.'
His voice rolled and swelled into a chant as the soft gutturals poured out, an impetuous flood, and as he paused, glaring at George, his deep-set eyes flashed, and the expression upon his scarred face was very grim.
'To what end do you speak thus to me, O Chief?' inquired George.
'To this end, Hortoni,' cried the Maori. 'Cast off the accursed race to whom you have belonged till now, and come in among us! Be my Pakeha and the Pakeha of my hapu (tribe). So shall we be honoured, and we will honour you and give you a Maori wahine (woman) to wife. Land without measure shall be yours, and you shall dwell among us as a great chief in power and peace, until they come to carry you to Reinga. This is my word to you, O Hortoni!'
'And hear you my word, O insulter of a strong race!' cried George indignantly. 'Who you are I know not, nor whose priest you claim to be. But this I know, O fool! The Pakeha is an eagle upon a mountain peak, and the eagle shall swoop upon the hawk and clutch it in his mighty talons and rend it into little pieces, which shall be scattered to the north and to the south and to the east and to the west. So shall there be an end of the stupid hawk. This is my word to you, O Te Karearea!'
The rage which laid hold of Te Karearea at this uncompromising rejection of his singular proposal was so clearly exhibited, that George stepped back a pace and suggestively dropped his hand upon his greenstone club. The chief shrank back at once, controlled his wrath by a mighty effort, and stalked away, sending over his shoulder a Parthian shaft in the words:
'You may yet dwell many days in my hapu, Hortoni, before you call the eagle to rend the hawk.'
He had no sooner disappeared than George took himself severely to task for having so completely lost his temper. He knew that not a few Maori chiefs had induced white men—not of the best sort—to attach themselves to their respective tribes and to become Maoris in all but colour. Of such degenerate whites—Pakeha Maoris they were called[1]—the possessors were egregiously proud, and great were the airs they assumed over their less fortunate brethren. A proposal of this sort to a man of George Haughton's type was so utterly absurd, that it might well have been passed over with contempt, instead of having been met with windy words of wrath. As for Te Karearea's own anger, that did not trouble George in the least.
His meditations were cut short by the arrival of a Maori, who informed him in picturesque language, that the feet of those who waited to carry Te Kaihuia to Reinga were without the old man's door, and that the aged chief had sent to beg Hortoni to come to him at once, as he had a word for him before he himself departed for the abode of the shades.
Greatly shocked at this totally unexpected news, George hastened to the spot where lay the withered form of the venerable chief, who was travelling fast towards the valley of the great shadow.
'O my poor old friend, I am grieved to see you like this!' cried George. 'What is the matter? You were not ill this morning.'
The dying chief gasped once or twice and by an effort raised his hand and pointed, while he mumbled half-articulate words which smote the listener with sudden, sickening horror. For they made it plain that the old man had been done to death, partly because his age and weakness would have rendered him a burden to the rest of the band on their march through the bush.
'Ah, who has done this dastardly thing?' raged George, angered out of himself at the cruel indifference to suffering which could so coldly rid itself of probable embarrassment.
Te Kaihuia's attenuated body writhed under the agony of the poison, and he stared, glassy-eyed, at George.
'Be-ware,' he gasped. 'Be-ware—Te ... Beware—the—Hau——'
The quivering jaw dropped, the palsied head fell back. Old Te Kaihuia had gone down to Reinga with his warning word unspoken.
'Thank heaven, we shall make land, and all this horror will be over by to-morrow night at latest,' George said gloomily to himself, as he crawled into his hammock an hour or so after poor old Te Kaihuia's remains had been dropped overboard. 'The loathsome cruelty of poisoning the harmless old creature because he was likely to be in their way! I can't believe that Te Karearea had any hand in the shameful business. The chief is high-minded in his way. Yet—oh, what devils men can be! ... What was it, I wonder, against which the poor old fellow wished to warn me?' He fell asleep still wondering.
He awoke with a start. Midnight was just past, and upon everything lay a great silence, faintly broken by the soft lap of the sea against the timbers of the brig as she sped on towards the land and—safety? No other sound was audible in the profound peace of the night, and yet George was certain that something had startled his sleep and awakened him. He sat up cautiously and listened, holding his breath. Nothing!
Then with frightful suddenness the solemn stillness was stirred by a sound—a sound discordant, shrill, horrible; a sound which pierced the heart of the watcher in the night, chilling his blood, so that, for all his strength and hardihood, he shook and shivered as he heard the hideous tones, inhuman yet resonant of human sadness and hate and fury; appalling in their horror. And as George sat quaking in his hammock, the weird noises, only half articulate, crashed again through the stillness, stunning his affrighted ears.
What was that strange, revolting, heart-sickening noise? What was it? Like the howling of a pack of wild dogs, where no dogs could be. Like the shrieking and sobbing of men in dire agony—yet what human throat ever emitted such sounds? Like the hoots and jeers of gibbering maniacs. Like none of these alone. Like all of them together. What human ear was ever forced to listen to such inhuman sounds? And at such an hour, too! What were they?
By an immense effort George got to the floor. Bigham was muttering fearfully in his hammock, two of the men were sobbing with fright, and one prayed brokenly, his scattered wits recalling fragments of the simple petitions of his childhood. Over all there hung the shadow of the same awful terror.
Once more that horrible wailing swept down from above.
'Bigham, I can't stand this,' said George in a harsh whisper. 'I am going on deck to find out what it means.'
The mate only groaned. Then manhood reasserting its grip, 'Don't go, Mr. Haughton,' he implored. 'The devil, I think, is let loose up there. Come back, sir, for God's sake!'
But George was already half-way up the ladder. Unless he took this thing on the rush, he felt that he would have no nerve to face it at all. He reached the companion, held back an instant while he fetched a deep breath, and then sprang into the open.
Not a soul was to be seen. A lantern or two shed a faint glimmering light, the helm was lashed, the deck empty of life.
With a gasp of horror George turned and raced back to the shelter of the fo'c'sle.
[1] Their influence was not always wholly bad.