ANAHUIA, ENJOYING A ride in a canoe down the coast towards her birthplace, her possessions and her babies bundled at her feet, imagines Conrad well on his way to the other side of the world, but in fact he is still in Wellington. He has secured a position on the sailing ship Asterope, but delay after delay has beset the sailing. A consignment of flax fibre arrived late; a southerly storm dashed the ship against the wharf, damaging several timbers; and then six of the crew disappeared one night, lured, no doubt, by dreams of becoming landowners in the new colony, or at least of owning their own businesses. The captain has seen it all before on other voyages. He might rage and curse but has no power to seek them out or force them back aboard. Fortunately, experience has taught him that if he waits a week or two, disillusioned settlers, bankrupt or exhausted or homesick — or all three — will decide to leave the land of their dashed hopes and return. Soon enough the captain will find his crew.
Meanwhile Conrad tars rope, mends timber and cools his heels. He exchanges a ship he has carved from the tooth of a sperm whale for a battered accordion and teaches himself to play. Soon other sailors gather in the lengthening evenings, drawn by the music. They sit on barrels and boxes, tapping feet, piping and singing. Their songs come from all over the world — slave songs and love ditties from America, long rolling ballads from England, high haunting shanties from islands off Scotland and from Scandinavia, and whaling songs from the oceans of the world. Conrad knows dozens, and picks up more as quickly as anyone can sing them. His deep voice echoes off the new timber of the Wellington wharves, where there are always two or three big immigrant ships moored alongside Australian traders and a host of smaller steamers and sailing boats that trade up and down the coast. The air Conrad breathes, smelling of timber and tar, of fish and seaweed and sacking, seeps into his blood again, heady as wine. He would be entirely happy if other matters did not tug at the corners of his attention. Napoleon’s death. Anahuia and her baby.
One night Conrad talks to a sailor who calls regularly at the Foxton port. The fellow has never heard of the Monrads, nor of Anahuia. He says that the settlers are panicked, that they are building a blockade because of rumours that the Taranaki war will spread right down to Foxton or worse. He has seen no sign, he says, of any trouble, though, and reckons it is all those nervous settlers seeing ghosts in a landscape too dark and spooked for their English minds to handle. Conrad decides to write a note to Anahuia but then the trader’s boat is gone again and the idea leaves his mind.
On the night before, finally, they are to leave, Conrad and his fellow sailors are sharing a farewell jar or two of beer and a bit of music when they see passengers and their luggage being driven by a smart pair of horses and carriage onto the wharf. Bishop Monrad, his wife and two daughters are among them. This is a surprise. Conrad, uneasy to see them, needs to ask questions but they are escorted with some ceremony to their quarters. At least, thinks Conrad, the sons are not there. Nor the daughter-in-law. Perhaps all is well at Karere. He leaves the singers and climbs the gangway. But the door to the deck passengers’ quarters is closed, and sailors are forbidden to mix with such people. Conrad stamps around in the dark for a few minutes, then returns, with a shrug, to his beer and his friends.
Three days into what turns out to be a hellish voyage, Conrad finally learns that he is the father of twin boys.