SAFE BIND, SAFE FIND
When George Haughton managed to corner the busy chief and wrathfully
demand of him how he had dared to claim him as a Pakeha-Maori, Te
Karearea met his remonstrances quietly, professing himself astonished
at the other's indignation.
'You said you might do worse,' he protested. 'I took that for
consent. Besides, Hortoni, if you had not been my friend, you would
not have stood between me and death. It is absurd to argue about so
simple a matter.' And he stalked off, leaving George raging at his
own incautiousness in having ventured to bandy ironical chaff with
such a master of tricks.
Terence laughed when George reported the conversation.
'We must remember,' said he, 'that, thanks to Te Karearea, the
Hau-haus are inclined to be friendly; but if we contradict his
highness too energetically, we shall find ourselves surrounded by
malignant enemies, and probably be separated. I am for making the
best of it.' And in this view George at length concurred.
Events proved Terence right; for as time went on they did what they
liked, and no one attempted to interfere with them. Nevertheless, an
uneasy feeling that they were closely shadowed withheld them from any
exploration of the surrounding country, and they wandered about,
watching the girls at work on the kumara[1] fields across the river,
inspecting the bags of the hunters, and keenly interesting themselves
in the active preparations for war.
[1] Potato.
'There is something in the wind,' George said one day a fortnight
after their arrival. 'I am told that the war-dance was performed
last night. Now, a big war-dance is a thing unknown except on the
outbreak of war, or just before a battle; so perhaps word has come of
the approach of our troops, or there may be friendlies in the
neighbourhood.'
'I noticed no particular excitement to-day,' observed Terence.
'Perhaps not; but all the same some big military movement is
imminent. If you could understand their talk, you would have heard
them boasting that none of the dancers fainted or fell, which is
always considered a good omen.'
On the following afternoon, attracted by bursts of laughter, the
comrades turned into one of the long lanes between the _whares_, and
came upon a dozen lads amusing themselves by casting clubs at a sort
of Maori equivalent to the 'Aunt Sally' of English fairs. The
'uncle,' as it was here, was grim enough, being the dried head of one
of the Arawas slain in the recent fight. On the crown of this dismal
object was set an empty beer-bottle, and to bring this down without
touching the head was the object of the throwers.
But the more they threw, the more they missed, which struck Terence
as odd, and, at last, Te Karearea, who was leaning nonchalantly
against a door-post, looking on, drew out his _mere_ and stepped
forward.
'Let us show these children what men can do,' he said, and shivered
the bottle at the first throw. 'Can you better that, Hortoni?'
'Perhaps I can equal it,' returned George, taking his stand. Te
Karearea's eyes gleamed and flashed a glance of intelligence at a
lank youth who was lounging near the mark, apparently uninterested.
Back swung George's arm; but as his right foot was raised preparatory
to the cast, his greenstone club was plucked from his fingers, and he
turned sharply to find Terence smiling at him and holding the
precious weapon.
Without a word or a look at Te Karearea, George thrust the club back
into his belt and strode away. Terence, however, lingered an instant
to grin triumphantly at the chief, in exchange for which attention he
received a scowl so hateful and malignant that he thought it wise to
follow his friend without delay.
The captives were greatly troubled by their inability to discover the
whereabouts of Paeroa, Kawainga his betrothed, and Pokeke the
Hau-hau, not one of whom had been seen since the day of their
entrance into the _pah_. George was convinced that all three had
been hidden away, if not killed out of hand, in order to prevent them
from coming further under his influence; and concerning Paeroa and
his sweetheart he was sincerely distressed.
'It is intolerable to think that our pretty Morning Star should be at
the mercy of such an unscrupulous brute as the chief,' Terence
exclaimed angrily, as they were discussing this question in their
quarters one stormy night. 'We must search for her and Paeroa. We
have been here nearly three weeks, and I think we might venture to
begin.'
'Let us chance it,' agreed George. 'We will try the under----'
'Salutations, friends!' said Te Karearea, appearing in the doorway.
'I come to ask if you will renew your parole.'
'We cannot renew what we have not withdrawn,' George answered
irritably. He was wondering how much the chief had heard. 'When we
are tired of liberty we will tell you. There will be no need for you
to come and ask us.'
'The Pakehas are abominably deceitful,' Te Karearea remarked
absently. 'It is very difficult to know when they are telling the
truth.'
'How dare you say such a thing to us?' George cried hotly; while
Terence, when he understood, flushed and glared at the chief.
'There is a bad spirit in you to-night, Hortoni,' the Maori said
smoothly. 'When you stopped me with angry words, I was about to say
that neither you nor Mura would break your promises.'
'Oh, were you?' returned George, by no means appeased. 'Hear now my
word, O Hawk of the Mountain, for it shall be the last. Until we
tell you that we intend to take back our parole, we shall respect it.'
'Until you tell me--not Winata Pakaro or another?' queried the chief,
darting glances at them.
'It is you to whom we are responsible,' answered George curtly.
'Then, until I hear with my own ears from your own mouths the words
"We take back our parole," I may rest assured that you will make no
attempt to escape?' went on Te Karearea, with curious persistence and
a sharp anxiety of voice and manner which George noticed but did not
understand.
'You may,' he replied loftily. 'And for the future do not come here
with insults in your mouth.'
'It is well,' Te Karearea said suavely. 'Sleep soundly, my friends,
and dream of peace.' After a grave inclination, he drew his mat
around his shoulders and stalked out.
'What is at the back of all that, I wonder,' said Terence.
'It was like his impudence to talk as he did,' fumed George; 'but he
does nothing without a reason. But I am too tired to solve
conundrums. Let us go to bed.'
Once or twice during the night Terence awoke and sat up, listening to
the extraordinary clamour of wind and rain, in which, it seemed to
him, a multitude of tongues spoke softly, and the faint pad-pad of
naked feet made itself manifest. But the noise of the elements
confused him, and it was not until breakfast-time next morning that
he mentioned his fancies to George, who looked uncommonly grave as he
listened.
'Let us go and find out if anything did happen,' he suggested as they
rose from their meal; for he was oppressed by an uncomfortable
feeling that trouble was in store for them. His presentiment
presently grew stronger, for, as they walked towards the _marae_, or
open courtyard of the _pah_, the unusual quiet of the long lanes
surprised them, for the inhabitants were early astir as a rule.
The court itself was deserted, save for two old men, who sat upon a
seat opposite to the open gates. George looked down upon the plain,
where a company of women and children could be seen returning from
the bush across the river. In anxious haste he turned to one of the
old men.
'Where is everybody, O my father?' he inquired. 'Where is Te
Karearea?'
The old Maori shook his head and showed his toothless gums. 'Nay; he
is not here, Hortoni. He is gone to fight the Pakeha.'
'Gone to fight the Pakeha!' echoed George. He looked down again. A
band of armed Maoris had issued from the bush and were crossing the
river bridge. 'Is that the Hawk returning?' he asked. 'Wake up, old
man!' He gently shook the ancient. 'Is it the Hawk who flies
hither?'
The old fellow blinked drowsily in the warm sun. 'Nay; Te Karearea
is gone to drive the Pakeha into _Moana_. Who knows when he will
return? Let me slumber, Hortoni.'
George wheeled round upon Terence. 'The crafty rascal!' he cried
wrathfully. 'I see it all now. It was the noise of his departure
that you heard in the night, Terence. Well might he scheme that we
should bind ourselves fast with our own words. Oh, if you had but
woke me! But now we have promised, and----' He shook his fist in
the direction of the bush. 'Terence, we have been properly fooled.
We are caught in a trap of our own making.'
'A parole extorted by such a piece of treachery can hardly be
considered binding,' objected Terence.
'Oh, we will keep our word, if only to shame him, if that were
possible. But let the subtle Hawk look out for himself when we do
take back our parole.'
'And may I be there to see,' finished Terence, taking his friend's
arm. 'Let us go to meet those people and learn the news.'