Johanna Moran - The Wives of Henry Oades

The sacks were brought forward, unceremoniously dumped in a heap. The men stood back while the tribeswomen flocked. They drew her clean sheets from one sack, a pair of Henry’s drawers, her good blue apron, stockings and shirts, everything that had been hanging on the line down to the pegs. A young girl squatted and pulled Mary from another sack. Simultaneously, an older woman cried out, taking Mary from the child, cradling her in her arms. The women converged, softly cooing. Margaret rushed into their midst and snatched up her baby. A dry breeze moved Mary’s fine hair. She was stiff, but otherwise undisturbed. Margaret put a gentle thumb to her eyelid and eased it up, exposing a pearly crack. She breathed a frantic breath into the tiny mouth and nostrils. A dozen brown hands reached. She backed away clumsily, her mouth still cleaved to her lifeless baby. They closed in, prying Mary from her. Margaret sank to the ground in a sick numbness. At the same moment, Martha was placed in her arms, suckling air. Margaret quickly unbuttoned her blouse and put the living baby to her breast, a shiver of joy coursing. Martha pulled at her nipple greedily, noisily. Margaret’s shoulders sagged with the relief. A band of murmuring women came closer, hovering above. Margaret vaguely felt their presence.

“Up.”

She did not look to see which murderer spoke, but continued to nurse, moving Martha to the other breast, stroking and kissing her warm head. “We’re not finished.”

“Up!”

Margaret took her time, shifting Martha again and rising slowly, thinking of Henry. She pictured his lined forehead, the agony in his eyes. He loved his babies so.

THEIR THATCHED HUTS were but single rooms with a cooking fire in the center, and sleeping mats all around. Margaret, Josephine, and Martha were taken to one hut, John and Oscar to another.

“Leave the boys with me,” she pleaded, when it became obvious that they were to be separated. “Keep us together.” The flanking Maori did not respond.

Ahead, John was following Oscar inside. She called after her son. “Courage, John.” He glanced over his shoulder and mouthed the word “Father.” Margaret flicked a smile for her sturdy boy, a lad who should be home in England, romping in the meadow with the collie he’d pined for.

She bent to enter the neighboring hut, pulling Josephine along. A half-naked granny, a guard presumably, sat motionless in a dark corner. Margaret spoke as she would to any elder, politely, deferentially. “Can you tell us why we’re here, madam?”

The old lady looked at them, then looked away, saying nothing. A girl came in with a gourd bowl of wash water. Another brought rough skirts and swaddling of the same material. They scurried off, and no wonder. She stank; Josephine and Martha stank. Margaret pulled away Martha’s filthy napkin to discover insects both dead and crawling. She folded the napkin in quarters and set it aside.

Josephine sidled up close and whispered, “Did Mary croak?”

She would have heard the horrible word from Mim. Margaret kissed her and said without conviction, “Mary’s safe with Jesus now.”

A long time ago, before Margaret’s own children were born, a Surrey woman hanged herself with a bedsheet after her child’s drowning. Margaret understood completely now.

She took the coarse rag from the water and tested its roughness on her own arm. She started with Martha’s feet, moving up each squatty leg. Next she stripped and scoured Josephine, turning the wash water brown in her zeal, working up a madwoman’s sweat. Every fingernail, every bodily crease, required her attention. Their undergarments were ruined. It was good to be rid of them. Josephine struggled with the strange skirt, gathering excess fabric in her fists. “It scratches.”

“It’s clean,” said Margaret. She washed herself last, then crouched awkwardly and exchanged her feculent skirt for the dry one. “Now listen closely, little miss.” She cupped her daughter’s head and whispered directly into her ear. “All shall be fine. Do you understand?” Josephine nodded. “Father is coming for us. In the meantime you must do as I say. It’s not the same now. You must mind me absolutely. Without question.”

Josephine’s chin trembled. “Mary.”

Margaret closed her eyes and rocked her.

A girl brought food, a basket of sweet potatoes, corn, pork, and some reddish elongated pieces, dried past identification. Josephine took the meat with her fingers, chewing listlessly.

Margaret put restless Martha to her breast. “I’m very thirsty,” said Josephine. Margaret turned to the old woman and pantomimed drinking from a beaker. “Water, please?”

The rooted woman did not speak.

“Have you no children of your own, madam?”

The woman farted, a noxious bleat.

Margaret clucked. “Why, you rude old trout!”

“Mama, please.”

Margaret laid Martha in the scoop of her skirt. “You’ll have a little of my milk.”

Josephine scowled. “I’m much too big.”

Margaret stroked her child. “Let’s pretend you’re not.” Josephine came reluctantly. Margaret pushed on her breast to aid the flow, taking the hard teeth like a she-wolf. “Gently does it now.”

The desiccated woman looked their way. Margaret met the beady black eyes. “Sodding old hag with your dried up dugs.” The woman blinked. “Useless childless thing.” The woman looked away again. “Warts to you,” Margaret hissed.

Josephine stopped suckling. She nestled against Margaret’s side, raking her tongue along her teeth as if to rid her mouth of the taste. Margaret adjusted her blouse and covered sleeping Martha with her apron. The crone came alive, pointing toward the mats along the opposite wall.

They crawled over, sharing a mat, Martha beneath one arm, Josephine beneath the other. Insects scuttled in the thatched ceiling above. Margaret drew up the hide of some long dead creature, tucking her big girl close. She ached for John, imagining him frightened and thirsty, biting his bottom lip raw.

“There’s another matter, Pheeny.”

Josephine moaned sleepily.

“When Father comes you are not to call out to him. Do you understand?”

“He may arrive in secret,” said Josephine.

“That’s right.”

“Will he come in the morning?”

Margaret whispered, “It’s quite possible, sweetheart.”

“May I ride home with him?”

“You may.” A gutter of voices could be heard outside, a baby’s far-off cry. They’d sail straight home once this ordeal was over. Promotions, money, and honors be damned. They’d leave on the first ship. Four cots in steerage would do.

Josephine murmured, “Perhaps he’ll bring the buggy.”

“He won’t. It’s too large.”

Josephine yawned a sticky yawn. “The branches won’t allow it through.”

“Yes. That’s right. Sleep now, my love.”

“He’ll come,” said Josephine.

“He will.”

The grief pressed on Margaret’s chest like a third child. Once her girls were asleep she wept without cessation. Never before had she loathed the world or herself so thoroughly. It had been her idea to move so far out. The fresh country air will be good for the children. Over and over she’d said it, wearing her husband down, getting her tyrannical way finally.

It was still dark when they came, and bitterly cold. If Margaret had slept she did not recall it. Her body was stiff. She could barely stand. Two short, sullen women led her to the latrine, and with a series of gestures instructed her to clean it.

HENRY SMELLED SMOKE and put the whip to Katie’s rump. A tramp’s cook fire started in the bushes, he figured, with the perfect breeze to bring it straight to his roof. Christ Almighty. He’d be up all night sopping down the bloody timbers. Rounding a stand of karaka trees, the smoldering destruction came into view. Henry called out, expecting his wife to appear, their homeless children clinging. He left the old nag and rig in the road and ran the last distance.