by Sarah Lark
Slowly Kupe ate the rest of his stew and then lowered his spoon. He told of the dispossession of his tribe and of the last few nightmarish months with the Hauhau.
“Kahu Heke called it a war,” Kupe reported. “But you can’t lead a war with thirty people.”
“That’s not even half a canoe,” said Sam.
Kupe looked at him questioningly.
Sam rolled his eyes at needing to explain to Kupe some of the history of his own people. “Waka taua—a war canoe. About seventy warriors and their leader fit in each.”
Kupe nodded, then continued with his story. “Kahu Heke hoped more warriors would join us if we had success, so he waged his ‘war’ only against the most helpless of opponents. We spent all winter moving up the coast, where there were old whaling stations and isolated farms. We attacked those.” Kupe looked at the floor.
“You’re not proud of it,” Sam said.
Kupe shook his head. “Although usually not much happened. At least, not in the beginning. It was intimidation more than fighting. We would appear as if from nowhere. That’s already enough for most pakeha. Then we ran around screaming and making faces and waving our weapons. Mostly people ran off and hid until we were done.”
“Done with what?” inquired Sam, collecting the plates.
Kupe rubbed his nose. “Plundering and stealing,” he said bitterly. “We took what we needed, and sometimes broke furniture or drove away livestock, but that was all.”
“Ultimately, what the pakeha did to your villages,” Sam said.
Kupe nodded. “That’s how the ariki explained it also,” he said. “That doesn’t make it right. It’s not even really utu.”
“Well, thank God,” remarked Sam. Utu—recompense—in its true sense of designated blood vengeance. “So, how did it end? Go on, tell me what happened.”
“Well, mostly not much. But then, a few of the warriors were unhappy. Actually, we were all discontent. You see, we were always on the move, always hunting. No marae, no women, and it was winter. It was cold. For a few months, that sort of thing is fun, but then—”
“Maori tribes fight from late November until early April.” Sam nodded. “Then they go home and tend to their fields. If there’s trouble the next summer, they start all over. But mostly there isn’t. Maori wars are short. That irritated the pakeha at first as well—and unfortunately gave them the impression the tribes were weak and gave up easily.”
“Really?” asked Kupe. “How do you know all this?”
For Kupe, the usual strategy of the tribes was new. Kahu Heke had told his warriors of Te Kooti’s sensational campaigns, but they had sounded more like fairy tales than history.
“I’ve been around a while, young man,” said Sam. “I was in Wanganui in 1874, if that means anything to you.”
“It’s a city north of Wellington,” Kupe said.
“Right, an important port and originally Maori land. At first, they bought out the tribes, but then they overreached, taking more and more land and exhausting the patience of the Maori people—until things escalated. The tribes resisted, and they ought to have driven the entire population of Wanganui into the sea, and Wellington along with it. They would have earned respect. But no, your people had a few warriors march up and wave spears around. They kicked the pakeha out of the territory taken from them, but then they went back to being nice. Typical Maori, and that’s what the pakeha don’t understand. They take goodness as foolishness. So, Wanganui belongs to the whites. There’s a giant military base. The tribes have been vanquished. And that’s how it always went at the beginning of the so-called Maori Wars—really until today. Whenever it got more serious, it was always because a chieftain was waging a private war.”
“Like Te Kooti,” said Kupe.
Sam nodded. “Or Hone Heke before him. Sometimes several ran amok at once, like with the Hauhau now. But it never was an all-encompassing movement of the people and never will be either. Bad for you all, good for the whites. But go on, what happened?”
“A few warriors were discontent,” Kupe repeated. “They wanted to see blood. What’s more, they really wanted . . . I think some people are simply brutal by nature.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “I was a soldier once,” he remarked as if that might explain some things. “So, you all killed a few people.”
“Worse. They, they ate them,” Kupe finally blurted out. “They cut off their heads. That’s some kind of tradition. They’re dried, but they didn’t quite get it right. It was just horrible.”
“And it called the militia to action,” Sam said. “They couldn’t let that continue. Where did they find you?”
Kupe began to shake. “Near our old camp by the mouth of the river. Kahu Heke didn’t really want to go, but he had lost some mana. His daughter and then the ariki rejected the cutting off of heads and the eating of hearts. He was against cannibalism. But they did anyway. It—”
“The great chieftain’s own campaign got out of hand,” Sam said. “I think I remember that now too. In Hamilton, they were talking about punitive expeditions. A few constables had to go. Was that ever an outcry in the city, especially among the womenfolk—as if their men had a right to an easy, well-paying job for the rest of their lives. The men, on the other hand, were happy to get out. Since the Maori have kept the peace, they’ve been assigned to building bridges. They don’t see that as a favor. So, they were enthusiastic about their victory.”
“Victory?” asked Kupe. “There were thirty of us. There were maybe two hundred of them, militia and settlers. The people of the coast had joined together.”
“The incident is hardly likely to go down in history as an example of the British Army’s bravery. So, they crushed you. Are you the only one to escape?”
Kupe shook his head. “No. I, I don’t believe in acquiring invincibility from the eating of body parts. I didn’t take part in that. And when the shooting started, I ran away. Like many others. Kahu Heke escaped as well.”
“The troublemakers always get away,” Sam remarked.
“It was horrible to watch how our people fought. As if they really were invincible. They screamed and ran into the bullets. I shouldn’t have ducked out. But it was so senseless.”
“Most wars are.” Sam Drechsler stood up and pulled a whiskey bottle from the cabinet. “Here, take a drink. And forget all that. It wouldn’t have done any good to let yourself get shot. How many dead were there?”
“Three dead, and others wounded,” said Kupe. “A few are gone, a few were taken prisoner. Kahu Heke wanted to rally us together again. But I’ve stayed away. I’ve had enough.” He took a big gulp of whiskey and coughed.
Sam laughed. “Before you die, you need to learn to drink like a man,” he said, and poured him another one.
Kupe grimaced. “In the orphanage, they told us we’d die from it.”
Sam raised his hands in resignation. “You have to die from something, young man. But there’s still time for you. And now, tell me about the girl. What was that about the chieftain’s daughter who cost Kahu Heke his mana?”
“She didn’t turn up here,” Sam said after Kupe had told him about Matariki. “At least I haven’t heard anything, but I don’t often go into the city. Sometimes to Potter’s whores, I’ll admit; I’m only human. But he doesn’t have any Maori girls.”
“She’s no whore!” Kupe became outraged. “She’s—”
“Hey, here’s someone deep in love,” Sam teased. “Face the facts: a girl can’t earn money in a backwater like Hamilton except in establishments like Potter’s. If she came here without money and proper clothing, Potter’s would be the first place I’d look.”
“She wanted to go to the police to tell her story. She wanted to go home.”
Sam shrugged. “Then she needed to go to the regiment commander. And maybe she did. Could be they put her in the next coach, and she’s been with her family all this time. It is hard to imagine, but anything’s possible. Kupe—or should I call you Kurt?—how about sticki
ng around here a few days and working for me? I have to take the sheep up into the hills around the lake for the summer. I can do it with old Billy”—he pointed to the collie, who was already gray around the muzzle—“but a little help from younger legs wouldn’t be bad.”
The dog wagged his tail. Kupe thought of Dingo.
“I pay properly,” said Sam. “I won’t trick you. Once we’ve got the sheep safe and sound up there, I’ll go with you to town. We’ll go to the constables and ask about the girl. Maybe we’ll learn something. How’s that sound?”
“I’d rather just go,” said Kupe.
Until then, he had not really worried about Matariki. She couldn’t have gotten lost, and he assumed that she had found help in Hamilton. But after the way Sam depicted the town . . .
“I understand. And I won’t keep you from going,” said Sam, “but I’m warning you. They won’t give you the time of day in town. And you need money. Have you given any thought at all to what you want to do in the future?”
Kupe shrugged. “Maybe go back to school. In the orphanage, they said that if someone studied medicine or law, he’d be a useful member of society. Even the Maori. I don’t believe we could drive the pakeha into the sea with our mere and kotiake. But if we have lawyers who can draft and read and interpret treaties, maybe we can get paid for the land.”
Sam smiled. “A clever thought. You’ve got brains, so use them now. Accept my offer. Then I’ll put you on the next coach to Auckland with the money you’ve earned. There’s a university. Come on, put ’er there.” He held out his hand to Kupe.
Kupe grinned. “How many sheep?” he asked. “The first rule of treaties: always know exactly what it’s about.”
Sam Drechsler had about two hundred sheep, and it took three days to drive them into the hilly areas around Mount Pirongia. Kupe had to do it by foot. He had never ridden before, and Sam only owned one mule, anyway. The young warrior was well trained. It was nothing to him to run for many hours of the day, and soon he discovered that working with the dog and the sheep was fun. He enjoyed hiking over the hillsides and the stillness interrupted only by the bleating of sheep and the dog barking.
Kupe could hear his own thoughts again after a long time. He even felt closer to his old tribe, the traditions of his people. Kahu Heke had taught him battle and the alertness of the warrior. Sam sharpened his senses for different things. He showed him plants from which the Maori tohunga made medicine, pointed out places to him that really had been tapu for hundreds of years, and gave him time to sit and feel the spirits. Sometimes, when the wind rustled the leaves or a lively brook babbled like a happy child, he felt as if nature were speaking to him.
Sam laughed when Kupe admitted that to him. “That would have brought you a lot of mana. The tribes appreciate people who become one with Tane or Papa. Tane is the god of the forest, you know. He is very wise. Look at this tree: a horoeka. It lives the life of a warrior. In its first years, it looks like a thin spear, and its branches are like lances. Later, it gets wider and more peaceful, and it sprouts leaves like a normal tree. It grows big and strong, gains mana like the eldest in the tribes, and sends out its fruits to grow to be warriors again.”
Kupe laughed. “And over it, the kauri grows like a god. What did you say, how tall is the Tane Mahuta?”
The Tane Mahuta, named for the forest god, stood in Waipoua in the north. To the Maori, it was sacred. It even astonished the pakeha as one of the tallest and oldest trees in Aotearoa, if not the whole world.
“More than a hundred fifty feet,” Sam exclaimed. “I’d like to see it once. I don’t know how it is for you, but I feel very small underneath kauri like that. And very young. Some of them saw the first Maori canoes come, then the whites. Perhaps they’ll still be here when we’re all washed away.”
Sam looked up to the mountains. To Kupe, he seemed more melancholic here, in the wilderness. Kupe could imagine why. He had probably driven his sheep up here with Akona and Arama, and listened as his wife told their son these same stories.
“You need to know your stories, young man, your roots. Only that way will you find your way back to your people. Listen to the sagas of your people. Learn your language. Akona always told Arama that his ancestors were the stars watching over him.”
Kupe thought of Matariki—the child of the stars.
“We should get going,” Kupe said. “I’d like to get to Hamilton.”
As soon as Sam’s mule pulled their small cart into Hamilton, it became clear to Kupe that he had been smart to listen to the old man and not to venture into town alone. Even with Sam, people stared at Kupe and cursed at him. There was no police station—apparently, in Hamilton a person only found an officer when he knew where to find one.
Sam steered them toward the nearly finished bridge over the Waikato River. Construction would have gone more quickly if the men worked harder, but it was clear that they considered the work beneath them. They almost all wore uniforms of the Armed Constabulary. Their leader, a young captain, was exceedingly happy to interrupt the work to talk with Sam when he asked about Matariki.
“A Maori girl? Here? No, I’m sorry, none reported to me. Yet you say she would have had information? About the Hauhau? Well, if she wanted to talk, they probably caught and ate her.” He laughed.
Kupe shook his head reluctantly. “They wouldn’t have killed a chieftain’s daughter. She was tapu. They—”
The captain looked at him skeptically, and Sam urged him to silence by shaking his head. It did not bear considering what would happen if Kupe said he had also been with the Hauhau.
“The girl is a daughter of Kahu Heke,” Sam informed the captain. “So, high-ranking and important enough to the devil that he kidnapped her from the South Island and dragged her here. He wouldn’t just kill her.”
The captain shrugged. “Who knows what goes through their heads? Maybe she died in the wilderness. Or is hiding out with some tribe. There are still plenty in Waikato. I’m sorry I can’t help, but she’s not here.” With that, he turned back to the bridge.
Sam directed Kupe to climb into the cart. “Is that possible, what he said?” he inquired, directing the mule toward Victoria Street.
Kupe shook his head. “Unlikely. I mean, I didn’t know her all that well. But she said she had spent a lot of time with the Ngai Tahu. They would surely have taught her to run a few miles along a riverbank without drowning, starving, or any of that. She spoke perfect Maori.”
“So, a tribe’s not out of the question.”
“Stop, Sam. That dog there.”
Kupe pointed excitedly at a scrawny mutt, which the butcher was just kicking away from his doorway.
“Dingo!” Kupe called to the dog.
The dog looked up, wagged his tail, and raced over to Kupe as he exited the cart. Howling and barking, he greeted the young Maori. Kupe hugged him, almost equally excited.
“This is her dog, Sam. She must be here.”
Sam furrowed his brow. “Well, if that mutt’s got an owner, she doesn’t take great care of it. Not exactly like a girl to let the fur mat like that. And look at how scrawny it is.”
Dingo licked Kupe’s hand euphorically. Undoubtedly, he recalled that Kupe had cooked in the camp.
“But it’s him, Sam. I’m sure. And he recognized me too.”
Kupe stroked Dingo and looked around. Surely the dog would never have gotten too far from his mistress. Kupe was certain that Matariki would step out any moment from one of the house or shop doors.
“Perhaps she left him here,” said Sam. “Or something did happen to her, and he strayed to here.”
“She never would have left him,” explained Kupe, “and I don’t think he would leave her either. She must be here, Sam. We need to search.”
Unfortunately, Dingo did not demonstrate much skill at tracking. Though he wagged his tail happily when Kupe said Matariki’s name to him, he did not lead Kupe to her.
“Let’s buy the mutt something to eat,” Sam determined. �
��And then we’ll ask around. Don’t get your hopes up. A Maori girl would stick out here like a sore thumb. So if no one knows anything . . .”
The first woman Sam asked gave them information. “I don’t know any Mata-whatever, but the McConnells who own that store, they have a Martha. A little hussy, that girl. They always have to keep an eye on her so she doesn’t clear out the register. But they see it as their Christian duty.”
Kupe was immediately agitated when he heard the name. “That’s her. Martha is her pakeha name, but what could she be doing?”
Sam shrugged. “Working, if I understood her right, as a maid.”
“This many months?” yelled Kupe. “It can hardly take that long to earn enough for passage to the South Island. Something isn’t right here, Sam.”
“Now, calm yourself a moment.” Sam held him back. “We’ll both go in there now and ask about the girl. If you show that kind of anger, it’ll only bring trouble. Stay calm, and follow me.”
“Martha?” Archibald McConnell was visibly surprised. “What do you want with her?”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “To pay her a visit. The young man is a friend of hers.” He gestured to Kupe.
Archibald shook his head, his lips tightened. “I’m sorry, but we can’t allow that. We’re trying to keep Martha away from all bad influences. Especially from people like him.”
“How do you know I’m a bad influence?” Kupe asked.
Sam was more direct. “What does it matter to you with whom your employee speaks? Matariki is your maid, isn’t she? She’s not your property.”
Mr. McConnell was visibly nervous. “You’re quite right. She’s our maid,” he finally answered, “and she’s working now. So, leave us in peace. God knows she doesn’t work hard enough for us to let her off in the middle of the day.”
Sam raised his hands calmly. “No problem, then we’ll just wait until she’s free. How long do you make the girl work? Until sundown? That’s just a few more hours.”