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Promenade

IV

IV

To Caroline, who was constantly telling John what he had let her in for and who always came off best, since a lady can say what she likes while a gentleman mustn't, this whole New Zealand business was a rapidly accumulating outrage. Like other ladies of her period, Caroline had dabbled but lightly in history, geography, and such vulgarities, and she had blithely embarked for New Zealand under the natural impression that it was in Holland and also (with the strange adaptability of foreign page 30 countries) in Australia, which was down on the maps as New Holland. When she had found it to be much further, with cockroaches in all the cabins as well as in the tea, she had quite forgotten about being voluptuous and made the welkin ring.

For poor John it had been ringing ever since; but on the morning of the sixth she tied scared little Belinda into a white satin pelisse and tippet and arranged a blue fringed shawl over her own big shoulders, saying merely: “As you insist on us all being massacred over at the Residency, I hope I know how to die like a lady.”

Caroline couldn't do anything like a lady and never would. So John said, “Yes, my dear,” and took her down and put her into a boat with other Lovels, rowing out uneasily into the maelstrom with Jermyn. Even his big fists wouldn't help if the Maoris turned nasty; and Hobson had forbidden the assembling of the Lynch Law League—which kept such law as there was, tarring and feathering those who didn't agree with it, and had done quite a deal since Peregrine became captain. Hobson said it would be provocative, while being monstrous provocative himself, what with salvos thundering from the Herald, flags flying, and boats full of sailors and marines rushing about until the harbour seemed all Hobsons.

Peregrine was not there. Nothing could have detached him to-day from that miraculous scrap of himself that bawled so lustily until comforted by Sally's breast. Secretly he grudged Sally that power, since the woman's share in production is purely an animal process whilst it is the man, by his vastly superior qualities, who bestows on his children (both before and afterwards) all that can bring their lives to conquest. Peregrine, having no doubt of this, felt that his son should be already learning it, and looked sternly down the hill on blue water being torn into white lace by the passing multitude.

Swarms of Maori canoes wherein laughing wahines paddled with their long hair flying. Boats crowded with page 31 white-hatted traders and their gaily-clad Maori wives and children. Boats filled with top-hats and chokers, bright shawls and bonnets, fringed parasols. Naval boats arrogant with brass buttons, uniforms, cocked hats. Boats with bands trumpeting England's power….

“Hrumph,” said Peregrine, greatly pleased. Then the war-canoes scuttled him. Ten war-canoes, glittering with paua-shell and carving—ten, each rowed by sixty tattooed warriors, each bearing at its prow a stately chief in flax or feather-mats soft as silk and glowing with colour, standing upright like the god he was and so sacred with tapu that the rowers dared not look at him. From each high carved stern streamed long wreaths of the blue convolvulus, the yellow scented clematis. Each rower had a bunch of scarlet pohutukawa flower in his hair, but the chiefs had tall white heron plumes, like helmeted knights.

“Te-na-pu-u,” sang the warriors like a great organ chord. “Rule Britannia,” rattled the bands, sounding impotent and tinny under this vast sky. Peregrine turned in panic and dashed into the house. Chiefs, backed up by so much magnificent masculinity, would never be stampeded by Hobson and his handful of marines. Even a large military force couldn't do it, thought Peregrine, tumbling muskets and cutlasses out of a cupboard as though he were the force in question and feeling edges with an anxious thumb. Presently there would be the devil to pay over at the Residency … and then along the Beach….

With a dazed idea of saving his boy anyway, he went into the lean-to, frowning to see the child by Sally's side. “Roderick would be better in his cot, my dear,” he said, keeping agitation out of his voice with an effort. “Yes, Mr Lovel,” faltered Sally, doubting it, but knowing that gentlemen (being so vastly superior in every way) must be always right. She had, indeed, once ventured a protest about the name Roderick, hoping for Charles or Arthur. page 32 But the eldest male Lovel was always Roderick, said Mr Lovel, explaining that the Roderick of his family had been killed out hunting when only sixteen. “A gentleman's death,” said Mr Lovel. “I trust that all my sons will die like gentlemen.”

“All?” Sally had shut her eyes at that. How many sons would Mr Lovel require to make “all”? How often must she endure these terrible months again while she went on baking, washing, mending, scrubbing sugar-mats for the floors, pasting newspapers (which cracked again with every wind) on the walls, trying to make meals from eternal maize-flour and goat-flesh? Once she had put caraway-seeds in the goat-flesh to make it tasty, and it had been so tasty that Mr Lovel hadn't spoken to her for three days. And then Darien had filled his boots with caraways….

How wonderful to fear life so little as Darien, going off proudly to the Residency in that dreadful green bonnet with the magenta feather. Quite evidently designed for Maoris, said Mr Lovel, outraged. But Darien loved it, though she had bitten Nick Flower when he had wanted a kiss for it.

Now she was gloriously adding her mite to the rage of colour about her in the harbour. Gay scarves and shawls floating, gold lace of officers, top-hats gleaming, flax and feather mats like rainbows tied with vermilion woollen tassels, beautiful bronze legs and arms, dyed dog-hair fringes round the carved ceremonial taiahas held by the chiefs. Here came Corny Fleete God-blessing the Queen out of the rum-bottle until his brown half-caste children expected to see her descend from heaven any minute. And his proud Maori wife had the huia feathers of a chieftainess in her hair.

“Hooray!” shouted Darien, leaning over to wave, and becoming quite intoxicated at sight of the big red and white marquee shining like a bubble on Mr Busby's lawn. “Hooray for everything!”

page 33

“Kindly keep your mouth shut, Darien,” said Jermyn presently, pushing her down on a trestle-seat inside the marquee. “Remember that one laugh from you may kill us all.”