The shadow of Hilton Fernbrook. A romance of Maoriland

Prologue

THE BURNING SCHOONER.

On the evening of December 10, 18 — , the “Durham Castle,” merchantman, 2,000 tons register, lay like a huge log upon the waters, in the breathless stillness of a tropical afternoon, when the air was hot and heavy, and the sky brazen and cloudless; there was not a puff of wind to ruffle the surface of the ocean, upon which the ship rose and fell with the monotony of a clock’s pendulum.

The sun had just got low enough* to peep beneath the awning that covered the poop deck, and spread his rays athwart the figure of a man asleep on the cabin skylight. Save for the man at the wheel, and another at the quarter railing, the sleeper was alone on the deck. In the absence of a breeze, the ship rolled and lurched on the heaving sea, her idle sails flapping against the mast with a regular recurring noise, and her bowsprit rising higher with the swell of the water, only to dip again the next moment with a jerk that made each rope tremble and tauten.

THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK.

The “ Durham Castle ” had been sixty-five days out from the Land’s End, and was fast approaching her destination, when a d6ad, sleepy calm environed the vessel, as if she had entered the Dead Sea. The appearance of the ship differed in nowise from that of an ordinary ocean liner, except perhaps that she carried a more than ordinary complement of passengers. The intense heat had driven them below, some to indulge in cards and other games, some to read, and the remainder to sleep, like the man reposing on the skylight. By and by, as the sun sunk lower down on the vast area of golden azure, this personage awoke. Stretching himself, after the manner of a ponderous ape, he threw a quick glance upward at the flapping sails, and then called out —

“ For’ard there ! ”

“Ay, ay, Capt’n,” replied the man forward.

“Pass the word for Mr. Jones,” he cried; then rising and advancing towards the binnacle, he said, “ No sign of a change yet, Benson.”

“ None whatever, Captain,” responded the man at the wheel. “There isn’t as much wind as would fill a paper balloon.”

Mr. Jones, the chief officer of the “Durham Castle,” a bandy-legged, big-bearded, gruff- voiced son of Neptune, waddled on deck, and drew near his superior officer, Captain Jepp Bowman.

“ Reef the topsails, and haul fast the foresheet and jib, Mr. Jones; we may as well make everything snug for the night,” said the Skipper.

The commotion overhead roused the attention of the passengers, who flocked on deck to watch, and some to help the crew in taking in sail. Many were there who cast anxious looks over the broad expanse

THE BURNING SCHOONER.

of water, in search of the first glimpse of that new land which for the future was to be their home. Others there were, and of these not a few, who were returning home again, from a visit to that older and former home. The colonist, the emigrant, the needy, and the well-to-do, all crowded together, to watch the sun go down into the vast sea in all his glory of crimson and gold.

“How many days before we reach port, Captain?” asks a tall, burly sheep-farmer, returning to his station on the Patea, from a trip to Scotland.

“Well, I reckon, if we have no better wind than we’ve had lately, we shall reach Auckland about Tib’s Eve, which, by the way, is neither before nor after Christmas,” replied he, laughing.

“ Oh, but I trust to eat my Christmas dinner at Glenbrook, with the Missus and wee-uns,” added the farmer.

“ I hope so,” rejoined Captain Bowman ; “ a cat’spaw will waft us into port, if we can only get it.”

“Then, we are near land?”

“ Very near. According to my calculations, the Great Barrier is not a hundred knots distant; I expect to sight its peak every hour.”

The news soon spread, and when the dinner-bell rang, there assembled a gladsome array of faces in the saloon and in the fore-part of the ship, to congratulate each other that the end of the long and tedious voyage was drawing near.

Darkness came apace, with hosts of stars, which were mirrored on the bosom of the glassy sea, giving it the appearance of some wonderful floor studded with diamonds. On deck the passengers were standing in knots, laughing and chatting and smoking.

THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK.

“ Fine night,” said one of these — a well-made, soldierly-looking old gentleman, striding up to the Captain, and joining his pace with that of the Skipper.

“No signs of a breeze yet, though, Colonel Langroove.”

“ How provoking ! ”

Just then, from out of the violet haze that hung over the horizon a strange glare of light broke.

“ Hallo ! ” cried the Colonel. “ Did you see that?”

Captain Bowman rubbed his eyes. “ I saw it distinctly — a flash of light.” Every one on deck had seen it.

“ Mr. Tremaine, the second officer, saw something like that before dinner. There must be thunder in the air,” responded the Captain, as he passed into his cabin for his night-glass.

Ere the Skipper returned, a thin streak of light shot up for an instant, then sank again. The Captain had seen it. Placing his glass in the direction, he looked long and carefully.

“What is it, sir?” interrogated the Colonel.

“ I can hardly make it out,” replied the Captain, still looking intently through his glass. “There seems to rest a tiny black cloud on the extreme edge of the western horizon ; and if it was not for the crimson sky, I should say there was flame with the cloud.”

“ What, fire ? — not fire ? ”

An hour later one simultaneous exclamation burst from all the watchers on deck. From out the gloom there rose a column of flame, that lit up the night for the space of three seconds, and then fell, leaving a dull red spark upon the water.

THE BURNING SCHOONER.

“It is a ship on fire, gentlemen ! ” cried the Captain, and in the same breath an order was given to lower a boat.

The long-boat was in the water in a few minutes, and Mr. Jones stood by the gangway awaiting further orders from his chief.

“ She does not appear to be a very large ship,” responded the Captain, in answer to a question put by someone near. “ A fore and aft schooner, I should say by the cut of her ; but she is a long way to leeward, a good ten miles or more. Mr. Jones ! ”

“ Ay, ay, sir.”

“ Put a keg of water and a flask of brandy aboard, then call the watch.”

“ Poor devils ! they will be roasted like chestnuts,” muttered the Colonel, as the glow in the sky became more and more intense.

“ They’ve got their own boats,” said Captain Bowman, coolly ; “ and you may be certain they will make use of them. In the meantime, I’ll show them that there’s someone near. There ! they’ll see that,” he added, as a rocket rose upward with its ghastly flame into the air.

“Mr. Jones, man the long-boat with six men. You may take a volunteer or two from among these gentlemen willing to go with you.”

In a moment a score proffered their services, but only a relay for the six oars was selected, and the boat pushed off into the darkness.

The sea appeared oil rather than water. Huge, foamless billows rolled onward without a sound, save for the dip of oars, which was re-echoed in space by a succession of strange impressions like voices. The men pulled with a will. As the oars struck the dark element it flashed fire, and the track of the boat resembled a sea snake writhing through a lake of silver.

“ Give way, lads ! ” urged the mate, with a cheery voice, and the rowers, with set teeth and compressed lips, propelled the little vessel along with the speed of a steam yacht. By-and-by they were in a cloud of smoke, which hung over the crimsoned waters, and the order was given to ease off a little. The burning ship was close at hand now. Mr. J ones wondered that no boats had been met with. Raising his voice, he bade his exhausted crew lay on their oars, then hailed the burning vessel.

She was a large, clumsily-built schooner, with great breadth of beam. Though the fire had only been seen but an hour or two ago by those on the “ Durham Castle,” the craft was already a wreck, and appeared completely deserted. Amidships and the lower deck were one mass of flame. Her ports presented great charred rifts and gaps, where the red-hot fire glowed as through the bars of a gigantic furnace. The masts had gone by the board, and trailed a blackened wreck on the water. The flames still roared like a cataract, amidst huge volumes of smoke, which rolled away like a cloud over the sea.

The mate pulled slowly round the stern and hailed the deck again and again. Still there was no answer, though the flood of light that dyed the water showed out every spar and rope as distinct and clear as noonday.

“ What is her name, men ? Can you see it ? ” roared the mate through his hands, as the boat drew nearer. One of the men in the bow stood up, and shading his eyes with his hands, called out ;

It is the ‘ Seagull,’ sir ! ”

THE BURNING SCHOONER.

“ The 4 Seagull ! ’ From where ? ”

44 Sydney,” cried the bowman, amid the roar of the flames.

44 That will do. Back water, my men. Round with her. There is not a living soul here,” cried the officer, and he gave the order to pull back to the 44 Durham Castle.”

Mr. Jones was mistaken.

Through the gloom, and shrouded in the cloud of thick smoke, two men lay-to in a boat. The oars were in their hands, but they did not use them. With straining eyes these two personages watched the movements of Mr. Jones and his companions with all-absorbing interest. Once when the mate passed near, on his return, one of them put out his hand, as if to call out, but the other, with a quick movement, seizing him by the throat, and muttering in an angry tone, 44 Fool ! would you betray us ? ” held him down until the rescuers had passed by and left the lurid mass but a red speck in the distance.

When day broke, and the 44 Durham Castle ” appeared but a speck upon the vast surface of waters, these two solitary men hoisted an old tattered sail they had with them in the boat and sailed away from the charred wreck of the ill-fated schooner, steering a course almost due west.

12 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FEKNBROOK.

Chapter I. Fernbrook

No spot in the whole southern hemisphere can boast such a bold, rugged, and imposing coast-line as New Zealand. On its most northern ledge towers the Great Barrier Rock — the point on which the ocean-tossed mariner first rests his eye — the first land seen when bearing up for Maoriland. A strange land this. Along its shores the vision encounters huge and mystic shapes at every turn of the sea wall : here the Colossus of Rhodes, there a ponderous Sphinx, rising sheer up above its fellows, and whose base has been lapped by the restless waves for a thousand years.

Truly a strange country is this of Te Waito, the Maori, and the most mystic and awe-inspiring spot of all is that of the Barrier Rock. Save the fire mountain of Tongafiro, it is the grandest and also the highest point in New Zealand. It is a gigantic mount, as large as Gibraltar, and equally ringed in by the sea, except at the western end, where there is a narrow strip of kauri forest, which links it with the mainland.

Viewed from the sea the Barrier represents the appearance of an exact cone, up to within* fifty yards of its summit. There the sloping ends. Beyond, it is treeless, and as bare and bald as the crown of a friar ; otherwise the sides of the giant guardian of Maoriland are densely wooded to the water’s edge.

FERNBROOK.

Singular, indeed, betimes, is the treeless summit. Seamed and scarred, its surface is mottled with a dark glaze, which, during the sunlight, and even under the mellower beams of the moon, gives forth a coruscation, as if the lights were reflected from scale armor. Riven rocks, with deep yawning chasms, are everywhere around it, and the strange glow is over all. No northern painter in primeval day ever dreamed of forms so mighty, so grotesque, as seem to look down upon you from the rocks around. It requires only a very meagre stretch of the imagination to people these heights and depths with a race of Titans, to conjure up the sculptor at his work, rude though it may be, after all the countless ages that have passed.

On the southern side of the Barrier, and within a mile of that narrow neck of earth which joins the great rock to the mainland, stood a large and solidlybuilt mansion. Its position was a broad sloping ridge, which ran parallel with the base of the mount for more than half its entire length, overlooking a lovely valley. The architectural style of this building was almost as quaint and as strong as the natural walls of rocks surrounding it.

Thirty years previous to the opening of this story, Colonel Harry Fernbrook — a handsome, dashing spendthrift, who had run through a large fortune in London — sold his commission, and with the money emigrated to New Zealand and purchased the Barrier Rock and adjacent land from old Te Huri, the Maori chieftain, and there made his future home.

The Colonel, who was a bachelor, had not been settled over a twelvemonth at the Rock ere he fell in love with and married Myra Hilton, a half-caste Maori girl of great beauty and an heiress to immense wealth.

THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK.

One son only was the issue of this marriage, Hilton Fernbrook. The boy was sixteen years old when he lost his parents by a boating accident off the Barrier during a squall, and the responsibility of the youth’s personal welfare devolved upon Rita — a tall, silent Maori woman, who had been Mrs. Fernbrook’s nurse and chief domestic.

A bold, weird-looking landscape is this around the Barrier Rock, with its glistening pinnacles, its far-receding peaks, and downs of worn rock, with the setting sun full upon them— and lighting up many a gloomy dell below. Here where the sun glinted upon the face of the cliff, an Iris might be seen shining amidst the fleece-like vapor, but rarely did human eye behold this beautiful phenomenon, for the place had the reputation of being haunted.

Few there are in our day who believe in ghosts. This go-ahead era of telephones and telegraphs has grown out of all that. We have become too matter-of-fact and practical for such humbug. Nevertheless, he was a bold fellow who would venture alone into the dim and dismal region of that ravine and not feel the influence of the place upon his nerves.

It was evident some daring mortal had ignored the peril, for a tiny spiral column of smoke could be seen ascending from the haunted depths of the ravine upwards to where a kind of stairway was traced formed of creepers, the outstanding stems serving as steps.

It was only by standing upon the very outer ledge above, and parting the foliage that screened it, that the smoke could be seen; and, if only superficially observed, it might easily have been mistaken for a strong waif of the fog that floated above the waterfall near which it rose. Closely scrutinized, however,

FERNBROOK.

its bine color and soft filmy haze rendered it recognizable as the smoke of a wood fire, and one that must have been ignited by human hands. Under the branches of a large kauri tree standing by the edge of the lagoon, a canoe of rude construction was moored by a twisted piece of supple-jack attached to the tree. Nor was this the only indication of the presence of man. Close under the cliff, and near where the torrent came tumbling down from the rocks, stood a kauri pine of enormous dimensions. Its buttressed trunk covered a surface of more than forty feet in diameter, and the bole rose nearly to the brow of the cliff, with a thick foliage upon it which completely shut out the view overhead. Beneath it stood a whare , or Maori hut, constructed of flax thongs and rushes, with a door opening out to the path up the rock. Few and simple, indeed, were the articles of furniture in this primitive abode. A couch made from two poles, interlaced with flax and fern thereon, formed a bed, a sheet of bark placed upon four stakes for a table, and a kauri log for a seat. Save an old tin kettle and one or two utensils, there was nothing else in the establishment in the way of goods and chattels. Against the walls hung a variety of singular objects. The skull and tusks of a boar, enormous bats with human-like faces, snakes, strings of teeth and beads,, and quaint images carved in wood.

Squatting by the door of the whare was a Maori, smoking a short, black, clay pipe. He was of gigantic proportions, and frightfully tattooed over every part of bis face. Between his broad shoulders was set a bulllike head, almost neckless. This personage was evidently waiting and watching for the appearance of someone expected by way of the cliff, for at the slightest sound he would crane himself and listen attentively.

16 THE SHADOW OP HILTON FERNBROOK.

At such times his back was bent like a bow, presenting a great hunch, partly the effect of advanced age and partly from natural malformation.

The Maori’s costume was in keeping with his abode. A short, thick tamba of mica, jack -boots (much worn), together with a blanket formed into a toga, completed his costume. At his hand stood a double-barrelled gun, with shot-bag, manufactured from the skin of some wild animal.

Whoever the individual might be for whom the old Maori watched and waited, he did not appear to hurry, for the sun began to dip into the sea away beyond the Tonga Reef ere the expected personage made his appearance.

In the fast deepening twilight the form of a man appeared at the apex of the cliff, who gave a peculiar cry, in imitation of the tolio ; the Maori below sprang to his feet immediately at the sound, and began climbing up the face of the jagged rock with astonishing rapidity. The lagoon reached, he unfastened the canoe from its moorings and paddled across to where the man stood for whom he had been waiting. There was just light sufficient to see that this latter individual was a little, hardy-looking man, young, and with a form as lithe and supple as an eel. Ilis face, though bearing no particular indications of masculine beauty, denoted both daring and cunning in a remarkable degree ; otherwise there was nothing to distinguish the man from any ordinary mortal except when he opened his mouth — then one felt a disagreeable sensation, sucli as may be felt at the growl of a panther or the croak of a raven.

In a very short time the pair recrossed the lagoon and descended the cliff. Not a word passed between

FERNBROOK.

them till they reached the hut ; there the Pakeha threw himself upon the rude couch, and emitted a long whistle of relief.

“ So, this is the Great Barrier, is it ? ” he cried, with a mild irony in his unpleasant voice. “ I guess I’ve seen some few places on the globe besides New Zealand, but hang me as high, Captain Bragge, if I ever saw anything to compare with this. There isn’t a level yard of terra firma on the entire rock. If one wants to go over the way to visit one’s neighbor, although there are no neighbors hereabouts that I can see, you can’t do it under five or six miles’ climbing. Give me a match, Bosco.”

The huge Maori grinned, and at the same time handed his white companion a curiously-carved box containing vestas.

“Now, old fellow, I’m going to rest here for half an hour,” continued the little man, lighting a cigar, and handing another to his companion. “ In the meantime, I want you to see that the gear is put into the boat all ready for a start.”

“ What, to-night ? ” inquired the Maori.

“ To-night, Bosco. The moon will be up in an hour. We will sail when there is light enough, if you please.’’

The herculean savage gave a grunt peculiar to the Maori race, lit his cigar, and left the hut. The other sat and smoked in silence for some time, until his thoughts found vent in audible mutterings. “ Egad, this is going the ticket and no mistake,” he cried, taking the cigar from his lips and apostrophizing the curling smoke above his head. “ Here am I, Timothy Sharpe alias the “Ferret,” and Valet de Sham to His Greatness Mr. Hilton Fernbrook, Lord of the Barrier Rock ; here am I, ambassador, courier, forerunner and what not, to herald the approach of my boss — master, I mean — to this his home, after an absence of five years spent in England and on the continent of Europe. 11a ! ha ! it’s rare fun to be a gentleman, and to do the grand tour, as the boss and I have done it for these years past. Ha! ha! ”

And the idea so tickled the risible faculties of the little man that he rolled off the bunk in a fit of uncontrollable merriment. “Well, well; I’ve done my mission here satisfactorily, at any rate,” he observed, when he had somewhat recovered himself. “ One trump card played, which will go far to win the game if properly followed up. Now, let me glance once more over my instructions to make sure I have missed nothing. Firstly, to give Bosco the Maori a half-dozen lines scribbled in such an outlandish fashion that old Nickhimself couldn’t have read it ; the Maori read it, though, and deuced glad and pleased he seemed after it ; placed himself at once entirely at my disposal, and he put the missive away in his dirty blanket as if it had been the Koh-inoor. Secondly, received at the house when I got there, and devilish tired I felt too, scraping my shins against the sharp, steep rocks — received at the house with open arms, and especially by that tall, dark old she-cat, Rita, the housekeeper. What an eye she has, and what long claws for scratching! Humph! Ferret, you rascal, beware of that Maori devil in petticoats. How her withered face lighted up when I told her that Master Hilton was coming home ! Ah, well ! if the place does not suit you, Timothy Sharpe, you can give notice— ha ! ha ! Lastly, I am not to delay my return ; very well, Mr. Hilton Fernbrook. The wind is fair for our sixtymile journey, and I’m glad it is so, for an open fishing- _ boat is not the safest and most comfortable conveyance

FERNBROOK.

on the coast of New Zealand on a dark night, and with a chopping sea on. Entre nous , Ferret, if the wind' holds, the Master of Fernbrook shall see the face of his humble servant ere to-morrow’s dawn.”

“ Who’s there ? ” The harsh voice croaked out the latter exclamation fiercely, and at the same instant a revolver was pulled forth from the breast of the buttoned-up coat.

“ Bah ! It’s only Bosco returning,” he cried, after an intense pause. “This infernal den of peaks and chasms would unnerve the devil himself.”

He had only time to replace the weapon in his coat when the Maori re-entered the whare.

“ Well, is the boat ready?”

“ Yes.”

“ Come then, lead the way, Bosco,” cried the other, rising, and lighting a fresh cigar. “ My master gave me positive orders to be back again at Pukehini by to-morrow morning.”

The old Maori took his gun, and after securing the door of his whare, led the way down the ridge of the ravine in silence. It was a perilous path, even to those who were acquainted with its intricate windings ; but Bosco, fidto, old as he was, had been born and reared in its vicinity, guided his companion safely to the western ledge, overlooking the sea.

In a small circular-shaped inlet, completely hid by the high overhanging cliffs above it, a goodly-sized yawl was seen rising and falling with the motion of the waves.

The Ferret and his companion embarked. After they had cleared the cove a large lug-sail was hoisted, which, catching the breeze, sent the boat along at the rate of six or seven knots an hour. The Maori held the helm, and steered for a promontory opposite the Barrier, but far away in the distance, and on which a tiny speck of light shone over the dark waters. For over an hour there was a dead silence between these men ; then the Maori spoke.

“ Is the Master not well, that he has sent you to report his arrival ? Why did he stay at Pukehini ? ”

“Ah! that’s it, Bosco,” replied Sharpe, evasively. “ Masters do not always consult their servants as to what they intend to do. They order, and we obey. You will have an opportunity of asking the boss that same question two or three hours hence ; perhaps he may answer you in a more satisfactory manner than I can. One reason, no doubt, is that he has not been very well. The voyage was a rough one, and Master Hilton is a bad sailor.”

The Maori gave an unmistakable grunt of dissent. “ The young eaglet always loved the sea,” he said, in his quiet tone. “ Many a time has he tempted me forth with bribes of tobacco when the winds roared, and the waters were white with foam. Hilton Fernbrook hath changed indeed if the rocking of a great ship taketh away his health and strength.”

“ Bosco, you are a Maori, and therefore cannot understand the changes which may come to one by travelling. The Master of Fernbrook has been absent five years.”

“Tut! Twenty years cannot change men’s likes and dislikes,” replied Bosco.

“ Argued like a Maori,” cried the Ferret, laughing his discordant laugh. “ The boss is not changed a bit, spite of all the queer things he has seen. He loves old Rita and Bosco, and bears in his regard all the old domestics who served his father before him,”

FERNBROOK.

“ Ah ! Bosco loves the boy,” grunted the old fellow, in a mollified tone. “When he was no higher than this thwart, I marked him with the eagle of Te Papa. Let him travel where he may, he will remember Bosco.”

“ Certainly ! Now I think of it, there is a tattoomark on my master’s left shoulder.”

“ Nay, the eagle is upon his breast,” cried the Maori, quickly.

“ Of course, old man. What am I thinking about ? responded the Ferret. “See yonder; what light is that?” he added suddenly, pointing to a red glare shining athwart the prow of the cutter.

“That is the Point Light,” answered his companion. “From that peak inis twenty miles to Pukehini.”

“ Good! Here, take a nip out of this flask. Master Hilton will reward you handsomely for this job, Bosco.”

Chapter II. Pax I N Bello

A golden morning, and such a one as one only sees about half a dozen times during a New Zealand autumn. The sun glinting in upon the large dining-hall at Fernbrook flashed back a thousandfold reflections from picture and mirror, and from the costly glassware and plate scattered profusely oyer the table. It is a noble hall, and of vast dimensions. Its fittings and furniture are mostly of Maori wood, dark in hue, but massive in their character, and polished like English oak.

Looking round this apartment, the idea comes to you that the architect who built Fernbrook had erected a feudal castle, and supplied it with all the modern improvements and embellishments of the nineteenth century.

A glorious morning, indeed, the warm sunlight illuminating spacious courts and galleries with its mellow glow ; but on yonder balcony — where a regiment of the line might parade with ease — what a view ! Beneath, sward and lake, and giant kauri forest, dim and dark, set in the midst of a sea of sapphires. East, west, and south, ocean and mountain, and overhead the deep blue arch of heaven.

Within a grand chamber leading from this balcony, and known as the drawing-room at Fernbrook, several persons were assembled on this fine autumnal morning. The room itself was a long, wide apartment,

PAX IN BELLO.

Worthy of a palace, with bay windows deep and roomy as the embrasures of a fort, and curtained with maroon velvet. Rare pictures on the walls ; exquisite statuettes in bronze and Parian marble ; silken couches, exhibiting elegant taste in the blending of colors ; — in short, all that could charm the eye, educate the taste, or give comfort to aesthetic senses, found an appropriate place here.