Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  In truth, he missed her as much or more than she missed him. He spent too many lonely nights out on the road with the cold wind battering at his tent.

  There seemed no end to it. Many members of the militia and volunteers took to bringing their wives or sweethearts along with them. The regulars had their camp followers. The expeditionary forces were like large animals that surged back and forth across the countryside, striking at tormenting Maoris, killing some, extracting pledges of neutrality or allegiance from the rest only to find that once they’d passed, a hitherto peaceful tribe would suddenly choose to join the revolt. Such unpredictable actions prevented any region from becoming permanently pacified.

  They were bound to win, Stoke assured everyone repeatedly. It was only a question of time. The war had become a part of daily life, with men moving on a regular basis between home and combat. Though devoid of gaiety and ease, life continued much as before. They might not be able to kill every Kingite, but eventually they would wear the rebels down.

  Indeed, the Maoris had already lost, though not even their own gods could have convinced them of it.

  BOOK FOUR

  1861

  1

  He was thinking of Holly. Of her bright eyes and smooth skin, of the cool breezes that blew off the lake at Tarawera. Of how the summer house at Te Wairoa was going to look when at last it was finished to his satisfaction.

  A shout from ahead and the column halted. Men chatted softly behind him, on foot or horseback, as one of his outriders pulled up before him. Almost, he turned to say something to Angus, but McQuade no longer rode with the militia. His injured leg prevented him from joining in the fighting.

  “Major Stoke’s respects, sir, and would you ride on up to join him?”

  “What is it, Corporal?”

  “Maoris ahead, sir.”

  Coffin rose in his stirrups but could barely see the end of the column of regulars the militia had been following. “Any fighting yet?”

  “No sir.” The messenger turned his horse about. “None expected, either. These natives are neutrals, or so they claim.” It was clear from his tone that this soldier had no use for neutrals.

  “Then why has the column stopped? Why not just march around them?”

  “Major Stoke has decided to bivouac here for the night, sir. Also, I was told that one of the Maoris wishes to speak with you personally.”

  Coffin frowned. Several of his subordinates eyed him curiously. “We’ll soon straighten this out. Lead on, Corporal.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The messenger wheeled about and Coffin followed. Already the regular troops were unpacking tents and cook pots from the supply train. They rode on past until his guide turned off the main road and led him down a slight incline.

  Camped against the near shore of a narrow stream was a small group of traveling Maoris. Even if they’d been hostile they would have posed no danger to the heavily armed troop. Experience had taught the soldiers to keep pickets moving constantly on both flanks of a marching column.

  Being in no way opposed to the adoption of the best of European culture, these traveling Maoris stayed in tents the equal of any officer’s. There was no mistaking the chief’s tent. The entrance was decorated with carved wood, which had been erected to give the tent the look of a Maori house. When he recognized several of the carven images Coffin smiled.

  “It’s all right, Corporal,” he told his guide. “You can return to your unit.”

  The younger man eyed him uncertainly. “You sure you’ll be okay here, Mr. Coffin, sir?” He was obviously uneasy at leaving an officer alone among a number of armed natives, no matter how strenuously they protested their neutrality.

  “I’ll be safe, Corporal. Do as I say.”

  “It’s your neck, sir.” The soldier turned and spurred his mount up the bank leading to the road.

  Coffin dismounted and approached the chief’s tent. An expressionless old woman pulled the rain flap aside and bade him enter. He bent, then straightened once inside.

  “I thought it might be you, old friend,” he said to the tent’s only other inhabitant.

  Te Ohine had lost some of his imposing girth. His hair was now as gray as Coffin’s, a change not entirely induced by advancing years. The conflicts of the past several years had aged many men, Maori and pakeha alike. The chief sat on a small carved wooden chair, gestured to Coffin to sit on a nearby woven mat.

  “A bad time, Coffin. A very bad time it’s been.”

  “I know. Too many good men dead on both sides.” Silence for a moment, then, “Do not the Kingites see they cannot beat us? Why do they not give this wastefulness up and make a treaty with us?”

  Te Ohine sighed heavily. “Many treaties have been made between the Maori and the pakeha. They seem to mean more to us than to you.”

  “Not to me,” Coffin protested quickly. “Are there not good and bad men among the Maori? I know there have been problems with land dealing. All this can be worked out without the loss of more lives. There’s no need for men to die.”

  “If men cannot die for their land what else is there worth dying for?”

  “And yet, you do not fight.”

  “No, I do not fight. I am a Christian.”

  “There are many Christian Maoris with the Kingites.”

  “I know, and that is sad. Such people listen to the fathers’ teachings, but they hear only what they want to hear.”

  “That is true for the pakeha as well, I’m afraid.”

  “Many Kingites are not Christian. They believe the Old Gods will rise up and help them.” He looked down at Coffin. “Help them to throw all the pakehas into the sea.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” Coffin spoke softly. “I know it’s not and so do you.”

  Te Ohine riodded. “Yes, I know this. So we must find a way to live here together, in peace.”

  “We will, but for those who persist in fighting, peace will come only in one way.”

  For the first time the old chief grinned. “You are a wise man, Robert Coffin, but you do not see everything. It is true the Kingites cannot push you into the sea, but neither can you defeat the Kingites. Not as long as there is a cave to hide in or a tree to stand behind. They will hide from you until you think you have finished them and then they will come out to attack you anew. You will never have peace.”

  “We will have peace,” Coffin insisted. “It may take a little longer than first thought, maybe another year or two, but the Kingites will be beaten.”

  Te Ohine sat on his chair shaking his head. “Have you learned so little about us? The Maori love to fight. So long as you fight the Kingites they will fight back for the pure joy of it, even if they think they cannot win.”

  “That’s stupid.” Coffin couldn’t keep the brusqueness out of his voice. “If a man knows he cannot win he should lay down his arms.”

  “Ah, that is how a pakeha would think.” Te Ohine chuckled gently. “It is not the way of the Maori.”

  “We’ll see.” He nodded toward the tent’s entrance. “You know, there are any number of men in that column who would gladly fall on you and kill you all, just because you’re Maori.”

  “I know that. If I were to be killed and not reach my destination, all my tribe and all the clans bonded to it would no longer be neutral. They would rise up as one and join the Kingites. That is what protects me, more so than the flag of truce I travel under.” He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. “Enough of war. What of your life, my old friend? You are older than when last I saw you but you stand straight and look well.”

  “No thanks to this bloody conflict.”

  “Will you have something to eat and drink?”

  Coffin smiled. “When did I ever refuse to break bread with a friend? There’s more of the road in my throat than on my horse’s hooves.”

  Te Ohine laughed. The tenseness Coffin had sensed when he’d entered was gone, each man once more sure of the other. Outside, war and rebellion might domi
nate relations between Maori and pakeha, but in here, in this one small place, peace and understanding reigned. The chief turned and shouted toward the back of the tent.

  A woman entered. She carried a carved wooden tray laden with cakes and bottles. The instant he set eyes on her Coffin forgot about the war, forgot about politics, forgot how tired and sore he was.

  Forgot everything.

  At first sight he wasn’t sure she was pure Maori. Her features were too delicate, almost oriental; her body from shoulders to hips too svelte and trim. The rest of her was not in question, from the lustrous dark hair that fell in waves and curls to her waist to the obsidian eyes.

  Conscious of his stare, she set down the tray and looked straight back into his eyes with a boldness that matched his own. She wore a light, filmy top that might once have comprised a portion of some wealthy white woman’s nightgown set. It looked incongruous against the flaxen skirt below.

  He could no more look away from her than he could suspend time, though he tried to do both. She poured drinks into silver cups, the Maoris having acquired a taste for many pakeha luxuries. Te Ohine traveled in the style befitting a great chief. Only then did she subject Coffin to a second shock. Instead of retiring the way she’d come, she crossed her legs and sat down on the map between the two men. That was unheard of.

  He waited, as long as he thought proper before glancing curiously at his host. “Aren’t you going to order her to leave?”

  Te Ohine’s expression twisted as he turned to regard the young woman. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty. “Some fathers are blessed with children. This one is a curse. Her name is Merita.” He tapped his forehead. “She is not right up here.”

  “Not right.” Coffin looked back at the girl. She continued to sit quietly, staring at him with astonishing intensity. Would she speak, or would she at least show enough respect for tradition to keep silent? He found himself hoping she would speak, if only so he could hear her voice. It occurred to him that her actions were as outlandish as her attire. There was nothing in that bright, penetrating stare that hinted of idiocy.

  “She listens to no one,” Te Ohine was saying, “but instead does just as she pleases. Sometimes it pleases her to obey me. Sometimes not.” He shrugged. “I keep her with me because I am too embarrassed to offer her in marriage to a reputable warrior. None would have her.”

  At that the girl glanced challengingly up at her father. “I will choose my own man.” Her English, like her voice, was beautifully modulated, sweet as a flute.

  “Your daughter is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever set eyes on.”

  If he expected her to turn modestly away or to blush he was disappointed. Instead, she just smiled back at him. He was so tense he hurt.

  Te Ohine sounded indifferent. “Oh, yes, I suppose she is pretty. But who wants a crazy woman for a wife, no matter how attractive?”

  “I do as I please,” she said, throwing back her head. The black waterfall rippled. She was daring her father to contradict her. Evidently the old man knew better. She continued to stare at Coffin with a hint of shame. He wondered if anything could intimidate her.

  “It is good to meet you, Makawe Rino. My father has spoken of you before.”

  “Thank you,” said Coffin. “Your English is excellent for one so young.”

  “Of course—and I am not so young!” Dark eyes flashed. “I can learn any language I wish. I can do anything.”

  “There, you see?” said an exasperated Te Ohine. “Not a bit of modesty or restraint in her. I don’t know what I am going to do with her. As she grows older she becomes more of a burden.”

  “Not as much of a burden as Opotiki,” she said, finally shifting her gaze back to her father.

  Opotiki. The name resonated in Coffin’s mind, coalescing out of the past. Earlier, happier times. Plump Maori children playing around a village maypole. One boy in particular.

  “Your son.”

  “Yes, my son.”

  “Your favorite son,” Merita added, not satisfied with her father’s reply.

  “Opotiki, yes, I remember him,” Coffin said thoughtfully. “Husky little fellow. I’d enjoy seeing him again. He must be all grown up by now.”

  “He is grown, but you would not like to see him.” Te Ohine’s tone was full of sadness. “More and more it is painful to be a man of peace in these times. Opotiki is with Alexander Rui.”

  That was a name Coffin knew immediately. Rui was one of Wiremu Kingi’s most bloodthirsty war chiefs. A year ago he’d split away from Kingi to form his own raiding party. Despite his Christian first name he’d proved himself among the most ruthless of the rebels. Unlike many, he had no compunction about murdering women and children.

  And Te Ohine’s son fought alongside him.

  He tried to sympathize but the old chief was not easily mollified. The pain this admission cost him was plain to see. “None of my children will obey me,” he moaned. “I am cursed in my old age.”

  “That is not so,” Merita argued. “Only Opotiki fights the pakehas. All your other children, even I, follow your lead in this.”

  Te Ohine looked down at her. “I wish you were as reasonable in all things.”

  She laughed and her laughter became shivers that slid down Coffin’s spine. There was a wildness here he hadn’t encountered since his days at sea.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he heard himself saying. “I hope we do not have to fight Alexander Rui’s men.”

  “It does not matter,” said Te Ohine. “You would not recognize Opotiki. It might be that he would kill you first.” He shook his head, old before his time. “Too much killing. Friends slaying friends.”

  They talked awhile longer, Merita sitting silently nearby. It was an effort for Coffin to address himself to his old friend. They discussed the weather as well as the war, what the future might hold for both of them, how the crops were doing. To everything Merita listened intently, as though she were incapable of relaxing.

  It struck Coffin that in spite of what she’d said she might well be a spy for the Kingites, relaying information on troop movements while traveling under her father’s banner of neutrality. Hadn’t she admitted her brother was a rebel? No, he decided. Subterfuge was not this woman’s way. If she wanted to oppose the pakehas she would have picked up a gun and joined Rui’s band herself. She was not in any way—domestic.

  As Coffin prepared to leave they shared a final drink and toast.

  “It was good to see you again, old friend.” Te Ohine shook Coffin’s hand. The conversation and visit, remembrance of better times, had rejuvenated him. His voice had deepened, his expression improved.

  “Very good.” Merita had risen with them. “I will be ready in a moment.”

  “Ready?” Coffin smiled ingenuously at her. “Ready for what?”

  Again that hungry stare. He was more than half a foot taller than her but felt as though he was gazing into the eyes of an equal. “I am going with you. Since it seems I am not to be married to anyone worthwhile, I have determined to seek my fortune among the pakehas. With what better pakeha than the famous Makawe Rino?”

  “Hold on, girl. I haven’t said anything about.…”

  “You were not asked.” She favored him with a taunting, teasing smile. “I made the decision.”

  “Did you? Suppose I refuse to have you along?”

  “Then I will follow behind your army until you change your mind. I will haunt you until your guilt demands you take me into your service.”

  “I do not suffer from guilt.”

  “Do you not, Makawe Rino?” She was teasing him with more than her smile. Had she already sensed the weakness he wasn’t prepared to admit?

  As if that weren’t enough, Te Ohine spoke up eagerly. “Yes, yes, take her into your household, old friend. Give her work to do, teach her obedience if you can. She is useless to me. Perhaps she will take orders from you.”

  “Who knows?” she said coquettishly.

  “Mak
e a proper daughter of her and you will forever have my gratitude,” Te Ohine went on. “If she disobeys you, you must beat her. But be warned: she is fast and hard to catch.”

  “No.” Coffin felt as if he were standing outside himself watching characters performing in a play, unable to affect the course of action. Drama, he mused, or farce? “No, I won’t beat her.”

  “There, you see?” She turned a quick little circle. The strands of her skirt went flying, revealing slices of smooth brown flesh between. “I’ve learned something already. I have little to bring with me.” Quick as a butterfly she vanished through the rear flaps of the tent.

  Te Ohine watched her, turned back to Coffin. “Teach her pakeha ways, old friend, and forgive me for keeping my intentions secret. What she learns from you will help her if we lose this war.”

  “You still think Kingi and the others have a real chance to throw the pakeha out of Aotearoa?”

  “My mind knows this cannot happen, but,” and he hesitated out of deference to a good friend, “my heart tells me all is possible for a Maori warrior. Bear that always in mind, my friend. It may preserve you when those around you are dying.”

  “I’ll take care.” He struggled not to stare at the canvas portal through which Merita had disappeared. “I’m not one of those ignorant pakehas who underestimates the fighting ability of the Maori. Not many of the soldiers do either. Not anymore. Most of those who did are dead. I thought this would be a short war.”

  Te Ohine shook his head. “As I have told you, it will go on as long as there are those who would rather fight than farm. If you have learned anything about my people you must know there are thousands of warriors so inclined.”

  “I know it all too well.”

  The old chief turned to regard the back of the tent. “She is very strange, my daughter. You will have to be patient with her, though it is hard sometimes. She will not have her face tattooed but neither does she accept the Christian god. I do not know what she is, my friend, whether pakeha or Maori or something of her own choosing. Do not let her deceive you with her appearance.”