War to the Knife 58

War to the Knife 58

Massinger at first resented the proffered aid. "Why trouble me?" he

said resentfully. "She has given her life to save mine; it were base of

me to survive her at such a cost. Let us die together. My life belongs

to her, who has now saved it for the third time."

 

"Then it is mine to dispose of," came the answer, in her low rich

tones. "I die happy, since you are saved. If the bullet of Ngarara had

found your breast instead of mine, I would have followed you to the

spirit-land. You do not doubt that--oh, my darling--my own beloved! The

sun would not have gone down before I should have commenced my journey

to the reinga."

 

"Erena," said Massinger, "have I ever doubted your love, true alike in

life and the dark realm, to which we are hastening?"

 

"Raise me," she said, "that I may see his face once more. My eyes are

darkening. Oh, my beloved!"--and her soft voice faltered, and became

hollow and inexpressibly mournful--"I have loved you with every fibre

of my being, with every motion of my heart! The pakeha girl loves you

also, though she cared not to own it, in her own land. She will live

for you in the days that are to come--days of peace and happiness,

now that the war is over. Would she die for you as I have done? Yes;

for she is noble, she is true. She would have scorned to take your

love from poor Erena, even had you offered it. Her soul lay open to

me--and yours. You were true to your word. She was too proud to steal

your heart from the poor Maori girl. And now, farewell--farewell

for ever--oh, my loved one! I die happy. I have given my life for

yours--what does a daughter of the Ngapuhi wish more?"

 

She leaned forward and hid her head on the breast of her lover, while

her long black tresses flowed over his pillow, as her arms strained him

to that faithful bosom, still warm with the heart's purest feelings.

Reverently the little group of spectators gazed on the dying girl.

Sobs and lamentations came from the women of her own race, while tears

flowed fast from the eyes of Mary Summers and Hypatia.

 

Raising herself for a moment, she motioned to Hypatia to come nearer.

Her dark eyes glowed with transient light as she kissed her hand; then

laying it in that of Massinger, she whispered--

 

"He is yours now. May all happiness befall you! Yet forget not--oh!

forget not--poor Erena."

 

A deep sigh followed the last words. Her head fell back; the hand which

Massinger and Hypatia held was pulseless. The faithful spirit of the

nymph of the wood and stream, the fabled Oread of the old-world poets,

had passed away.

 

* * * * *

 

The tragedy at Oropi, so nearly completed, might have been averted,

but for an unlucky accidental circumstance, the occurrence of which

embittered the remainder of Allister Mannering's life. And yet he could

not wholly abandon himself to self-accusation and ceaseless regrets,

inasmuch as he had quitted the trail on which, as the avenger of

blood, he was pursuing the Hau-Hau band, in order to save the lives of

innocent and helpless people.

 

He, indeed, with his contingent, would have arrived at Oropi on the

same day as Ropata, or, perhaps, earlier. He would then have been able

to prevent the preliminary sufferings of the missionary household, and

could have ensured the safety of his beloved daughter and only child.

The cause of his leaving the direct track to the mission station of

Cyril Summers was sufficiently imperative--such as, indeed, no man of

ordinary humanity could disregard.

 

A panting messenger, speeding along the track from Whakatane, arrived

with the news that another band of Hau-Haus had killed the crew of the

_Jane_ schooner at Opotiki, had murdered Mr. Fulloon, and captured

the Reverend Mr. Grace, whom there was every reason to believe they

intended to murder.

 

It was not known to Mannering at this time that there was any

likelihood of Kereopa's band being in near proximity to Erena and

her wounded charge. By ordinary computation she should have reached

Tauranga several days before that bloodthirsty fanatic could have

overtaken her party. Cyril Summers and his household, having been

warned by the bishop, would probably have moved into one of the coast

settlements.

 

Thus one danger was contingent, the other was a pressing and instant

summons. Life and death were in the decision. Murder and outrage,

perhaps, even now, had taken place. The full complement of horrors

could only be averted by a forced march and the sudden appearance of

his _hapu_ upon the scene. "Angel of God was there none" to whisper

that loved daughter's name, darling of his heart, apple of his eye,

that she was? Was there no mysterious spirit-warning such as, if tales

be true, has often, through invisible sympathetic chords, eliminated

time and space? Did not the traditional second sight, inherited from

Highland ancestors, and of which he and Erena claimed their portion,

prove faithful in that dread hour? Long afterwards--in years when he

could talk calmly of his loss, dwell upon her courage, her beauty, and

extol her intellectual range--he confessed to his closest friend and

comrade that he had felt, from the time he turned aside to Opotiki, an

overshadowing, inexplicable gloom and despondency. He was convinced in

his own mind that (as he said) some dreadful deed had taken place, or

was even then about to happen. Therefore he was hardly surprised, after

hours of feverishly fast travelling, to find Mr. Volkner's mutilated

corse beneath the willow tree which he had himself planted. Mr. Grace,

after being in hourly expectation of a violent death, had been rescued

by Captain Levy, one of the survivors of the crew of the _Jane_, and

put on board H.M.S. _Eclipse_, Captain Fremantle.

 

Burning with wrath, and maddened with the doubt as to whether Erena

and Massinger might not even yet be within the region traversed by the

Hau-Hau scouts, Mannering made a forced march, halting neither by day

nor night, rendered still more furious and despairing by the freshness

of the trail, leading straight for the Oropi mission station. Kereopa

had sworn, as rumour had it, that he would kill the third Mikonaree

pakeha and carry off his wife and children as a prey, before proceeding

to join the Kingites in the sack and plunder of Auckland.

 

It was midnight when the mission was reached. An unwonted stillness

reigned; no dog barked, no voice was heard from the native camp--an

unusual state of things within his experience, the wakeful Maori being

always ready for converse at any hour of the night. The mission house

itself was partially closed only, but silent and deserted. The trim

garden was trampled over. The shrubs and fruit trees had been broken

down. The keen eyes of the Maoris discerned a spot where the ground had

been disturbed. A short search exhumed more than one body, on which

bullet and tomahawk had written the history of the engagement. The

furniture in some rooms was intact, in others recklessly broken up. A

handkerchief, a shoe, a neck-ribbon, told of recent occupation. One

article of female Maori headgear, a plume of the beautiful _huia_, the

distracted parent recognized as an ornament of Erena's.

 

Meanwhile, like questing hounds, the Ngapuhi warriors traversed the

surrounding thickets with all the keenness of a savage race. Imprints

and signs, so faint as to be almost invisible to the white man, told

all too plainly to them the history of the occupation of the Hau-Haus,

the arrival of Ropata and his men, the fight (if such it could be

called) and finally the departure of the whole party, including the

family, the victorious contingent, and the prisoners, in full march for

Tauranga.

 

Hoping against hope, yet with a cruel doubt eating at his heart,

Mannering sat with his head between his hands for a stricken hour,

before he gave orders for his troop to be in readiness to march, when

the Southern Cross pointed towards dawn. Long before the stars had

paled, he strode fast and eagerly at the head of his faithful band, on

the well-marked Tauranga track.

 

It was past midday when they arrived. The place was astir, the streets

were filled. There was murmur of voices, and that indescribable feeling

in the air as of woe, or death imminent. Such was the conviction which

smote the strong soul of Allister Mannering as, with his warriors

ranked in battle line, he joined the throng, evidently converging

towards a lofty cliff, which reared itself above the harbour.

 

An enclosure in which shrubs were in luxuriant growth now came into

view, and marble columns showed themselves amid the dark green foliage.

It was the cemetery.

 

The truth flashed across him. He had been afraid to ask. Was it, could

it be, the funeral procession of his darling daughter--of Erena, the

bright, beautiful, fearless maiden, whom he had so lately seen in the

pride of her stately maidenhood and joyous youth? Lovely and beloved,

was it possible that she could be now, even now, before his haggard

eyes, borne to her tomb? He gazed on the little band of mourning girls

who carried the flower-decked coffin. The native attendants of the

missionary family walked behind with Mrs. Summers and Hypatia, while

Cyril Summers, in full canonicals, with another clergyman, the army

chaplain, preceded the _cortége_.

 

Behind them, again, came a company of the 43rd with their officers,

another of the 68th, and the Forest Rangers, with Von Tempsky at their

head. Also Messrs. Slyde and Warwick, who had been granted special

leave for that day only by the army surgeon, looking weak and pale

after their enforced seclusion.

 

Then came the native allies, the Arawa, the Ngapuhi, the Ngatiporu, all

stern and warlike of appearance, proud to do honour to the maiden whose

mother was of their race, with the blood of chiefs in her veins, whose

descent could be traced back to the migration from Hawaiki.

 

Those who knew of the love, so deep, so passionate, which subsisted

between the daughter and the sire, could partly realize the dull

despair, the agonizing grief, which filled his heart at the moment. But

none of the ordinary signs of sorrow betrayed the storm of anguish,

the volcanic wrath and stifled fury, which raged within. His stern

countenance preserved a rigid and awful calm. His voice faltered not

as, walking forward when the _cortége_ halted, he respectfully made

request that the coffin-lid should be raised.

 

"Let me look upon the face once more," he said, "even in death, that I

shall never see again on earth."

 

His request was granted. He stooped, and raising the cerecloth, gazed

long and fixedly on the face of the dead girl. Then moving forward,

he signed to the clergyman to proceed with the service, remaining