When Frank pulled his coach in at Murphy’s Hotel Mette was sitting on the step with her bag, waiting for him. He’d been driving through a light drizzle, but the skies cleared as he approached Murphy’s Hotel, as if Mette had brought about the change with her sunny nature. He’d dreamed about her the night before but felt the dream slip away as he awoke. Later, he’d fallen back to sleep and dreamed that he was being pursued through a dark forest by a dark, shapeless force. He’d tried to turn and see who was pursuing him but he could not. Once more he forgot the dream, recalling only a vague image of the throat-slashing gesture he had now seen twice, once from the man holding Will’s head, and once from Anahera. Was there a connection between the two men? What was it?
As he climbed down from his seat, he noticed she looked unhappy, which dampened his own mood. He had no other passengers and helped her up beside his perch, assuming she’d want to sit up front. When he passed her an old army blanket from the box behind him over her legs, she set her bag down forcefully and tucked the blanket around her knees.
He’d been looking forward to the opportunity to talk to her. The return trip was somewhat easier as the slope was mostly downhill and was easier on the horses. He sat her on his left, away from the steep drop now to be on his right side. The return journey was on the inside of the road and if they met another carriage or cart that vehicle would have to pull to the edge of the ravine. The return journey was always easier because of that.
She waited until they were on the way out of town, and then said angrily, “That woman did not want to come back to Palmerston with me.”
“She’ll come later then?”
“She will not come at all,” she said. “She’s going to live in Wellington with her fancy man and his sister, who I do not believe is his sister, and the children will be sent to where, I do not know. I am afraid they’ll be in the poorhouse immediately, and so will Agnete when her Mr. Williams,” she practically spat his name out, “…her Mr. Williams tires of her.”
Frank sat in silence for a few minutes, digesting this new turn of events. He was amused at her turn of phrase. What was a fancy man in her mind?
“Will you tell Pieter?” he asked finally. “He’ll want to go and bring her back from Wellington, don’t you think?”
Mette sighed.
“He would if he could, I suppose. But I will tell him a good version of the story and leave out the bits that make his sister sound like a, like a taeve. Not that I suspect that his sister is going to live in a bordel– what would you call it – a whorehouse. No, I will tell him simply that his sister is going to stay with the sister of a friend in Wellington and she does not need any help or money at the moment as the friend is assisting her.”
Frank glanced at her.
“She may need money and help eventually,” he said. “If things go as you suspect. Don’t you think he should be somewhat ready to help, if – when —the occasion arises?”
Mette stared past him towards the river, which was still beside them. They were not yet in the Gorge and she was already afraid of the drop she would see as they rose higher.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “You’re right. He should know that everything is not perfect. She’s a horrible woman, but she is his sister after all. Pieter can also be difficult, but he is underneath a kind man who would always do his best for his family.”
At the mouth of the Gorge, they were stopped by three Armed Constables, including Wilson, the card player.
“Right then Hardy,” said Wilson. “Down you get. We need to check out your coach.”
“For what?” asked Frank.
“Making sure you aren’t bringing back the Avenging Angel,” said Wilson.
“Bringing him back?” said Frank, remembering the tomahawk hidden in his foot box. “Did he get through the Gorge?”
“Nah,” said Wilson. “No idea where he is.”
The other two men had climbed into the coach and checked it out.
“Nothing in here,” said one of them. “Not even a passenger.”
“I’m carrying mail,” said Frank. “It’s in the foot box at the back of the coach.”
Wilson glanced at the foot box. “Don’t suppose the Angel would fit in that,” he said. He grinned at Mette. “You think he’s hiding a Hauhau in that box?”
She shook her head. “I hope not.”
Wilson slapped the outside of the box. “Carry on then Hardy. But keep an eye open for the Angel. As I said, we don’t know where he is. Could have crossed over the ranges through a track somewhere. We can’t be everywhere.”
They travelled for a while in silence. Then Mette said, “Sergeant Frank, do you think Anahera might be here somewhere? Inside the Gorge?”
“Doubtful,” said Frank. He could see she was holding the blanket tightly. He had his carbine close at hand in case of an attack, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “We’re quite safe, Mette.”
“Would you like some bread? I purchased some at the bakery in Woodville. It’s the freshest bread I’ve eaten since I left Haderslev, and quite delicious.”
He nodded, smiling. She always ate when she was nervous, he’d noticed, but it did calm her. She took the bread, wrapped in a piece of newspaper, from her bag and tore off a piece for him.
“Now,” she said, settling back. “I would like you to tell me something.”
“What?” he asked. She was trying to take her mind off the possibility of an attack by Anahera.
“Tell me about yourself when you were a small boy. I know nothing about you except that you were a soldier and that your brother, who was also a soldier, was killed – murdered – by Hauhau. Where did you live when you were boys? What about your family – your parents – do they still live there?”
He thought for a minute, working out what he could tell her.
“My father was also a soldier,” he said. “He served under the Duke of Wellington and fought at the Battle of Waterloo. Do you know about that?”
“Of course,” she said. “The Duke of Wellington defeated that nasty little man Napoleon.”
“Yes he did, with some help from my father. And before that he – my father – was in Spain, and that was where he met my mother.”
“Ah,” she exclaimed. “That explains why you are a little dark for an Englishman, with brown eyes. Mostly they – Englishmen – have pale skin and light blue eyes. They look very much like the Germans, so I’m pleased that you don’t look like that.”
He glanced at her, wondering why she should be pleased, and she continued, “And your father married your mother and you and your brother were born while he was still a soldier?”
He shook his head, distracted. “Just a minute while we get onto the tracks here. We’re on the way back up the Gorge and I need to concentrate.”
“Then quickly tell me about your life, when you were born, and when your brother was born.”
“Quickly? Very well then, I’ll try.” He gave the horses a light tap and pulled back on the reins to slow them down. “After they were married my father left the army. He was highly skilled with horses and became a groom at the stable of an important man, a politician, and his old commander from his army days. After a few years as a groom, the coachman on the estate died and my father took that job. We grew up on the estate of the politician, and he allowed us to be educated with his sons, at least until they went off to boarding school. Rugby, they went to, one of the oldest British public schools, and I hardly saw them after age eleven or so. Even after they left he encouraged us to read, and allowed us to use his library. We ate with the staff in the downstairs kitchen, but mostly treated us like family. When the boys did come home they used to make me play rugby with them, but that stopped when I outgrew them and they couldn’t bring me to the ground with a tackle. I learned about horses from my father, which has proven useful.”
“And your mother?” asked Mette. “What about her. How did she like leaving Spain and living in such a cold and unfriendly country as England?”
“She died,” he said. “In childbirth. Giving birth to my brother. I can barely remember her.”
“How sad,” said Mette. “I think I would have liked to know your mother. How brave she was, leaving her country and going to live in another country away from her family.”
“Like you,” he said. “Why did you leave Schleswig? You didn’t need to fear being inducted into the army.”
She looked down and a tear splashed on her hand. “Not me, but my brother and my father were,” she said. “He was a gentle man, kind to Maren and me and our brother Hamlet. First, the Prussians took Hamlet to be a soldier. They were fighting against the French and they needed all the young men they could find. Hamlet left to fight in August and in September he died in the Battle of Sedan, although it was a long time before we heard about it. We hoped all the time he would come home, that he would live.” She paused, and then added, “Little Hamlet, Maren’s boy, is named after him.”
“And your father?” he prompted.
“He was taken to be a soldier a few months after Hamlet,” she said. “And he was killed at the Siege of Metz. It was terrible for my mother. Maren and I were little girls. She tried hard to keep the family together, and she kept teaching us as our father had been doing…what is that on the road?”
Frank had been looking at her, not paying as much attention to the road as he should. He looked to where she was pointing and cursed, pulling back on the reins to slow the horses before they ran into the barrier that was now across the road, from bank side to cliff side.
“Damn it,” he said. “A fallen branch. How are we going to get around that?”
In front of them a tree limb lay across the road, completely blocking their path. The horses slowed and came to a stop, stamping and whinnying. Frank threw the reins across the seat and climbed down, leaving the horses standing where they were.
“Wait,” called Mette. “Won’t the horses run away if you aren’t holding the reins?”
He shook his head, not looking back at her, and strode towards the branch. He attempted to lift it, but it wouldn’t budge. Mette climbed down and joined him.
“What will you do?”
He walked along the length of the branch, from the edge of the drop to the rise on the other side, staring intently. The rise was not steep at this point, and he hopped up on an outcrop of rocks and stared down at the branch. He dropped into a squatting position suddenly, looking down at the branch, and said, “Damn.”
“What is it,” asked Mette, scared suddenly. “Did you see something?”
“Mette, get over as near as you can to the hill, immediately.”
She ran over to the hill and he followed, stopping beside her.
“What is it?” she asked again. “Is it Anahera? Is he here?”
“The branch has been cut with an axe,” he said. He was leaning back against the hill, his hand over his eyes, scanning the area. “This isn’t an accident, it’s an ambush.”
“Anahera?” she said, her voice quivering.
“Could be,” he said. “But it’s pretty close to where we met the armed Constables. He wouldn’t take the risk. Bushwhackers, maybe. Either way, we’re in trouble.”
“Does he want to kill me because of the pig?”
“If it’s Anahera he’ll be after me,” answered Frank. He had not told Mette of his near-death encounter with the Hauhau. “I was involved in something that upset him.”
Mette moved closer to Frank.
“Do you have a gun, Sergeant Frank?”
He nodded. “Yes, but it’s in the box under the seat. Didn’t think to keep it on me, stupidly.”
“Then I’ll go and get it. If he needs to kill you for revenge, he may not want to kill me.”
She started to move towards the coach, but he grabbed her arm and held it firmly.
“I’m not going to let you do that.”
He looked around again, scanning for movement. Everything was quiet; the only sound was the rushing of the waters in the Gorge, far below.
“If we move nearer to the coach we’ll be under the edge of the hill,” he said finally. “We’ll have to move quickly before they – he – realizes what we’re doing. Then once we’re under the hill I can get around the other side of the coach and up into the seat to get my weapon.”
“Will he shoot you when he sees you?”
Frank had been thinking about that himself. “If it is the Hauhau he won’t be carrying a gun. He prefers his kills to be more personal. But if it’s bushwhackers, yes, they will have a gun. Guns. The Hauhau is a better proposition. He’ll want to fight hand-to-hand, for the honour of the killing. Or at least throw his tomahawk at me, if he has another one. Let’s move.”
He held her hand and they ran the short distance to where the bank rose straight up. He pushed her behind him and stared around again. Nothing moved, and there was no sound other than the ever-churning waters of the Gorge.
“Stay here and lean back as far as you can,” he said, almost whispering now. Then, taking one more look around, he dashed towards the rear of the coach.
The gunshot was so unexpected that Mette gave a small scream. The edge of the coach splintered, throwing shards in the air. The horses jostled each other, their eyes white with fear. Frank was around the other side now.
“Are you all right, Mette?” he yelled.
It took her a minute to reply. Her throat was dry with fear.
“I, I, yes,” she croaked. “Is it the Hauhau? Does he have a gun now?”
“Don’t know who it is, but he has a gun.”
He lifted the lid of the box under the seat of his coach slowly and reached in to grab the gun. Another shot echoed around the Gorge and the box splintered. Frank cursed loudly.
“Are you hit Frank?”
“Stay there, Mette. Don’t come out,” he ordered. “A splinter from the box hit me in the hand. It’s nothing, just a scratch.” He pulled out his kerchief and wrapped it around the side of his hand.
Everything was quiet for a few minutes. He edged around the front of the coach and under the horses. He squatted, patting their haunches to keep them calm. He managed to release one, thinking he could ride the attacker down, but as it came free from its traces it trotted a few steps towards the branch. That at least gave him some cover. Keeping low, he came up from under the belly of the other horse and sprinted towards Mette. This time there was no gunshot. He arrived back at her side and leaned against the hill, panting. He had a white kerchief wrapped around his hand, and blood was seeping through. Mette helped him tie it around his hand to staunch the blood.
“What are we going to do?” she asked. “I have some money I could give to bushwhackers. I could throw it out on the road and call out to them that they can have it if they let us go.”
“There’s money in the mailbag,” said Frank. “Much more than you have. They could take that if they wanted. It’s not bushwhackers though. They would have showed themselves as soon as they realized I don’t have my gun on me.”
“What can we do?” asked Mette. “Will someone else be coming through the Gorge today? Can we stay here and wait for someone to arrive, someone perhaps who has a gun?”
“Depends who it is out there,” said Frank. “The Hauhau wants to kill me, bushwhackers want the money in the mail; there’s no reason for bushwhackers to kill us. As far as I know, no one else wants to kill…” He stopped suddenly and stared at Mette.
“What is it, Sergeant Frank? Does someone else want to kill you?”
She reached out and touched the mark under his eye. “Is it something to do with this? You had a fight with someone, didn’t you?”
He nodded.
“It can’t be him,” he said. But she could see in his eyes he knew something.
“Would he want to kill you? Why? What did you do to him? Who was it?”
In answer to her question, someone slid down the hill behind the fallen branch and said, “I have you in my sights, you fucking limey bastard.”
Mette gasped. “Gottlieb?”
Karlsen rose from behind the branch, his face an angry mask of hatred, a revolver pointed at Frank. “I won’t miss from this distance,” he said. “I’ll shoot you right where you kicked me, you arsehole. Then we’ll see how she likes you.”
“Gottlieb?” said Mette again. “Why are you here? Why do you want to hurt Frank?” She moved in front of Frank and spread her arms out to cover him, but Frank thrust her aside. She wasn’t afraid of Gottlieb; she didn’t understand the threat. This was a person she thought she knew.
Gottlieb sneered at her.
“Thinks he’s better than me,” he said. “Bloody limey prick.”
“He is better than you,” said Mette. “But that’s no reason to shoot him.”
“I beat him up, a couple of days ago,” said Frank quietly. “He wants to kill me, or at least to hurt me.”
“Why did you do that?” she asked, still looking at Karlsen. “Was it because of what he did to me?”
“I did nothing to you,” said Karlsen. “The bloody bed stopped me before I could enjoy myself.”
Mette heard Frank let out a breath.
“What you did was not nothing,” he said. “Even if you, if you…” He stopped and started again. “Men, decent men don’t attack women while they are sleeping. Decent men don’t spy on women when they are washing clothes, and decent men don’t take pleasure with themselves while spying on women.”
“Gottlieb did that and you hit him?” she asked. “He deserved…”
Karlsen moved his gun from Frank and aimed at Mette.
“Shut up, fotze,” he said. “Or I’ll kill you too. Get the fuck out of the way.”
She gasped and put her hands over her mouth.
“Gottlieb, this is not right. What will our pastor and the Monrads think if you hurt us?”
Frank had been wondering the same thing. Perhaps he could reason with the man. He pushed Mette behind him and faced Gottlieb.
“You’ll be an outcast,” he said. “This is not a large country. You won’t be able to hide for long. They’ll find you and hang you.”
Karlsen gestured with his revolver.
“Move out from the hill. Over to the middle.”
Mette held Frank’s hand, and they moved forward, waiting for a shot, and the pain that would follow. They stopped in front of the horses. One of the horses, the one that Frank had released, dropped its head on Frank’s shoulder and whinnied softly. He patted it on its nose.
Karlsen gestured his gun at them again, this time towards the edge of the drop.
“Move,” he ordered.
They moved nearer to the edge. Mette’s hand started shaking as the drop came nearer. Her head felt light, and floated above her body. She could see the river, tumbling on its path far below her feet. She had a feeling that the river was sucking her downward and she just had to let go and fall, and everything would be over with.
“Gut,” said Karlsen. “Now you can both jump off the edge. Keep your hands held together and when they find you they’ll think it’s a stupid fucking lovers’ suicide.”
They both froze, staring at their attacker in shock. Then Mette said quietly, “Gottlieb, let us both live and I will marry you. I swear I will marry you and we will have many children together and a long life. But you must let both of us live or I will not marry you.” She felt Frank’s hand tighten on hers.
“No…” he said.
Karlsen made a noise that sounded like tuh.
“You think I want his leavings, you whore? If you want to see him live, then you jump first. Then he’ll be alive when you die.”
Mette gave a little sob.
“So,” said Karlsen. “Which of you wants to jump first, or do you want to jump together. It makes no difference to me.”
“Why don’t you just shoot us,” said Frank through gritted teeth. Then, to Mette he added quietly, “Wefen Siesichseitwarts.”
She didn’t move. “He speaks German,” she said.
Karlsen laughed.
“Ich spreche sehr gut Deutsch. Ich bin Deutsch aus Schleswig. Throwing herself sideways will not help at all. I have enough bullets for both of you and I can shoot you one at a time without a problem. Don’t think you can save her by dying yourself.”His face darkened.
“Enough of this bullshit. Jump! Jump! And do it together.”
“Gottlieb, I cannot,” cried Mette. “I do not want to die. Please don’t make me do this. My family, my sister, all those people I know, they will be so sad if I die.”
Karlsen raised his gun to eye level and walked towards them, a look of hatred contorting his face. Frank prepared to make a last-minute lunge at him, knowing that the odds were not good. He didn’t want to die either, but if he had to, he intended to take Karlsen with him to the bottom of the Gorge. He released Mette’s hand, ready to make a move.
Mette beat him to it, throwing herself at Gottlieb and grabbing hold of his shirt.
Please, Gottlieb, don’t kill me. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to jump. I’m scared…”
Gottlieb threw Mette to the ground at the edge of the drop and pointed his revolver at Frank again. “Get back, or I’ll shoot you in the leg and throw her off while you watch…”
Mette stood, dazed, and teetered closer to the drop.
“Mette stop, be careful,” said Frank.
Ignoring Karlsen he leapt forward. But Mette took another step and disappeared over the edge. He heard her scream, then nothing. Frank ran forward, and saw her ten feet below him, hanging on to a clump of gorse. The land sloped down towards her, and then dropped precipitously beneath her feet.
“Mette,” he said. “Hold tight, I’ll pull you up.”
“Back away,” snarled Karlsen, aiming his gun at Frank again. “Get back by the coach.”
Frank didn’t move.
“Go, go,” said Karlsen, or I will shoot her before she falls.” He kneeled and tried to reach her to make her let go, pushing at the bushes above her. Frank was about to throw himself at Karlsen when he remembered the tomahawk in the foot box. He backed towards the coach, his hands up.
One chance, he thought. One chance.
Karlsen was lying on the ground trying to force Mette from her perch, the gun pointed at Frank but wavering.
“Let go the bush, taeve” he said. Mette whimpered.
“Hold my hand and I’ll pull you up then, you dumme taeve,” said Karlsen. “And you can live a few more minutes and die with this bastard. You want to do that, don’t you?”
Believing him, Mette reached for his hand. Karlsen’s attention was now fully on her, the gun arm on the ground. Frank leapt for the foot box and flung it open. Karlsen heard him and jumped up, forgetting about Mette. Frank heard her scream again.
Karlsen started to bring the gun up towards Frank, but the tomahawk was in Frank’s hands now. He pulled back and threw it as hard and as straight as he could, his cricketing days helping his aim.
The tomahawk hit the side of Karlsen’s head and stuck there. He stood, not moving, a puzzled look on his face. Blood dribbled down his cheek. He dropped the gun and raised his hand to touch his head. Frank sprang at him, but Karlsen swayed and staggered sideways, disoriented. He took one step towards the rim of the gorge, and then suddenly was over it, plunging towards the water, soundlessly. The river continued to roar beneath them, the horses stamped their hooves, and nothing else moved. Frank caught a brief glimpse of Karlsen in the water as he was tumbled back through the Gorge in the raging water. He bobbed up once, the tomahawk still embedded in the side of his head, then disappeared completely. When he surfaced downstream in the Manawatu River, Frank realized, the fact that he had not died naturally would be obvious. But he would worry about that when it happened.
He dropped to the ground and lay face forward, reaching out to Mette. She looked up at him, a hopeless look on her face.
“You can’t reach me,” she said. “You’ll have to let me fall.”
He edged forward, his hand still inches from hers. “I’m not going to let you fall,” he said. “I’d rather die myself than let you go. Not now.”
He moved further forward. He knew that a few more inches and he would be unable to keep himself on the bank, but would slip into the gorge, taking them both down. He looked around for something to hold on to, but there was nothing. He was afraid that if he got up to look for something he would come back to find her gone.
Something pressed against his back, followed by the sound of heavy breathing.
“Keep holding tight, Mette,” he said, rolling over. “One more minute. I’m coming down to get you.” The horse he had released was standing beside him, its reins hanging to the ground.
He took off his coat and threw it on the ground, put the reins around under his armpits and edged forward over the drop. “Hold on, I’m coming.”
The horse shuffled forward and held fast, taking Frank’s full weight as he slid forward. When his hands were within reach of hers, he held her tightly by the wrists and said quietly, “You can let go now.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t do it. I’m scared.”
The gorse she was holding gave way with a crack. But the horse held them in place.
“Now boy, pull us back,” he said and made a clicking noise with his teeth. The horse backed away from the drop pulling the two of them with him. When Frank was on solid ground himself, he gave Mette a tug and pulled her over the edge with him. The front of her dress was torn and dirty and her face was white with shock. She lay on her side, sobbing.
He patted the horse on the neck and said, “Good boy, good boy,” then sat down beside her. She sat up and scrabbled further away from the edge.
“I thought I was going to, going to…” she said.
He took her hand in his. He could feel it shaking and could hear her teeth chattering. He picked up his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, holding her tight. The shaking increased. “But you didn’t fall,” he said. “You hung on and now you’re safe.”
She started gasping for air, going into hysterics. He put his hand to her face and pulled her against his chest, and put his face against the top of her head.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re safe.”
“You saved me,” she said. “But it was all my fault. I didn’t pay attention when he asked me to dance, and I gave him false ideas. And now he came for me, to…”
“It was never your fault, Mette. Don’t ever think that,” he said into the top of her head. As he comforted her, he felt a calmness he’d not felt for a long time.
She had started to relax, and put her hand up over his where it held her face. They sat like that for several minutes, saying nothing. She turned her head towards him, looking at him, still holding his hand against her face, her eyes searching his.
He bent towards her, unable to stop himself, his lips brushing against hers briefly.
“Do you need help here?” said a loud voice.
They sprang apart, both flushed. Frank’s heart was pounding.
Coming from the direction of Palmerston, two large fair men in broad-brimmed hats had arrived in a dray pulled by a bullock. Mette sniffed and rubbed her eyes, and spoke to them in Danish, her voice quavering. The men looked at each other and back at her.
“I think I know what you say,” said one in English, staring at Mette, interested. “But we are Swedish and I think you are Danish. We are farmers from the Wairarapa. We have been in Palmerston to buy a new ploughshare for our land.” He gestured to the back of the dray. “Should we move this tree together? We have an axe in the dray. We found it back there…”
“Thank you,” said Frank. “We were unable to get by and were worried.”
With the two men helping, Frank managed to remove the smaller branches and throw them in the ditch. Then they took the remaining large branch, dragged it to the edge of the gorge and threw it down. It fell to the water and was swept away in the rushing current, much as Gottlieb Karlsen had been just minutes before. The two Swedes showed no curiosity about how the branch had got there, and why they had found an axe lying on the side of the road.
The men went on their way to Woodville. Frank and Mette climbed onto the coach and started back towards Palmerston. Before they did, Frank tossed the axe far out into the Gorge. They were both pretending nothing had happened between them.
“Best we don’t leave this here,” he said.
“Was he dead?” asked Mette.
Frank nodded. “I think so. He had a tomahawk stuck in his head, and if that didn’t kill him the fall would.”
She looked at her hands and said nothing. He wanted to say something to her, but couldn’t find the words. He’d seen how the Swedish farmer had looked at her. That was the kind of man she needed. A solid, reliable man who would not constantly put her in peril. He would have to stop thinking about her and leave her to her life.
He took a deep breath, flicked his whip over the horses’ heads and steered them down towards Ashhurst. But now his carbine was between his feet. If Anahera was out there somewhere, waiting to attack, he would shoot to kill before Anahera could raise his mere. One murder attempt was enough to survive in one day.