Mr Busby’s lawn was positively packed now. The half-dozen policemen who had accompanied Hobson from Sydney paraded importantly about, their mounts scattering people in all directions and their splendid scarlet uniforms eclipsed only by the gowns of the prostitutes from Kororareka, the garish greens, yellows and blues making the women as conspicuous as parrots in a flock of sparrows. Simon doffed his hat good-naturedly as one winked at him.
The children came back clutching pies. Grace bit enthusiastically into hers, then looked up at Kitty in dismay as gravy squirted down the front of her white pinafore.
Oh dear, there goes half an hour of someone’s precious time bent over the washboard, Kitty thought. ‘Never mind,’ she said aloud.
‘Kitty?’ Alice said as she wiped her face on the back of one hand and balanced her pie in the other.
‘Mmm?’
‘Are you going to marry Mr Bullock?’
‘Er, well—’
‘Oh, look,’ Simon said quickly, ‘here comes your mother. Shall we go and say hello?’
‘You could say hello to me,’ a voice behind Kitty said.
The hairs on her arms prickling, Kitty turned around slowly. ‘Good morning, Captain Farrell.’
He grinned at her in that irritating manner he had. ‘Good morning, Miss Carlisle. You’re looking as winsome as ever. Good morning, Mr Bullock.’
Simon nodded genially. ‘Captain.’
‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ Rian said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Kitty’s face began to heat up.
‘Your forthcoming engagement to Mr Bullock here.’
Simon looked uncomfortable, whereas Kitty wasn’t sure where to look. The short silence began to stretch into a long one.
Rian raised his eyebrows. ‘Forgive me, but I was told by a very reliable source that your engagement is imminent.’
‘And what source might that have been?’ Kitty asked.
‘Your aunt, actually, not half an hour ago. She seems terribly pleased about it.’
Kitty should have known. ‘Actually—’ she began.
‘I wouldn’t normally pry,’ Rian interrupted. ‘It’s just that I’d appreciate fair warning to give me time to find a suitable gift for you both.’ He seemed to find this all very amusing.
Kitty and Simon exchanged a look.
‘Oh dear,’ Rian said heartily. ‘I haven’t got it wrong, have I? Is there
not
to be an engagement now? A lovers’ tiff, perhaps?’
The three Purcell children looked on avidly, pie-filling all over their faces.
Kitty, at a complete loss for words, was beginning to lose her temper. Fortunately, Rebecca bustled over then with Harriet still propped on her hip, although the two older children seemed to have disappeared. ‘There you are! I might have known you’d be by the food stalls. I hope
they haven’t been a nuisance, Kitty.’
‘No, they’ve been fine,’ Kitty said, grateful for the interruption.
A murmur from the crowd made them all turn and watch as Bishop Pompallier grandly made his way up from the beach. Dressed in full ecclesiastical regalia and accompanied by one of his priests, he was a majestic sight, the rich embroideries on his purple vestments gleaming and the sun reflecting off the massive gold crucifix around his neck. Without stopping to speak to anyone, he swept imperiously across the lawn to Busby’s house and disappeared inside, ignoring the guards who stepped forward to intercept him. Impressed, the Maoris in the crowd commented to each other on his mana, while the Church Missionary Society missionaries and the Wesleyans from the Hokianga muttered about his cheek.
The diversion seemed to distract Captain Farrell from his questions and he took his leave. Not much happened for another hour or so, except for the arrival of even more people; Simon said he thought there could easily be six or seven hundred on the lawn by now. He and Kitty wandered aimlessly about, enjoying the atmosphere of expectation and excitement. They greeted Mr Colenso, who was looking very tired as he’d been up almost every night printing since Hobson had arrived, talked with Haunui, who was also thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, sat on the grass and had a cup of tea with the Taits, chatted to Mrs Williams who seemed a little tense, greeted various other people they knew, and made an effort to avoid George and Sarah—Sarah because of what she had said to Rian Farrell, and George because he was always best avoided these days if possible.
Then, at midday and preceded by four of the now dismounted policemen from Sydney, Busby and his party reappeared and made their way to the huge marquee. Observers were amused or enraged to varying degrees to see Bishop Pompallier and his priest jostling forward in the procession to get in front of Reverend Williams.
Inside the marquee a long table had been set up on a platform at one end and draped with a Union Jack. A colourful selection of the
Herald’s
flags had also been hung, adding to the gaiety of the occasion. There was
room only for the most important of the Maori chiefs and their advisers inside, almost two hundred of them. They sat in their finery on mats on the ground, long lethal-looking taiaha—the trappings of both ceremony and war—adorned with dog tails and crimson cloth and red feathers bristling upwards, and the smoke from their pipes clotting the already stifling air. Kitty and Simon threaded their way through the knots of people sitting on the grass and slipped inside the marquee, squeezing themselves in among the other settlers and missionaries standing against the canvas walls. Tupehu, sitting near the front, glanced up but did not acknowledge them.
With great ceremony, Hobson sat down with Reverend Williams on his right and Captain Nias, Busby and Bishop Pompallier on his left. George and the Paihia missionaries arranged themselves behind Reverend Williams, and the various other officials and dignitaries fitted themselves in where they could. The people crowding directly in front of the table were politely ushered back to make a space in which to allow orators to present their opinions.
A hush fell over the marquee, and spread slowly out to those on the lawn, until the silence was almost complete. The Union Jack on the flagpole was lowered to signify the fact that sovereignty had not yet been officially attained.
Hobson stood up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this meeting is mainly the concern of the Maori people, in order to give an opportunity of discussing our proposals for ceding the sovereignty of their country to Queen Victoria. Thank you.’
Then, referring to copious notes on the table in front of him, he started to speak to the Maoris present, leaving gaps between his words to allow Reverend Williams to translate into the native language. After bringing them greetings from Queen Victoria, he coughed, and straightened his papers before continuing. ‘The Queen of England asks all of you to sign this treaty. I ask you for this publicly. I do not go from one chief to another. I will give you time to consider of the proposal I shall now offer you. What I wish you to do is expressly for your own good, as you will soon see by the treaty. You yourselves have often asked the King
of England to extend his protection to you. Her Majesty now offers you that protection in this treaty. I think it is not necessary to say any more about it. I will therefore read the treaty.’
Kitty was as interested as the next person to hear the text of the document Busby, Hobson and Reverend Williams had been slaving over during the last week, but, despite the rumours, she was surprised to hear how little there really was to it. It didn’t sound any better when Reverend Williams read it out in Maori.
‘Is that it?’ she whispered to Simon.
‘Shush,’ he whispered back. ‘There might be more.’
But there wasn’t. Feeling someone’s gaze on her, Kitty glanced to her left to see Captain Farrell staring directly at her. She stared back. Finally he gave her a small, odd smile and she dropped her eyes.
Reverend Williams then invited the chiefs to respond by expressing their views or asking for clarification of the treaty document.
There was a short silence, broken when Busby stood up and launched into a speech assuring the chiefs that the treaty did not mean that they would lose their lands, but that they would be guaranteed continued possession of lands they hadn’t already sold. However, as he sailed on to point out that naturally he himself didn’t recognise land that had been improperly purchased, he was rudely interrupted.
Te Kemara, a local chief, rose to his feet and stalked across to the open space in front of the table.
With a dramatic, sweeping gesture of his arm that took in all of the dignitaries, Te Kemara began. ‘I do not wish for you,’ he declared loudly. ‘I will not consent to you remaining here.’
He spoke rapidly, Reverend Williams translating as quickly as he could. There was a gasp from many of the Europeans in the crowd, but worse was to come. Te Kemara bluntly accused Reverend Williams of taking his land at Waitangi, then, lunging across the table and poking an accusing finger at Busby, added vehemently, ‘
You,
you bald-headed man.
You
have taken
all my
lands.’
Mr Busby looked aghast. Reverend Williams continued to translate, but was clearly feeling very uncomfortable.
Alarmed, Kitty bit her lip—Haunui had warned her it might begin like this. Nevertheless, she was a little perturbed to find that she was almost enjoying the looks of horror on the previously sanctimonious faces surrounding her.
Te Kemara sat down and the great chief Rewa stood up in his place. ‘How d’ye do, Mr Governor,’ he said in English.
Relieved laughter erupted and the Europeans in the tent visibly relaxed, although not for long, as Rewa also told Hobson to go home and complained about the Waimate missionaries Richard Davis and George Clarke taking
his
land.
Then a chief from Kororareka accused the missionary Charles Baker of doing the same thing.
The atmosphere of conviviality and fellowship inside the marquee was quickly evaporating. Clearly, proceedings were not going as well as Captain Hobson might have hoped.
Both Reverend Williams and James Busby stoutly defended their land purchases. Kitty glanced across at Rian Farrell again, and saw that once more he was watching her. He raised a sardonic eyebrow.
Then, finally, a chief named Tamati Pukututu declared that he for one wished the Crown to stay, and spoke in favour of the treaty, but was quickly followed by Kawiti and Tareha, both chiefs who believed that the treaty would see their lands stripped from them, and then Tupehu, who voiced the same concerns. Kitty refrained from rolling her eyes—like everyone else, she knew that, of all the chiefs who’d sold land to the missionaries and the settlers, Tupehu had driven the hardest bargains, although he’d been complaining ever since that he’d been robbed blind. For years he’d taken whatever else he could from the missionaries, but now, true to character, he seemed to have decided that their presence, and that of any other Europeans, would not be beneficial to the Maoris.
Kitty noted that Reverend Williams, who had been translating continually for almost two hours now, was beginning to appear very tired. He kept removing his spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose.
Then Hone Heke rose to his feet and made his way to the speaking
area in front of the table. The murmuring, fidgeting and coughing in the marquee died away as everyone waited eagerly to hear what he would have to say.
The great man paced slowly back and forth in front of the table, his head down, apparently deep in thought. Suddenly he halted in front of Hobson and threw his hands up theatrically, before launching into a formal speech of support for the governor, the missionaries, and Pakeha in general.
As Heke went on in the same vein at length, Busby and Hobson began to visibly relax. Chief Hakitara then spoke, followed by the legendary Tamati Waka Nene. Kitty was surprised by his benign and mild appearance—she had fully expected a man who wielded such power and influence to at least look ferocious. He spoke eloquently and persuasively: it was too late for his people to try to evict the Europeans and their influence, the governor should be looked upon as a protector whose presence would ensure peace and the treaty be regarded as a guarantee of freedom from enslavement.
Simon elbowed Kitty gently and smiled in satisfied vindication: Tamati Waka Nene had summarised his own views exactly.
The chief’s brother Patuone followed with similar comments, and as he sat down Kitty could see Tupehu nodding almost imperceptibly, his ugly face creased in thought. Would he change his mind about signing the treaty?
Hobson stood up and announced that, as it was now four o’clock in the afternoon, the meeting would be adjourned until Friday, 7 February, at eleven o’clock, to give the chiefs time to consider his proposal. Someone called for three cheers for Hobson and everyone began filing out of the marquee.
Kitty emerged from the tent, blinking in the still-bright sunshine. She was dying to relieve herself but would have to wait until she got back to the house—there was nowhere she could do it here with any sort of decorum.
‘What now?’ Simon asked, lifting his hat and scratching his sweaty forehead.
‘Home, I suppose,’ Kitty replied. ‘I should find Amy and Wai. Aunt Sarah is expecting them to get the supper on. Are you staying until Friday?’
Simon nodded. ‘With the Williamses. I expect Reverend Williams will be here half the night, but I should probably ask Mrs Williams if she would like me to escort her home.’
Captain Farrell waved at them and came over.
Simon asked, ‘What did you think?’
Rian shrugged. His playful mood seemed to have dissipated and his eyes were bleary, but Kitty supposed that everyone who’d been in that stuffy marquee for four hours had bleary eyes, herself included. This close she could smell him: a hint of fresh sweat, salt sea air, and something less definable but equally tantalising.
‘Te Kemara and his cronies don’t seem too keen,’ he said, ‘and neither does Tupehu.’
Kitty said, ‘I thought he looked like he might be changing his mind.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that, and people do tend to listen to him. But Hone Heke and Tamati Waka Nene spoke persuasively, and they both have a lot of influence as well.’