Chapter 20

HMS Harrier

“I'm hoping this will cheer him up a little,” said Gerald to Wiremu, nodding toward Max who was yet to mount the gang plank and come aboard the ship.

“Me too,” agreed Wiremu quietly. “He doesn't hide it well, does he?”

“A girl?” asked Max's older brother.

“Just one,” confirmed Wiremu.

“She must have been quite a lady.”

“I think she probably is. Max certainly thought so.”

“Poor devil,” said Gerald, watching his younger brother start to make his way up the low gang plank that led onto the ship. As Max reached the top, the newcomers were joined by a fourth.

“Captain Wilks! Permission to board sir,” called Gerald, executing a lazy salute.

“Granted, Captain Skilton. Welcome aboard,” responded the ship's actual captain, in a voice used to shouting and accented heavily by a birth place somewhere on the British North Sea coast.

“Thank you old chap. May I present my brother, Maximilian Skilton and his friend Wiremu Marino.”

“Welcome aboard gentlemen,” said Wilks, extending his hand.

“Thank you Sir,” replied the boys, each taking the offered hand in turn and shaking it firmly. Captain Wilks was a tall, dark sea salt with only a hint of silver in his black beard. He wore his Navy uniform well, although Max knew that any friend of Gerald's would also possess a ready and wicked sense of humour, and a propensity for rule bending.

“Come up to the bridge,” said the captain, leading them away. “We will be ready to cast off shortly.”

Following on Wilks' heels the three visitors wound their way through iron breastwork that, like the rest of the ship, was heavily riveted and painted with thick grey paint. Any Ratings who were about saluted quickly, before returning to their work of readying the vessel to be away.

There wasn't a great deal of other superstructure on the boat's top side, just the conning tower, which they now mounted via an internal stairwell. A second more humble chart room or bunker house was immediately aft of the tower. Twin funnels gently puffed smoke and a little steam from the dormant engines below decks.

Upon gaining the bridge the two friends surveyed the ship with genuine interest. Sailors scurried about securing the last of the retracted shore lines and stowing any remaining gear. There were two swivel turrets, one mounted fore and one aft of the conning tower. Both had the black barrels of two mid-gauge Nordenfelts protruding from their sides. Wilks took the wheel, a classic wooden piece, and turned to his first mate, who had been awaiting them on the roofless bridge.

“All ship shape and dandy, sir,” rasped the mate, in response to his captain's look.

“Cast away then if you will Mr James.”

“Aye, aye," confirmed Mr James. Then leaning over the rail, he boomed down at the deck; "All hands make ready. Cast away!”

“Steam,” commanded the captain.

“Engines ho!” shouted Mr James down a speaking tube that evidently descended to the engine room below. Double puffs of black smoke rose from the funnels almost at once. Down near the gunwale a sailor drew in the bow line and taking up a pike used it to fend off the wharf. An action clearly more of habit than necessity.

The captain turned his wheel a few degrees starboard, pulled on the handles of the twin brass engine order telegraphs so that their pointers moved from 'standby ahead' to 'slow ahead.' He then yanked on the cord of his steam whistle so that it screamed impressively, and they were away, out into the green water of the inner harbour.

“So,” said Gerald, turning to his friend. “She is a little high in the water to be classed a monitor. How are they tagging her?

“Torpedo boat is what’s on the register,” answered Wilks.

“In what way?” responded Gerald.

“Well we aren’t waving a spar out the front!” laughed the Captain. Max knew what this meant. Torpedo boats carried a long lance, tipped with an explosive charge, that they would ram into the hulls of enemy vessels and detonate, with devastating effect. But this boat wasn't one of those.

“What, you have tubes?”

“You bet! We are carrying two Whiteheads right now.”

It took Max a moment longer to work out what this meant. Naturally, but nonsensically, he at first thought of mohoua albicilla the native Whitehead, a bird. But realised that 'Whiteheads' referred to the invention of one Robert Whitehead; the self-propelled locomotive torpedo.

“Impressive,” reflected Gerald. “What else is on board?”

“You can see the Nordenfelts. Pair aft are a few mill heavier. And we've got a Camel Gun... a Gatling I should say, stowed below, that we can mount almost anywhere, in case we come in danger of being boarded. But the main point is the torpedoes. Get in fast, let those fish swim and get out again.”

“I understand,” confirmed Gerald.

“We may get time to do a test launch today.”

“Hopefully,” replied Gerald, now watching the other shipping in the harbour. “Does she have a name?”

“HMS Harrier. But she only came off the slip at Limestone Bay yesterday. No one has attached the letters yet.”

“Bit poor.”

“Indeed. I almost refused to bring her across until it was done. But her pedigree got the better of me.”

Harrier. A good name. Especially for the task described.

Max settled in and also studied the other vessels in port. The Potato Boat from the Northern Isle was in, still loaded with its namesake and awaiting the stevedores. Cranes worked over other ships loading or unloading various cargoes. Colliers lined up near the ever-busy coal hoists, ready to take on board their owners share of the black fuel. A couple of larger Paddle steamers, possibility emigrant ships waited at the passenger docks. Then there were all the small boats moored and coming and going from their marina.

“What is that ship?” asked Max nodding toward a grey hulk, of slightly larger displacement than the Harrier. Wilks gave a small chuckle before answering.

“That's the Elizabeth Three.”

“Alistair Stewart's boat,” said Max quietly, narrowing his eyes.

“You know Mr Stewart, young man?”

“No, just the stories.”

“Indeed,” replied the Captain, before pushing the engine order telegraphs on so that the dials read 'half ahead.' A moment later more smoke puffed from the funnels and the Harrier surged toward the harbour mouth.

All things considered Collingwood's sea side was never a good place for a major port, Limestone Bay being a better choice by anyone’s reckoning. But colonial pride had got it done. Now two great arms of limestone, quarried from the Pohara hills, encircled the wharves on Beach Road. A floating dredge worked full time to keep the harbour and its approaches free from Aorere silt. Interestingly the dredge paid for its operation by running the seabed slurry over its own riffle-boxes and extracting a handsome profit in gold dust.

The Harrier's iron hull sliced though the slow rollers at the harbour mouth with ease, passing between the red and green lights on the breakwater ends, before Wilks swung her to port and ran along parallel to Gibbstown.

“The tide has ebbed and is running back out. I would like to try her twin screws against the flow of the river,” barked the Captain.

In another couple of minutes, they were in the channel and Wilks had the Harrier pointing due west, ready for a run up the river and past Wapping Point.

Max found some relief with the wind in his face. He still didn't feel much like talking, a fact that didn't seem to worry Wiremu, who was himself staying quiet.

The ship moved ahead slowly against the swift current, but when the Captain pushed the telegraph into its final sector 'full ahead' the Harrier began to outstrip the river wash impressively.

“Ah, ha!” crowed the captain standing at the wheel. “She's a fine bit of boiler work.” The crew down on the deck were also making their appreciation for their ship's power known with loud “whoops” and “hip hips.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“She'll be the envy of every skipper who has to wait for high tide to make this run,” reflected Gerald.

“Aye, aye!” agreed the first mate.

Max followed the line of Wiremu's eye. He was watching the buildings and trees on Wapping Point as they slid by on the port side. No one seemed to be about.

“Look there,” said Wiremu, when he became aware that Max was also observing the old Pā and the Northerner's new home. “That white post on the dune there and another further along." Max spotted the posts his friend was indicating and could just make out the faint carved lines on them, a menacing face on one.

“The Pou whenua?” he asked, recalling their earlier conversation, and already knowing the answer.

“Exactly,” replied Wiremu, gripping the rail.

Max would have certainly missed the ancient marker posts if Wiremu hadn't pointed them out. But before they came level with the end of the point he had spotted a third, mouldering in the shade of an introduced pine tree. They both missed something else until Gerald tactlessly pointed it out.

“There is a lovely for you Wiremu.”

The two friends followed Gerald's nod and saw what, or more who, he was referring to. But she wasn't lovely.

Standing down amongst the rocks at the water’s edge, only a stone’s throw away, was the girl Mahuika. Expressionlessly she stared at them with her black, skull like eyes. Max felt a creeping dread at the sudden sight of her and wished for the first time in his life that he was a Catholic, just so he could cross himself. But all that he could do was stare back dumbly. Gerald waved merrily but elicited no response. Wiremu was the first to look away.

“The river can keep her,” he said.

It didn't help Max's imaginings that he remembered that Wiremu had referred to her as 'Kai-he-raki', a witch. As they drew away she parted her black lips and he saw the line of white teeth, bared in an animal-like snarl.

* * *

“Put a torpedo in the middle pile,” joked Gerald. They lay just downstream from the first Aorere bridge, the Harrier's twin steam engines chugging slowly and allowing them to hold their place in the swift flow.

“Oh but for a Black Sea port or a Russian dreadnought across our bow,” lamented the captain. A moment later he flicked the handle on the starboard telegraph from 'slow ahead' through 'stop' and onto 'full astern'. Beneath them, the starboard screw began to spin anticlockwise while the port maintained clockwise. “She's too shallow up under the bridge for us. We had best head back out,” added Wilks as the ship started to rotate and fall away with the current. Once they were facing down river again both telegraph handles were set to 'full ahead' and they shot back the way they had come, past the shore at Wapping Point, now deserted, and back out to sea.

“What would you like for your birthday Max?” asked Gerald, leaning in closer to his younger brother.

“You've a birthday coming up?” asked Wiremu, his cheeky smile back in place. They were steaming out to the gunnery targets, where Wilks promised they would put the ships ordinance though a few simple tests.

“I have,” confirmed Max. “But I haven't given it much thought.”

“There's a dour fellow,” teased Gerald. “One should always look for reasons to celebrate.” Max couldn't see any, therefore his approaching birthday just seemed like another job to get though. He shrugged.

“It's still three weeks away.”

“Well we'll need all of that to organise a worthwhile party,” stated Gerald happily.

“Forget it.”

“Alright. So, you don't need anything?”

“Nothing I can think of.” At least nothing money can buy me. Max sighed. “Sorry. I don't mean to be an ass...”

“I know, it happens naturally,” interrupted Gerald.

“...I really haven't given it much thought.”

“How about a sword!? Would you like a real sword? I could raid the armoury at the base and see what I can find.”

That brought Max up short. Again, he hadn't given it much thought, but a sword did appeal.

It would have to be something practical, otherwise it would just hang on his wall, a satisfying folly, but a folly all the same. Most of the Whites had their own weapons.

A slow smile crept onto his face.

“I admit, a sword would be nice. Something I could use in class. A practice foil or maybe even a dull sabre.”

“I'll see what I can do,” said Gerald, patting him on the back. Max's mind had gone back to fencing class.

“Any ideas for me?” asked Wiremu.

“From you my friend... a black handkerchief!”

“A black handkerchief!” repeated Wiremu, a little surprised. “And why would you want such a thing?

“Because I can't have a white one. And have decided therefore that I do not care for them!”

Three images from that day remained with Max. Two continued to impress him while he was awake. The third haunted his dreams. The first two were linked. The simple pleasures of watching the Harrier's twin, six-pound Nordenfelts chewing away on the painted slats of one of the Bay's gunnery buoys until it was just drift wood and paint flecks floating on the swell. Then seeing the long white wake of the torpedoes as they streaked out from the ship's bow, one to destroy a buoy spectacularly, the second to miss and cruise off into the bay, before sliding beneath the waves to become a tenuous home for barnacles, mussels, and mud crabs.

The third image only came to him when eyes were closed, and his mind tried to rest. Mahuika down by the water. Charcoal eyes, hair, and chin. Then when her black lips finally parted a tongue of orange flame darted from her mouth, and in it was the fire of woe and the coming of doom.

This dream woke Max in a cold sweat, twice that Saturday night.

* * *

“Sabres?” asked Julian Roil, opening a long wooden box and letting Max peer in. Two blunt edged practice swords lay within the black velvet confines.

“If you think it wise,” responded Max.

“I think it is wise and slightly entertaining for you to stay a little ahead of the rest of your class.”

Max gave an amused snort at that, he could agree.

Roil retrieved a sabre and handed it, hilt first, to Max. Max noticed the heavier weight at once. Like the foil that he had become used to, the sabre also had a bell guard. But unlike on the foil, the bell was linked to the pommel by the arch of a knuckle guard. Max turned the sword though a basic figure of eight a couple of times as he assessed the heft and length of the steel. The blade was flat and sliced the air where the foil would have whipped.

“In foil, you score, as you know, by impact, thrust. But with Sabre while a point can come from impact, it is more likely from a blow, a slash, a cut, if you will.”

Max nodded his understanding and Julian went on. “Most other aspects are similar. Certainly, in theory. But this one difference alters much in practice. Where foil can appear precise, almost delicate, sabre, while no less precise in its own way, tends toward a more vigorous style. This is because the aim is no longer to simply prick, but to slash. And I do not say 'prick' to belittle it, for prick is enough to kill a man. Nor do I say 'slash' as an approximation of bash or smash. We are not training to become mindless berserkers.” Then with a small smile. “And of course, the good captain would also not have us speaking of killing or even of swords. So, foils and sabres.”

Max moved en-guard.

“This more vigorous style of duelling, brought about by the use of a blow, cut, slash, whatever, means that 'the line' is readily abandoned and transforms into a ring. A ring that has more in common with boxing than foil.”

“From two dimensions to three,” reflected Max.

“In practice, quite often, yes,” confirmed Julian. “As you can imagine the foot work is more than just forward and back along the line. Now we use sidestep, pass, cross and a series of more complex feints become available. But enough talk.” Julian positioned himself en-guard in front of Max.

As Max had been warned, Sabre was a much more robust workout. Blows came in from every angle, each naturally requiring parry and if possible riposte. He could tell, even as he walked to class that Monday afternoon, that his entire upper body would be stiff come the next morning.