Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  Not Coffin. He delegated certain responsibilities because he had to, but when trouble appeared he was always there to solve it himself. His people appreciated that kind of personal attention—not to mention that it kept them honest and alert.

  Pity he couldn’t have kept Hull out of the General Thomas altogether. He scanned the room but his old enemy was nowhere to be seen. Some said Hull had mellowed over the years. Coffin knew better. Hull might or might not be the wealthiest man in New Zealand but that wouldn’t slow him down. When greed faltered, rage would keep him going. No matter how much success the man achieved he’d always be dangerous.

  A hand dissipated smoke and Angus McQuade beamed up at him through the swirling gray wisps. “Robert! You’re just in time to settle an argument.”

  “I hope it’s not about food.” Coffin grinned down at his friend. McQuade was starting to resemble poor old Titus Abelmare. Cigars weren’t the only luxury the Scotsman had become addicted to. Coffin or Hull or Ainsworth or any one of half a dozen others might be the wealthiest, but no one denied the McQuades had the finest cook. Angus had long since abandoned the regimen of his ancestors in favor of a diet more suitable to a sybaritic Belgian.

  Now McQuade and his expanding waistline leaned toward him. “Have you seen the paper?”

  “Not yet. Just got here.”

  “Have a look, then.” McQuade handed him a copy of the front sheet.

  Everyone’s attention was on him as he studied the headline and accompanying article. Finally he tossed it on a nearby table. “This is nothing new. The Americans have been arguing over slavery for decades.”

  Cooper Marley chewed his pipe as he spoke. “This fellow Lincoln, though: he sounds as if he means to do something about it. Leastwise the southern Americans seem to think he does.”

  “I wish he would, but he won’t.” Coffin looked thoughtful. “From what I’ve read about him he strikes me as too shrewd a politician to throw away a promising career for a bunch of Africans. But you’re right about one thing, Cooper: the slavery issue appears to be coming to a head in America.”

  “The great question, then, Robert,” said McQuade. “D’ye think there’ll be a war?”

  “Civil war?” Coffin shook his head. “The Americans are too sensible for that, just like this Lincoln is. Still, where Americans are involved, all sorts of crazy things are possible.”

  “Pity sheep don’t grow cotton instead of wool,” said Ainsworth. Several of his friends laughed politely.

  “If war was to come, do you think the Crown would recognize the southern states as an independent country?” Marley wondered aloud.

  “Hard to say, Cooper. Doing so would ensure a steady supply of cotton for the Birmingham and Manchester mills, but from what I hear the Egyptians are starting to grow quite a bit of the stuff themselves. Parliament might decide it’s more important to keep the friendship of the free states. Whatever decision the government makes won’t have anything to do with moral issues like slavery. It’ll be all business, you’ll see.”

  “Will it now, Robert?” Marley was rubbing his whiskers as he stared up at the big man. “Is everything a matter of business to you, then?”

  “That’s right, Cooper. Everything. Now if only we had a way to preserve our beef and mutton during a long ocean crossing. If war comes to America there’ll be need for meat everywhere.”

  “Och, we’d be richer than Croesus. What took you so long, Robert?”

  Coffin sat down in an empty chair next to McQuade and gave his order to a passing servant. “I tell you, gentlemen, if I hadn’t lived here myself since the founding of this city I wouldn’t believe how much it’s grown.” He looked at McQuade. “I was late, Angus, because I was delayed by street congestion. Can you believe it? Traffic, in Auckland of all places!”

  “You’ve my sympathy, Coffin,” said Rum Baxter. His real name was Romulus, but finding that far too patrician everyone called him Rum. “The other day my carriage was stuck on the street for two hours. Two hours, mind you! All because some fool deliveryman had run his wagon into a farmer’s cart. The whole business was beyond belief.” He chuckled at the memory of it.

  “At least our police have settled down. They actually went about the business of trying to ascertain who was responsible for the accident instead of pulling their sticks to beat up everyone in sight.”

  “A lot of new people in town.” Everyone knew what McQuade meant. Seven years ago gold had been discovered in Australia. Now that the initial rush was panning out many who’d left New Zealand in search of easy riches were returning, sadder and usually poorer, to try and pick up the threads of lives hastily abandoned. Joining them were other gold-seekers from farther afield. Having missed out on the great strikes to the northwest, they decided to try their luck among the green fields of Aotearoa.

  “That’s not news.” Cooper shifted in his chair. “Now what I heard the other day you’d find truly remarkable.”

  “Go on, Cooper,” said Ainsworth irritably. “Amaze us.”

  “I will do precisely that, William.” He lowered his voice and made a dramatic show of looking around to ensure no one else was listening. Baxter chuckled, sipped at his drink. “I’m serious, now, gentlemen. The sloop Malay Dandy just put to sea for Dunedin with as eager a party of wild-eyed adventurers as ever this part of the world has seen, and I’d wager none of you know why.”

  There was silence among the gathered. Cooper let it hang as long as he dared before declaring with quiet triumph, “They’re bound of South Island because they’ve heard there’s gold to be found there!”

  Several of his colleagues gawked openly at him.

  “Gold in New Zealand. Now that’s an amazin’ thought, for sure,” agreed McQuade with a smile.

  “Come now, Marley,” Ainsworth said with a huff, “everyone knows there are no minerals worth digging in this country. If this be El Dorado it’s only a one for sheep.”

  Everyone laughed at that, Cooper included. “I don’t subscribe to their madness, gentlemen. I only report on it.”

  “If I may bring to your attention a more pressing matter,” said Sandifer. Coffin knew little about the thin, sallow-faced rancher. He spent most of his time out in his beloved hills and mountains, supervising the growth of his herds. He was a newcomer to the circle of the important, unsure of himself much of the time, laughing reluctantly at their jokes and gibes. A man more at home in the company of four-legged individuals.

  “This isn’t about moving the capital down to Wellington again, is it, Winston?” Baxter made a rude noise. “Give them credit though: ever since people started moving to South Island they’ve been demanding a more centrally located capital. Well, Wellington’s not a bad place, if you can stand the cold.”

  “It’s not about moving the capital, Mr. Baxter.” Cool sort of chap, Coffin found himself musing. Not unfriendly, not cold—just different. “It’s the Maoris. There’s been some talk.”

  There was some uncertain muttering. A couple of the men exchanged puzzled glances. “What sort of talk, Sandifer?” Ainsworth finally asked.

  “The Maoris are always talking. They’re very good at that.” Cooper leaned back in his high-backed chair. Within the warm, civilized confines of the Club it was difficult to admit the existence of any sort of problems beyond the thick, reassuring walls.

  “Aye, what are they complainin’ about this time?” McQuade inquired.

  Sandifer seemed to shrink from the attention he’d suddenly focused on himself. His reply was barely audible. “Land sales.”

  “What, that again?” McQuade waved his cigar, conducting his words with wreathing smoke. “That was all settled years ago with the establishment of the Crown monopoly.”

  “It’s not that. It’s, well, some of the Maoris are complaining that they’re losing their culture.”

  “What culture?” Baxter quipped.

  Sandifer didn’t take kindly to sarcasm. He sat a little straighter and his voice strengthened. “They’re being
swamped by European ideas. Many of their young people are giving up Maori ways in favor of ours.”

  “Can we be blamed if they choose how they want to live?” Baxter commented.

  “Rum’s right,” Cooper agreed. “Nobody’s forcing them.”

  “Christianity has been pushed on them by the missionaries,” Sandifer argued.

  “Hogwash!” Ainsworth sniffed derisively. “Nobody pushed flour mills or irrigation or smoking or drinking on them. They choose, and rightly so, I might add.”

  “Right,” said Baxter. “Some of them are not unintelligent. They’re smart enough to recognize the superiority of the white man’s way.” Murmurs of agreement came from around the circle.

  “As for the land sales,” Sandifer continued, refusing to be dissuaded by their attitude, “many of the rangitira feel too much of their ancestral land is being sold to the pakehas. Each time they sell a plot they tell themselves it will be the last, and next week someone else shows up with a pack of new immigrants in tow wanting to buy another hundred acres. The agents cajole individual Maoris into putting their signature on paper, or in the event none of the local natives will sell, the new settlers simply squat and start building houses and fences.”

  “A shame,” said Marley, “but what can we do about it?” He smiled disarmingly at his companions. “Settlers will be settlers. People need room to live.”

  “It’s not what we can do about it,” Sandifer said almost loudly, “it’s what the Maoris can do about it.”

  “Let ’em try,” Baxter snorted. “If they’re thinking of trying a repeat of what happened at Kororareka years ago, it’ll go the worse for them.”

  “Well said!” Cooper was nodding vigorously.

  “We’re much better armed and organized than we were in the ’40s,” Ainsworth pointed out. “Let them try something. Any Maoris who dared attack Auckland or Wellington or even someplace like Russell would soon find themselves hunted down and annihilated. Besides which Kororareka was an isolated anomaly and that reprehensible Hone Heke an isolated leader.”

  “In any event,” McQuade pointed out, “if the Maoris tried to assemble enough strength to threaten a town they’d soon fall to slaughtering each other before they began to march. They may dislike some of us but they hate each other far more. They’ve feuds goin’ back centuries. No, the Maoris are too disorganized and fratricidal to give us any serious trouble anymore.”

  Coffin had been sipping quietly at his tea. Now he put his cup and saucer carefully aside. “Don’t be too sure of that, gentlemen.”

  “Don’t be too sure of what, Coffin?” Baxter challenged him. “That the Maoris won’t form a regular army, maybe with generals and captains and,” he had to work hard to keep from bursting out laughing, “perhaps even a flag?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” said Cooper excitedly. “A maiden’s flaxen skirt waving in the breeze.” Even Sandifer had to grin at that.

  “Just because a thing’s never been done before doesn’t mean it can’t be done,” Coffin said quietly when the laughter had faded.

  Ainsworth pursed his lips as he stared across at Coffin. “You worry too much, Robert. You’ve always worried too much. We go back to Kororareka, you and I, and you worried too much when you were a sprout in your twenties. It’s put lines on your face.”

  “That it has, William, and sovereigns in my pocket.” Had it also brought him happiness, he suddenly found himself wondering? He shook the discomfiting thought aside. “It may be that you’re all correct.” He looked at Sandifer. “Keep us up-to-date, Winston. We’ll depend on you for regular intelligence reports on enemy movements.”

  This time the laughter was so strong that Sandifer subsided and even though the conversation turned to more pleasant mundanities he did not speak again.

  2

  Te Rawana was speaking. He was neither the oldest of the chiefs in the meeting room nor was he the youngest, but he was among the most eloquent and forceful speakers. Recognizing his intelligence and good sense, the more senior chiefs let him ramble on. After all, he was not the first of them to speak at extraordinary length today. Never in living memory had so many of the important ariki gathered in one place—in peace.

  Te Rawana was articulating not only what was in his heart but what was in their minds and hearts.

  “When the pakeha first came to Aotearoa they were few. They bartered for flax and potatoes and then they went away. But more of them came in the great ships every year. They asked to be allowed to stay. Since we had land, we sold them land. Now they have brought all their relatives and more come each day. Soon there will be no more land to sell. What will the Maori do then? Live upon the ocean?”

  “It is not so bad as you say.” Raroaki spoke without rising. “It is true there are more pakeha than ever before and that they come in an endless stream, but most of them stay in the cities, the big pas they make from wood and stone. They do not take much land.”

  “But those who settle in the pas must be fed,” Te Rawana reminded him. “For that they need land.” His gaze swept around the circle of assembled chiefs. “They grow like children. When they were small we could talk to them. Now that they are big they do not listen to us. They take the land we will not sell.”

  “Very little,” said Omatuto, looking satisfied. He was known for his extensive and profitable land dealings with the citizens of expanding Auckland. His tribe had grown rich selling land in small parcels. “I have no quarrel with the pakeha. Life for us is better, not worse, since they came.”

  “For how long? They spread across the land like waves before a storm. How long, Omatuto, before they insist on buying the land of your forefathers, the land on which your own pa stands? What will you do then? Go live in Auckland?”

  Omatuto clearly had not considered the possible ultimate end of his own self-satisfied reasoning. His smug smile evaporated as he pondered this heretofore unconsidered possibility.

  Te Rawana turned to Te Haraki, who was burnished rather than worn by age. “Did I not hear of the trouble your people had but days ago with the devouring pakeha?”

  The tall old ariki nodded. “It is so.” He raised his head to regard his brethren. “The pakeha came to me saying they wished to make a farm. I offered them land, good land. Land that had belonged to my tribe since the Maori came to Aotearoa. It was not enough.” He shook his head at the memory of it. “They wanted still more. I would not have it, but the younger chiefs all voted against me. They see only the gold in the present and nothing of the future.” His final words were tinged with shock. “You would have thought I was their enemy instead of the pakeha.

  “They sold the settlers all the land they wanted, all the land lying between the river and the mountains. Not the best land but very good land. When I argued with them they said we did not use this land, that we did not grow food upon it or hunt in its brush. The white men assured them our people could still fish the river. But it is not our land any longer. Now it belongs to the pakeha.” He took a long breath.

  “Each day this story is repeated elsewhere. Each day the pakeha takes another piece of the land. I will not end my life living on the beach eating only fish, gazing at the land that was once mine!”

  “And those are the decent pakeha,” said Apatu. “There are others, the men who come with pieces of paper and big smiles to tell us that they, not we, own our own land. They say it has been sold to them by another clan. Quickly they build their houses and fences and load their guns to keep us off ‘their’ land.

  “When we who are the real owners go to the pakeha police to complain they tell us they have seen these papers that say the land is no longer ours. They tell us to argue with the other clan. But when we go to talk to our clan brothers they have gone themselves, to spend the gold they have received for signing these papers. This is pakeha justice.”

  There was much murmuring among the ariki before Te Haraki spoke again. “We must do something, but what can we do? We have agreed to sell the pakeha land to keep the
peace. Not all pakeha are bad. Many have traded fairly with us and respect our traditions and customs. I myself have joined their religion.”

  “Many of us are Christian,” said Apatu. “I am beginning to wonder if it is possible to be both Christian and Maori.”

  “At least they have not asked you to become white,” Te Rawana said dryly. Many of the chiefs laughed, but not all.

  “The pakeha is greedy.” Apatu had not laughed. “He wants all the land. Well, he will not have ours! I will fight him.”

  “You cannot fight. Not anymore,” said Te Rawana somberly. “There are too many pakeha abroad in the land now and they have too many guns. We should not have allowed them to settle here but they are here and it is too late to do as Hone Heke once did. For this we must blame our fathers.”

  “Then what can we do?” wondered Omatuto.

  “Perhaps we cannot drive the pakeha away, but we may be able to save what remains of our land.”

  “If the land sales stop,” Te Haraki pointed out, “soldiers will come.”

  “I am not sure that is so. I have studied the pakeha’s language. I can read his ‘papers.’ That is why Te Rawana’s tribe has not been cheated. We have sold them only the worst land and kept the best for ourselves. The Crown monopoly which protects them protects us as well, if you know how to interpret it.”

  “But this selling of land that belongs to a whole tribe by one small clan must stop. That is the wedge the pakeha is using to split us apart.”

  “You will never get the clans to agree to that,” said Raroaki. “The clans hold the tribal land in common.”

  “We must!”

  A chief who had not yet spoken struggled to his feet. He was impressive in his massiveness and he spoke with assurance as well as dignity.

  “Te Rawana is right. The best way is to learn how to use the pakeha’s papers against him. There are those who will help us in this. I myself have good friends among the pakeha.”

  “Everyone knows how you love the pakeha, Te Ohine.” Apatu glanced significantly around the assemblage. “Te Ohine talks with the pakeha all the time.”