Karl looked confused. “Huh?”
“He means the archangel Michael,” O’Toole said in annoyance.
“See, I am one of you. I am Maori, born in Taranaki, but the pakeha took my mother and me to Kawhia. I served them like a slave, but I am not angry at them, because it was God’s will that I learned their language and their writing. I studied the Bible, God’s word, and I allowed myself to be baptized, because I was sure that the pakeha could lead me to a better life. But then Te Ariki Mikaera appeared to me and told me I should not be one of the sheep but the shepherd. As Moses once led his people out of servitude, so have I been chosen. I have been chosen to tell you about God’s son, Tama-Rura, whom the pakeha call Jesus. I tell you this, even though I have been told that Tama-Rura is another name for the archangel Gabriel.”
“The man is out of his mind,” Ida murmured.
“The man is dangerous,” Karl hissed.
“And they are all waiting with spear and sword in their hands, to lead their chosen people to freedom.”
“Pai marire!” the men cried, and the villagers repeated it loudly.
“Goodness and peace—with swords?” Ida asked.
Mara raised a sarcastic eyebrow—a gesture that she had recently adopted to communicate to adults what she thought about their ideas.
“For you are not free, my chosen people!” Te Ua thundered to the crowd. “You share your land with the pakeha, and often enough, you have believed they were your friends because they gave you money and things you could buy with it. But truly, I say to you: they give nothing for free! They take your land, they take your language, and they will also take your children!”
The women reacted with shocked cries, and some of the men with shouts of protest.
“You did not invite these people here. They only came to take your land!”
Karl was about to speak, but Father O’Toole had already leaped to his feet.
“We also brought you God, whom you are currently blaspheming!” the priest shouted.
Te Ua Haumene glared at him. “You may be the canoe that brought the true God to Aotearoa,” he spat at the missionary, “but sometimes one must burn the canoe in order to truly feel at home. God will still be here long after we have driven the pakeha out of our country. Long after they have been blown away by the wind! Pai marire, hau hau!”
Father O’Toole sank back to the ground in stunned disbelief. He rubbed his brow painfully as more and more of the people he had converted and baptized evoked the Holy Spirit in the wind.
Next, Te Ua Haumene set the gathering in motion. He had his followers erect a pole that he called a niu, which was supposed to represent the good news he’d brought. His men danced around the pole almost in the manner of a war dance, and encouraged the crowd to join them. Te Ua Haumene chanted as they did so, and continued to proclaim other fundamentals of his new religion. More and more young villagers sprang up and joined the warriors as they danced around the niu.
“We should leave as quickly as possible,” Karl told his wife and daughter, “before the prophet decides to start freeing this village of pakeha. Mara, go get Mr. Johnson and the redcoats, and I’ll pry Mr. Carter away from those girls. Ida, take Father O’Toole straight to the horses. We don’t want him trying to challenge that madman.”
Mara didn’t have to be told twice. The ghostly atmosphere, the dark words of the prophet, and the men’s mad dance around the niu scared her. She saw the Maori as her people. If she married Eru, she would be a member of the Ngai Tahu tribe. But she had never seen her countrymen this way before. It seemed as though all of their common sense and wisdom had been blown away by a bewitching wind.
Father O’Toole looked to be in a trance as Ida led him between the fires, fortunately without incident. A few of the villagers noticed the pakeha leaving. The chieftain, who was sitting off to the side, was certainly aware. But Maihi Paraone Kawiti didn’t stop them. Nor did he seem particularly impressed by the prophet currently entrancing his tribe. Perhaps he could sense the danger radiating from Te Ua, or perhaps he was afraid of losing his own power over his people. He nodded to Karl and regarded Father O’Toole with an expression somewhere between disdain and regret.
“Keep moving,” Ida urged the missionary.
After helping Carter and the alarmed soldiers saddle their horses, Mara handed Father O’Toole the reins of his gaunt bay mare. He stared at them in his hand as if rooted to the spot.
“I want to go now,” Mara said.
“As do I,” Father O’Toole whispered. “This is the end. Irrevocably. I’m going back to Galway. God save this country.”
Chapter 3
“God called, and you answered!”
The voice of Reverend William Woodcock filled the little church at St. Peter’s College. The archdeacon of Adelaide looked appraisingly at the young men lined up in front of the altar. They gazed up at him expectantly.
“‘Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.’”
“Amen,” said the eight freshly ordained missionaries and their family and friends who had gathered for the celebratory service.
The Australian Church Missionary Society ran a seminary that sent a handful of enthusiastic, pious young men into the world every year to convert the “heathens.” Most of them stayed in the country—the huge continent of Australia offered plenty of opportunities. But every now and then, a new missionary was sent to New Zealand, India, Africa, or another destination.
William Woodcock had been given the task of assigning the new missionaries to their future posts. He raised his arms as the last “amen” resonated off the church walls. The eight young men lined up for a formal exit from the church while the organ played and the college’s choir sang. Most of the congregation joined in the singing. Almost all of the missionary-school students came from strict religious families and knew the words and melodies of the popular hymns quite well.
Franz Lange strode third in line through the church, his head lowered reverently. But when he heard German coming from the final pew, he glanced up and saw his father. Jakob Lange stood stiffly between Franz’s younger half brothers and sang defiantly in his native language. His deep, sonorous voice drowned out those surrounding him, who eyed him with annoyance that he neither noticed nor cared about. Franz knew his father thought it crucial that the Gospel be spread in the language of Martin Luther and regarded foreign languages as a nuisance. Twenty years after his emigration from Mecklenburg, Germany, Jakob could still barely speak a word of English. As a result, he hadn’t understood very much of his son’s ordination ceremony.
In truth, Franz hadn’t even dared to hope that his father would be there at all. The Australian Church Missionary Society might have Lutheran roots, but it was now part of the Anglican Church, and they didn’t adhere to the Gospel nearly as strictly as Jakob Lange would have liked. But for Franz, there had been no alternative. The Lutheran community near Adelaide that Lange’s family belonged to had no seminary. If Franz wanted to follow God’s call, then his only option was St. Peter’s College.