Sleeps Standing: A Story of the Battle of Orakau

by Ihimaera, Witi

  ‘Ōrākau — the battle fought by Rewi Maniapoto and his people?’ Simon is puzzled. ‘Grandpa Bill had a description among his papers. What’s Rewi’s last stand and the Ngāti Maniapoto tribe got to do with us?’

  Hūhana winces at Simon’s Aussie pronunciation: Oh-ra-cow. ‘It is true,’ she concedes, ‘that Rewi was the general in command, with Ngāti Maniapoto in the vanguard. But people forget that rangatira from other tribes went to join him with their own foot soldiers and even their priests. Never doubt that there were chiefs at Ōrākau representing some of the highest bloodlines in the land.’

  ‘Wī Karamoa was one of the Waikato chieftains,’ I offer, much to Hūhana’s surprise — but, after all, she wasn’t the only one awake when our dad used to tell us the story. ‘Karamoa had been a Christian lay reader at Ōrākau. Te Paerata and his two sons from Ngāti Raukawa were other chiefs who went, and so was Te Rangihirawea, representing Ngāti Tūwharetoa. A one-hundred strong war party from the Urewera arrived, and among their chiefs was Paitini Wī Tāpeka with his retinue from Ruatāhuna. Then there was Te Waru from Waikaremoana and his bodyguards.’

  Hūhana gives me the stare: Who’s telling this story, you or me?

  ‘Along with them was—’

  She is like a woodpigeon; her breast puffs out as if she has just eaten some sweet berries — which is what it’s like when you have proud memories.

  ‘—a small band of retainers from Gisborne, sent by our own Rongowhakaata chief, Raharuhi Rukupō, also known as Lazarus …’

  2.

  At the mention of Rukupō’s name, I hear my dad’s voice echoing from the past:

  Rua, pay attention.

  Most people know of Rukupō as one of the finest carvers of Māoridom. In his youth he had travelled the country and worked on Kaitangata, the meeting house on Mana Island, and on the carved war canoe Te Toka-a-Tāpiri before it was gifted to Ngāpuhi. His most magnificent achievement, however, was Te Hau-ki-Tūranga, built in 1842, the oldest surviving meeting house in the country.

  But Rukupō needs to be known in the larger light as a great political leader and, as such, he bestrode those years when the Rongowhakaata people, like those of Ngāti Maniapoto, were on a collision course with Pākehā. The difference was that here in Gisborne and Poverty Bay we thought it was possible to live in peace and neutrality. ‘Whatever other tribes might decide upon in their relationships,’ the elders said, ‘we have no intention of breaking the peace.’

  At the time, Rongowhakaata had successfully established a trading economy with the European merchants of the district. We had also expanded nationally, dealing especially with Auckland, which was the largest market in Aotearoa. There our arable produce, such as wheat and maize, fetched good prices, as did our potatoes and onions; and our livestock, like pork and poultry, was also in high demand. To accomplish this in the fastest way possible, we owned four schooners and operated a fleet of cutters and boats, captained and crewed by our own people. Te Raaka (The Lark) was swift across the sea, and so were her sisters Adah and Te Kuīni; and the tribe also relied on the dependable Whitipaea and Ruawhētuki. We did not work through a middle-man; we fixed our own prices, sometimes selling direct from the wharf, basing what we asked for on what the Auckland market could afford. We were trading as equals and competing at the same level as Pākehā.

  Even we could not remain in splendid isolation, however. According to Dad, crunch time came at an important hui in April 1863 — just one year before Ōrākau — to celebrate the consecration of the Māori-built Anglican church at Whakatō, yet another of the buildings that bear Rukupō’s signature.

  ‘Among the many tribes at the celebration’, Dad said, ‘were Maniapoto and Waikato, and their representatives from the Kīngitanga came onto the marae proudly bearing the King’s flag. Other tribes from Tauranga and Wairoa also showed the flag. The request was clear: Would you, Rongowhakaata, join our confederation against the Crown?’

  We persisted in telling the King’s supporters that, while we sympathised with their fight, it was best for us to remain neutral. Appropriately, given the Christian context of the gathering, our own message was given: There was no unity except under the gospel and no sure foundation but Christ.

  At the gathering, Kawanatanga versus Kīngitanga — Government versus the King Movement — the Kīngitanga lost. However, Rukupō had already begun to find the Pākehā intractable. The influence of the missionaries and then the Government’s wish to appropriate more land for Gisborne town troubled him. ‘E ngaki atu ana a mua,’ he said, ‘e toto mai ana a muri. The missionaries have been involved in clearing the way for the Government to take the land.’ As the year progressed, he found himself more and more disaffected with Pākehā and began siding not only with Maniapoto and Waikato but also with Taranaki, whose Paimārire delegations were visiting us and asking for our support as well. When he heard what was happening in the Waikato — the battles there leading up to the fall of Rangiriri to British soldiers — and that Rewi was planning a stand to stop the further encroachment by the military, he realised that the long-held peace was ending.

  ‘As long as there is war in Aotearoa,’ he said, ‘we Māori will always sympathise with our countrymen.’

  I tune back in to Hūhana’s kōrero with Simon.

  ‘And then Rukupō heard that other rangatira of Māoridom were hastening to Ōrākau,’ she says. ‘He called the people together. On the marae he told them that the chiefs of other tribes had come to realise that if Maniapoto and Waikato fell to the British troops, they were next. Therefore, to maintain the mana of Rongowhakaata, he intended to send a small warrior squad to join the East Coast contingent led by Te Waru and others assembling at Ōrākau. He laid it on the line, take it or leave it, and of course there were people for and against him. Some said, “Okay, send them, but our neutrality goes with them, and that will make us a target of the Pākehā, too.” He answered, “We are already a target.” Others asked, “Why go to fight a battle we will never win?” And he answered, “It is a matter of honour.”’

  I nod at my sister’s words. ‘His decision to stand together with other rangatira at Ōrākau was consistent with his view that if there was ever a time for Māori to unite, it was then.’

  ‘Ōrākau was certainly Rewi’s battle,’ Hūhana continues, ‘but Rukupō considered it symbolic of all battles that Māori were fighting and, in the end, the people supported him. But here’s the thing: some people think that there were a lot of warriors at Ōrākau; in fact, there were scarcely more than 300 people there.’

  Simon’s brow furrows. ‘I saw a movie like that,’ he says, ‘about Spartan soldiers defending a pass called Thermopylae in ancient times.’

  ‘Did somebody steal our story?’ Hūhana is cross. ‘Ours is different, though, because among the defenders were women and also children.’

  She takes a deep breath.

  ‘Moetū was one of the children.’

  You didn’t know about the women and children at Rewi’s last stand?

  Some of the women were warriors in their own right but most were the chiefly wives, lovers, daughters or sisters, having equal rank with the men. Tamarau Waiari took his wife and other women. Te Whenuanui was there with his daughter Te Mauniko, and eight women. Ahumai Te Paerata went with her father and brothers. Hineatūrama was a high chieftainess of Te Arawa and she was there with her daughter Ewa and lover Rōpata. The number of rangatira, priests and women of chiefly rank at Ōrākau was not lost on Rongowhakaata. As for the children, the intention had been to send them away from the pā once it had been built, but the troops arrived sooner than expected, making escape impossible.

  If we take the accepted figure that a third of the fighters at Ōrākau were women and children, there may have been up to sixty or seventy women and thirty children. Some of the children would have been teenagers, described as ‘young people’ by one informant. Moetū was the eldest boy of the group. The eldest girl was Kararaina, who was from Ngāti Maniapoto. She
was short and slim but with broad shoulders like a man’s. Her eyes were black and her hair was glossy and wavy and long, down to her knees; she gathered it up and tied it with a red ribbon — her one vanity. Some called her pretty, but she was not one who thought much about her looks.

  ‘Rukupō and the other warriors’, Hūhana continues, ‘should have known that Sleeps Standing, with his big ears, had heard everything that was being said on the marae. He eavesdropped on the tribe as they took a vote on whether or not to support Rewi. “Kua pai?” Rukupō asked. “Are we agreed?”’

  ‘Rukupō asked his fearless and well-liked kinsman, Te Haa, to lead the squad,’ I explain, ‘and the tribe consented to his venture and agreed five highly trained men should accompany him. Along with Te Haa’s son and brother, that brought the number to eight, which might not sound like many, but they were able-bodied and, frankly, all that could be spared; and it was quality that counted. Nobody looked Moetū’s way when they selected the extras: he was too young, too skinny and, looking at him standing gawky in the sunlight, he wasn’t exactly warrior material.’

  ‘But, you know,’ Hūhana observes, ‘the warrior isn’t only the one who wields a weapon. He can be a tracker, with the ability to read signs in the skies as well as on the earth: the swirl of birds as people move in the forest, or a few blades of flattened grass where someone has stepped. He can be a swimmer, and some warriors hate the sea, even more so if they have to swim underwater to get past sentries watching from the shore. He can also be the provisioner, the one who takes the responsibility to fish or hunt for the warriors while they are resting. And he can be a sentry: sometimes the best warrior is the one with good eyes who can see long distances.’

  ‘Even better if he sleeps standing up,’ Simon jokes.

  Hūhana looks at me. ‘You’ve forgotten Moetū’s most important asset,’ she says, trying to show me up. ‘He was a very clever boy. He could use his head to think things through. For instance, some warriors might assume that taking a direct line, even if it meant going up hills and fording rivers, would get you faster from one point to the other. But Moetū might suggest that it was better to follow the contour of the land, where the gradient lay more comfortably for travelling. And he showed intuitive skills as a strategist for one so young; he was always looking for signs of weakness in an enemy and, therefore, signs of advantage for the tribe.’

  ‘Te Haa and the warriors made their departure early the next morning,’ I pick up the story. ‘“We’ll be back,” they said as they left Manutūkē. Te Haa had tossed and turned about whether to go by horse, riding hard day or night, or by boat over sea. Speed was of the essence, and he decided that a schooner could take them more swiftly around the East Cape and land them at a safe beach; they would arrive rested and battle-ready. It wasn’t until they had weighed anchor and their schooner Te Raaka was sailing swiftly northward with good winds pushing it, that Te Haa took the count of the men. What was this? Instead of eight there were nine.’

  3.

  When Te Haa saw who the extra warrior was he laughed. ‘E tama, do you want to get killed?’

  ‘No,’ Moetū replied, ‘I’m coming to make sure you fellas don’t get killed. Let me be your eyes, day … and night. And even if you don’t want me along, I’m coming.’

  ‘Did you ask your parents if you could join us?’

  ‘No,’ Moetū answered, ‘they know I make my own decisions. And if you think of throwing me overboard and letting me swim to shore, I tell you now, I will simply follow you overland and catch you up.’

  Te Haa had no option but to say okay.

  Te Raaka made good time. The captain took the schooner as far out to sea as possible; he knew that, closer to the coast, the British Army’s gunboat Sandfly might be on patrol, ready to sting. And, without realising it, Te Haa had made a fortunate choice in going by sea. Some chiefs from Ngāti Porou had to detour by way of Tauranga because, once the British troops got wind of their initial route, they cordoned off all the roads.

  The schooner landed at Whangamatā the next evening. In the sky was a sickle moon, and within the crescent was a glowing star. On disembarking, each warrior took a rifle and as much ammunition and food as he could carry.

  ‘You too, Moetū,’ Te Haa said.

  They were on the run: in single file, the war party moved like shadows across Waikato. Te Haa was impressed that Moetū did not lag behind but matched the men step for step. When he sighted Ōrākau in the early morning of the 31st, Te Haa breathed a sigh of relief. He saw Rewi and the defenders at their morning prayers.

  ‘We have arrived before the battle,’ he said to his brother, Mihaere.

  ‘And it looks like Rewi has yet to finish building the pā,’ his son, Pukenga, said to him.

  ‘Ōrākau lay on an axis north to south,’ I tell Simon. ‘In an act of provocation to prevent Governor Grey from assuming all Māori opposing him had retreated south of the Pūniu River, the pā sat on the river’s northern side. It was in the open, maybe a quarter of a mile from the nearby bush, and close to orchards, mainly peach but also apple trees. Rewi and the council of chiefs with him planned a fort made of an inner platform surrounded by a rectangle of trenches protected by sod banks, which in turn were surrounded by an outer rectangle of more earthworks, roughly 80 feet by 60 feet. Because the British deployed a technique known as enfilading fire — in which shells and bullets were swept along defensive lines — the banks of soil helped limit the damage.’

  There weren’t enough spades to go around, so the men and women had been taking turns, helping each other to get the redoubt up and operating as quickly as possible. Work teams travelled to and from a nearby swamp with extra mud, which they added to the ramparts already built with the soil removed from their adjoining ditches, rifle pits and underground bunkers. Ten yards out from the continuous outer trench was what was meant to pass for a palisade, hastily made from posts and rails taken from the orchard fencing.

  ‘Te Haa,’ Rewi said. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  Moetū stood respectfully to one side as the two leaders greeted each other. Rewi was about fifty-seven and everything about him reflected his rangatira status: his posture, his facial moko and the weapons that he carried — his taiaha, Pakapaka-taioreore, and the patu in his belt were truly befitting a chief. The two men pressed noses in the hongi and gripped each other tightly by the arms.

  ‘See where the Tūhoe chiefs want to have the fight?’ Rewi asked. ‘Here in the open?’

  ‘Well,’ Te Haa said, ‘then this is where it will be.’ He turned to greet Rewi’s half-brother Te Raore and the other council chiefs.

  ‘It’s good to have you join us,’ his kinsman Te Waru said.

  Takurua of Ngāti Manawa and his wife Rāwinia came forward to greet him. ‘None of us have stopped to eat or drink,’ Takurua said. ‘War will be our kai.’

  And then the veteran leader Te Paerata stepped up to Te Haa. Oh, the old man had seen so much war. ‘Two more days and then we should be ready,’ he said.

  Two more days?

  They didn’t have two days. Brigadier-General George J. Carey, in command at Te Awamutu, had received intelligence from the Prussian-born Captain von Tempsky and his Forest Rangers that Ōrākau was under construction.

  Carey decided on a pre-emptive strike before the pā’s completion. Just after midnight — some five hours before Te Haa had arrived at Ōrākau — he had ordered a detachment of about 280 men of the 40th Regiment to depart Te Awamutu under Major Blythe. The advance guard comprised half of von Tempsky’s Rangers, an irregular force famed for its stealth and lightning attacks.

  At about four o’clock, a second body of troops started out from the redoubts at Rangiaowhia and Hairini. They were made up of soldiers from the 65th and Waikato Militia under Captains Blewitt and Gower.

  At six o’clock, Carey ordered a third force, numbering about 600 of various regiments, to leave from Te Awamutu under Colonel Leslie; they brought two six-pounder Armstrong guns with
them. The force was further strengthened by reinforcements from the 65th under Ensign Chayter, and a company of the 1st Waikato Militia under Colonel Haultain, numbering in all about 150.

  The plan was for the three forces to attack the pā from three sides at the same time.

  And when it began, all hell broke loose.

  Chapter Three

  A battle at Ōrākau

  1.

  ‘Why was the battle called Rewi’s Last Stand?’ Simon asks.

  We are having afternoon tea in Hūhana’s kitchen, and Hūhana has made a nice rēwana to go with it. I wouldn’t have minded a beer, but my sister has scolded that there will be plenty of alcohol at Simon and Amber’s farewell tonight and I should save my drinking for then.

  ‘Ngāti Maniapoto and Waikato had already suffered blows at Rangiaowhia and Hairini,’ Hūhana answers, ‘and although Waikato had been overwhelmed at Rangiriri, and Ngāruawāhia had fallen to military gunboats, Rewi took the decision to continue the war. He was following a resolution made months earlier by Maniapoto chieftains; he didn’t decide it in isolation.’

  Hūhana has bought a new dress from The Warehouse for our mokopuna’s farewell party. That shows you how much she thinks of Simon and Amber — she wouldn’t do that for me. The dress has a plunging neckline; I think all of us are going to avoid looking at her tonight. Maybe I should buy her a nice corsage so that she can put it there. Better make it big.

  I leave Hūhana and Simon to finish their cuppa: Hūhana clearly doesn’t want my help in telling Simon about Moetū. Back in the sitting room I twiddle my thumbs, waiting for them. Over in the corner is Dad’s bureau; when he died a few years back, Hūhana inherited it, with all his whakapapa books and papers.

  I wonder if …

  I walk over to the desk and start rummaging through the papers. A cartoon of the Battle of Ōrākau was published in a British newspaper of the times: where is it?

  I don’t find the cartoon at first, but I do come across some other documents of Dad’s: he was always writing down the histories of the Māori people, whenever he had a spare hour in the evening. For instance, this entry: