In the Land of the Long White Cloud (90 page)

In talking with the two of them, though, George quickly discovered that Gerald had long since lost track of the sheep breeding business that took place on Kiward Station. And Paul lacked understanding and farsightedness—not surprising in someone who was barely sixteen. When it came to breeding, he had fantastical theories that flew in the face of all experience. He would have liked to start breeding with Merinos again.

“Fine wool is a good thing. Qualitatively better than down-type wool. If we only crossbreed with enough Merinos we’ll get a new mixed breed that will revolutionize everything!”

George could only shake his head at that, but Gerald’s eyes lit up as he listened to the boy, unlike Gwyneira, who was livid when she heard about it.

“If I let the boy take over, everything will go to the dogs!” she ranted when a concerned George sought her out the next day and reported on his conversation with Gerald and Paul. “Sure, he’ll inherit the farm eventually; then I won’t have any more say. But until then, he has a few years to come to his senses. If Gerald would only be a little more reasonable and influence him accordingly. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. My God, the man once knew something about raising sheep!”

George shrugged. “Now he knows a lot more about whiskey.”

Gwyneira nodded. “He’s drinking his brains away. Pardon me for putting it that way, but anything else would be sugarcoating it. I desperately need support. Paul’s crossbreeding notion isn’t the only problem. In fact, it’s the least of them. Gerald is in good health—it will be years before Paul takes over the farm. And even if a few sheep go to him, the business can compensate for it. His conflicts with the Maori are more pressing. They don’t have anything like a standard age for a legal adult, or they define it differently. Regardless, they’ve now elected Tonga their chief.”

“Tonga is the boy Helen taught; am I remembering that right?” George asked.

Gwyneira nodded. “A very bright child. And Paul’s archenemy. Don’t ask me why, but they have been at each other’s throats since they were in the sandbox. I think it has to do with Marama. Tonga had his eye on her, but she’s adored Paul since they lay next to each other in the cradle. Even now, none of the other Maori want anything to do with him, but Marama is always there. She talks with him, tries to smooth things over—Paul doesn’t realize what a treasure he has there! At any rate, Tonga hates him, and I think he’s planning something. The Maori have been much more secretive since Tonga
started carrying the Sacred Ax. Sure, they still come to work, but they don’t work as hard, aren’t as…harmless. I have the feeling something is brewing—though everyone thinks I’m crazy.”

George considered. “I could send Reti. Perhaps he could find out something. They’re no doubt more talkative with each other. But enmity between the leader of Kiward Station and the Maori tribe by the lake could end in disaster. You need the workers!”

Gwyneira nodded. “What’s more, I like them. Kiri and Moana, my housemaids, long ago became friends, but now they hardly exchange a personal word with me. Yes, miss; no, miss—I can’t get anything else out of them. I hate it. I’ve been considering talking to Tonga myself.”

George shook his head. “Let’s see what Reti can do first. If you undertake any kind of negotiations behind Paul’s and Gerald’s backs, you won’t improve matters.”

George Greenwood sent out feelers, and what he found out was so alarming that he rode back to Kiward Station just a week later, accompanied by Reti this time.

This time he insisted that Gwyneira take part in the conversation with Gerald and Paul, though he would have much preferred to talk with Gerald and Gwyneira alone. Old Warden insisted, however, on calling his grandson in.

“Tonga has filed a lawsuit. In the government office in Christchurch, but it will ultimately go to Wellington. He’s invoking the treaty of Waitangi. Pursuant to which the Maori were damnified upon acquisition of Kiward Station. Tonga is asking that the deed of ownership be declared null and void, or at least that a compromise be reached. That means either a return of land or compensation.”

Gerald gulped his whiskey down. “Nonsense! The Kai Tahu did not even sign the treaty back then.”

George nodded. “But that does not change its validity. Tonga will demonstrate that the treaty has always been invoked in the interests of
the
pakeha
. Now he’ll ask for that same right for the Maori. Regardless of what his grandfather decided in 1840.”

“That ape!” Paul raged. “I’ll—”

“You’ll shut your mouth,” Gwyneira said sternly. “If you had never started this childish feud, there never would have been a problem. Do the Maori stand a chance of pushing it through, George?”

George shrugged. “It’s not out of the question.”

“It’s even rather likely,” Reti joined in. “The governor is very interested in having the Maori and
pakeha
get along well. The Crown knows the value of keeping conflicts here within certain limits. They won’t risk an uprising over one farm.”

“Uprising is giving them too much credit! We’ll grab a couple of guns and smoke the brigands out,” Gerald said, working himself up. “This is the thanks you get. For years I’ve let them live next to the lake; they could move around freely on my land, and—”

“And have always worked for starvation wages,” Reti interrupted him.

Paul looked as though he wanted to pounce on him.

“An intelligent young man like Tonga could most certainly spark an uprising; make no mistake about it,” George said. “If he incites the other tribes, he’d start with the one next to O’Keefe, whose land was also acquired before 1840. And what about the Beasleys? Even not counting them: do you think people like Sideblossom pored over treaties before they pulled the Maori’s land out from under them? If Tonga starts looking at the books, he’ll light a fire. And then all we need is a young…” he gave Paul a look, “or an old hothead like Sideblossom to shoot Tonga from behind. Then all hell will break loose. The governor would be doing the right thing in supporting a settlement.”

“Have suggestions already been made?” Gwyneira inquired. “Have you spoken with Tonga?”

“He wants the land on which the settlement lies—” Reti began, which immediately set off protests from Gerald and Paul.

“The land right next to the farm? Impossible!”

“I don’t want that bastard for a neighbor! That will never come to any good.”

“Otherwise, he would take money,” Reti continued.

Gwyneira considered. “Well, money would be difficult. We need to make that clear to him. Better land. Perhaps we could arrange an exchange. Having two mortal enemies living next to each other is certainly not wise.”

“I’ve heard enough!” Gerald boiled over. “You don’t really believe that we’ll negotiate with that brat, Gwyn. I won’t hear of it. He won’t get money or land. At most a bullet between the eyes!”

The conflict escalated when Paul knocked down a Maori worker the next day. The man insisted he had not done anything; he had perhaps carried out an order a little too slowly. Paul, however, declared that the worker had become insolent and had made reference to Tonga’s demands. Several other Maori corroborated their tribesman’s story. Kiri refused to serve Paul dinner that evening and even gentle Witi gave him the cold shoulder. Gerald, once again fall-down drunk, dismissed all of the house staff in a blind rage. Though Gwyneira had hoped that they would not take him seriously, neither Kiri nor Moana showed up for work the next day. The other Maori too stayed away from the stables and gardens. Only Marama tinkered ineptly in the kitchen.

“I can’t cook very well,” she apologized to Gwyneira, but she still managed to whip up Paul’s favorite muffins for breakfast. By lunch, though, she had reached the limits of her abilities and served sweet potatoes and fish. In the evening, there were sweet potatoes and fish again, and at lunch the next day, fish and sweet potatoes.

Gerald stomped angrily in the direction of the Maori village on the afternoon of the second day. When he was only halfway there, he was met by a watch patrol, armed with spears. They could not let him through at the moment, the Maori explained gravely. Tonga was not in the village, and no one else had the authority to handle negotiations.

“This is war,” one of the young watchmen said calmly. “Tonga says, war, starting now!”

“You’re just going to have to look for new workers in Christchurch or Lyttelton,” Andy McAran said to Gwyneira regretfully two days later. The work on the farm was running hopelessly behind schedule, but Gerald and Paul only reacted with rage when any of the men blamed the Maori’s strike. “You won’t catch a glimpse of the people from the village around here until the governor has decided this land business. And keep an eye on that son of yours, miss, for God’s sake! Young Mr. Warden is about to explode. And Tonga is raging in the village. If one of them raises a hand against the other, there will be blood.”

H
oward O’Keefe was looking for money. He was angry, as he had not been in a long time. If he didn’t get to go to the pub tonight, he would suffocate. Or beat Helen to death—though she really wasn’t at fault this time. Gerald Warden was to blame for getting his Maori so riled up. As was Howard’s ill-bred son, Ruben, who was fooling around who knew where instead of helping his father with the sheep shearing and herding up into the highlands.

Howard searched desperately through his wife’s kitchen. Helen must surely be hiding money somewhere—her rainy day fund, as she called it. The devil only knew how she skimmed it from their meager household budget. No doubt it wasn’t going to the right things. And besides, it was really his money. Everything here belonged to him.

Howard ripped open another cabinet, this time cursing George Greenwood, the wool trader having been the bearer of more bad news that day. The shearing gang that usually worked in this part of the Canterbury Plains, first visiting Kiward and O’Keefe Stations, would not be coming this year. The men wanted to go straight to Otago after they had finished their work at Reginald Beasley’s. This was due in part to the many Maori who belonged to the crew who refused to work for the Wardens. Though they did not have anything against Howard personally, they had felt so unwelcome at his farm and had had to undertake so much supplemental work in the past that they had decided against making the detour.

“Spoiled brats!” Howard ranted, not entirely without reason—the sheep barons coddled their shearers, who viewed themselves as the most valuable of the farmworkers. The big farms outdid each other with prizes for the best shearing groups, offered first-class catering,
and threw parties for completing the work. The piecework shearers did nothing but swing the knife: the farms’ shepherds undertook the herding there and back, including gathering the animals to be sheared in the first place. Only Howard O’Keefe could not keep up. He had little help, which consisted entirely of young, inexperienced Maori from Helen’s school; as a result, the sheep shearers had to help gather the sheep and then assign them to paddocks after the shearing to make room in the shearing sheds. Howard, however, paid only for the shearing itself and not for the rest of the work. He had also lowered their wages the year before since the quality of the fleece was not sufficiently high and he partially blamed this on the shearers. Today he was paying for that.