Part 15

"Shut up," said the captain, "and show us where he lies."

They would have set to work on the broken boughs and twisted them into a stretcher; but there was nothing small enough for the purpose left above ground. They must turn the tent into a palanquin once again, and manage as Hal had done before them.

One and all agreed if the Maoris had been using threatening language to the suffering man's boy, they could not go their ways and leave him behind in the Maoris' country. "No, no," was passed from lip to lip, and they took their way to the hill.

Mr. Hirpington was himself again, and his geniality soon melted the frost amongst his new friends.

"So you have carried him blankets and food?" they said; and the heartiness of the "yes" with which he responded made them think a little better of him.

The steep was climbed. Mr. Lee heard the steady tramp approaching, and waked up Hal.

"Humph!" remarked the foremost man, as he caught sight of Hal. "I thought you said you brought them food."

"Are you sure you did not eat it all by the way?" asked another of Mr. Hirpington.

"Look at that poor scarecrow!" cried a third, as they scaled the hill and drew together as if loath to enter the gloom of the shadow flung by those tremendous trees. They gazed upwards at the giant branches, and closed ranks. More than one hand was pointing to the whitened skeleton.

"Do you see that?" and a general movement showed the inclination to draw back, one man slowly edging his way behind another. It left the captain in the forefront. Mr. Lee lifted a feeble hand.

"Oh, it is all right; there he is!" exclaimed the man of the sea, less easily daunted by the eerie qualms which seemed to rob his comrades of their manhood.

"We've come to fetch you home, old boy," he added, bending over Mr. Lee and asking for his sons. "Have you not two?"

"Yes, I've a brace of them," said the injured man, "Edwin, where is Edwin?"

"Edwin and Cuthbert," repeated the captain. "I have something to tell you about them. They are just two of the boldest and bravest little chaps I ever met with. If my mates were here they would tell you the same. But they have followed the fall of mud, and gone across the hills by Taupo. I was too footsore for the march, and so kept company with these surveying fellows."

The said fellows had rallied, and were grouped round Mr. Hirpington, who was pointing out the route they must take to reach the valley farm.

Two of the men started to carry their baggage to Mr. Hirpington's boat, intending to row to the ford and wait there for their companions. The canvas was taken down from the trees. Mr. Lee was bound to his board once more and laid within the ample folds, and slid rather than carried gently down the steep descent. The puzzle remained how one old man and two boys ever got him to the top alive. The party was large enough to divide and take turns at the carrying, and the walk was long enough and slow enough to give the captain plenty of opportunity to learn from Mr. Hirpington all he wanted to know about Mr. Lee and his boys. He gave him in return a picture of the deserted coast. "Every man," he said, "was off to the hills when my little craft went down beneath the earthquake wave. It was these young lads' forethought kept the beacon alight when the night overran the day. They saw us battling with the waves, and backed their cart into the sea to pick us up. Mere boys, they had to tie themselves to the cart, sir. Think of that."

Mr. Hirpington was thinking, and it made him look very grave. What had he been doing in the midst of the widespread calamity? Not once had he asked himself poor Audrey's question, but he asked it now as the captain went on: "A shipwrecked sailor, begging his way to the nearest port, has not much in his power to help another. But I will find out a man who both can and will. I mean old Bowen. He is one of our wealthiest sheep-owners, and he stands indebted to these two lads on the same count as I do, for his grandson was with me."

"His run is miles away from here," said Mr. Hirpington. "You cannot walk so far. Look out for some of Feltham's shepherds riding home; they would give you a lift behind them."

The party halted at the ford, where Mr. Hirpington found several of his own roadmen waiting for him. Nga-Hepe had faithfully delivered his message.

"Ah!" said Mr. Hirpington, "I knew he would, and I am going to keep my part of the bargain too. We are always friendly." He turned to Hal, and explained how he had sent to his mates to meet him at the ford. "Until they come," he added, "rest and eat, and recover yourself."

Since the arrival of the boat, Dunter had been getting ready, for he foresaw an increasing demand for breakfast, and his resources were very restricted. But he got out the portable oven, lit his fires, not so much in the yard, correctly speaking, as over it. "Breakfasting the coach" had given every one at the ford good practice in the art of providing. When the walking-party arrived they found hot rolls and steaming coffee awaiting them without stint. It brought the sunshine into many a rugged face as they voted him the best fellow in the world.

They circled round the fire to enjoy them. Nobody went down into the house but Hal, who resigned the care of Mr. Lee somewhat loathly. "I should have liked to have seen you in your own house before we parted," he muttered.

"No, no," said Mr. Lee; "you have done too much already. You will never be the man again that you have been, I fear."

The hearty hand-clasp, the look into each other's faces, was not quickly forgotten by the bystanders.

The air was full of meetings and partings. Mr. Hirpington was in the midst of his men. He was bound by his post under government to make the state of the roads his first care.

"When will the coach be able to run again?" was the question they were all debating, as a government inspector was on his way to report on the state of the hills; for few as yet could understand the nature of the unparalleled and unprecedented disaster which had overwhelmed them.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*WHERO TO THE RESCUE.*

The busy sounds of trampling feet, the many voices breaking the silence of the past days, roused Edwin effectually, and then he discovered that the door of the room in which he had slept resisted his most strenuous efforts to open it.

He called to Dunter to release him. No reply. A louder shout, accompanied by a sturdy kick at the immovable door, gave notice of his growing impatience. The kaka, which had been watching his determined efforts with exceeding interest, set up its cry of "Hoke, hoke!"

"We are caged, my bird," said Edwin; "both of us caged completely."

His eye wandered round in search of any outlet in vain. All his experiences since the night of the eruption had taught him to look to himself, and he turned to the window. It was securely shuttered and apparently barred.

"How strange!" he thought, as a sudden shock of earthquake made the iron walls around him rattle and vibrate, as if they too were groaning in sympathetic fear.

The kaka flew to him for protection, and strove to hide its head. Another tremor all around sent it cowering to the floor. Edwin stooped to pick it up, and saw that the thin sheet of iron which formed the partition between that room and the next had started forward. He found the knife which Dunter had left him, and widened the crack. He could slip his hand through it now. The walls were already twisted with the shocks they had sustained. He got hold of the iron with both hands, and exerting all his strength bent it up from the floor. His head went through. Another vigorous tug, another inch was gained; his shoulders followed, and he wriggled through at last in first-rate worm fashion.

"It is something to be thin," thought Edwin, as he shook himself into order on the other side. He was in another bedroom, exactly similar to the one he had left. Both were designed for the reception of "the coach;" but door and window were securely fastened, as in the other room. The sounds which had awakened him must have been the noise accompanying some departure, for he thought he could distinguish the splash of oars in the water, and words of leave-taking. But the voices were strange voices, which he had never heard before, and then all was profoundly still.

It dawned on Edwin now that perhaps he had not been shut in by accident, but that something had occurred. He was getting very near the truth, for he recalled Nga-Hepe's threats, and wondered whether friend or foe had made him a prisoner.

Well, then, was it wise to keep making such a row to get out? He began to see the matter in a different light. He lay down on the bed in the second room, determined to listen and watch; but in his worn-out condition sleep overcame him a second time.

The kaka missed his society, and followed to perch on his pillow. He was awakened at last by its scream. The window was open, and the bird was fluttering in and out in a playful endeavour to elude a hand put through to catch it. Edwin was springing upright, when his recent experiences reminded him of the need of caution. But the movement had been heard, and a voice, which he knew to be Whero's, said softly, "Edwin, my brother, are you awake?"

"Awake? yes! What on earth is the matter?" retorted Edwin.

"Hush!" answered Whero, looking in and laying a finger on his own lips. "Come close to the window."

Edwin obeyed as noiselessly as he could. Whero held out his hand to help him on to the sill.

"Escape," he whispered; "it is for your life."

His hands were as cold as ice, and his teeth were set. Edwin hesitated; but the look on Whero's face as he entreated him not to linger frightened him, already wrought up to a most unnatural state of suspicion by the tormenting feeling of being shut in against his will.

Any way, he was not going to lose a chance of getting out. It was too unbearable to be caged like a bird. He took Whero's hand and scrambled up. The Maori boy looked carefully around. All was dark and still. Again he laid his finger on his lips.

"Trust in me, my brother," he murmured, pointing to his canoe, which was waiting in the shadow of the rushes.

"Where are we going?" asked Edwin under his breath.

"To safety," answered Whero. "Wait until we are out of hearing, and I will tell you all."

He grasped Edwin's hand, and led him down the bank to the shingly bed of the river.

"Stop a minute," interposed Edwin, not quite sure that it was wise to trust himself altogether to the guidance of the young Maori. "I wish I could catch sight of Dunter. I want a word with him, and then I'll go."

"No, no!" reiterated Whero, dragging him on as he whispered, "No one here knows your danger. It is my father who is coming to take your life; but I will save you. Come!"

Edwin lay down in the bottom of the canoe as Whero desired, and was quickly covered over with rushes by the dusky hands of his youthful deliverer. A low call brought the kaka to Whero's shoulder, and keeping his canoe well in the shadows, he rowed swiftly down stream.

The brilliant starshine enabled him to steer clear of the floating dangers--the driftwood and the stones--which impeded their course continually.

"Are you hungry?" asked Whero, bending low to his companion. But Edwin answered, "No."

"Then listen," continued the excited boy. "My father has found this Lawford, the rabbiter you told me about. He was with one of the biggest gangs of pakehas, going back from the hills, every man with his spade. Had my father raised his club, it would have been quickly beaten out of his hand among so many. He knew that, and the pakehas talked fair. But this Lawford did not say as you say. He made my father believe it was you who asked him to go with you to the roadside, and dig between the white pines, to find a bag you had dropped in the mud; and so he dug down until you found it and took it away. You then went alone to the ruins at the ford, and he thinks you hid it in the hayloft. It was before the fordmaster and his people had returned. My father wanted these pakehas to come with him, and take it from you; but they all declared that was against the law of the pakehas. They would go their ways and tell their chief, who would send his soldiers for you. It was but a bag of talk. My father has been watching round the ford, waiting for them, yet they have not come."

"But, Whero," interposed Edwin, "Nga-Hepe cannot be sure that I was at the ford, for it was at the valley farm that he met me and took the horse."

"Does my father sleep on the track of an enemy?" asked Whero. "Has he no one to help him? My grandfather was following in the bush when he took the horse from you. The one went after Lawford, the other stayed to watch your steps. My grandfather saw you enter the ford; he saw the master leave it alone. A Maori eye has been upon the place ever since. They know you have not come out of the hole where you went in. Nothing has been done. What were the fordmaster's promises? what were Lawford's? A bag of talk. My father feels himself the dupe of the pakeha. A geyser is boiling in his veins. If you meet him you fall by his club. He will wait until the day breaks; he will wait no longer. At nightfall the old man, my grandfather, rowed back to the little kainga our people have made on the bank of the river."

"A kainga?" interrupted Edwin, breathlessly. "What is a kainga?"

"That is our name for a little village without a wall," explained Whero, hurrying on. "He came. He called the men together. They have gone up with clubs and spears. They will come upon the ford-house with the dawn, and force their way in to find the bag. The master cannot resist so many. O Edwin, my brother, I said I saved my kaka when they would have killed it; shall I not save my friend? I wanted to go with the men, that I might tell my father again how you have stood by me. And should I not stand by you? But my mother, Marileha, held me back. My grandfather kept on saying, 'I knew from the first it was the farmer's son who had robbed you. Was it he who helped us out of the mud? I saw him not. It was Ottley, the good coachman. Have we not all eyes?' 'Go not with them,' said my mother. 'What is talk? Your father will make you the same answer. Do they know the young pakeha as we do?' So I listened to my mother, and we made our plan together. I knew our men could not conceal themselves in the water; they must all be hidden in the bush. I filled my canoe with rushes. I rowed after them up the river, gliding along in the shadows. I climbed up the bank, under the row of little windows at the back of the ford-house, and listened. I heard my kaka scream, and I guessed it was with you. I was sure you would take care of it. I could see the windows were all cracked and broken with the earthquakes. The shocks come still so often I knew I had only to wait, and when I felt the ground tremble under my feet I smashed the window. Nobody noticed the noise when everything around us was rocking and shaking. You know the rest. We have an hour before us yet. I am rowing for the coast as hard as I can. Once on board a steamer no Maori can touch you. I have plenty of money to pay for our passage. My grandfather came to see me when I was at school, and gave me a lot to persuade me to stay. He was taking his money to the Auckland bank, for fear another tana should come. Then we can go and live among the pakehas."

"But where shall we go?" asked Edwin, struck with the ability with which Whero had laid his plan, and the ease with which he was carrying it out. "I only wish I could have spoken to Dunter or Mr. Hirpington before we came away; for what will they think of me?"

"Think!" repeated Whero; "let them think. Could I betray my father to them? Our hearts are true to each other. We have given love for love. Would they believe it? No. Would they have let you come away with me, Nga-Hepe's son? No. One word, my brother, and you would have been lost. A steamer will take us to school. They told me at Tauranga there was a school in every great town on the island, so it does not matter where it lands us; the farther off the better."

Marileha was watching for them on the bank. Whero waved his arms in signal of success, and shot swiftly past in the cold gray light of the coming day.

The eastern sky was streaked with red when the first farm-house was sighted. Should they stop and beg for bread? Whero was growing exhausted with continued exertion. He lifted his paddle from the water, and Edwin sat upright; then caution whispered to them both, "Not yet! wait a little longer." So they glided on beneath the very window of the room where Mrs. Hirpington was sleeping. One half-hour later she might have seen them pass.

The ever-broadening river was rolling now between long wooded banks. Enormous willows dipped their weeping boughs into the stream, and a bridge became visible in the distance as the morning sun shone out. The white walls of many a settler's home glistened through the light gauzy haze which hung above the frosted ground. Whero's aching arms had scarcely another lift left in them, when they perceived a little river-steamer with its line of coal-barges in tow.

Should they hail it and ask to be taken on board? No; it was going the wrong way. But Edwin ventured, now that the hills were growing shadowy in the dim distance, to sit upright and take his turn with the paddle, whilst Whero rested.

How many miles had they come? how many farther had they yet to go?

They watched the settlements on either side of the river with hungry eyes, until they found themselves near a range of farm-buildings which looked as if they might belong to some well-to-do colonist, and were in easy hail of the river-bank. They ran the canoe aground, and walked up to the house to beg for the bread so freely given to all comers through the length and breadth of New Zealand.

Invigorated by the hearty meal willingly bestowed upon a Maori boy on his way to school, they returned to the canoe; but the effort to reach the coast was beyond their utmost endeavour. Edwin felt they were now out of the reach of all pursuit, and might safely go ashore and rest, for Whero was ready to fall asleep in the canoe.

They were looking about for a landing-place, when, to his utter amazement, Edwin heard Cuthbert shouting to him from the deck of one of the little steamers plying up and down the river.

"By all that is marvellous," exclaimed Edwin, "if that isn't my old Cuth!"

He turned to his companion, too far under the influence of the dustman to quite understand what was taking place around him.

Cuthbert's shout of "Stop, Edwin, stop!" was repeated by a deep, manly voice. The motion of the steamer ceased. Edwin brought the canoe alongside.

"Where are you bound for?" asked his old acquaintance the captain of the coaster.

"Come on board," shouted Cuthbert.

The captain repeated his inquiry.

Whero opened his sleepy eyes, and answered, "Christchurch."

"I am a Christchurch boy," cried another voice from the deck of the steamer. "But the Christchurch schools are all closed for the winter holidays."

There were hurried questions exchanged between the brothers after father and Effie. But the answers were interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Bowen.

"Pay your rower," he shouted to Edwin, "and join our party. I am taking your little brother and sister home, for I am going to the hills to make inquiries into the state of distress."

Before Edwin could reply, Whero, with a look at the old identity as if he defied the whole world to interfere with him, was whispering to Edwin,--

"These men are fooling us. They will not take us to Christchurch. They are going the wrong way."

Edwin was as much alarmed as Whero at the thought of going back; but he knew Mr. Bowen had no authority to detain him against his will.

"Our errand admits of no delay," he answered, as he resigned the paddle to Whero.

The canoe shot forward.

"Good-bye! good-bye!" cried Edwin.

Sailors and passengers were exclaiming at their reckless speed, for Whero was rowing with all his might. The number of the boats and barges increased as they drew nearer the coast.

"Lie down again amongst the rushes," entreated Whero, "or we may meet some other pakeha who will know your English face."

Their voyage was almost at its end. They were in sight of the goal.

Black, trailing lines of smoke, from the coasting-steamers at the mouth of the river, flecked the clear brilliancy of the azure sky.

Edwin was as much afraid as Whero of another chance encounter. Audrey might turn up to stop him. Some one might be sending her home by water, who could say? Another of the shipwrecked sailors might be watching for a coaster to take him on board. So he lay down in the bottom of the canoe as if he were asleep, and Whero pulled the rushes over him.

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*MET AT LAST.*

The boys were recovering their equanimity, when the stiff sea-breeze blowing in their faces scattered the rushes and sent them sailing down the stream.

Whero drew his canoe to the bank as they came to a quiet nook where rushes were growing abundantly, that he might gather more.

Whero was out of his latitude, in a _terra incognita_, where he knew not how to supply the want of a dinner. How could he stop to discover the haunts of the wild ducks to look for their eggs? How could he reach the cabbage in the top of those tall and graceful ti trees, which shook their waving fronds in the wintry breezes? Ah! if it had been summer, even here he would not have longed in vain. His bundle of rushes was under his arm, when he noticed a hollow willow growing low to the river-side. A swarm of bees in the recent summer had made it their home, and their store of winter honeycomb had filled the trunk. Swarms of bees gone wild had become so frequent near the English settlements, wild honey was often found in large quantities. But to Whero it was a rare treat. He was far too hungry to be able to pass it by. He scrambled up the bank, and finding the bees were dead or torpid with the cold, he began to break off great pieces of the comb, and lay them on his rushes to carry away.

As he was thus engaged a man came through the clustering ti trees and asked him to give him a bit.

Whero was ready enough to share his spoils with the stranger, for there was plenty. As he turned to offer the piece he had just broken off, he saw he was an ill-looking man, with his hat slouched over his eyes, carrying a roll of pelts and a swag at the end of a stick, which had evidently torn a hole through the shoulder of the wretched old coat the man was wearing.

"Much craft on the river here?" asked the man. "Any barges passing that would take a fellow down to the coast?"

"I am a stranger here," answered Whero; "I do not know." As he spoke, his quick eye detected the stains of the hateful blue volcanic mud on the man's dirty clothes.

"I'll be off," he thought. "Who are you? You are from the hills, whoever you are."

He gave him another great piece of the honeycomb, for fear he should follow him to ask for more.

"That is so old," objected the man; "look how dark it is. Give me a better bit."

But he took it notwithstanding, and tried to put it in his ragged pocket. The holes were so large it fell through.

"There is plenty more in the tree," said Whero. "Why do you not go and help yourself?" He took up his rushes and walked quickly to the canoe.

Edwin was making a screen for his face with the few remaining rushes. Whero saw that he was looking eagerly through them, not at the honeycomb he was bringing, but at the man on the bank.

"Do you know him?" asked Whero.