As he waited outside the archdeacon’s study, Franz’s heart pounded and he began to sweat. He swallowed with a dry throat when William Woodcock finally called him in. What would he do if he was sent on an expedition into the wilderness? Could he give up and leave? Would God punish him? Or worse yet, would God punish him right now through the hand of the archdeacon, banishing him to a far worse place than the one he was fleeing?
The archdeacon’s bright eyes bored into Franz’s own. He seemed to be able to look directly into the young man’s soul. “Sit down, Reverend Lange. You’re terribly pale. Was it the reunion with your family, or are you already feeling the burden of duty?”
Franz murmured something unintelligible. But then he pulled himself together. “I haven’t broken my fast yet,” he admitted.
The future missionaries had spent the day before their ordination fasting and praying, and Franz had almost collapsed with hunger during the ceremony. But then the encounter with his family had taken away his appetite, while his classmates were already enjoying the refreshments the school had provided.
The archdeacon nodded. He covertly appraised the wispy young man. Franz Lange was of medium height, was very thin, and had slightly hunched shoulders, as though he were constantly ducking the stroke of a whip. The traditional black missionary suit fit him loosely. William Woodcock briefly scanned the evaluations from Lange’s teachers: reliable, pious, patient, extraordinarily well versed in the Bible, but unfortunately not a good speaker. The young man also seemed to have difficulties looking someone in the eye. Woodcock persisted with his steady gaze anyway, staring into the childish round face with big blue eyes—fearful eyes. Woodcock didn’t want to torture the boy. He spoke to him kindly.
“I won’t keep you long. After all, you’ll have to fortify yourself for the duties that lie ahead. Tell me, Reverend Lange . . . If you could choose a posting, where would you go? Which country, what kind of work?”
Franz rubbed his temples. Was there really a chance that the archdeacon was going to include him in the decision? But this could just as easily be a trick question. His father, at least, would have taken a direct answer to reveal a lack of humility and then would have given him a task that was particularly contrary to his wishes.
“I—I will take the place that God has ordained for me. I—”
The archdeacon dismissed his words with a wave. “Of course you will. I’m assuming that. But there must be some duties that attract you more than others.”
Franz bit his lip again. He desperately searched for a noncommittal answer. “I like to teach,” he said. “I like to work with children.”
Truthfully, the only children Franz had ever worked with were his younger half-siblings, and they often seemed rather slow-witted. But he’d never minded when Anna had asked him to help them with their school work. To the contrary, it had been a pleasure because then at least his father didn’t send him to work in the fields. And Franz thought that perhaps if the natives were civilized enough to send their children to school, then they couldn’t be all that dangerous.
The archdeacon nodded and made a note on the documents in front of him. “So, you are a born teacher,” he said kindly. “Good to know. Unfortunately, at the moment none of our missionary stations have requested teachers. On the other hand, there is surely a need in the larger stations where the work with the heathens is in a more advanced phase. Would the summons to such a station attract you, Brother Franz? I have a request from New Zealand. One of our long-serving missionaries, Reverend Voelkner, requires assistance. Didn’t you come from New Zealand with your family, Reverend Lange?”
Franz felt a seed of hope germinating inside of him. His memories of New Zealand were fraught, the settlement that his father had founded having fallen victim to a catastrophic flood. But he’d liked the town of Nelson. And the countryside there harbored no snakes, scorpions, or dangerous animals.
“I came from Mecklenburg,” he replied. “Raben Steinfeld.”
“But you’ve lived in New Zealand. Would you like to be sent there, Franz? Please, speak openly. I can’t grant every wish, but if it’s possible, I would like to allow the preferences of the young missionaries to influence my decisions. For example, the first three brothers let me know they were interested in founding a new mission in China. We could use a fourth man there. So, if you would prefer—”
“No!” Franz’s objection was a little too quick and too loud. If the archdeacon did mean to test him, he might be on his way to China in a few days. “I—I mean, of course I’d follow the call to distant lands, but I—”
The archdeacon smiled. “Very well, Reverend Lange. Then it’s official. I will send you to Opotiki. That’s on the North Island of New Zealand. The mission has been there for several years. Good luck, Brother Franz. Go with God.”
Staggering out into the sunshine, Franz felt dizzy but also indescribably relieved. Now he just had to make his way to the long tables of food to satisfy his hunger and to congratulate his brothers for their posting in China, and perhaps endure their friendly teasing that he “only” got to go to New Zealand. But instead, he walked back into the little church. There, he thanked God fervently for answering his prayers.
Part 2
RETURN
CANTERBURY PLAINS, CHRISTCHURCH, AND LYTTELTON, NEW ZEALAND (THE SOUTH ISLAND)
1863
Chapter 4
“You’ll see, Carol, this time we’ll win. Last year, with Jeffrey, we were just paddling around. Joe is teaching me a completely different technique now. After all, he’s from Oxford. His team won the boat race, you know, that famous regatta on the Thames.”
Linda suppressed a sigh of boredom. Mrs. Butler had left the garden to fetch the tea, and her son, Oliver, was already back on his favorite subject, the upcoming regatta being organized by the Christchurch Rowing Club. Linda found it difficult to feign interest. Her half sister, Carol, on the other hand, was making an assiduous effort to listen and smile encouragingly at her fiancé’s descriptions. Linda and Carol were looking forward to the regatta, which included colorfully decorated boats and a cheerful picnic on the bank of the river. The entire population of Christchurch would gather by the Avon, and the boat races were a welcome distraction from the particularly grueling work on the sheep farms in spring. But Oliver’s constant talk about his rowing technique and his fabulous new rowing partner, Joe Fitzpatrick, and above all, his endless analysis of their chances to win would have tested the most patient of listeners. At least Carol’s fiancé showed strength of purpose, enthusiasm, and ambition when he talked about the event, all qualities that seemed to be missing when he worked on his parents’ sheep farm—or so Captain Butler complained. But Oliver’s mother thought it perfectly acceptable for him to be a gentleman rather than a farmer.
“The trick is not rowing completely simultaneously,” Oliver continued. “The strokesman should row a little bit before the bowman. That way you eliminate the yawing that would otherwise come from . . .”
Carol nodded enthusiastically, concentrating less on Oliver’s words than on his pleasant, sonorous tenor. She loved his voice, as well as his slender figure, curly black hair, aristocratic features, and heavy-lidded, soulful brown eyes. At the moment, they were flashing with eagerness, but Carol also liked it when they were gently shadowed and full of dreams, which was more often the case. Linda, on the other hand, found Oliver lethargic and pale.