The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Read online

  As soon as the men looked at the whaleboat they realised their dilemma. It needed twelve men to row it and they were but two, one enfeebled by fever.

  For one of the few times in his adult life – especially since it had been touched by the grace of God – George Woodville felt like losing faith, putting his head in his hands and howling. Just in time, however, he felt himself fortified by the Holy Spirit, and also by the simple courage of his companion, who had already jumped into the boat.

  ‘Master!’ Kirikeu cried, throwing the baggage into the stern of the long, narrow boat, ‘between us we can take this boat down the coast.’

  George, however, sorrowfully shook his head. The whaleboat was a long, serviceable, sturdily-built craft, much used by missionaries and government officers for plying the coastal waters. As well as oars it had sails.

  ‘I have no knowledge of sailing, Kirikeu, and nor have you, and we cannot possibly man the boat between us. She is far too heavy and I am weakened by fever. We shall be swept out to sea and drowned.’

  ‘We can try, master,’ Kirikeu urged, and his enthusiasm was inspiring as well as painful to see, but George, looking again round the heavy boat, knew that the task was hopeless.

  ‘We will spend the night here, and then tomorrow we’ll decide what to do, whether to press on walking down the coast or ...’ He felt in himself a sense of failure, a lack of courage, of Christian faith, as he looked at the honest, trusting eyes of his servant, who obviously believed in God-like qualities which George did not have.

  ‘We may have to go back to the hut,’ he said gently. ‘If they come to look for us – and I know how worried Mrs Woodville will be – that is where they will make for. It is a hundred and fifty miles from here to Gumbago. We have insufficient food and I really do not think I have enough strength to make the journey. Anyway, my good friend, let us rest now, and see what tomorrow will bring.’

  As if in answer to their prayers, the night saw the worst storm that George could recall since he had lived on the island. Had they been at sea they would have been buffeted by the waves and cast up upon the coral reefs, where their small craft would have been shattered to splinters. In the safety of the creek, and despite the tarpaulin they drew over their heads, they were soaked to the skin, and the heavy boat sank ever lower in the rising waters.

  At daybreak, as the wind lowered, they raised their heads over the gunwales and saw nothing but desolation around them, the fronds of the betel-nut palm trees sodden, the vegetation waterlogged. George knew that as soon as the sun came up the swampy ground would provide a fresh breeding-ground for the dreaded malaria-bearing mosquitoes, and that their best refuge was certainly to return to the hut. God had clearly shown them the way.

  By now even Kirikeu seemed glad to leave the half-sunk, flooded boat, its bows low in the water. One look at the surging sea convinced him that their chances of survival in it were nil.

  They had a slow, wearisome trek back to the hut, and even George, steering their progress by the compass, frequently lost his bearings. They were soaked to the skin and, by the time they stopped for the night, Kirikeu’s teeth were chattering and George felt as though his own fever might be returning. They had had nothing to eat all day but a few berries, and water from a clear-running stream which flowed down from the mountains. They had no time or desire to look at the beauty of the countryside around them as the wind abated and, once more, the sun shone hot and fierce on their backs. It was difficult to believe that they were in hostile territory, where their lives might be threatened by the wild, head-hunting Doriri who had probably claimed the skulls of their friends and eaten their flesh.

  By noon on the following day they reached the hut, which was just as they had left it, with the bags of their companions still waiting in an abject pile in the darkened interior. A few creatures of the wild, who had hoped to be making their home in the deserted building, scuttled across the floor and out on to the safety of the sago leaves drooping from the rafters.

  As he put down his bag and sank gratefully onto the floor, George was once more visited by a sense of desolation such as he had scarcely ever felt in his life before: a complete lack of faith in the Almighty, of trust in the One for whom he had deserted his native county of Dorset, his comfortable home at Pelham’s Oak, for whom he had alienated his family, especially his father Sir Guy Woodville, whose heir he was.

  ‘Oh God!’ he murmured, stretching out on the grass mat and putting a hand over his eyes, ‘please let this burden be taken from me.’

  And then he started to sob.

  After a moment he was aware of a presence near him and, opening his eyes, he saw Kirikeu squatting beside him on his haunches, his hands joined in front of him, his black eyes clouded with anxiety which seemed to mirror George’s own despair.

  ‘Master,’ he said, ‘I will go and find something to eat. You must take off your wet clothes and I will dry them in the sun, and then tomorrow, when we are rested, I will go and see what has happened to our friends while you stay here and wait for the rescuers who are surely on their way.’

  George put out a hand and grasped that of the catechumen who, although not baptised, had a faith which seemed greater than his.

  ‘I can’t let you go into the bush, Kirikeu. If you are killed, who knows what will become of me?’

  ‘I will be very careful, master,’ the native said, taking his spear from the side of the wall. ‘I will take care not to be seen, but I will try and discover what I can.’

  Mr Pearce, the resident magistrate for the area, looked with concern into the eyes of Mrs Woodville. Summoned from Drogura, he did not like what he had heard.

  ‘My husband has now been gone nearly five weeks,’ she said in a low, calm voice which, nevertheless, belied her true feelings. ‘How Mr Barker could have left him I do not know, but he did. Perhaps by now he is dead.’

  She said the words almost without emotion, and Mr Pearce marvelled, as he often did, at the ability of the missionaries to accept the horrible fate that was frequently served up to them on these inhospitable shores.

  New Guinea had a beautiful climate, but it was an uncivilised place with disease rampant; and not only disease, but the danger of attack from the inland tribes who dwelt in regions where no white man had ever penetrated, and to whom barbarism was an accepted way of life. The New Guinea savage lived by a superstitious fear of spirits and by the code of paying for a life with a life, however death occurred. It was also the custom to bless a house with human blood, and the erection of every dubu, every tribal dwelling, exacted its own particular form of sacrifice.

  Julian Pearce was a young, ambitious graduate who wished to rise to a high place in the Colonial Service. To him New Guinea was just a stepping-stone. He had been sent there from Brisbane and, as it was his first taste of authority, he enjoyed the life, tramping through the forests with his band of well-armed native policemen and dispensing justice, which often involved the transportation of the miscreant to the capital, Port Moresby, for trial, and the exaction of the ultimate penalty: death by hanging.

  Now Mr Pearce gazed solemnly at Mrs Woodville as she finished her recitation.

  ‘Your news disturbs me, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I will take my men and leave at once for Doriri country.’

  ‘You have the itinerary from Mr Barker?’ Sophie asked.

  Pearce nodded. ‘We know that he called in at Waguni Creek, where they left the whaleboat while they went inland. Their mission to pacify the Doriri met with little success, and on the way back Mr Woodville fell ill and Mr Barker decided to leave him with half the men because he was expected back by the bishop.’

  ‘The bishop!’ Sophie exclaimed derisively.

  ‘I’m sure that Mr Barker thought he did the right thing, ma’am,’ Mr Pearce said gently. ‘He expected Mr Woodville to start almost immediately after him, although taking a slower pace. The bishop had a confirmation service in Drogura and Mr Barker had prepared the candidates. I can assure you he is most upse
t by the whole incident, Mrs Woodville.’

  ‘May he not live to regret it for the rest of his life,’ Sophie said firmly. ‘That would indeed be a heavy burden.’

  She walked to the beach with the RM, whom she rather liked; a brisk, practical young man of whom she had only heard good things. A few of the natives followed her, hanging on to her skirt, touching her hands as if trying to impart to her their own sympathy and sorrow for what had happened. She felt surrounded by love, by hope, and as she shook hands with Mr Pearce before he prepared to get into the dinghy that would take him to the government schooner Merrie England anchored in the bay, she impulsively clasped his arm.

  ‘I am sure you will find George and bring him back to me,’ she said. ‘I feel that God is with you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Woodville,’ the magistrate said, feeling rather clumsy and awkward as, putting his helmet back on his head, he climbed into the boat and headed for the open water, rowed on his way by four stout native policemen.

  George knew that once again he had the fever. He had vomited several times, and his shivering grew more frenzied as the day advanced. He put blankets round his shoulders, but they did little to keep out the cold, though it was hot outside. It was unusual to have two bouts so close together, but maybe the mosquitoes in the swamp where they had spent the night had been particularly virulent or, maybe, he had never got over his first attack. He had also been short of quinine because he had not expected to be so long away from home, so had taken less than he should.

  Kirikeu had left at first light, clutching his spear and promising to be careful in his search for a succulent wild pig, yams and toro from which to make a feast, because they were both suffering from hunger.

  At first, after his servant left, George felt better, cheered by the beauty of the scene, the landscape lit as on an ideal English summer’s day, and he was able to lay off his blankets and smoke a pipe after his breakfast of coconut washed down by its milk. By lunchtime he felt well enough to revel in the thought of the succulent roast with which they would assuage their pangs of hunger by nightfall.

  He went out and sat on the ramshackle balcony of the hut, his pipe in one hand, his Bible in the other. He never failed to find succour from the Word, and this time he knew that his faith was doubly tried. In a way, he felt God was reproaching him for his lack of it.

  George Woodville was a man who had seldom known doubt since he discovered God at school at the age of sixteen. There he felt God had spoken to him, and forever afterwards he was confident of His presence. He had also felt a strong desire to be a priest, an ambition which his parents did their best to thwart. They might even have been successful had not George first fallen under the influence of, and then in love with, the daughter of the Rector of Wenham, Sophie Lamb, six years his senior, a purposeful young woman with a strong personality who already burned with ardour to join the foreign missions.

  The path of true love had not been smooth, and nor had George’s attempts to be ordained after reading classics and theology at Cambridge. Candidates for the priesthood in the Church of England were not encouraged to marry, and his training would have been long and arduous.

  Encouraged by Sophie, he applied to join the Anglican mission as a teacher, and to study for holy orders at the same time as he pursued his ministry to spread the Word. They sailed to Australia together and were married in Brisbane.

  In Wenham the news had not been well received. Sir Guy Woodville felt his heir had betrayed him, and the Reverend Austin Lamb that his daughter was guilty of being sly and deceitful. What was more, the marriage produced a rift between the families instead of bringing them close together.

  But George, far away, knew little of this, and now he leaned against the rickety balustrade of the balcony and reflected on his past; on the family he loved, yet who did not respond to his letters; on the wife and the children he adored. The world suddenly seemed black again and his frame was wracked by a fresh burst of shivering, the tobacco tasted stale in his mouth and he knew that he would once again vomit. Vomiting brought dehydration, and he was perilously short of water.

  He crawled back into his hut to lie down on his pallet, and a horde of cockroaches who had decided to settle there for the afternoon, scurried out of the way.

  On the balcony, the Bible lay forgotten. Oh, would that Kirikeu would return!

  But it grew dark, and there was no sign of his manservant. His water-bottle was now dry and the fever was increasing. He knew he would have to crawl out of the hut to find water, or by the morning he would be dead. He had seen men dead of dehydration and it was a dreadful sight: their swollen tongues lolling out of their mouths, their lips cracked, their sightless eyes bulging obscenely.

  He put aside his blankets and, with trembling hands, managed to light the kerosene lamp. At the sign of light, further creatures scuttled for the safety of the roof. A giant spider crawled rapidly up the post and disappeared into a crevice.

  George’s shivering grew uncontrollable, but he knew now that it was also compounded of fear.

  He had managed to stagger as far as the balcony when he heard a movement and, looking up, he saw the head of a native silhouetted against the moon.

  It lurched towards him, and as he had no gun – he had always refused to carry one, holding that any taking of life was wrong – he commended his soul to his Maker and, in the spirit of Christ, prepared himself to feel the shaft of the arrow pierce his skin. Suddenly the shadow disappeared and, with a mighty grunt, fell at his feet.

  ‘Master ...’ Kirikeu exclaimed with a cry of pain. ‘I am killed.’

  George threw himself on the ground beside his stricken servant, and almost immediately his hand encountered the stickiness of thick, congealed blood.

  ‘I have run, master,’ Kirikeu gasped, ‘run all this way to tell you to run too, master. They found me and they stabbed me, but I ran away. Oh master...’ he reached out and feebly grasped George’s arm. ‘Would you baptise me into Christ before I die?’

  Then George felt a surge of strength that came from he knew not where. His fever abated and his courage yet again returned.

  He could hear the water trickling in the stream not far away and he lunged towards it, first slaking his thirst with giant mouthfuls cupped in his hand. Then, joining his hands together, he tottered over to the side of the dying man and, kneeling beside him, he poured the water of baptism over his head:

  ‘I baptise thee, Kirikeu, with the name of James after the disciple of Our Blessed Lord, in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.’

  Then he clasped Kirikeu’s hands between his, and under his breath began the prayers for the dying ...

  ‘Go forth, Christian soul, out of this world, in the name of the Father who created thee ...’

  He felt Kirikeu’s hand stir in his and sensed that his servant, his beloved disciple James, wished to speak to him. He put his ear as near as he could to the dying man’s mouth.

  ‘Master,’ Kirikeu whispered feebly, ‘I go to join our friends who are with God too. The Doriri cut off all their heads and ate them, master. Oh, master, are they too among the saints?’

  ‘They are,’ George said in a broken voice and, as his disciple gave a great sigh and expired, George lay over him and wept.

  And that was how the resident magistrate eventually found him.

  Back in Gumbago, George Woodville struggled to survive. He was taken home in such a delirium that no one expected him to outlive the journey. But he did, because he wanted to see his wife. Sophie nursed him with all the skill and tenderness of which she was capable.

  At times he seemed to recover, and then he relapsed and would go into delirium and talk about his dead sister Emily, his mother and father, and his regrets that he had hurt them. He would talk of Kirikeu and all those who had died on that futile and senseless expedition, which the resident magistrate with a strong police force had already gone to avenge.

  Sophie sat by him whenever she could, but she t
hought that it was important for the children and the mission to let things be as normal as possible. A young man called Peter, also hoping to be ordained with George the following spring, was sent from Drogura and proved a great boon, a comfort to Sophie.

  He and Sophie would pray by George’s bed, and sometimes George joined in. Sometimes he was unconscious. But Sophie never gave up hope, or faith in the power of prayer to make him recover.

  One night after Peter had gone, George took her hand as she sat beside him.

  ‘You know, I feel better, my dear,’ he said. ‘And if I recover, for this miracle I will dedicate my entire life to God in the missions; but Sophie ...’

  ‘Yes, dear?’ she said anxiously, aware of how his flesh burned, even though he said he felt better.

  ‘If God should will that I do ... not recover, I want you to go home. Back to Wenham. This is no place for a woman on her own with two children, and I want you to promise me you will obey my last request.’

  ‘But my dearest,’ she protested, ‘it was I who felt the call of God first ...’

  ‘I want no argument, Sophie,’ George said in a voice that had grown perceptibly weaker. ‘I want you to promise me to go back to Wenham, and in the Church of St Mark to cause a window to be placed in my name and that of my friends who died. But next to mine must be the name of Kirikeu.’ Then, as if very tired, he closed his eyes.

  ‘Dearest, it will not be necessary,’ Sophie said earnestly, stroking his hand, conscious of his throbbing body and his dry, scaly skin.

  ‘Oh Sophie, how I wish I could have been ordained,’ George sighed, without opening his eyes.