Chapter Seven

Privateer

Dickie met Max on the Library steps at three o'clock.

“I see you haven't wasted any time in making use of the services,” he said, nodding toward the pile of books in Max's arms.

“Just some light reading. Good to stay ahead of the curve.”

“Indeed. Let us see what you've got there.”

Max juggled the books and read out the titles.

“A Thousand Miles up the Nile by Amelia B. Edwards”

“Right, starting light.”

“Prehistoric Times, as illustrated by ancient remains, and the manners and customs of modern savages. By John Lubbock.”

“And getting heavy quick!”

“One on the Crusades and another on the Rosetta Stone.”

“Aha.”

“And that is about it,” Max lied.

“Oh no. I can see another couple hiding there!”

Max could feel the heat rising in his face, but there was no escape.

“Ok,” he sighed. “A Practical Treatise on the Steam Engine, by Arthur Rigg.”

“Ha that's hot off the press!” laughed Dickie. “I haven't even read it yet. You have got it bad. You poor devil!”

Max rolled his eyes.

“And one more.”

Max held up a new paperback and looked away.

“Of course! Finishing very light. The all New Adventures of Captain Von Tempsky, Hero of Van Diemen's Land.”

“By John Wilson” finished Max.

“By Gustavus Ferdinand von Tempsky,” corrected Dickie.

“Oh not you too! Gerald goes on about that. Pseudonyms! I doubt it. I mean Von Tempsky he would be an old man by now.”

“Sure," agreed Dickie. "But not within the pages of... The all New Adventures!”

Max rolled his eyes.

“Anyway. How was your first day back, Richard?” asked Max, trying to change the subject.

“Oh fairly similar to my last one. A bit of this and a bit of that. We'll even have a steam race to mirror it. You? How was your first day in the wonderful world of Victoria University? Actually, tell me while we walk. We've got an hour before the race. I'll buy you a coffee.”

So while Dickie, seldom ever called Richard, led Max through the heart of the city in search of two coffees, Max told the story of his eventful first day. It began with seeing two Chinese students, one a young man called something Wang, whom he had met. And the second a beautiful young lady whom he maybe would like to meet. The main event, of course, had been Wiremu's interaction with The Five and Max's sudden and surprising part in it.

There also had been some facts to share about his first lectures, which had all been embryonic, about course objectives, stationary, required texts and timetables. Although in each Max had sensed the stirring of new life, the budding of promise, blank pages yet to be filled with new learning, the hint of yet undiscovered lands. Professor Wynyard had even dragged the Tash Pen Khonsu Mummy across from the Museum as a visual aid to help inspire his new Archaeology intakes.

As they walked it became clear that Dickie had a destination in mind. Max did not concern himself over-much with where this might be. But instead, simply enjoyed being out on the busy streets, reflecting together on their respective days.

The current proclamation being shouted by the newspaper boys was that that the construction of the Haast Pass railway was... “moving ahead full steam.” But the noisy pavements of the capital made that particular engineering frontier seem a world away, indeed it was happening at the literal edge of the Empire. Here in the heart of the Dominion such pioneering work had long been completed. The streets were paved, guttered, drained, sumped and sewered. While to either side of them the majority of buildings in the city proper reached a grand height of no less than three storeys. The splendid Takaka Marble featured predominately as the building material of choice, but other imported and local limestones added both lighter and darker tones to the mason's work.

Just as in all modern cities various architectural styles and trends vied for dominance, and various patterns could be observed. For example, Government buildings and banks, institutions that required trust, seemed to take after the established 'neo-classical style.' These were 'boxy' square monuments that hinted at Greek and Roman influences, with pillars or columns supporting geometric façades and domed roofs. Educational and religious buildings, institutions that encouraged the populous to reach above themselves, however, could be observed as having opted for a more medieval, 'Gothic' style - ornate, romantic, pointed, high. The rest of the city, which fell someplace between the two, call it the 'religion of commerce', naturally employed a mix of the two styles.

Here and there close arcades and bazaars cut at right angles between the main thoroughfares. The best of these were crowded with small dark shops and semi-permanent stalls. In such one could find, along with everyday market wares, novelties and curios that were otherwise absent from the shelves of the more reputable stores. Imported goods with limited markets, such things as; Asian Spices, Trinkets from the Far and Middle East that quickly came into fashion before falling out again, African masks, rugs and other textiles, unwanted battlefield trophies and relics from South Africa, the Crimean and the American War, could all be bought by the discerning collector or gullible fool. It would also be fair to say that in such places items that were not meant to be found, could at times, be found.

It was out of one such arcade that Dickie led Max so that they found themselves on Blenheim Street and in front of a café named 'The Revolution Industrial.'

“Sounds a bit Frenchie,” said Max sceptically.

“I guess. Maybe a tad occidental. But I enjoy it,” replied Dickie, peering up at the dark shop front with it’s gold fringed red lettering. “Don't worry Napoleon lost his job as head barista last week, we'll be safe.”

Max followed Dickie in, a small bell jangling as he closed the door behind them. The air inside was warm and heavy with the rich, sweet scent of good coffee. They made their way to the counter where a young lady with slightly too much rouge, the burlesque kind of too much, waited to serve them. To Max's surprise she greeted Dickie by name.

“Good afternoon, Miss Alice,” he responded. “Two doubles and a tray. If you would be so kind.” She inclined her head before gliding away to operate the huge steaming, bronze piped coffee machine. Max removed his hat and followed Dickie to a small table near the front window.

“Aren’t we the man about town?” mused Max as they took their seats. The library books were piled against the wall.

“Not at all,” replied Dickie toying with a linen napkin. “If you only ever go to one café, you will only ever be known in one café. But at least you will be known.” That sounded fair. “As you are aware I don't major in any one subject. So I don't have a café on campus to call my own. I come here if I need to. Much less... shall we say... mono-cultural.”

Max looked around. Of the ten tables in the room only two had other people at them; a couple of young ladies chattering happily together at one, and a shaggy looking gent occupying another against the back wall.

Multi-cultural indeed.

The wall behind the counter had been painted in a large landscape mural. The style was romantic, vintage and a little comical. In it top-hatted gentlemen controlled old fashioned trains, Max could easily identify a Stephenson’s Rocket, competing with a Buffing Billy, a Lafayette and a Dewitt Clinton to fiery train loads of happy, bonneted ladies over rolling hills between fine many steep-hilled and multi-chimneyed cities. All of which seemed to be letting off a less than realistic amount of toxic coal smoke. Over the whole scene a couple of ornate dirigibles quietly rode the high thermals. An old station clock had also been affixed to the wall, giving the appearance that it hung in the sky, held there by the sheer force of its own inevitability and irresistible forward march. The mural then; a utopian vision of a fully realised society. No bloody armies filled the green hills, only the occasional field of golden corn. No wild forests teeming with danger, only well-placed oak trees and solitary dairy cows.

Dickie was speaking again.

“After 'Steamers' this place has the best machine and therefore the best coffee in town.”

The two double shot cups arrived then, accompanied by a silver tray service with milk, sugar and additional hot water. The young men mixed their coffees to their own particular preferences in silence.

Max watched to see if Dickie's eyes lingered on Alice as she retreated to the counter. She possessed an attractiveness that hadn’t been initially obvious to him. He suspected that there was in fact a subversive intelligence behind her fashion choices, as if she chose the slightly risqué to create a visual juxtaposition, to disguise or even highlight a depth of character. Max sincerely doubted that she had ever danced the can-can. But his acquaintance's full attention remained on the construction of his coffee; milk and two sugars, in that order.

The aforementioned 'Steamers' was the name of the Engineering Department's café on campus. It was well known that the students themselves had built the coffee machine housed there, and that it delivered perfect hot water to the grinds and steam to the milk every time. Not that anyone outside the Engineering Department ever got to taste it.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

Each of the main departments had their own watering holes either on campus or close to the University precinct. In such places students could meet and relax among their own, while projecting a certain departmental image to the wider college. Cafés of note were: the Engineer's 'Steamers', Aeronautic's 'Altitude' which was known more often as 'The Gas Bag', one combined café for Archaeology and History called 'The Forum', two separate cafés for Architecture; the Classic's 'Vitruvius' and the Gothic Revivalist's "Hawksmoor'. The Civil Engineers also had a bar called 'The Brick & Girder.' There was a sports bar that allowed entrance to anyone with membership in one of the school's teams, and his lady. A team blazer, pin or crest badge had to be worn at the door for this to be granted. The faculty staffroom also had a private bar.

Not unlike Dickie, first year students had no café of their own on campus, and they would not dare enter any of the departmental cafés unless specifically invited, an event that was normally considered a great honour. So until their major was established the first year students made their temporary home on campus in the big, soulless, 'Canteen'.

“This is good,” remarked Max, taking the first sip of his coffee. Dickie nodded in acknowledgement, having only just completed the stir.

“So have you chosen an elective yet?” he asked cradling his cup in two hands and drawing the smell deep into his nostrils.

“I have enrolled for fencing.”

“Really?” said Dickie with a crooked smile. “And do you know who the new tutor is?”

“Actually, no,” responded Max, wondering at Dickie's amusement and feeling a little defensive already. The latter reached over and with his finger tapped the paperback on the top of the pile of library books.

“Von Tempsky? No!”

Dickie nodded his head.

“But he would be...”

“...an old man,” Dickie interrupted. “It's an old subject.”

Max was taken quite by surprise and couldn't tell if his leg was being pulled.

“But he is hardly faculty material!”

“And it's hardly a degree level course.”

Max sat back and regarded Dickie sceptically.

“I'm telling the truth Max! You are going to be trained by your hero!”

“Oh! He is hardly my hero. I simply find the books... amusing.”

“Of course, of course,” smirked Dickie into his coffee.

“And you?”

“Do I find him amusing? I find you amusing.”

“No. Electives?”

“Oh, I'll be sticking with Flying, Aeronauts Club. Need to maintain my dirigible airtime hours.”

Max nodded. No surprises there. And took another sip of his coffee.

“This is really good,” he stated again, lowering his half-finished cup back to its plate.

Dickie nodded his agreement.

“There is a reason why I have brought us here.”

“Oh yes? Other than passing the time over fine coffee?” Max raised a questioning eye brow.

Dickie steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and glanced toward the large station clock on the wall above the counter. Max followed his eyes, 3:15.

“A little meeting...”

“Right,” interrupted Max, quickly feeling frustrated at his acquaintance's duplicity. “And who am I supposed to meet?”

“Not you. And not I,” responded Dickie, ignoring the tone of Max's reaction. “A little meeting that I think is rather important for you to observe.”

Max didn't know what Dickie was talking about.

“What you and... Alice, over there?”

Dickie shook his head and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“In your own time and in a way that isn't too obvious, mark the gent seated at the back table.”

“Right,” said Max flatly, having noted him earlier.

“I have made some discreet inquires on your behalf and it turns out he is none other than Alistair Stewart.”

Max threw up his hands in exasperation.

“Dickie! What are you talking about? Alistair Stewart!? Discreet inquires on my behalf?! What? You did what? I got off at Central Station and you have taken this train on to... I don't know what you are on about!” Max fought to keep his voice low.

Dickie held up his hands.

“All will be explained.”

“Right.”

“The first question, naturally is; who is Alistair Stewart?”

“I have no idea,” answered Max, unsure whether he should be impatient with, angry at or feel sorry for Dickie. He felt all three.

“Think about our history,” prodded Dickie. It was clear that he was going to do this the hard way.

“Oh yes! He is the Queen of Scotland. No, no can't be, his head is still attached!”

Dickie smiled indulgently.

“Wrong spelling and wrong history.”

“I know,” said Max, before continuing with ill-grace. “Stewart! He is an island down south. No can't be. I mean No man is an island!”

Dickie laid his hands on the table in front of them and lent forward slightly, his voice still low.

“Alistair Stewart, my ill-informed friend, is the son of Patrick Stewart, who was in turn the son of John Stewart.”

Dickie sat back. Max looked blank, still underwhelmed. Dickie sighed and lent forward yet again.

“Listen. John Stewart, this gentleman's grandfather, was the captain of a brig, that's a sailing ship, called the Elizabeth. John Stewart was an opportunist and a rogue. Now stay with me. Back in 1830 Stewart struck a commercial deal with the Ngati Toa leader Te Rauparaha, have you heard of him?”

Max nodded sullenly.

Dickie continued.

“The deal was that Stewart would hide Te Rauparaha and one hundred of his warriors in the hold of his ship...”

“The Elizabeth,” supplied Max.

“And transport them from their Pā on Kapiti Island to an enemy's village on Banks Peninsula. The plan worked very well. Stewart lured the Ngai Tahu chief Te Maiharanui aboard his ship with talk of trade, flax for muskets or some such. No sooner was the chief on board than Te Rauparaha and his men sprang up and grabbed him, along with his wife and daughter. The warriors then razed Te Maiharanui's settlement! The whole thing was a sordid affair, which didn't end there. Stewart returned the raiders to Kapiti. But while aboard his ship, beneath his feet, the captive Te Maiharanui strangled his own daughter and threw her body overboard, so that she would not be enslaved!” Despite himself Max was listening now. Dickie went on in a harsh whisper. “When they reached the island, the widows of some chiefs previously slain by Te Maiharanui in an earlier battle, slowly tortured him and his wife to death. For his part Stewart sailed away a rich man. Now the whole Utu, inner-tribal thing was common enough, but the idea of an Englishman cashing in, making a quick buck from another's suffering just turns the blood!”

“Really!? You don't know many Englishmen.”

“Maybe I don't. And maybe then I don't want to!”

“Sorry what has this got to do with me?”

“No I'm sorry, I'll get to that.”

Dickie drained the last of his coffee and continued with his history lesson.

“Now Stewart couldn't be prosecuted, although the missionaries sorely wanted it, because back then the Māori were regarded as savages and pagans and thus couldn't be trusted to tell the truth in a court of law. Thus John Stewart was free to go on and among other things have a son.”

“Patrick.”

“Indeed. Now the son was, as they say 'an apple that didn't fall far from the tree.' But while the powers that be had previously tried to imprison father John, they instead now employed son Patrick. They gave him a new steel steamer, which he named Elizabeth II, and sent him to use his considerable skills in doing their bloody work across the oceans of the world. He did this well, but finally met his end years ago on the Black Sea, in the sights of one of the Tzar's Dreadnoughts. This brings us to Alistair.”

Max sneaked another look at the man in question. He appeared the part. Empties, and papers that Max assumed were sea charts, littered the table in front of him. His dirty brown hair was pulled back and tied behind his head. A brown leather waistcoat covered a stained, white, open fronted shirt. He was unshaven and his eyes were small, sullen and deep-set.

“He owns a ship called... no surprises... Elizabeth III, and makes some coin from the Navy as a Privateer. Most of the work, so the rumours say, involves keeping the French whaling boats out of our hunting grounds. But it is also told that he is in the pay of the French to keep Norwegian ships out of their waters! And if these rumours can be believed he is also happy to sell information about the location of unprotected whale pods to the Japanese!”

“Quite a business man then," reflected Max, his exasperation growing again. "But what, Dickie, does this have to do with me? You said you made these discreet inquires on my behalf.”

“That my friend is what I hope to show you, any minute. What I want you to know about Alistair Stewart, is that he is a very bad man, descended from bad men. A ruthless, unscrupulous, scheming, murderous, bad man, with friends of equal character.” With that, Dickie re-steepled his fingers and turned his head to watch the clock above the counter, click, 3:30.

The bell at the door jangled. Someone entered The Revolution Industrial. He spoke with Alice at the counter before quickly moving to seat himself with Alistair Stewart.

The newcomer was Gilbert Lavisham.