A tremor ran through the planking beneath Frederick. The six-year-old braced himself to keep from rolling as the deck tilted to port. The ship swayed and shuddered, and so did his guts. He sat up and retched into his pail.

In spite of the darkness, a hand found his. "Not much longer, son," his father gasped, taking a steadying gulp of his own. "Today's the day. Port at last."

"Feels like another storm starting," Frederick whimpered.

"Just the wind. It's always windy in the straits, they say."

Muffled cheers sounded. A hatch creaked, letting a shaft of light into steerage. Shoes scrabbled on the ladder, then thudded through the tight quarters. Two dark shapes appeared and loomed over the sickbed. "Land ho!" they cried together.

"Come up on deck, Father!" Alfred crowed.

Alexander grabbed their father's arm. "They're going to let the sick debark first! Come on, Father, come on!"

As William Hurst struggled to his feet, supported by his ten and twelve-year-old sons, Frederick moaned at getting left behind.

Alexander glanced over his shoulder. "Don't worry, Frederick. I'll come back for you soon as we get Father up the ladder."

More voices sounded, more scurrying footsteps, thuds and clunks and rustles as other steerage passengers gathered belongings, everything desperately in need of airing and washing. Two hundred English immigrants, crammed elbow to elbow for five months, and half of them seasick most of the way.

True to his word, Alexander soon wormed his way back through the milling crowd.

Frederick clambered to his feet, but fell back to his knees.

"Wobble-legs!" Alexander laughed. "Never mind. Climb on my back. Just don't puke down my collar. Now hold tight while I climb the ladder."

The sheer white light of an overcast sky blinded Frederick as they lurched up onto the open deck of the Barque Bolton. His father was right. No storm. Just a fierce, rampaging wind that scoured the below-deck odors from his nostrils and whined in the lines like violin strings.

Alexander carried Frederick piggyback to join the rest of the family at the rail, their few belongings piled around them. Mother supported Father now, while Selina held the baby and eight-year-old Amelia pestered Alfred.

Frederick squinted against the light, drinking in the sight of land rising from the waves, a dark forest springing from the sea and climbing high enough to block the ever-bleak horizon from view. "That's New Zealand?" he asked, his voice a hoarse croak.

"Yes." Mother drawled the word out in one long, grateful syllable. "Our new home. Just look! As lush and green as the fields where I grew up in Essex."

"What's that?" Selina asked, pointing up the coast.

Amelia squealed. "Cannibals! Coming to eat us up!" She squeezed between their parents.

"No," Father said. "Look. They're waving bags and bowls, not weapons. They want to trade."

"You're sure they won't eat us?" Amelia asked, still hiding.

"Silly!" Alexander said. "Weren't you listening? Mother told us the Maori tribes are friendly or we wouldn't have come."

"But the Harrison boys say they're cannibals! They make ugly faces then eat you!"

Alfred pulled lips wide, rolled his eyes, and stuck out his tongue. "Amelia looks delicious! She looks like supper. Come here, supper!"

Frederick slid down off Alexander's back and clung to the rail, gazing down. Narrow boats skimmed over the whitecaps, propeled by many half-dressed men wielding paddles. "We don't have anything to trade."

"The captain will have goods," Father said.

Anchor chains rattled. Sailors bustled about, coiling ropes, lashing the reefed sails, preparing the ship's boats.

Servants who'd berthed below-decks escorted their wealthy employers from comfortable upper-deck cabins. Reverend Harrison, more wan-looking than Father, leaned heavily on his serving men while others hauled his trunks out.

The captain waved at the Hurst family, pointed them to fall in behind the Harrisons.

Frederick lingered at the rail. Every gust breathed new life into him. He drank in the air -- and drank in the sight of solid land almost within reach. His legs felt steadier already. He couldn't wait to get firm footing.

The wind strummed its violin song in the rigging overhead. A sailor's cap flew past, over the side, sailing down to splash near a dugout below. One young Maori paddler cried in delight and leaped into the water to fetch it.

Frederick grinned. Solid ground, room to run, and maybe some Maori friends. He couldn't wait.

.

The Hurst family arrived at Wellington on the North Island in April 1840 aboard the Bolton. Frederick later wrote, "The aborigines, when we first went there, were very friendly and hospitable, but before the end of the year 1840, owing to the imposition and oppression of the whites, the natives took up arms... There was a great deal of blood shed before peace was declared sometime in 1847."