The Wives of Henry Oades. Johanna Moran

I’d give,” murmured Mim. “Every mother needs a girl of her own.” She bent and lightly traced the rim of Mary’s perfect pink ear. “Where’s the promoted one?”

      “He’s due any time. Come sit. The water’s on. We’ll have a quick hand and a cup.”

      At the table, Margaret dealt a hand of euchre to Mim and herself, and two invisible players. The dogs started up a frantic barking just as she turned up trump, spades, the jack, right bower. Mim glanced at the dark window. “Henry?”

      Margaret was already standing, collecting the cards, returning them to the case. Henry would come in ravenous as always. She was searching out the jam when the shots rang out, silencing the dogs. The jar slipped from her hand, shattering. People were coming, heavy footsteps pounding the earth. Mim rose from the table, drawing a long breath of audible panic. Josephine sat suspended, her eyes unnaturally brilliant, needle drawn up. The front door blew open, driving in a raft of brown-skinned males.

      Josephine cried out. “Mama!”

      Margaret shouted, her heart roaring with fear, “Into the bedroom!” But there was no time.

      The Maori filled the room, brandishing rifles and whips, a hideous tattooed four, with mouths yawning wide, tongues wagging obscenely.

      The babies wailed in high-pitched unison. Josephine still hadn’t moved. Margaret crooned to her petrified girl, her voice crackling. “Don’t be afraid, darling. Mama’s here. Father’s coming.” Please, God. I beg you. Bring him now.

      She backed toward the cradles, considering weapons—the finely honed butcher knife, Henry’s black pistol in the bedroom. “What do you want? Get out. You’ve the wrong house. I insist you leave immediately. My husband will have your bloody heads on a pike.”

      Mim ducked toward the door. A squat one blocked her path, latching onto her arm. She screeched, spittle flying. “If you’ve harmed my boy, so help me God, I shall pull your misbegotten cock out by the root and make a dog’s supper of it!”

      Margaret bent and scooped up Mary. In the next instant the howling baby was wrenched from her arms and stuffed inside a flax sack. She fell on the sweating creature, clawing, drawing blood. He shoved her off. She staggered, knocking back Henry’s chair. Margaret shrieked, searing her throat. “Please, God! My baby!”

      The squat one went for Martha, doing the unspeakable same with her.

      “In the name of our Lord Jesus! Have mercy. Is it money you want?”

      Her arms were yanked back, her wrists bound with rough twine.

      Two wrestled with Mim, but she evaded them, flailing wildly, screaming. “Animals! Lowly stinking shit-eating swine!” She threw back her head and delivered a shrill hog-call of a racket.

      The one by the door came forward, leaving an unguarded opening behind him.

      Margaret shouted, “Run, Pheeny, run!”

      Josephine came alive and bolted for the door. The man lunged, yanking Josephine back by a braid. She squealed in pain and sank her teeth into his hand. He raised his rifle, as if to strike. Mim lowered her head and charged, ramming him from behind. “Leave her be, ye sodding savage!”

      The monster spun around without releasing Josephine. He caught Mim beneath the chin with the butt of his rifle. Her head snapped back, eyes rolling white, blood streaming from her nostrils. She fell in a heap, one plump arm crossing her face, the other beneath her.

      Margaret whispered Mim’s name, choking on phlegm and tears. She pleaded with God, with Jesus. But Mim did not stir. Margaret started for Josephine. The youngest-looking bastard, barely older than John, came between them. He caught Margaret’s forearm and marched her toward the door. He was a full head shorter. Nits crawled in his greasy hair. She begged the wretched child. “Please, sir. Allow me my babies.”

      He balled up a foul-tasting rag and forced it past her teeth.

      “Mama,” sobbed Josephine. Then she too was gagged.

      They were goaded forward, out the door. Margaret strained, searching out her babies in the dark, the sacks that held them. Behind them a torch was lit and put to the curtains she’d only just hemmed and hung.

      Outside, Oscar was trussed like a lamb and positioned belly down on the back of a horse. He looked up expectantly as Margaret and Josephine were brought out of the burning cottage, letting out a heartbreaking keen when his mother did not appear. John was tied, but on his feet, wet horror gleaming in his eyes. He mouthed to Margaret as she passed, “They murdered the dogs.” The nit-boy jerked her forward. Oh Jesus, please.

      A rant of prayer coursed on in her brain. Margaret fixed her gaze on the pitted road from town. She beseeched God to intervene, to spare her children, to bring Henry now. The fear was a salty, blinding, viscous thing, clogging her throat and ears. They started toward the river, she, John, and Josephine on foot, a Maori each between them. The men chattered among themselves, speaking their bastard tongue, laughing now and again, drowning out her babies’ muffled cries. For a time she heard both Mary and Martha, and then, eventually, only Mary.

       Inconceivable

      THE MOON APPEARED between two slow clouds. Margaret told herself Martha was sleeping. The child slept sounder than most, did she not? Like a bear cub in winter, as Henry would say. He’d sung operatic cradle songs to her. He’d sung to them all. It’s a lovely thing, a man singing to a baby. Surely he was on his way.

      The air had turned colder by degrees. Her feet were soaked, icy. A numbness had developed in her right leg and hip. How far had they walked? Ten, fifteen miles? Twenty? Christ, Lord. She had no way of gauging distance or time. Hours had passed, it seemed. John and Josephine would be out of their minds with exhaustion and hunger.

      Margaret was second in line, shivering behind the lead savage. Two on horseback followed at some distance. John and Josephine were farther back still, beyond her view now. She glanced over her shoulder again. The Maori behind bared his teeth and thrust his chin forward. Please, God. Help us. They’d all come away wearing next to nothing—no gloves, no coats, summer stockings and thin soles. The damp seeped right through. Her heel caught on a slimy river stone. She teetered, letting out a ragged cry. The brute ahead turned and glared. How hateful, how menacing his look. As though he were the one so horribly wronged. His wretched animosity was unfathomable.

      She bowed her head against the chill. She must concentrate, keep her wits about her. She’d be needed when Henry came. Above, in the trees, a horse snorted. Henry! There was a snap of branches, a rush of hooves. She turned around, seeking out her children, just as another five tribesmen rode down the hill and fell in with the others. In her despair she wet herself. They were so many now. Almost simultaneously she realized that Henry would not have proceeded alone. He’d have Mr. Bell alongside, and, at the very least, Messrs. Clark, Sully, Reed, and Freylock, all strong and strapping men, all excellent shots. It would have taken time to rally them. Though by now they would be assembled and on their way. Margaret worked on producing saliva, softening the putrid rag in her mouth. The weave was stiff, inflexible. She sawed with her jaw and bottom teeth. Broom-straw slivers broke away. She spit them out quietly, marking the trail for Henry.

      They continued along the black river. Her cold wet drawers chafed. Both the children had wet their beds from time to time, and Josephine, poor mortified Josephine, had wet her white Easter frock in church. She’d not been to blame. The garrulous old vicar had gone on far too long. God, how her little girl had suffered.

      A savage in the rear shouted out. Two dismounted and disappeared into the trees. The broad-faced one ran up to her, gesturing toward the ground. “Down.”

      She filled her lungs with air and pushed hard, expelling the blasted rag finally. “Please untie me.” She spoke with difficulty, her ribs throbbing painfully. “Bring my babies. They’ll