IV

Auckland was as full of mud as the bush, and most shocking noisy. Everywhere in the torn-up streets great bullocks and horses snorted with flaring nostrils, and fell on their knees, and were thrashed and cursed up again to drag the heavy wagons. Everywhere men surged—brown muscular youths in the blue Volunteer shirts, tall High-land crofters from the Waipu with the years of their wanderings in their keen blue eyes, sturdy farmers from the near-by districts, companies trying to keep step in the ruts, marching down to the little wharf, marching off up the Khyber Road….

No women in the streets now but those who belonged there … who would follow the men. Darien chuckled, thrusting through them in her short skirts, her old hat. If Nick Flower had the pull she expected, Darien and Tiffany would also follow the men.

Nick Flower, it appeared, had plenty of pull if he chose to exert it. He took Darien into a private room at the Crown tavern and locked the door, regarding her with interested amusement. Darien was going beyond even his predictions for her. He had heard from O'Reilly how she made them pay through the nose for John's Clydesdales.

“Where's your fan, Darien? It would go well with that rig.”

“I don't care for men now unless they can be useful,” said Darien, pulling off the old hat and shaking the rain out of her curls. Men's fingers always itched to touch her curls, and she would need all the help she could get with this big imperturbable man, looking as though he owned the world.

“You never did,” he said. This Darien so full of sur- page 298 prises, pink and fragrant as a rose in her wet shabby garments. “So you imagine that I can be useful, I suppose, since you've done me the honour?”

“You've always taught me to bring you my troubles,” said Darien, launching frankly into her story, while he leaned back with folded arms, watching her. At last he said:

“What do you want out of it? Don't pretend you care about your niece.”

Darien explained about the Lincoln sheep. “I've wanted them so long,” she said.

“I used to think I understood women,” said Flower, knitting his heavy fair brows. “Now … You had all Auckland at your feet until you put on those boots,” he added, looking at them in disgust.

“I'll have them there again when I want them. I'm tired of men now. I'm liking sheep better.”

“May I flatter myself that you consider me a sheep?”

“You never gave me the chance to be tired of you,” said Darien simply.

He made a quick movement, then sat back, thinking. Darien watched him with a hopefulness which would not have persisted had she known his thoughts.

“Why should I help you?” he asked presently.

“I don't know,” said Darien. “I've only got twenty pounds.”

“For you,” she thought. Calthorpe's old skinflint mother had sent a bare two hundred through a solicitor, and she must have those Lincolns. He laughed.

“Put everything into pounds, shillings, and pence, don't you? Well … I could do it. I'm buying horses in the midlands in places the Government can't reach, but I won't be in the Waikato for a couple of months. I could take you both down. You'd have to wear male dress … and I hope it will become you better than those things.”

“We'll look vastly charming, I assure you. What about a parson?”

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“I expect I can find one if you can bring the parties together. Make your arrangements and I can take you down in September—if you still want to go.”

“Of course we will,” cried Darien, jumping up. This was adventure. This was making things happen that wouldn't. And perhaps she could get Flower to buy her the Lincolns. I haven't lost my seduction, she thought, tramping gleefully away.

From the window Flower watched her walking like an indifferent queen among the men. Indifferent she always was to all but her own ends, the shameless delightful pirate. Lord, what a wife she'd make! He sighed, then laughed and sat a few minutes thinking before he went back to his office. So much … so very much power in his hands now.

In Auckland harbour the ships were loading and unloading all night long, and in the early mornings women heard the tramp of little companies marching away to war, and ran out like faint coloured flower-bells in their crinolines to wave kerchiefs from garden gates, to stand clustered at street corners.

Roddy went with the Volunteers one evening, smiling at mamma and Tiffy as he marched by.

Tramp-tramp, and the flickering lantern-light on the strong young faces, the blur of uniforms. Young Darcie's mother was sobbing, clutching at Tiffany's hand. But Tiffany, who had not watched Dick go, felt him going now with Roddy. All that she most dearly loved marching off into the dark with the clank of swords, the tuck of a single drum, leaving Tiffany only a shivering shell behind.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs Darcie (so the shivering shell must have been doing something). “You are very kind. But a mother's heart … you young girls cannot understand.”

Sally walked home in silence beside Mr Lovel. Roddy was gone. Brian had long been gone. Tiffany's heart was page 300 gone (one knew that, though not knowing who had taken it). Jermyn was gone….

“Pray keep step, my dear,” said Mr Lovel crossly. None but Sally was ever able to keep any kind of steps with Mr Lovel and it appeared that she didn't do it very well.

Later, Peregrine walked down with Corny into Commercial Bay. The Choosers of the Slain were taking all his sons, all the sons of other men, leaving only middle-age to guard the town. Pigs, poultry, and goats ran between his disconsolate legs in a gloom that seemed the greater for the few flaring lights outside butchers' shops and taverns.

“Dunedin has gas now and we are still in the dark ages. Damn these brutes,” said Corny, falling over a goat and hailing a passing Maori policeman. “Why the devil don't you pound these animals, Wiri?”

“Be Kapitanis,” exclaimed Wiri, going on with a grin.

“By heaven,” burst out Corny, “that's always the tale. Everything belongs to the military, who can do what they damn well choose. The town belongs to them. We—”

“It will probably belong to the Maoris presently,” said Peregrine. If every bereft father felt as he felt to-night they wouldn't put up much of a fight. Such splendid sons, Fate would not spare them, thought Peregrine, who had once considered himself in a position to patronize Fate. A cruel terrible gamble, this war, with the Maoris so near and England so far away. With one Maori in the bush equal to ten Regulars, said officers, still adhering to high chokers and close formation, still unable to defy tradition.

Loyal Tamihana was keeping the Waikato quiet with difficulty; but old King Potatau was dead, and his son useless, and Rewi, most truculent of Waikato fighting chiefs, had taken his shouting warriors to fight in Taranaki. So Lovels were doomed, and Jerry would be the page 301 next to go, thought Peregrine, brought back to the present by tripping over a pig.