Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Colonel, it’s been a shooting gallery out there. You’ve seen it for yourself. If we keep marching men up that hill the regulation twenty-five inches apart they’ll continue cutting us down the way they have in every previous assault.”

  As if to punctuate Stoke’s comments the tent was filled with the whine of a single rifle shot. Everyone flinched instinctively. That was another unpleasant surprise. Several officers and men had been hit at extreme range. It developed that several of the chiefs supporting Kingi owned superb hunting rifles. When the frontal assaults ended they mounted the stockade and amused themselves by picking off unwary soldiers who believed themselves safely out of range. As a result the entire camp had been forced to move back another hundred and fifty yards.

  “We can’t keep this up, sir,” Stoke concluded.

  “As long as I’m in command here this war will be carried out according to approved tactics.”

  “Colonel Gold, sir, we’ve close to one third of our entire complement killed or wounded.” The man who’d spoken unexpectedly was a sallow-faced elderly veteran named Colville. “Over a thousand men. If we keep trying regulation frontal assaults not only will we be wiped out but there’ll be no armed force of any size to stop these natives from overrunning the whole country.”

  At first Coffin thought Gold would hew to his original intentions, but finding himself assailed from all sides he at least had the common sense not to resist to the point of absurdity. His voice fell to a murmur and he stared at the oil lamp hanging from the centerpole.

  “What do you suggest, gentlemen? Captain Stoke? Since you find my strategy not to your liking you must have something to offer in its place.”

  “It’s not your strategy, sir. I’ve heard you say myself a good officer needs to improvise in the field.” Gold nodded, looked away from the lamp. Coffin eyed the Captain approvingly. A good soldier was also a good diplomat.

  “I’d like permission to begin sapping operations. We’ll start digging from the closest point where there’s tree cover. When the sap is within twenty yards of the wall we’ll split right and left as well as continuing forward. It will take more time but I’d rather do that and be able to blow the stockade simultaneously at three points. That way there’s no chance they’ll be able to repair the gap before we break through. With adequate covering fire we should be able to do that.

  “Once inside we should be able to carry the day by virtue of superior weaponry if naught else. Surely they’ve suffered substantial losses of their own. He didn’t plead, but there was no denying the earnestness in his voice.

  “It’s the only way, Colonel. This isn’t the Crimea or Belgium. We have to modify our tactics to suit local conditions. I’m sorry if that goes against the niceties of traditional warfare.”

  It was silent in the tent for a long moment. Gold nodded slowly. “We’re not here to maintain traditions, gentlemen. We’re here to win a war.” Murmurs of approval rose from the listening officers. “Mr. Coffin, Mr. Hull, can you guarantee your support?”

  Coffin replied first. “There are men in my group who’ve talked openly of desertion. They have crops to get in, shops to run. But I think they’ll stay, especially if they think they’ve a chance to win.”

  “He’s right,” said Hull. “Pains me to admit it, but the heathen have given us a hiding. It’s a foolish man who doesn’t learn from experience. My men will fight on, never fear.”

  “Right, then. Captain Stoke, get your engineers started. Coopt as many men as you need. Lieutenant Colville, I want the sentries doubled. We don’t want these bastards sneaking away from us the way they did at the last village.” He rose. “Now we’d best to sleep. I’ll see you all in the morning, gentlemen.”

  As they were leaving Coffin heard two junior officers conversing. “Why the bloody hell would they try and sneak out? They’re winning.”

  It was a measure of how far the army’s confidence had fallen—and how much they’d learned—that two professional soldiers could speak such words.

  9

  It was hard to be patient while the army engineers began the slow, arduous task of digging a deep trench toward the pa. The men had enlisted to fight, not sit and listen to taunts. They busied themselves as best they could, but the colonial militia and irregulars still lost a number of men to boredom and impatience.

  It began to rain again. The trench collapsed in several places, necessitating the installation of complicated and painstaking shoring to protect the diggers. But the work went on. When the rain stopped, thick shielding was built by carpenters and metalworkers to form a bullet-proof ceiling over the lengthening trench.

  They were two-thirds of the way to the stockade wall when one of Coffin’s own people, a blacksmith named Hawkins, brought him the latest in a succession of bad news.

  “I’ve just come from the quartermaster, Mr. Coffin, sir. Says we’ve only enough food left for a few days.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hawkins. I’ll see to it.” The blacksmith hesitated as if he wanted to add something more, reconsidered and left with a nod.

  Coffin had been expecting the news earlier. Soldiers and civilians alike had marched confidently out of Auckland expecting a quick campaign. A few dozen armed men could forage successfully for themselves, but an army of thousands needed extensive support facilities. These had not been provided for.

  Gold, Stoke and the regulars were no better off. Colville proposed keeping a small force in camp to protect the engineers and diggers while the rest returned to the city for supplies. Gold ruled it out immediately. Any substantial reduction in strength would tempt the Maoris to sally from the pa in hopes of destroying those who remained behind to continue to work. There seemed no choice but to abandon the field to the Maoris while the army returned to Auckland to regroup and perhaps await the arrival of additional regiments.

  “Artillery!” said Colville through clenched teeth. “That’s what we bloody well need here.”

  Big guns would have made a big difference. None had been brought along because no one gave a thought to their necessity. Artillery would only slow down any expeditionary force, and why would British regulars need cannon to subdue a few rebellious natives?

  Packing had begun when a loud cry rang through the dispirited camp. Coffin emerged from his own tent, frowned as he saw men moving en masse in one direction, and ran to join them.

  Soon he could see the soldier who was the focus of all the attention. It was one of the sentries, running toward headquarters with others dogging his heels excitedly.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” He intercepted a private, out of breath.

  “White flag!” the man gasped. “They’re coming out with a white flag!”

  Coffin let the man go, looked sharply toward the impregnable pa. The front gate so many men had died to reach stood open. A line of Maoris was emerging, marching down the path toward the camp. He turned and ran to tell McQuade.

  Angus was lying on a hospital cot, his leg heavily bandaged, awaiting evacuation. He would not be participating in any future battles, Coffin knew, and would likely walk with a limp the rest of his life—but the doctors had saved the leg.

  “The Maoris are coming out with a white flag, Angus!”

  “Be damned you say.” McQuade let his head fall back on the pillow. “Providence has delivered victory to us!”

  Coffin hesitated. “It’s delivered something. As to victory, we’ll see.”

  He left the hospital on the run to join Gold and the other officers. They were forming up to meet the Maori delegation.

  As they drew near everyone could see that the tutua in the back of the column were carrying large bundles between them.

  “What do you suppose that’s all about?” Stoke inquired.

  “Gifts maybe,” said Coffin uncertainly.

  “Maybe they think they can buy us off without having to make a formal surrender.” Hull leaned out for a better look.

  It was an impressive procession, the chiefs in front h
andsomely decked out in feathered capes that shone iridescent in the sun. There was no sign of Wiremu Kingi, however. He prudently remained behind, in the pa.

  “We should move to meet them.”

  “No,” said Gold. “Let them approach us. If they’re here to negotiate a surrender we’ll choose the spot for discussion.”

  But as the column slowed Coffin wasn’t so sure surrender was what the Maoris had in mind. The long line of warriors began dumping their burdens, huge sacks and bundles bound with rope. A lower chief supervised this unloading before walking over to confront the Europeans. He was well over six feet and was tattooed from face to shoulders.

  “I am Atuawhera. I bring greetings from Wiremu Kingi. Which of you is the Golden Colonel?”

  Gold took a step forward. Somehow he’d regained the air of confidence and soldierly dignity the past weeks had beaten out of him. It was an impressive recovery considering how little time he’d been given to prepare for this meeting. Gold had his best dress uniform on and his back was straight as a board. You couldn’t tell by looking at him that he was a man whose entire outlook on his profession had been given a rattling good shaking these past few weeks.

  Atuawhera turned to gesture at the massive pile of bundles his warriors had brought with them. “We know that you are running out of food.”

  A couple of the officers flinched but there was no point in reprimanding them. It hadn’t been framed as a question. Nevertheless, Gold struggled to maintain the fiction.

  “We have ample provisions, thank you.”

  “Then why are you preparing to leave?” When no one replied the chief continued. “It would be bad if you had to leave. This is a good fight, the best. So that you will not have to leave just to find food,” and again he indicated the mountain of bundles, “we have brought food for you so that you can stay and keep fighting. The land has been good to us for several years. We have plenty to eat and drink. We would share with our brave opponents. There is flour for making bread, also potatoes, mutton, and vegetables. Give this food to your cooks, since you have no women to cook for you, and eat well this night.” He grinned broadly, showing brilliant white teeth. “Tomorrow we will fight some more!”

  With that he turned and barked orders to his warriors. Still under the white flag they retraced their steps back along the path leading up to the pa. Gold and his officers looked after them, speechless. Leastwise they remained speechless until several of the warriors paused to bend over, stare back between their legs and make faces at them.

  “What does that mean?” a thoroughly stupefied Gold asked.

  “Means the same in Maori as it does in English, Colonel,” Tobias Hull informed him. He walked over and put his sword to the binding of the nearest sack. It was full of baskets of finely milled flour. Hull picked up a handful, let it trickle back into the expertly woven container.

  One of the younger officers was shaking his head as he stared admiringly up at the pa. “They’re all insane. Instead of surrendering they give us food so we can keep fighting them? What kind of people are these?”

  “Maori.” Coffin dropped his gaze from the pa to the pile of supplies. There was more than enough food to keep the remaining troops fed for weeks, albeit on short rations. Enough to allow small mounted parties to go scavenging the surrounding countryside for more.

  Muttering to himself, Gold retreated to his tent, leaving supervision of the on-going engineering work to Stoke and Colville.

  The Maoris tried several times to flood or otherwise destroy the lengthening sap. Each time they failed. When the three-pronged trench had undermined the wall the engineers set mines, lit fuses, and hurriedly retreated beneath their protective wooden roof. A great cheer arose from the assembled and waiting soldiers and militia when the mines went off, blowing apart a long stretch of stockade.

  There was no holding any of them back now, not even the ragged volunteers. They charged up the hill and burst through the hastily formed line of Maori defenders, only to discover that while the pa was full of bodies, most of the warriors had managed to slip away in twos and threes. Wiremu Kingi and all his principal chiefs had got away clean. It was the army’s second Pyrrhic victory in as many tries.

  “They’ll recruit new warriors to replace those they lost here.” Coffin stood within the pa, looking on as the militia torched the houses and granaries. Captain Stoke stood nearby, sword drawn and bloodied, shielding his eyes as he watched the flames take hold.

  “Don’t worry, sir. They may have learned something of our tactics from this battle, but so have we learned about theirs. We won’t make the same mistakes again. No more frontal attacks in the traditional manner. No more attacking high walls with bayonets. We’ll try and catch them outside their pas. We’ll prepare for long sieges. And by Heaven, next time we’ll have artillery if I have to requisition it from the Tower itself!”

  “I think I can help there.” Coffin looked thoughtful. “We can buy big guns from the Dutch at Batavia.”

  Stoke stared at him, extended his hand. “You should have been a soldier, sir.”

  Coffin shook his head. “I prefer commerce to combat, Mr. Stoke. It’s a matter of self-defense, you see. I won’t expose any more of my people to heavy musket fire until we’re better able to respond.”

  “I understand.” Stoke wiped his sword clean on a leg, sheathed it. “It may take a while to get the cannon, but when we do it’ll put an end to this business of sapping and mining. You’ll see, sir. We’ll put paid to this rebellion of yours in a few months.”

  They both turned back to watch the destruction. As Coffin stared at the burning storehouses the faces of the Maori gods carved thereon seemed to twist and dance, paua shell eyes shining in the orange light, toothy jaw alive with laughter.

  It had been a long time since he’d suffered from his recurring nightmares, but he had one that night. He could have sworn that one of the faces he’d seen burning atop the chief’s house belonged to someone known to him, but he couldn’t quite place it or put a name to it. The face hadn’t been carved into a grimace like the others. It simply stared down at him, fire licking at its edges, until it was consumed. At the last it threatened to consume Coffin too.

  As he lay back down, trying to will himself back to sleep, he knew that despite his confidence and competence Stoke was wrong. All of them were wrong. Artillery would help, but it would not end the Maori war in a matter of weeks, or even months. The war would go on and on. There would be no peace in New Zealand until the last Maori warrior had been killed or pacified. And how could such a people be pacified without being defeated?

  Once they were certain they had Kingi himself trapped, but he slipped from their grasp again. Coffin noted that in the intervening months Gold and the rest of the British regulars had stopped referring to the Maoris as heathen, had started calling them the enemy soldiers. Neither he nor Hull nor any of the other colonials bothered to point out that it didn’t really matter whether they caught Kingi or not. There would always be another ariki, another Kingi ready to put on the mantle of Kingite leader.

  Nor could they concentrate exclusively on Kingi’s band. Pockets of armed resistance had erupted all over North Island, which diluted the resources available to Gold. Farms and villages had to be protected from Maori raids. The army and militia simply couldn’t spend all its time chasing around the country after one particular enemy band.

  The Maoris never attacked any of the larger communities, nor did they attempt to confront the army in open combat. They fought best from behind their strong-walled pas or out in dense forest, striking hard and retreating when they encountered determined resistance. Travel of any kind, much less ordinary commerce, became more and more difficult except by ship as the Maoris ambushed one wagon after another.

  Extremists called for laying waste to every Maori village and town, believing that even those who denied supporting the Kingites secretly aided them with food and information. They wanted to burn all the Maori fields to deny the Kingites
supplies.

  Coffin and the calmer heads among the colony’s leaders prevailed. A few such acts of unprovoked destruction and violence would surely have driven all the Maoris into the Kingite camp. As it was, a great many managed to maintain their neutrality despite provocation from both sides, and some actually fought alongside the colonials.

  Fresh troops arrived regularly from Australia, rotating with exhausted veterans. Men came from England and India and other outposts of the Empire. They always arrived brimming with self-assurance, confident they would bring the war to an end in a matter of weeks. The new officers were the worst. They were unable to understand how a few natives had managed to battle His Majesty’s regiments to a standstill. Why, India alone contained hundreds of times as many heathen, and India was firmly under control. Impossible to believe this petty rebellion of Polynesians had continued for so long.

  Soon such men got their first taste of Maori fighting, and as quickly they came to understand that Te Ika-a-maui, as North Island was called, was not the Punjab. Cockiness gave way to wariness, and men talked of survival instead of quick victory.

  Stoke got his artillery. Though they could now reduce the walls of a pa from a safe distance it in no way brought the rebellion to a close. If anything, the Maoris thrived on this greater challenge. The more they lost, the harder they fought. Instead of trying to defend their pas, when the army unlimbered its cannon they simply melted away into the woods to attack and harry the besieging troops. Soldiers cursed and died as they hunted for an enemy that refused to stand still and be defeated.

  The regulars weren’t the only ones who rotated combat duty. Coffin managed his militia assignments better than most of his colleagues thanks to the dedication of Elias Goldman and the increasing responsibility Christopher took for the day-to-day operations of Coffin House. Even Holly was supportive. She reluctantly accepted the fact that as one of the community’s most influential citizens, Coffin could hardly sit back and live in luxury while everyone else took their turn fighting the rebels. But she didn’t like it.