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III

Peregrine, beginning to feel better, realized that it was an omen from the gods which had brought a male Lovel into the world, his foot upon his native heath, to defy England in her very moment of theft. He must trim his sails to the new wind, swallow distasteful pills; but that wouldn't stop him now, he thought, going down to the Beach which was effervescing in the most unsavoury manner. It was red with driftwood fires, orange with the glow of lanterns outside the trading-stores, lit with gleams of teeth, of eyes, of brass rings in the ears of sailors, sham jewellery on the Maori girls. Everywhere sounded a great chorus of damns for Hobson and England, loud alarums about the Maori chiefs (who would possibly fight Hobson), traders being almost hysterical over this horrible talk of customs duties….

Jermyn was very happy, seeing life as a young man may. Yet he had had his private troubles with chiefs, since Hone Heke, holding chiefly rights over the Maori girls, had refused him Patea (who was nearly pretty) unless he paid through the nose for her and stuck to her, too.

“Damn it, sir. I'm marrying no Maori,” said Jermyn, very red.

“You can't get a nice wahine any other way,” said Heke. “And Patea's tribe will bring your shipyard much trade.”

Jermyn had no mind to immolate himself for Peregrine's shipyard, so he thumbed his nose at Maori morals and went foraging with Major Henry among those whom proud Heke did not recognize. But to-night there was better afoot than complacent wahines, with the whole Beach roaring against England and Jermyn beating out “Rule Britannia” on a Maori drum. Doosed amusing, thought Jermyn, to observe how the English welcome their flag overseas.

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Then unexpectedly he was on Corny Fleete's counter, having discovered that the Lord intended him to explain everything, and if only the counter didn't heave so much he could do it. England (he told that red ring of wavering faces) had come too soon. In another twenty years the Maoris would have killed themselves out with the guns so kindly supplied by traders.

“John! What are you about to allow such an exhibition?” demanded Peregrine, thrusting through the sweating crowd to discover John, glum on a rum cask.

“Stop him yourself,” said John sulkily. “But you'll need a gun.”

It seemed likely. Jermyn, weaving circles of light with a bright pannikin that slopped rum, was far too drunk to stand interference. So was the crowd. Best let the young cock crow himself dumb. But what a good-looking young cock, egad. His progeny should be worth watching, thought Peregrine, obsessed by notions of fatherhood to-night. A pretty fellow, with his big brown eyes and loose waves of fair hair and his manner of wearing the rough Beach dress as though it were regalia. It might be wise to make an ally of Jermyn, with his damnably clever caricatures, his reckless tongue.

Would gentlemen, cried Jermyn, full of oratory and his message from the Lord, remember that it was the Maoris who had first sent for the missionaries…. And if this bloody table would stop pitching like a catboat he could prove it. After some years of traders and whalers, haughty Maori warriors had apparently felt for the first time in centuries the need for moral support. So they had sent for the Reverend Samuel Marsden, who came to preach New Zealand's first sermon in this very spot … or near enough … p-pitchin' like catboat … in (wait now—he had it) on Christmas Day, 1814. “Hooray! Let's drink to good old Marsden….”

Laughter came easy to such as were still on their feet, and John got off the rum-cask to let Corny broach it. He page 28 wanted to go, but his broad shoulders and fists like hams would be useful if Jermyn provoked a row presently. John (who hated rows) found that Jermyn and the Major dragged him into so many … but a fellow must stand by his own blood.

Jermyn, still intent on his message, was explaining earnestly that England had probably her tongue in her cheek when she sent out James Busby as British Resident to the Bay of Islands in 'thirty-five in answer to missionary clamour concerning Australian and American land-sharks who were buying up thousands of good acres for a handful of nails or a gun. “‘Busby,’ said Prime Min'ster, ‘go'n stop all that nonsense, but don't come whining to us 'bout it. I fancy Cook left a Union Jack there some time in lasht century but we ain't inquired into that. B-bloody place has too many cannibals to int'rest us.’ Fact is, gent'men,” declared Jermyn, clutching at the head nearest to hold him upright, “England thought Capt'n Cook rather too free with his Union Jacks. So he was. And there's poor devil Busby sittin' in Res'dency over at Paihia with gunsh shpiked.

“… Long'n short o't is,” concluded Jermyn, recovering his balance with the solemnity of the idea, “England's 'nexed us to New S'th Wales so we sh'll begin prop'ly with p-penal law … shoals o'convicts 'riving t'morrow … and may the Lord have mercy….”

Through the infuriated hubbub raised by this, John plunged with determination; bearing Jermyn out among the hurrying zigzag of half-seen humanity, which didn't know where it was going and perspired tremendously in doing it; bearing him down the Beach where the air blew sweet and fresh from the bush about the little hut shared by Jermyn and Major Henry behind Bishop Pompalier's big cobble-stone house built for a Brotherhood which had never arrived.

Returning rather unsteadily along the Beach, John noticed a streak of yellow light lying across the water page 29 from the Herald, where Hobson would be closeted with Busby and Archdeacon Williams, trying to discover from them how to handle the chiefs. At how many thousand do you estimate the Maoris? he would be asking. But who could tell him? Who knew how deep they bred back in those great jagged ranges, those impregnable forests where no white foot had trod? Dang it all, who knew that every white on the Beach wouldn't be dead by the week-end? Even loyal John wondered if England was going the right way to work here. A danged haughty lot, the chiefs, and jealous of their privileges.

A huge shadow loomed up with a chieftain's mat over the shirt and trousers. Waka Nene … and he's a good Christian, thought John, blurting out: “Will the Maoris accept England, Nene?”

“Who can tell?” said courteous Nene, looking (for all his tattoo) more of an aristocrat than even Peregrine.

“Well, Hobson is askin' all the chiefs to meet him at the Residency on the sixth. Will they go?”

“Who can tell? My brother and I will be there to accept England. But there are many chiefs. I cannot say….”

No … nor God nor the devil could say, it seemed likely. Oh, my England, what have you let us in for, wondered John, trudging up the slippery tussock hill to his Caroline.