Chapter XIII Feeding the Hungry
As Edwin crossed the desolated bush, the morning sun lit up the marvellous cloud-banks with a flush of pink and gold that held him spell-bound with the strangeness of the sight, until the dust-drift before him began to tremble visibly with an earthquake shock. He was not wrong in his estimate of Beauty’s intelligence, but the weary horse poked his head forward and walked languidly. Edwin avoided the hill where he had found the kaka. He shrank from the gruesome spot even by daylight.
He was trying to find a safe pathway to the lake, when he saw Ottley walking rapidly towards him. He waved his arm to the boy to stop. As they drew near to each other, Edwin almost shuddered, expecting to hear nothing but ill news. He was bitterly reproaching himself for not having asked the captain if he had heard anything of his father.
But Ottley shouted out “Well met” in a cheery tone, adding dryly, “I hope you got some breakfast at the camp, for on this side of the bush it is very hard to find. We have been at it all night. Nga-Hepé has not yet come round; but Marileha is saved, and her white-haired father too. We have done what we could, with nothing to help us but the keen frosty air and muddy water. Now we must have food, for most of the villagers from the Rota Pah had taken refuge with them. The mud slipped off the sloping roof of Nga-Hepé’s whare when half the huts in the pah lay crushed beneath its weight. I am going to the ford to see if Hirpington has come back to his place. He kept a full store-room at all times.”
“O Mr. Ottley,” exclaimed Edwin, “let me go too, for father may be with him.”
“No, he is not, my boy,” returned Ottley, compassionately. “He was the first in the field, and did wonders. He has been hurt by a falling tree, but an old fellow they call Hal is taking care of him in one of the tents. I’ll show you where.”
“Show me at once,” entreated Edwin. “I must go to father first, wherever he is. I have been such a very long while trying to find him. Is it very far from here?”
“No,” answered Ottley; “but you must wait until I can take you there. You had better come with me now, and get some food for your father whilst I can give it to you. If Hirpington has not come back, we must dig into the house and help ourselves, and reckon the pay when we meet.”
“Please, Mr. Ottley,” burst in Edwin, “tell me all about father. Is he much hurt?”
“My boy,” exclaimed Ottley, “I know no more than you do; but if he is roughing it, as our fellows do up there alone, better wait and see what I can find.”
Edwin felt the force of this reasoning, and said no more. Ottley laid his hand on Beauty’s rein, and walked beside him.
Suddenly Edwin looked up, exclaiming, “This is Sunday morning!”
“And a strange Sunday it is,” answered Ottley, somewhat dreamily, as his thoughts went back to Sundays long ago, bringing with them an echo of the church-going bells, to which his ear had so long been a stranger. “Sunday up country in New Zealand,” he went on, “is little beside a name, except to those who can hear the sermon of the stones and read the books—”
“In the running brooks,” added Edwin; “and good in everything. But is it so?”
“Nature’s voices have been speaking in tones to which all must listen,” continued Ottley. “Yet the Lord was not in the earthquake and the storm, but in the still small voice.”
His words were slow and grave, so unlike his usual tones Edwin listened in silence, and in silence they approached the ford. Even Beauty’s footsteps were inaudible, for the mud by the river had not dried as fast as elsewhere.
The boy’s heart was heavy with apprehension as he looked up, expecting to see the familiar gate; but not one trace of post or gate remained. The acacia tree in which the lamp used to hang was riven asunder. The grassy mound and the gorse hedge were gone. The road had been raised by the mud and dust to the level of the farm-yard wall. Almost without knowing they did so, they went straight over it, and found themselves even with the window of the hay-loft. The roof of the house was crushed in, and its doors and windows banked up with mud. As they looked round at it, Edwin pointed to the hole his father must have made when he extricated his friend’s family. A man was getting out of it at the moment. They stood quite still and watched him draw up a full sack after him.
“There is some one before us on the same errand,” said Edwin; but Ottley hushed him without replying.
The man looked round as Edwin’s voice broke the profound stillness. Ottley shouted to him, “Wait where you are, mate, and I will come to your help.”
The coachman knew if the man were on honest work intent he would gladly accept his offer, for the sack was so full he could hardly move it. But he thought, if the fellow is a thief, he will try to get rid of me. Ottley turned to Edwin, saying carelessly, with the air of one at home in the place, “You will find some hay for your horse inside that window. Give him a good feed, whilst I look round and see if all is safe.”
He was speaking loud enough for the man to hear him. He was trying to make the fellow understand that he was there to protect Mr. Hirpington’s property. He left Edwin to feed his horse, and walked quickly across the heaps of mud Mr. Lee had shovelled away from the window nearest to the water.
The man had let the sack drop, and now stood idly on the main beam, which had not been displaced, as if he too were surveying the extent of the mischief. Ottley leaped across and stood beside him, observing, “The colonists are everywhere returning to their homes. The general opinion seems to be that the danger is over. Hirpington may be expected any minute. I came over to help him.”
The men stood looking at each other, and Edwin recognized the fellow on the roof. It was the rabbiter who had spoken to him in the dark when he thought no one could hear him but his father.
“O Mr. Ottley,” he called out, “it is one of the rabbiters who came to our help.”
“And are you the farmer’s son?” asked the man, descending from the roof to speak to him.
Edwin was feeling very grateful to the rabbiters. Hal was nursing his father, and he looked on them as friends. So when the man approached and asked him what he had come to the ford for he answered him freely, explaining all that had happened since they parted. Edwin ended his account with the dismaying intelligence, “Mr. Ottley says there is no food to be had—nothing to give the poor Maoris to eat—so we have come to look if we can find any food among these ruins.”
“No harm in that,” returned the man quickly. “We are all on the same errand.”
These were Edwin’s own words, and he smiled, not knowing anything of Ottley’s suspicion that the man was bent on plunder. The rabbiter walked off, and they saw no more of him.
Ottley continued his examination of the premises. The house to the river-side was not greatly damaged. If the roof were repaired, Mr. Hirpington could inhabit it again, and clear away the mud from the garden side at his leisure. But Ottley had no idea where his friend had taken refuge. He could send him no warning to return and see after his property. The window of the store-room looked to the river. As he went round to examine it, he found the old ford-horse wading about in the water, cropping at the weeds which grew on its margin. When Dunter let him loose—for no power on earth could make him travel on land—he swam down stream, and returned to his beloved ford, which he had crossed and recrossed several times, for his own gratification. Ottley called him out of the water, and led him round to share the hay with Beauty. He was anxious about his own coach-horses, for whose benefit the store of hay had been provided. They were gone. Probably Mr. Hirpington had opened the stable-doors at the first shock of earthquake. The hay was his own, and he told Edwin to tie up a bundle and take it away with him for Beauty. He was glad to see the man had gone off quietly, and said no more about him. He saw no occasion to put Edwin on his guard, as he was going to take him back to his father directly. He had not much faith in any boy’s discretion, and he thought he might talk about the man to Hal.
Ottley knew well, when there were so many abandoned homes and so many homeless wanderers, what was sure to follow. “But,” he said to himself, “this state of things will not last many days; yet a lot of mischief may be done, and how is the property to be protected? Life must stand first. A good dog would guard the ruins, but Hirpington’s must all have followed their master.”
He crawled into the hay-loft and pulled out a tarpaulin, which, with Edwin’s assistance, he spread over the broken roof, and fastened as securely as he could, to keep out the weather and other depredators. Then he cut away the lattice of the store-room window with his pocket-knife, until he had cleared a space big enough for Edwin to slip through.
“This feels like house-breaking,” said the boy with a laugh, as his feet found a resting-place on Mrs. Hirpington’s chopping-block, and he drew in his head and stood upright.
“Ah! but it is not,” returned Ottley gravely. “All this is accommodation provided for my ‘coach,’ and paid for. It will be all right between me and Hirpington. If anybody talks of following in our steps, tell them what I say. Now hand me up that cheese, and the ham on the opposite shelf, and look if there is a round of beef in salt. There should be bovril and tea and sugar somewhere. We may want those for your father. Now for the flour!”
Edwin undid the window from the inside, but he could not lift a sack of flour. He handed up a biscuit-tin, and pound after pound of coffee, until Ottley began to think they had as much as they could carry away. Like a careful housekeeper, Mrs. Hirpington kept the door of her store-room locked, so they could not get through to the kitchen to find the bacon. Where Mrs. Hirpington kept her bread was a puzzle. Then Ottley remembered there was another pantry; but they could not get at it. He discovered two great baskets in the loft, used in the fruit-gathering. He slung them over Beauty’s back, and filled them full. Edwin got out of the window again, and shut it after him. Mrs. Hirpington’s pastry-board was converted into a temporary shutter. But as all Ottley’s fastenings had to be done on the outside, they could also be undone if any one were so minded. Yet this consideration could not weigh against the starving people by the lake. Ottley pulled the hay still in the loft close up to the window, which they left open, so that the old forder could help himself. Then they attempted once again to cross the bush. Poor Beauty was terribly annoyed by his panniers. He conceived the wild idea of rolling over on the ground, to get rid of them. But Ottley promptly circumvented all such attempts. As for the load of hay on his back, Beauty was decidedly of opinion the best way to free himself from that was to eat it up. Edwin contented him with an occasional handful, and much patting and coaxing to soothe his ruffled temper.
It was the middle of the day before they reached Nga-Hepé’s whare, which the kindly band of excavators had so expeditiously unroofed. When their work was over in that direction, they had dug into the mud heaps which marked the site of the Rota Pah, and many a poor Maori had been lifted into light and air.
Some of the inhabitants of the village had rushed out at the first alarm, and had escaped in their canoes; others had taken refuge in Nga-Hepé’s strongly-built whare; but many had perished beneath their falling roofs.
The captain and his mates had bent all their energies to the task. They had shovelled away the mud from the council-hall, which was also, according to Maori custom, the sleeping-room of the tribe. Here they found men, women, and children huddled together, for the stronger beam of its roof had not yet given way under the weight of the mud. They had carried the survivors to the fire on the bank of the lake, and left them in Whero’s care, to await Ottley’s return with the food. There was nothing more that the captain and his companions could do here. But other lives might yet be saved elsewhere; and they hurried back to the help of the comrades they had abandoned when Ottley’s message reached them.
The natives, swathed in their mats and blankets, were lying in groups on the frozen mud, still gasping and groaning, suffering as much from terror as from physical exhaustion. But the rich men of the tribe, who may always be known by some additional bit of European clothing, were not among them.
The aged patriarch Kakiki, who had been among the first to rally, had raised himself on his elbow, and was asking eager questions about them.
“Where is Pepepe? Hopo-Hopo where? Are there none to answer?” he demanded, gazing at the dazed faces around him. “Then will I tell you. They are struck by the gods in their anger. Who are the gods we worship? who but the mighty ones of the tribe—men whose anger made the brave tremble even here on earth. Who then can hope to stand against their anger in the dwelling of the gods? Is not Hepé the terrible one foremost among them? Did ye at all appease him when ye sent the tana to a son of his race? See his vengeance on Pepepe! He lies dead in the pah, he who proposed it. Who shall carry up his bones to the sacred mountain, that he may sleep with his fathers? The gods will have none of him, for has he not eaten up their child? Ye who brought hunger to this whare, in this place has hunger found you. Ye left Nga-Hepé naught but a roof to shelter him; he has naught but that shelter to give you now. As the lightning shrivels up the fern, so shame shall shrivel up the tongue which asks of him the food of which ye have robbed him.”
He ceased speaking as Ottley came in sight. Whero was hidden among the reeds, filling a pail he had exhumed with the muddy water from the lake. Four or five of the other Maoris staggered to their feet and intercepted the horse, clamouring and snatching at the food in its panniers. They had eaten nothing since the night of the eruption. The supply Ottley had brought looked meagre and poor amongst so many, and whilst he promised every man a share, he steadily resisted all their attempts to help themselves until he came up with the little cluster of women and children cowering between the heaps of thatch, when a dozen hands were quickly tearing out the contents of the baskets.
Old Konga seized a stick and tried to beat them off, while Marileha stood behind her imploring her old friends to remember her famishing babes.
Edwin was pushed down, but he scrambled up and ran to meet Whero, as Kakiki Mahane rose slowly from the ground and laid a detaining hand upon the horse’s mane. “Who fights with starving men?” he exclaimed, and the stick fell from Ronga’s hand in mute obedience.
“What is the matter?” asked Whero, as the boys stood face to face. “There is trouble in your eyes, my brother—a trouble I do not share.”
“Ottley has promised to take me on to father; the time is flying, and he cannot get away,” said Edwin.
Whero’s cheek was rubbed softly against his, a word was whispered between them, and Whero went round to where his own father lay groaning on the ground, leaving his pail behind him. “Father, father, rouse yourself,” he entreated, “or the men of the pah will tear the kind coachman to pieces!”
Edwin caught up the pail and threw away the muddy water which Whero had taken such pains to reach, but no vexation at the sight brought the slightest cloud to his dusky face.
“Throw me that tin of coffee,” shouted Edwin to the resolute Ottley, who was dividing the food so that every one should have a share, according to his promise.
The desired tin came flying through the air. Edwin emptied its contents into his pail. “Whoever wants coffee,” he cried, “must fill this at the geyser.”
Nga-Hepé lifted his head from the ground where he had been lying, apparently taking no notice, and said something to his wife. She moved slowly amidst the group until she reached her old friend the coachman. “Go,” she whispered. “The boiling spring is choked by the mud. The men are scattering to find another. Go before they return. In their hearts they love you not as we do. Go!”
He put the remainder of his stores into her hands, sprang upon Beauty, and caught up Edwin behind him. They looked back to the old man and the children, and waved their hands in farewell, taking nothing away with them but the bovril and the tea in Edwin’s pocket.
They rode on in silence until they felt themselves beyond the reach of the excited crowd. Both were looking very grave when at last they reached the tent where Mr. Lee was lying. The lowering skies betokened a change of weather.
“Rain,” said Ottley, looking upwards; “but rain may free us from this plague of dust.”
Hal, who had heard their steps approaching, came out to meet them. Whilst he was speaking to Ottley, Edwin slipped off the horse and ran into the tent. He found his father lying on the ground, apparently asleep. He knelt down beside him and listened to his heavy breathing. The dreamy eyes soon opened and fastened on his face.
“Don’t you know me, father?” asked Edwin, taking the hand which hung down nervelessly in both of his.
“Where are the little ones?” asked Mr. Lee.
“Safe by this time with Mr. Bowen’s grandson, father,” answered Edwin. But the reply was hardly spoken when the dreamy eyelids closed, and Mr. Lee was fast asleep again.
Edwin looked out of the door of the tent, where the men were still talking.
“If it had not been for those surveying fellows,” Hal was saying, “who hurried up from the south with their camp, what should I have done? They lent me this tent and gave me some bread.”
“Where are they?” asked Edwin, glancing round. “I want to thank them all.”
“Why, lad,” exclaimed Hal, “they are miles away from here now. They say the mud has fallen from Taheka to Wairoa. Not your little bit of a place, but a big village. We’ve lots of Wairoas; it is a regular Maori name.”
“Yes,” added Ottley, “they have gone on; for the mud has fallen heavy for ten miles round the mountain—some declare it is a hundred feet deep at Te Ariki—and there may be other lives to save even now.”
“Ah, but you have done a bad day’s work, I fear,” persisted the old rabbiter. “You have brought back to life a dangerous neighbour; which may make it hardly safe for us to stay where we are. His people will follow the horse’s tracks, and come and eat up all my little hoard; and how can an old man like me defend himself? They would soon knock me over, and what would become of poor Lee? He will sleep himself right if we can let him lie still where he is; but if these Maoris come clamouring round us, it will be all over with him.”
Edwin grew so white as he overheard this, Ottley urged him to go back to his father and rest whilst they lit a fire and prepared the tea.
He gave Beauty his feed of hay, and gathering up the remainder he took it in with him, to try to make his father a better bed than the old rug on which he was lying.
It would be a bad day’s work indeed if it were to end as Hal predicted. He trembled as he slipped the hay beneath his father’s head, wondering to find him sleeping undisturbed in the midst of such calamities as these. “If he could only speak to me!” he groaned.
He had found at last one quiet Sunday hour, but how could he have knelt down to pray that night if he had refused to help Whero? His fears were for his father, but he laid them down. Had he to live this day over again to-morrow he would do the same. His heart was at rest once more, and he fell asleep.
He was wakened by Hal and Ottley coming inside the tent. It was raining steadily. There was no such thing as keeping a fire alight in the open. The tea had been hastily brewed. It was none the better for that; but such as it was, they were thankful for it. They roused up Edwin to have his share. It was so dark now he could scarcely see the hand which held the cup. Hal spread the one or two remaining wraps he had, and prepared for the night. They all lay down for a few hours’ sleep. Edwin was the nearest to his father.
The two men were soon snoring, but Edwin was broad awake. Mr. Lee moved uneasily, and threw aside the blanket which covered him. Edwin bent over him in a moment.
“Is there anything I can do for you, father?” he said.
Mr. Lee was feeling about in the blanket. “Where is my belt?” he asked.
Edwin did not say a word to rouse the other sleepers; but although it was perfectly dark, he soon satisfied himself the belt was gone.
It was a wash-leather belt, in which Mr. Lee had quilted his money for safety. Edwin knew it well. He realized in a moment what a loss it would be to his father if this were missing. Hal had set Mr. Lee’s leg with splints of bark; whilst he was doing this he might have taken off the belt. Perhaps it would be found in a corner of the tent when it was light. Edwin felt he must mind what he said about it to Hal, who was taking such care of his father. He saw that more clearly than anything else.
No; he would only tell Ottley, and with this decision he too fell asleep.
He was so tired out, so worn, so weary, that he slept long and heavily. When he roused it was broad daylight, and Ottley, whose time was up, had departed. Hal had made a fire, and was preparing a breakfast of tea. He agreed to save the bovril Edwin had brought for his father alone.
They made a hole in the floor of the tent, not deep enough to break the crust of the mud, and lined it with bark. Here they kept the little jar, for fear any of the Maoris should see it, if they came across to beg for food.
Whilst the two were drinking their tea and watching the lowering clouds, which betokened more rain, the other rabbiter whom Ottley had surprised in the ford-house strolled out from among the leafless trees and invited himself to a share. Edwin and Hal, who knew he needed it as much as they did, felt it would indeed be selfish to refuse him a breakfast.
As they sat round the fire Hal took counsel with his mate, and talked over the difficulties of their position.
Ottley had promised to try to send them help to remove Mr. Lee to a safer place. But Hal, who was expecting one of those torrents of rain which mark a New Zealand winter, feared they might be washed away before that help arrived.
Lawford—as he called his mate—was of the same opinion, and offered, if Edwin would accompany him, to go across to the ford-house and see if the Hirpingtons had returned.
This seemed the most hopeful thought of all, and Edwin brightened as he ran off to catch Beauty.
He had left his father comfortably pillowed in the hay, which he had made to serve a double purpose, but he was now obliged to pull a bit away for the horse’s breakfast.
As he started with Lawford, Hal called after them to be sure to wrench off a shutter or a loose bit of board. They must bring back something on which poor Mr. Lee could be laid, to move him.
Beauty trotted off briskly. After a while Lawford looked over his shoulder at Edwin, who was riding behind him, and said shortly, “Now we are safe, I have something to tell you.”