‘You wouldn’t be thinkin’ of doing away with me, Abe, would you? I don’t want this helper assistin’ me to a watery grave. You really ain’t got nothin’ to fret about, you know. I’m as fearful of treading the planks of the gallows as you are.’
Abe tried to look suitably shocked. ‘I wun’t do nothin’ like that, Striker, you know I wun’t.’
‘I don’t no nothin’ of the sort.’
But they left it at that.
‘Now,’ said Abe, after a suitable period of silence between them, ‘let me get you a beefsteak. They do a good one ’ere, nice and bloody in the middle, if you arsk ’em.’
‘No, thanks,’ replied Striker, ‘I only eat fish now.’
Abe looked sharply at his shipmate.
‘No meat at all?’
‘Can’t keep it down.’
Abe shrugged and let out a shout of laughter that was not shared by Striker.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, signalling to the waiter. ‘You can eat garouper if you want. Me? I’m ’aving a nice fat juicy wodge of beef as rare as you like.’
Later Abe took Striker to the Maori village on the edge of town. Striker was impressed by the native houses he saw there. He admired the carved doorways, support posts and rafters in houses constructed of wrought timber. Not all the houses were elaborate, but they were all solidly built of seasoned wood, and Striker had once been a carpenter’s mate so he knew good workmanship when he saw it. He expressed the opinion that he would not mind sleeping in one of those dwellings himself.
‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ said Abe, a little puzzled by his shipmate’s admiration of the Maori architecture. ‘Tarawa would probably take you in, if you asked ’im. If you want fishin’ it might be better to build a little place near the beach. He’ll help you with that, too, if you want.’
‘Tarawa bein’?’
‘This helper I’m givin’ you.’
‘Ah, yes. That fellah.’
They found Tarawa and the Maori was delighted to be assigned to ‘Boss’s friend’ to teach him how to fish in local waters. They sat on the floor of Tarawa’s hut and discussed the details. To his own surprise Abe found himself just as fascinated as Striker by the local fishing techniques.
‘You like to fish with net or with line?’ Tarawa asked Striker.
‘Oh, line and hook. I’m not one for the nets.’
‘Good – line is better for excitement.’
Before the end of the morning Abe had a list of things to buy for the pair, including the canoe, hooks, hand nets for catching the bait and various other items. Abe told Striker he would be fully equipped for his new profession and that no expense would be spared. Later the two white men went off to get drunk together while Tarawa set about purchasing the necessary equipment.
Over a drink Abe Wynter bragged to his old shipmate. ‘I got a nice set-up ’ere, Striker. I’m a land-dealer.’
‘So I ’eard. You always was a canny bastard, Abe.’
‘That’s me. An’ you wanna know somethin’ else? I got this steam gun – sent to England for it. Perkin’s extr’ordinary steam gun. Fires a thousand shots a minute. Mow down a whole tribe, you could, if you wanted to. Might have to. Might have to, indeed. Dead stubborn, some of them. Hang on to their land like it was gold itself. But they got to learn their betters are ’ere. There’s certain parcels of good bottom land just goin’ to waste. I aim to get some of ’em, soon now. An’ if I get stood in the way of, well, I know what to do, don’t I?’
‘You was always a ruthless bastard, Abe.’
Twelve
Over the next few months Jack was relieved to find that Amiri made no pressing demands upon him. They ceased to become lovers but met casually as friends. Jack was mildly upset by the fact that she did not seem to miss their illicit liaisons while he still yearned for her body. He knew he should have been glad of this lack of passion on her part, but he was a man, and a man’s ego is ever capable of being wounded by seeming indifference. After a while he too came to accept that he would not suffer greatly from ending the affair.
A new governor arrived on the islands. Sir George Grey was reappointed to the governorship of New Zealand and Gore Browne was sent packing. Grey had already had some successful years as governor and many, including the Maori, welcomed his return. He was more level-headed than Browne, more ready to listen, and was regarded by both settlers and Maori as a man of intellect and good judgement.
Those same months saw the death of the old Maori king, Potatau (or Potato as the settlers would have it), and his son Matutaera took over the role of kingship, backed by the king-maker, Tamihana. However, a truce was declared which meant that trouble only came from roving bands of young Maori warriors. Their way of life had been disrupted by the wars which had taken them from their peaceful homes and flung them abroad, they harassed both Maoris and pakeha alike. They stole horses and goods, and some became bandits on the highways. One of the things they liked to do most was chop down pakeha flagpoles. They were costing the government a fortune in flagpoles.
This was an idle time for soldiers like Jack, who received a letter from his wife Jane saying she had not yet left England.
My father has been ill with the typhoid and though now recovered from the worst he is too weak for me to leave him for a while, my darling, but rest assured as soon as his health improves enough I shall be on my way to your arms.
This was not good news. Jack realized he could have accepted Nathan’s offer of swift promotion and written to Jane to tell her to stay where she was until he was sure of a long-term posting. Now he was kicking his heels. Indeed, he was still waiting for news from Abraham Wynter that his land had been purchased. The waiting seemed interminable, though Jack was aware that these deals were long and drawn-out with much haggling on both sides.
This heel-kicking did not last far into 1863, for there was an ambush of a party of two officers and seven other ranks of the 57th Regiment who were in the process of taking a military prisoner to New Plymouth for his trial. Only one man, a private, escaped the massacre. Peace was at an end. The war resumed after this action, but there were moves in the British parliament to remove all British troops from the islands. It was felt that the civilian population should look after themselves by forming a more effective militia. Once again Jack thought he would be moved from New Zealand if he continued to remain an officer in the British army.
The troops themselves were learning new songs that had drifted over from the American continent where a civil war was in progress. ‘Dixie’ and ‘John Brown’s Body’ were heard in the valleys and hills of North Island, New Zealand, sung with fervour if not with an understanding of the sentiments that lay behind the words. The British soldier was not shy of borrowing new marching tunes from an ex-colony. And in a darkness lit by campfires, courtesy of an Irish fiddler, they listened to the minor key of an American violin tune that for some reason made them think of home and privately weep for their loved ones, though they had never actually heard the melody before that night.
‘So which side would you be on in this Yank war?’ Harry Wynter asked of Corporal Gwilliams one night. ‘North or South?’
‘I’m a Canadian,’ the copper-bearded Gwilliams replied. ‘I ain’t got feelings one way or the other.’
‘You got to have. You’re always braggin’ about these pioneer men you shaved. Sometimes you say you’re an American. I don’t think you know what you are, Corp, but anyway, you were down in Americy a lot. You got to have some side to you.’
‘Well, it’s true I was brung up there, some. But as to the South wantin’ to leave the Union, I guess it’s up to them. I don’t see why the North should try an’ force ’em to stay in. I don’t hold with slavery, myself, but that ain’t what the war was started about. That came in later. It was all started about the break-up of the Union. In some ways that’s what these Maori wars are about too. The Maoris don’t want to be governed by someone else. They want to make their own laws, and you can’t bl
ame ’em for that. But the governor needs to have control over the whole island to make things work overall, that’s a fact also. So you got two facts that crash head-on into each other like chargin’ bulls. The only difference between the American war and this one is the geography. You can split the North and South along a border, but you can’t do that here ’cause the British is all in pockets and pieces. Now, if the British said, “We’ll have South Island and the Maoris can have North Island,” it might work for a while. But then there’d be a war sooner or later ‘cause neighbours always end up hating each other’s guts.’
Harry Wynter said, ‘You talk a good argument, Yank.’
‘Well, my brains ain’t mushed-up like yourn, with too much bad gin, and too many kicks to the head.’
‘I don’t start them fights,’ yelled Wynter.
‘The hell you don’t,’ Gwilliams yelled back.
Always, two of the group’s three pack-mules became restless when the soldiers argued and they kicked out at the air behind them to make manifest their displeasure. The third was a mild contented soul who was happy to simply chew on hay and mind his own damn business. King told his men to calm down and went to quieten the animals.
The mapping team were out in the bush close to the Ruahine region. Giant kauri trees, like ancient forest kings, dominated some smaller trees known as ‘five-fingers’, under which the men had pitched their tents. Ta Moko was teaching the pakeha about the landscape and its creatures. The Maori was a good tutor and enthusiastic concerning the nature of his birthplace. He pointed out the kea and kaka parrots, and called them ‘nuisance birds’; taught the men which fungi were edible and which were poisonous; caught skinks for them to study closely; taught them how to catch tereru and tui birds with a long pole and a noose to cook in a hangi. He showed them how to make pendants out of hardened globs of kauri gum, to take home with them. Life was like a holiday for these army men, whose contemporaries were either marching around parade squares or guarding some perimeter.
However, there were minor problems that marred this walk through paradise. The stores were not lasting well, which is why Ta Moko had turned to fungi, birds and plants. All the sugar had been lost when they rafted down some rapids; the flour had got wet and turned to paste; and the bacon had developed a green fungus which, though probably harmless, put the men off eating it. They had been living on coffee and dried apples for a fortnight, plus the country fare provided by their very able guide and mentor. Jack, who had now joined his team, was particularly upset that his only pot of jam had been broken and the contents quickly devoured by the local insect life.
Sergeant King was grumbling as usual about the bush and the fact that it slowed down his work of mapping.
‘This?’ said Gwilliams, from the other side of the camp-fire. ‘This ain’t nothin’ compared to the mapping of America.’
King snorted. ‘What do you know of such things?’
‘I may be just a barber, but I ain’t dumb. I listen to stories, same as everyone. There was a pathfinder we had, who went over the Rockies in midwinter. Frémont was his name. This was back in 1848, when they was trying to get a railroad through the mountains to California. They went into San Juan Mountains of Colorado and got lost in snow higher than houses, wanderin’ around in blindin’ white tunnels. Froze, they did, in the bitter cold. There weren’t no game, the pack animals all died, and they ended up eatin’ each other. The weak ones was left to die while those with a bit more heart found their way out. It was wrote up by a man called Charlie Preuss. Now them’s problems, Sarge. You ain’t got near half them problems here.’
‘He’s right, Sergeant,’ said Jack, warming his hands over the flames of the fire. ‘You have very few obstacles here, compared with India – or the Colorado mountains. Why, there’s not even a snake to sneak into your tent at night. Certainly no bears, or tigers, or any creature with malicious intent. We’re lucky.’
Just at that moment a very large rat decided to dash out and make off with a large chunk of the fetid bacon. It ran over Jack’s foot and he leapt in the air and drew his revolver, firing wildly at the rodent, missing with every shot. It disappeared into the darkness of the ferns that covered the ground, the meat in its fangs.
‘Big bastard,’ grunted Gwilliams. ‘How come you missed ’im, Captain?’
Jack shuddered. ‘I was aiming rashly.’
‘You was, you was,’ agreed his corporal. ‘Nasty beggar, eh? How come you got such big rats, Moky?’
‘This is not our rat, it is yours,’ replied the Maori with dignity. ‘You bring him in your ships.’
‘But you got rats, right?’
‘Not so big ones. They are nearly all gone, our old rats. Your rats have killed them all.’
Jack knew the talk was getting rather dangerous, since some Maori drew an analogy with what had happened to the rodents of New Zealand, believing the pakeha would eventually exterminate them in the same way his rat had annihilated theirs.
‘Never mind whose rat it was – it stole our bacon.’
‘Lousy bacon, anyway,’ said Gwilliams.
‘We could have boiled it,’ said Jack, ‘but now it’s gone.’
There was the sound of a branch cracking, out in the darkness.
‘That ain’t no rat,’ whispered Gwilliams, leaping to his feet.
The other men immediately jumped up also, reaching for their weapons. First thoughts were of a hostile Maori party. They moved away from the light of the fire and melted into the shadows. King tried to take a precious box of instruments with him, but it was too heavy and he had to drop it again. They waited with beating hearts in amongst the five-finger trees that surrounded the camp.
Shortly afterwards, two figures came into the light of the fire. One was a bent wizened old Maori man wearing only a pair of ragged trousers. The other was a small boy of about five years wearing a coat, shirt and trousers. Both were barefoot. The old man looked about him with rheumy eyes while the boy bent down and picked up a cold roasted drumstick and absently began to eat it.
‘Tena koutou!’ called the old man in a cracked voice.
Ta Moko was the first to respond. ‘E mara!’
The soldiers now emerged from their hiding places, relieved that it was only harmless Maori, but still slightly wary. It was possible the old fellow was a decoy – but unlikely, since the Maori preferred open battle between heroes to subterfuge.
‘Ah, pakeha,’ muttered the old man, through a toothless mouth, his red tongue flashing. ‘I see you.’
‘I see them too, Grandfather,’ said the boy, still munching away. ‘They are afraid of us.’
‘You watch your mouth, boy,’ growled Harry Wynter, ‘that’s my chicken you’re eatin’.’
The child looked at the drumstick. ‘Not chicken, fool – kaka.’
‘I’ll lay you one . . .’
‘Quiet, Wynter,’ snapped Jack. He addressed the old man. ‘What are you doing out here in the wilderness?’
‘I am taking the boy to his mother – over there.’ The elderly Maori pointed south. ‘His family was sick and I looked after the boy for some time. But back there –’ he pointed over his shoulder – ‘there are bodies of soldiers. Five men.’ He stamped the ground with his bare foot. ‘Too hard for me to dig. But you could make them graves, sir.’
‘I killed them all with my spear,’ cried the boy, throwing the kaka bone into the fire. He stood akimbo. ‘I am a great warrior.’
‘You’re a blamed pain in the neck, brat!’ snarled Wynter.
The boy began to chant, and dance backwards and forwards in the way of a warrior preparing to attack the enemy.
‘I shall break your thin arm bones in two,’ cried the child, addressing Wynter, as he performed a creditable haka. ‘My war club will crack your whitey head like a duck’s egg.’
He stuck his tongue out fully, down to the tip of his chin.
The old man said, ‘Don’t listen to the boy. He has imagination.’
Jack nodded. �
��Nothing can be done tonight,’ he said, ‘but tomorrow morning I would like you to take us to the place where you found the bodies. For now, you may eat with us, and sit by our fire. We are honoured to have your company.’
‘No,’ said the boy, looking at his grandfather. ‘We will not sit with you. You are pakeha, our sworn enemy. My father has killed many pakeha and will kill many more. It is true I did not kill these soldiers, but it must have been my father. My father will kill you too, when he comes this way, so you had better go home, you bloody pakeha.’
‘If that half-pint don’t shut his mouth, I’m goin’ to shut it for him,’ grumbled Wynter. ‘He’s makin’ my nerve-ends ragged with that squeaky voice of his. Brats like him should know their place. We was taught to be seen and not heard. A good beltin’ is what he wants.’
No one took any notice of this speech, which sent Harry Wynter into the sulks.
Ta Moko took care of the old man and the boy, giving them some food and water. The old man asked, ‘Do you have whisky . . .?’
King, later talking with Jack, said, ‘Do you think there was a massacre here? Maybe these soldiers were sent to find us and were ambushed?’
‘I don’t know, Sergeant, it’s possible. Certainly I’ve never heard of any other pakeha straying this far from safety. I had thought that we are the only ones out here. Unless something has happened back in New Plymouth that requires our presence, though I can’t think what.’
Ta Moko came over to where Jack was sitting.
‘I have talked to the old man,’ he reported, ‘but he swears neither he nor the boy touched the bodies. He believes it to be bad luck to take anything from the dead. I believe he is telling the truth.’
‘Fine. Thank you, Ta Moko.’
King said, ‘Sir, they could be a scouting party. Perhaps the generals are thinking of marching this way?’
‘We won’t know until the morning, and I’m not going to spend the whole night guessing, Sergeant. Get some sleep.’
The following morning the old man and the boy led the party to a place on the edge of a forest. The smell of death has long arms and it reached out to them before they were anywhere near the cadavers. When they reached the place where the bodies lay, they found a bivouac made of staves and ferns. Inside this shelter lay a row of three bodies, as if sleeping, while the other two were sitting upright, blankets wrapped around them, staring at each other across a cold dead fire. One of the sitting dead had gripped his own hair at the point of leaving this earth, and his fingers had locked in that position, remained there, clutching, until there was very little flesh on the claws, only white bone.
Kiwi Wars Page 15