Catching the Current Read online

  ON THE RUN FROM AN UNFORTUNATE ‘INDISCRETION’, YOUNG CONRAD RASMUSSEN FINDS REFUGE IN THE NORTH ISLAND OF NEW ZEALAND UNDER THE EMPLOY OF THE FAMOUS (OR NOTORIOUS) DANE, BISHOP MONRAD. HOWEVER, CONRAD — A TALENTED AND IMPETUOUS FAROEMAN — FINDS HE CANNOT ESCAPE HIS PAST.

  This is Conrad’s story, and that of the unusual woman Anahuia. It is a tale of new lands and old songs, of seafaring and war and the search for love. It is also the story of the Faroe Islands and of Denmark’s early connection with New Zealand. In Catching the Current the free spirit is pitted against the forces of tradition. Full of compelling events, vivid communities and the irresistible character of Conrad Rasmussen, this is a terrific companion novel to the bestselling The Denniston Rose and Heart of Coal.

  Reviewers’ praise for The Denniston Rose

  ‘A rollicking good yarn’ — Gordon McLauchlan, NZ Herald

  ‘An uplifting story of triumph and survival against seemingly insurmountable odds’ — Gisborne Herald

  ‘Violent, brash and colourful, The Denniston Rose … glows and flickers with energy’ — David Eggleton, NZ Listener

  ‘… an absorbing account of pioneer life and the incredible hardships faced by families attempting to carve a better future for themselves’ — Whitcoulls’ ‘Guaranteed Great Reads’

  ‘What a triumph this book is’ — Wairarapa Times-Age

  ‘You can really feel the wind coming up through the floorboards of the makeshift houses and hear the drunken shouts spilling out of the taverns’ — Dominion Post

  ‘Pattrick writes with the assuredness of a veteran … and has raised a simple story to a work of literary merit’ — The Press

  ‘With her winning smile, her waif-like ways and her ability to conceal the broad devious streak in her character, Rose becomes something of a mascot for Denniston and a peace token for a community which is deeply divided down sectarian lines’ — NZ Listener

  ‘It’s hard to believe this is a first novel’ — Evening Standard

  ‘A sequel is on its way — I can’t wait’ — Timaru Herald

  ‘This novel begs a sequel and I hope I don’t have to wait too long for it’ — NZ Woman’s Weekly

  ‘A sequel is promised — the prospect is one to savour’ — John McCrystal, North and South

  Reviewers’ praise for Heart of Coal

  ‘We have that sequel … and very good it is too’ — North and South

  ‘Spirited, memorable Rose is back … [Heart of Coal] is very different, but no less triumphant’ — Southland Times

  ‘Heart of Coal fairly rips along’ — Northern Advocate

  ‘Those of us who warmed to The Denniston Rose will be fired up by this gritty sequel’ — Next

  ‘… a superb yarn about love, loss and excruciating hardship’ — Daily News

  ‘… this sequel rises above its predecessor’ — Sunday Star-Times

  ‘Jenny Pattrick’s unique and unsettling voice, and sharp turn of phrase, are just as strong here as in The Denniston Rose, and fans will be equally pleased … very New Zealand, very gritty, very recommended’ — Waikato Times

  ‘An unforgettable novel about loss and love, hope and despair, and most of all, the uncompromising spirit of a truly unique woman’ — NZ Woman’s Weekly

  ‘Heart of Coal is a must. It is bound to be another bestseller’ — Elizabeth Knife, Timaru Herald

  ‘… an entertaining portrait of a society that rose and fell within one lifetime’ — Otago Daily Times

  ‘… a worthy sequel to the runaway success of The Denniston Rose … One can only hope Jenny Pattrick will oblige with a third book’ — Nelson Mail

  For my grandchildren, Ben, Alex, Arthur and Georgia

  A GUIDE TO FAROESE PRONUNCIATION

  æ a as in hat

  ∂ y as in yes, or silent

  ó o as in oh

  ø ur as in fur

  o o as in long

  í ui as in ruin (but shorter)

  j y as in yes

  Contents

  Review

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Epigraph

  1. Visitor from the North

  1.

  2.

  3.

  2. Feuds and Ballads

  1.

  2.

  3. The story of Róland of Su∂eroy and the whale kill

  4.

  5.

  6.

  3. Storms and Disasters

  1.

  2. Napoleon Haraldsen’s story of the Battle at Dybbøl

  3.

  4. Anahuia tells her story

  5.

  6.

  4. Conrad’s Tale of the Battle of Heligoland

  1.

  2.

  3.

  5. Flight

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5. Anahuia tells a story of death and escape

  6. Whale-road

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4. Else Rasmussen tells the story of her son’s return

  5.

  6.

  7. Change

  1.

  2. A letter to Olga Monrad, Karere, via Foxton

  3.

  4.

  8. Hearth and Homeland

  1.

  2. A letter from Johan (Jackie) Rasmussen

  3.

  SOME REAL EVENTS RELEVANT TO THE PERIOD OF THIS NOVEL

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  About the Author

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Particular thanks to Karen Williams, great-great-granddaughter of Bishop D. G. Monrad, and her husband Bill, who gave me the Monrad story, together with the books that provided the detail. Also to Mrs Callesen of Valhalla, Karere; Anthony Lewis of the Palmerston North City Library; and the archive staff at Te Manawa, Museum of Palmerston North, and to Jim Lundy. In Wellington, Vicki and Tony Ellis for early Wellington material, and in Sydney, Tim Barlow for his tenacity in guiding me through second-hand bookshops.

  For advice on Danish matters I owe a debt to Elin Bruhn Termannsen.

  In the Faroe Islands John Eysturoy has been of invaluable assistance. Also thanks to Jøannes Patursson at Kirkjubøur, Regin Debess at Heima á Gar∂i and the dancers and singers of the kvæ∂i dance group Toekum Lætt in Tórshavn, who gave us a first-hand experience of chain-dancing.

  To Harriet Allan and the staff at Random House New Zealand, thanks as always. And to my editor, Rachel Scott.

  And a final tribute to my clear-headed reader, Laughton Pattrick, whose comments, as the work progressed, kept me on track.

  It may look far, but one man can easily row across. It is a matter of catching the current. So here, if a person is late for a meeting or slow to understand, we say ha! — that one has not caught the current.

  John Eysturoy, Streymoy, Faroe Islands

  TRUTH AND FICTION

  Bishop D. G. Monrad, prime minister of Denmark during the disastrous political events of 1864, was a real person who came to New Zealand with his family shortly after circumstances forced his resignation. The description in this novel of his life and that of his family is as accurate as I can manage. Other true historical figures mentioned are Monrad’s friend the Rangitane chief Te Peeti Te Awe Awe; Titokowaru, the battle chief of the Pai Marire (sometimes called Hauhau) movement, Rev Duncan of Foxton and Rev Taylor of Wanganui. I hope that the words I have put into their mouths are reasonably true to what they might have said.

  Major events, situations and battles, in New Zealand, Denmark, the Faroe Islands and Sydney, took place as I hav
e described them.

  All the main players in the novel, however, their journeys and their stories, are from my imagination.

  Jenny Pattrick

  1.

  Visitor from the North

  KARERE,

  NORTH ISLAND, NEW ZEALAND

  1867

  1.

  To: Bishop D. G. Monrad

  At, or in the vicinity of, Wanganui

  North Island of the colony of New Zealand

  Conveyed to you by the hand of my son, Napoleon Haraldsen.

  March 1867

  My dear old friend,

  It is hard for me to think of you so far away! I can understand your need to impose exile upon yourself, at least until feelings in Denmark have subsided somewhat, but would not the Faroes have served? Surely our islands are remote enough, and our people uninterested enough in politics to leave you and your family in peace? I cannot understand this punishing desire to bury yourself in a wild and uncivilised country somewhere deep in the southern ocean. Come back, my friend. Leave adventuring to others. Your skills will be needed again in Denmark, I am sure of it, and your voice of experience called for.

  Already there is hope that the land lost to the Prussians may be returned to Denmark — or at least some of it. When that happens, you will be forgiven, and your decisions understood. I am sure of it. Time blurs the memory of even the worst disasters. Here on the Faroes we understand better than most that the simple matters of life — harvesting, farming, fishing, making clothes and shelter — will always take precedence, in the minds of the vast majority, over the actions of politicians and armies. (Forgive my presumption in saying this, but it is meant in good faith and as a consolation to you.) So begin your plans, my good friend, to return to your own people.

  Now to another matter. I am sending my dear son Napoleon to you in the hope you may be able to help us. He is searching for a friend whom we believe has fled to New Zealand. He, too, is from the Faroes, so speaks good, though accented Danish, and our hope is that he has come into your orbit. The lad is a fine and good-hearted fellow from a respected family here. Somewhat high-spirited, alas, which has led to one or two unfortunate incidents both here and in the Danish navy, where he served for some time. Our belief is that he fears retribution, and has ‘disappeared’ to New Zealand. We know him as Enok of Sumba, though I understand he is prone to changing his name. In the navy he called himself Køne. Hardly a clever disguise. Or he may use the patronym Rasmussen. At any rate, he is quite unmistakable, so any change of name will scarcely deter his discovery. Look for a giant of a young man, as blond as any true Viking and wearing his hair long like a hero. He has a laugh to carry across wide fjords and a wonderful voice for a song or a saga. A big lad in every sense of the word, who is sorely missed here by family and friends.

  There is a fresh feeling here in the Faroes, initiated by the young students returning from Copenhagen. A new national spirit. Enok should be part of this resurgence. He has been considered from an early age to be a potential leader. In particular his facility with our kvæ∂i — our ancient sung sagas — is an asset we can ill-afford to lose. Napoleon is sent to entice him back. (I am hoping that this voyage will satisfy my son’s adventurous nature enough to reconcile him to a farming life here. More and more I rely on him. Give him some work to do to earn his keep. If you can, let him see that work is no more exciting in the southern ocean than in the northern!)

  If you know of Enok, please help Napoleon to meet him. I have written to the authorities in the navy and am reasonably confident that they will overlook his ‘indiscretion’. The boy is a magnet to women of all ages: I will say no more. My daughter Clara — I believe you met her when she was a student in Copenhagen? — is most anxious that he return. Despite his past I would have no hesitation in blessing that union. Clara and he are admirably suited.

  You write that many Danes visit your holding in search of work or news from home in a familiar language. I feel certain Enok will have contacted you, for he is a sociable lad. Encourage him to tell you something of his story. It is an interesting one, and he is a born storyteller. You will have an entertaining evening, I promise you!

  In return for this favour I offer you a book to add to your excellent library. I trust Napoleon has carried it safely. We are rather proud of it — the first book published in Faroese. You will be interested — the great Sjúr∂ar kvæ∂i. The ballads are similar to the Danish sagas about Sigurd, but the differences give the tale a distinct Faroese flavour. Our language has now been given a written form — the young ones are quite fervent on the matter and argue the long nights over spelling systems: whether to favour the Danish or Icelandic texts. I fear they are foolish to believe that our small islands can keep their language intact. Denmark and the Danish language are the way of the future. At any rate, see what you can make of the book. An educated Dane like yourself will understand a good part of it, and Napoleon will help you. For myself, I prefer the old sung forms; Enok of Sumba, though young, is already a kvæ∂i master.

  I have been most interested in your letters. What a strange, wild place New Zealand is. I can scarcely imagine a land completely covered in trees! It has made me wonder whether the Faroes themselves were once tree-clad. I doubt it. Grass has enough trouble growing. Anything raising a higher head would surely be mown flat by the wind in a week!

  Best wishes to your wife and family. You are a brave man to take them all so far. I commend my son to your care and trust you to make sure he returns as planned, with or without young Enok. Napoleon is a good sailor and will work his return passage. He will have no trouble finding a ship, I imagine. Nor, please God, Enok.

  God be with you.

  Your friend,

  Harald Haraldsen,

  Streymoy,

  Faroe Islands, Kingdom of Denmark

  2.

  ANAHUIA WALKS DOWN from the bishop’s house through his wife’s vegetable garden and into the patch of great trees. She stands for a moment, enjoying the shade, and listens. She will hear his singing before she sees him, but birdsong is all she hears yet. This little island of bush is the last to remain between here and the fringe of trees by the river. Only three years ago she could walk the whole distance without lacking shade. Out in the open now, she strides, head down in the heat, around the end of the lagoon. This shining half-circle of water was once a curve of the Manawatu River, so Te Peeti says, until one winter of many floods, back in his grandfather’s time, the river cut through, and raged on out towards the sea, leaving the still water of the lagoon isolated — a paradise for water-hen and eel. And of course mosquito. They will be bad tonight. On the edge of the water, red-beaked pukeko wade through the reeds, the blue of their stubby, flightless wings flashing in the sunlight. Anahuia would like to stop, pull off her wretched clothes and wade in among the birds, but the bishop’s family do not allow nakedness.

  Again she pauses, standing among the stumps, the felled wreck of branches, to search along the dark line of the standing bush. The tall trunks, straight as spears, stand close together — an army waiting for the sign to advance. Except this is no advance; more a slow and sad retreat. Every day the land lies more open, the great stretch of forest she loves, diminished.

  Now she hears him. He is ahead, in the bush somewhere, roaring out a strange, wild song as he works. She picks her way with care through the tangle of browning foliage not yet burnt; the precious material of the dress must not be torn. She longs to run into the cool dark ahead but walks sedately, aware that the bishop’s wife or daughters — or one of the other workers — might be watching. All the time her eyes look this way and that, searching for the flicker of movement that will show where he is.

  At the edge of the bush, standing at last between the dark trees, she hears him clearly. He sings in a deep voice, more chant than song, in a language both familiar and strange to her. Not quite Danish but close. The song stops for a moment and now she hears the thunder of his axe. Not far away, surely. Her fingers, restin
g against a trunk, feel the shock of his axe blows coming up through the ground. The wood of the giant kahikatea under her hand echoes each stroke: Thock. Thock. Thock. A small seedling beside her shivers — a tiny movement that unsettles the young needles over and over again.

  When the axe blows cease and the heavy rasp of the saw begins, she suddenly sees him on the other side of a small clearing, stripped to the waist, his white skin and ash-blond hair shocking against the dark bush. Back and forth he draws the cross-cut, feet planted wide, both hands on the wooden handle, scraw scraw, scraw scraw, eating through the soft white wood. None of the other workers is strong enough to draw the saw single-handed.

  Anahuia sighs. She loves to watch him. Everything he does is different, somehow: more noticeable, larger. Yesterday she watched from the bank as he joined a party of men from the river villages in an eel drive. He jumped into the muddy water with a bloodcurdling cry that had even the strongest warriors laughing with admiration. He thrashed around, the one white body in the boil of brown ones, making so much noise, the great boy, that no one noticed how he kept to the shallows. Only she understood his fear of swimming. And later, when the hundreds of eels were safely netted and brought to the bank for the women to split and smoke, when it was time for the men to play and eat and sing, there he was, understanding scarcely one word in twenty, but fooling around with the other young lads, making them laugh, teaching them new sea-songs, as if they had all grown up blood-brothers.