Of tresses making midnight all around
For those twin stars to shine through! while between
In glimpses the fair neck was seen
Just as at night upon those white
And windheaped hummocks of glimmering sand—
Thickflowing sand—so finely sifted
By the gales whereby ’twas drifted—
Soft patches of pale moonlight stand
Beside their sable shadows. Then her teeth!
All things that most of whiteness boast
How dull and dim beside them! The far wreath
Of snow upon those peaks eternal;
The sea-foam creaming round the coast—
The wave-bleached shell upon it tost—
No, none of these—perhaps the kernel
Of a young cocoanut when newly broken
Would best their blue-white purity betoken.
But what were graces so inviting
Without the soul—the spirit’s charm
That from some well of witchery internal
Comes dancing up, delighted and delighting,
Comes sparkling through them—bright and warm!
How frank and noble is her face!
And what a sunny pride and sweetness lies
In those open brilliant eyes!
Her voice chimes like a merry bird’s—
How winning are her cheerful words!
With what a blithe and stately grace
She drew her glistening flaxen mat,
With chequered border decked,
Into the hollows of her wavy form
And stepped away erect!
A maiden of a million that!’
Strange power of Beauty! in a moment’s space
It photographs itself upon the brain,
And though with limnings soft as light, imprints,
Burns in, such deep encaustic tints,
The finest line, the tenderest stain,
No future impress can displace,
No wear and tear of Time efface.
(1872)
Joshua Henry Kirby, from Henry Ancrum: A Tale of the Last War in New Zealand
The night was wild and gusty; dark masses of cloud obscured the moon; large drops of rain fell at intervals; the melancholy wind moaned through the trees, and occasionally shook the old wharis in its fury; everything heralded the approach of one of those violent storms so frequent in New Zealand. The pah stood out dark and gloomy on its promontory, flanked by swamps on either side, save when ever and anon the vivid forked lightning would reveal the whole scene, shimmering on the white palisades, lighting for an instant the dark rifle-pits behind them, and bringing into view the long lines of wharis embowered in trees.
Henry Ancrum had fallen asleep in the earlier part of the night, but was aroused by the loud sounding of the hopper, which on this night was blown with great energy, a mode of proceeding which indicated that important news had arrived.
As usual, all was bustle and excitement, for a Maori is never tired of hearing news; and in less time than we can write it, every individual in Henry Ancrum’s whari had left it, except one of Celia’s brothers. This young man had stayed very unwillingly; but then it had been Celia’s direction that one of her relatives should always stay with Henry, and he had found that it was useless remonstrating with them, or telling them that he did not require their services. On this occasion, however, after the lapse of a few minutes, a Maori came running breathless to the whari, and told Celia’s brother that one of the chiefs wanted to speak to him at the council chamber. He, suspecting nothing, went at once. When he arrived there, a plausible story was told him, and he was easily induced to stay and listen to the proceedings.
When Henry Ancrum was left alone, he would under ordinary circumstances have immediately gone to sleep again, and this was what his enemies anticipated. On this night, however, a sort of restless feeling pervaded him. His sprained knee was a good deal swollen, and very painful, and having been woke out of his first sleep, he found it impossible to settle back to slumber. He had not lain long awake, when he became sensible of a sort of creeping sound, as if persons were passing stealthily round the whari.
How many a poor settler in New Zealand have heard those sounds! Ah, my friends, you who live in comfortable houses in dear Old England, with policemen patrolling before your door, can you realise this scene?—The dark night, the whari or small farm-house some two or three miles away from any other settler (for cultivation requires space), the stealthy sounds coming nearer and nearer—what can they be? At first the settler thinks they are some of his cattle straying about; but they are such strange sounds. Hush! Perhaps they are some friendly Maories passing the door. Alas, no! The door is burst open. The helpless settler, his wife and children fall on their knees, and pray for mercy to those who know not the name.
Why should we continue? The story can be read, repeated over and over in the ‘Daily Southern Cross’, or any New Zealand paper. How does it all end? ‘Richard Jackson shot through the body, tomahawked, since dead’, &c., &c.
It is highly probable that Henry Ancrum would not have taken any notice of the sounds he heard, had it not been that he was aware, as has been mentioned, that he had enemies in the camp, and that it behoved him to be on his guard under all circumstances. As it was, it immediately occurred to him that it was a most extraordinary circumstance that any person or persons should move about in a stealthy manner inside the pah. He therefore raised himself on his left elbow, and turned his face towards the wall on the side from whence the sounds had come. In this position the back of his head was towards the door of the whari, and his feet towards a fire burning at the other end of it.
Henry Ancrum listened intently, but the sounds had ceased. All was still. He could only hear his own breathing. The fire flickered on the hearth, it cast long shadows on the earthen floor, it dimly lighted a figure standing in the doorway—a figure clad only in a blanket—and fell upon a face—a face of the old Maori cannibal type—a face hideously tattooed. Great circles extended on either side of the nostril, meeting under the chin. Again, in the space between the ear and the eye were fantastic curves, whilst from the bridge of the nose there radiated arcs of circles on either side, as if an open fan were delineated on the forehead. The face was immovable. It was like an image carved in wood. Behind this savage stood Henare-te-Pukeutua, also silent, stealthy, immovable—a Maori, but a Maori of the modern type. No tattooing here, scarcely any hair on the face, a massive forehead, rather large nostrils, wide mouth, and heavy determined lower jaw, and, strange to say, some expression in the face; but the expression was that of hatred and revenge. Behind Henare were several others.
The first Maori had no arms, he merely carried in his hand a gag. Having gazed at Henry Ancrum for an instant, he saw to his surprise that he was not asleep, but he also observed his listening attitude, and that his back was towards him. He advanced with cat-like steps across the floor—his naked feet made no sound—the fatal gag was in his hands; an instant more, and it would have silenced his victim for ever. But whether it was that his figure coming between Henry and the fire cast a shadow on the wall, or whether it was that Henry in his excited state caught sounds which would otherwise have been inaudible, certain it is that he became conscious that something was approaching him, and turned rapidly round. The Maori instantly made a dart at his head, the gag was within a few inches of his mouth, when Henry struck his adversary a violent blow in the face with his closed fist, which made him stagger backwards and nearly fall.
Henry instantly, though with great pain from his sprained knee, sprang to his feet. A canoe-paddle was leaning against the wall of the whari (these paddles are sharpened at the point, so as to have some of the properties of a spear, and are often used by the Maories, both as offensive and defensive weapons), Henry Ancrum instantly seized it, and put himself on his defence, at the same time shouting loudly to Celia’s brothers and other friendly Maories to come to his assistance.
There was a pause. Henare-te-Pukeatua had intended, as has been said, to have gagged Henry Ancrum, carried him away, and despatched him outside the pah, leaving it to be supposed that he had escaped. It had not been his intention to incur the resentment of Ihaka and his relations by murdering him whilst under their protection; but when he saw his rival standing before him, and reflected that he might escape him altogether, his jealousy and rage knew no bounds, and casting all prudential considerations to the winds, he rushed on Henry, and struck at him with a long-handled tomahawk which he carried in his hand. Henry parried the blow, but the keen weapon slipping down the blade of the paddle, struck the handle, cutting it nearly in two, and rendering it useless for any further defence. Again the gleaming tomahawk was raised, and this time it appeared that it must descend with fatal effect; but instead of falling on Henry’s head, it tumbled harmlessly on the floor, and Henare, with a scream of pain, dropped his arm. A new actor had appeared on the scene. Celia, alarmed by Henry’s shouts, had rushed to his rescue, seizing the first weapon which came to her hand, which happened to be a small hatchet. On reaching the whari, she had seen Henare in the act of raising his arm, and without a moment’s hesitation had struck him with the hatchet just above the elbow, cutting him to the bone.
In another instant she was by Henry Ancrum’s side.
‘Cowards,’ she said, raising the axe in the air—‘cowards! The first man that approaches him dies. He is my husband. We have read the marriage service over together, and we are married.’
The adherents of Henare-te-Pukeatua stood motionless; the announcement of Celia had taken them by surprise. If she was the wife of Henry Ancrum, of course she had a right to defend him; besides, they had only acted under the orders of their chief, who now, faint from the loss of blood which flowed copiously from the severed vessels of his arm, leant against the side of the whari, whilst his immediate friends bound up his wound, and staunched the bleeding.
At this moment Celia’s two brothers and several other relations rushed into the whari. She instantly seized the opportunity, and directed them to carry Henry Ancrum (who could hardly stand from the pain in his sprained knee) into her own whari. This was done before anyone had time to interfere; and Henry and Celia were left alone, whilst her relations kept watch outside.
The storm had now burst in all its fury: the lightning literally ran along the ground, the thunder crashed overhead like the report of the heaviest guns fired within a few feet of the roof-tree, the wind raged with a fury only known in New Zealand, the wharis shook and quivered like living creatures, the trees in the pah bent till their topmost boughs nearly touched the ground, the rain fell in torrents.
Henry Ancrum lay on a bed of fern on the floor, he was suffering great pain from his sprained leg, and was exhausted with his late efforts. Celia knelt beside him; both were silent. The lightning flashed and glared into the whari, and lighted up its most distant nooks; it shone on the two figures as if with the light of ten thousand candles; it departed, and all was black darkness. The lightning came and went, and came and went again; still they were silent.
At last Celia said—
‘Henry, forgive me if I said you were my husband; it was done to save your life.’
‘Celia,’ replied Henry, ‘I have nothing to forgive. You have acted in the most noble manner. You have indeed saved my life; for had you been one moment later that tomahawk must have descended on my head, and all would have been over. But my life is only saved for a time; my enemies will renew the attack, and I am powerless to defend myself. I feel that I am a doomed man.’
‘Oh, Henry, my beloved, my darling!’ cried Celia, ‘why will you not seize the safety that is within your reach? This is no time for false delicacy, this is no time for womanly pride. I love you, I adore you beyond all the world holds dear—beyond my own soul! Oh, let us do as I said we had done, let us read the marriage service over together; let us consider ourselves and call ourselves man and wife, and you will be safe.’
‘No, Celia,’ said Henry, ‘I have before told you what is the course that I consider my duty constrains me to follow; that course I must carry out.’
‘Duty!’ said Celia, bitterly, ‘oh, why are you so obstinate; is it your duty to destroy yourself? If you follow the course you mean, even I shall not be able to save you, and what benefit will it be to any person that you should wilfully sacrifice your own life?’
‘It may be so, Celia,’ replied Henry, ‘but I do not think the fear of danger should deter me from doing what I consider my duty. I am now rested. I do not think it right that I should remain here any longer. Give me any arms that you may have. I know you have a revolver which once belonged to your father; give me that, and I think I shall be safe from attack.’
‘Safe!’ almost screamed Celia, ‘safe! do you not know what a whari is? you might be stabbed through one of the crevices in the raupo, you might be shot through one of the small windows. Oh, Henry, Henry, think, reflect! if you leave this you leave it to meet certain death.’
‘I must go,’ said Henry, and he rose to his feet, but he had miscalculated his strength, his sprained knee made him suffer intense pain—it gave way under him—he tottered two or three paces, and then with a groan fell heavily to the ground. In an instant Celia had passed a small rope round his arms, and fastened them behind his back.
‘Oh, my beloved!’ she cried, ‘I will save you in spite of yourself; you shall not leave this whare. Listen: as my husband you would be safe. Henare might wish to attack you, even in this whari, but the others would not follow him, and by himself he could do nothing; but if you were to go out they would know that what I had told them was false, and they would be enraged with me. Besides, I know that Henare and his friends drink rum whenever they can get it. I am certain they will be drinking to-night, and it will make them nearly mad; if they saw you, no consideration on earth would prevent them attacking you, and then, Henry, they would kill you. Oh, my God! perhaps they would torture you first, for they know no pity when once they have got a thirst for blood; and they would kill me too, for I would not leave you. Perhaps they would torture me before your eyes. Oh, Henry! oh, my darling Henry! if you have not pity on yourself have pity on me. Could you bear to see me tortured before your eyes? could you bear to hear my screams of agony? Yet that will be my fate if you go out amongst these drunken infuriated savages. Oh, Henry, is this your duty? is it your duty to destroy the woman who loves you, who adores you, who feels as if she were part of your own soul? I pray for myself, I am so young to die! Oh, Henry, save me! Say but one word—I can trust your promise—promise that you will not leave the whari!’
Henry said, in a low, feeble voice, ‘I promise.’
(1872)
War
H. Butler Stoney, from Taranaki: A Tale of the War
As soon as the Southern Settlers were informed that hostilities had thus actually commenced, and that the tribes still to the south of them were preparing to join in the conflict, they were filled with consternation. Knowing, from the character of these tribes—ever a villainous and treacherous race—that utter devastation would follow in their train, they determined at once to abandon their homesteads and farms and proceed to New Plymouth for mutual protection. Great, therefore, was the distress, anguish, and confusion, more particularly among the peasants and small farmers, who, not having the means of conveying with them their chattels, were compelled to leave them to the mercy of a ruthless foe. Neither, indeed, did our friends pass unscathed from the general calamity, and in one day it was alike the misfortune to all to abandon their comfortable and happy homes for the discomforts of a crowded town, little above the size of an ordinary village in England. With firm heart, however, and confidence in a higher power, Messrs Wellman and St Pierre prepared to seek shelter with their neighbours—and sad, indeed, and disheartening was the group that, on the 20th March, 1860, left the precincts of Glenfairy and the Retreat. As fate would have it, they met on their way, and, with a cheerful voice
of salutation, each vied with the other to dispel the gloom of their hearts, in their leaving those abodes that years of toil and expense had reared.
Fanny and Mary rode together—the heart of each was full—entire confidence was now between them—and Mary communicated to her friend her little secret also, and the compact of mutual love that had been established between her and Walter, who now rode up to join the party, and with lusty voice bade them be cheerful, infusing by his manner fresh courage into their drooping spirits, which was no easy task to do as they passed along the crowded road. Nor could they see so many of their fellow-settlers in that melancholy procession, flying from their firesides, without sorrow and pity. It was, indeed, a sad scene, and one difficult to depict, as o’er hill and dale and down each winding road, came group on group in varied style—some with teams laden with their property—others urging on their steeds, not even having tarried to saddle them; then came waggons and bullock drays filled with children—a motley scene indeed—but all, alas! filled with gloomy forebodings for the future.
Mr Wellman’s family was kindly received in the house of an old friend, one of the most comfortable in the town, but still, from its crowded state, a great distress of mind to the more sensitive feelings of Mrs Wellman,—one who was ever cautious not to intrude on any, and deeply felt the dire necessity which compelled them thus to encroach upon her friends. A house lately built and fitted as a goods store was taken by the St Pierres, and though much cramped as to room, and changed from the spacious mansion they had left, with Aunt Dorothy’s careful and energetic spirit, and Mary’s cheerful one, their position compared to that of many others was enviable. Thus were our friends housed on the first outbreak of the war, but still hope was great with them, that the energetic measures about to be adopted would, ere long, restore them to their homes. Thus, also, in the hour of trial and sorrow, Mary sought the warm friendship of Fanny Wellman, and they often met to cheer each other and enjoy sweet counsel regarding those dear absent ones, for Walter had now departed for the field with his company, where an engagement was hourly expected.
The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature Page 13