Kiwi Wars

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  The bodies were fetid; life having left them a good while ago. This was no recent slaughter, but something that had happened months previously. Eyes had been eaten by ants, which even now formed a trail into the recesses of the corpses. However, though the bodies lying in the bivouac had been knifed or bayoneted, no wounds could be found on the upright bodies. Some of the weapons were stacked in a wigwam-shaped sheaf not far from the ashes of the fire. They were found to be loaded, though the metal barrels were red with rust. As firearms they were now useless lumps of iron, their working parts seized by rust.

  Both of the sitting bodies, glaring at each other with sightless sockets, were carrying knives and pistols on their person. These were revealed when Gwilliams and Ta Moko tried to lift one of the dead men and his clothes fell apart like worn tissue paper to expose a small arsenal. One of the corpses had no fewer than four pistols and three knives, plus his bayonet. The other had a similar number of bladed weapons, but only two pistols. There was dried blood on the blades of the bayonets carried by both men as if the steel was used at the very last moment.

  King said to Jack, ‘Cut down while they slept.’

  ‘And the two at the fire?’

  ‘There you have me, sir.’

  ‘Gwilliams, what do you think?’ asked Jack. ‘Do you believe it was a Maori attack?’

  Gwilliams screwed up his face and shook his head. ‘What I reckon is the two at the fire killed the others – stabbed ’em in their sleep. Poor bastards didn’t even have time to struggle. Two or three quick stabs of the blade. I’ll wager they didn’t even wake up.’

  ‘I’ll go along with that,’ King said. ‘The sitting men were still holding the bloody bayonets they used on the sleeping ones.’

  ‘And the other two?’

  Gwilliams shook his head. ‘How they come to be sitting up, looking at each other, has got me beat. Ain’t they got marks on ’em?’

  ‘Not that I can see,’ said Jack.

  Ta Moko inspected the corpse on the far side of the camp-fire ashes, which was still in its original upright position.

  ‘Yes,’ Ta Moko said, ‘this one has a hole in the back of his skull.’ He bent his head and inspected the face of the dead man. ‘And some front teeth missing – he was shot through his mouth.’ He looked across the ashes again. ‘His friend over there did not like the staring contest and in the end drew a pistol and ended it.’

  ‘But why?’ asked King, throwing up his hands. ‘What was it all about? Did they just get lost in the bush and go crazy?’

  They found out when they lifted one of the cadavers in the bivouac. It was heavy. Very heavy. The pockets of the man’s breeches were full of gold dust. When they checked the other corpses, they too had gold on them: some in dust and some in small nuggets the size of grave gravel. Only the last man to die had no gold hidden on his clothes. Instead, they found it in his stomach – or where his stomach used to be. It appeared he had swallowed gold dust and so killed himself. There was no explanation for this bizarre twist that sounded logical to Jack and his men. Each of them made up his own story, but in all the made-up tales there was something missing – reason. But where there is gold, reason often goes flying off somewhere, and madness takes over.

  ‘Manius Aquillius, the Roman general, he swallered gold,’ said the classical scholar, Corporal Gwilliams. ‘He was made to. Ancient king by the name of Mithridates got a hold of him and poured melted gold down his throat. Choked on molten gold. Ain’t that a dandy way to go? Better’n a length of hemp round your neck.’

  ‘How do you know all this crap?’ asked Wynter. ‘Who put it in your head?’

  ‘Read it in the preacher’s books,’ explained Gwilliams, ‘man who took me in and raised me like his own. Anyway, Captain, what are we gonna do with all this yellow metal? Share it out?’

  Wynter looked eagerly at his commanding officer.

  ‘Yes, the corp’s right, sir. Only thing to do. Share it out. Finders keepers.’

  Jack sighed. ‘I’m sorry, men, I can’t do that. I know it’s a disappointment to you, but it can’t be done. Sergeant King has just reminded me there was a robbery last year, down in Central Otago. I’m certain this gold had already been purchased by the government agency from the miners and was on its way to Auckland. These soldiers were escorts on that convoy. They shot the officer and their sergeant and were never seen again. Well, we’ve found them.’

  Wynter looked frantic. ‘Yes, but, Captain, no one will know. You take the biggest share, ’cause you’re the officer. You don’t need to do this one by the book, sir. None of us will let on, will we? Just divide it up as you see right, and we’ll all keep mum.’

  Sergeant King said, ‘Private Wynter, get those thoughts out of your head. Do you want to end up like these dead men? That’s what gold does to you. It robs you of your honour and sensibility. Think of what your friends and relations would say; your fellow churchgoers in your village back home in England. Where’s your honesty?’

  Wynter was almost crying now, knowing that even if the officer wavered, which did not look like happening, the sergeant was so bloody stiff with righteousness, there was no bending him, let alone getting him to break. Sergeant King was incorruptible.

  ‘I an’t got no honour to be robbed of – an’ my sensibility says take the blamed gold and God-damn any noble thoughts.’

  ‘Blasphemin’ won’t help you,’ Gwilliams muttered. ‘My sentiments is with you, Harry, but I ain’t goin’ to get tried and shot for a handful of dust. Come on, let’s bury these poor bastards. They tried the bad way, and they failed at that too.’

  The three Maori watched all these exchanges between the white men with mild interest. The boy had not seen such animation in pakeha before and wondered what it was all about. Even a child so young, with little knowledge of the world, had heard the word ‘gold’, but he had thought little of its value. He owned no sheep or land either, but if asked he might have chosen those over this cold yellow stuff. His grandfather was aware of the importance of gold, but his life was almost over and any improvements to his last years in the world would come more from his fellow men than from a precious metal. Ta Moko was willing to accept what the captain thought right, for the captain knew the rules and knew the penalties for breaking them. If he was to become rich, all well and good, but if he was to remain poor that too was fate.

  They dug a single shallow grave and put all the corpses in together, which was probably a last touch of irony for the souls who had once filled these husks. They died hating each other and now were going to spend eternity in a group embrace, bone locked with bone. Gwilliams chalked an epitaph on a rock face nearby. It read: ‘They died for love – not for a woman, not for a man, but for a lump of metal.’

  Sergeant King put all the gold in a set of double saddlebags, which one of the pack-mules would carry. The moon-coloured dust and grit filled two leather wallets the size of dinner plates and the mule King chose was the contented beast who took everything in its stride. He himself intended to lead the beast in the morning. He staked the beast on a patch of fresh grass and left her to graze contentedly.

  Once the first sentry had been set, the rest of the men went to sleep around the fire. Their dreams were of many things but riches were paramount in most. One or two of them were heard to groan softly with the knowledge that they were so close to wealth but unable to grasp it. Even Ta Moko was tempted by the gold that lay just a few feet away. But the Maori, like Jack and King, was fully aware that such a theft would only end in misery. There were countless such stories: from the goldfields of Australia to the gold mines of Otago. Men who took part in such robberies eventually turned on one another. Death and betrayal were the usual rewards of such an enterprise.

  Shortly before dawn, Jack was shaken roughly and sat up to see his sergeant looming over him.

  ‘Sir – the pack-mule’s gone – the one with the gold.’

  ‘Wandered off?’ muttered Jack, not happy at being disturbed. ‘We’ll look fo
r it when it gets light.’

  ‘No, sir, not wandered off. Wynter’s gone too.’

  Jack sighed. ‘Of course he has.’

  Thirteen

  They struck camp and Jack organized his men into two pairs thinking it was both dangerous and foolhardy to split them further. Sergeant King and Gwilliams were one pair; the captain and Ta Moko were the other. Unless he was absolutely crazy, Harry Wynter would have followed the stream from which they drew their water. This course ran north to south. King and Gwilliams took the northern route, while Jack and the Maori took the southern. The old Maori and his grandson left them to their search, shaking their heads and wondering about these pakeha, whose ways were strange and hard to fathom.

  ‘Why did you put that man on the last sentry duty on his own? You might have guessed this would happen. This time Wynter’s gone too far,’ said Jack to King before they parted. ‘His prior record makes this a hanging offence. They won’t hesitate to give him the full penalty after all his other mis-demeanours.’

  King looked pained. ‘He deserves punishment, sir – but death?’

  The captain was scratching his stump, a certain sign that he was greatly disturbed. King handed his commanding officer his chibouk pipe so that he could smoke his way through his anger. Once King had lit the pipe for him, it being a difficult action for a one-handed man, Jack puffed away and answered the NCO’s question.

  ‘The man is incorrigible, Sergeant. I can’t do anything with him – never have been able to. You only know part of his history. The document listing his wrongdoings is longer and denser than a baron’s genealogy chart. This is really the last straw. The men who took that gold murdered their officers. In stealing the gold from them, even after death, Wynter is collaborating. He’ll swing, I’m sure of it. Ugly though it may be, I can see no way out of it for him. This time he’s had it.’

  ‘It might be better to shoot him and have done with it, sir.’

  ‘Who’s going to do that? You? Your skill with firearms is such you’ll probably hit your own foot.’

  ‘Well, I was thinking of Gwilliams – he’s a sharpshooter.’

  Jack shook his head and said sardonically, ‘You’re going to ask Gwilliams to execute his own comrade?’

  King shrugged and said, ‘They don’t get on well together.’

  ‘They drink together every night they’re off duty. They may hate each other’s guts, but they’re all they’ve got. Even a cold-hearted man like Gwilliams would be loath to shoot his drinking companion.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right, sir. We’ll have to take him in.’

  Jack said, ‘I’ll bear in mind what you said though, should it be me who comes across him first, if I can put my scruples away. But between you and me, I would find that hard to do.’

  Jack and Ta Moko set off south shortly after this conversation, following the brook, taking one of the two remaining mules. The other animal went with Gwilliams and King. It was rugged country with boulders and trees hindering a swift journey. Jack was cursing his private to high heaven, yet he had known all these years that it would at sometime come to this manhunt. Harry Wynter had been a shade away from the noose or the firing squad many a time. He was one of those unfortunate characters who seemed determined to have himself executed so that he could then blame the State or the army for his early demise. If there was life after death, the angels and archangels, or devils and demons, depending on how lenient was the great Judge, would regret the day that Harry Wynter entered their portals.

  Ta Moko had looked for a trail beside the stream, of course, but Harry Wynter was not an idiot. He had been a member of a guerrilla group for many years and even someone with his low intellect had learned the skill of surviving in enemy territory by that time. The private had no doubt stuck to the gravelly stream bed for many miles and would therefore leave no prints, mule or man. By midday they had made only seven miles and there was still no sign of where Wynter had left the stream. Jack reminded himself that he was chasing a man who had walked from the Crimea to India and had survived a journey that had killed all his officers and most of his comrades. Wynter was a hardened trekker, with feet of marble, and he could keep a steady pace for hours.

  ‘We’d better stop here for a rest, Ta Moko,’ Jack said, when they came across a glade. ‘I need to change my socks.’

  The rocks they had traversed had been serrated like steak knives and were sharp enough to penetrate the soles of Jack’s boots. When he took off his footwear, he found his feet were torn and bleeding. He did his best to clean them up and put pads on the worst cuts, but he knew they would eventually slow him down a lot. His feet were definitely not made of any stone whatsoever. Any long journeys in his earlier life had been made by horse, while Wynter had always had to walk. Back home, many labourers walked ten or more miles to find work each day. Some walked twenty. Men like Jack, born into the aristocracy, had feet almost as tender as those of a baby. Of course he had done some walking since then, one or two long marches without a mount, but the damage had been done in his childhood and was not rectifiable now.

  Ta Moko’s feet, on the other hand, were bare. But they showed no sign of damage. He had some sort of trick of treading on the edges of sharp stones and rocks, and coming off unscathed. Forced treks like this one were meat and gravy to a Maori. He looked with sympathy at the bloody remains of the officer’s toes and heel pad, and shook his head.

  ‘We must slow down, Captain, to give you chance to heal.’

  ‘Can’t do that,’ muttered Jack, whose further discomfort was a sodden blue jumper, which had been soaked in the spray of a waterfall they had passed. ‘We must catch this man if we can.’

  Socks changed, pads on wounds, they ate a fish which Ta Moko caught from the stream. Jack had never eaten anything so muddy-tasting in his life, but he knew that a beggar could not be a chooser. Ta Moko however seemed to consider the fish a great delicacy and kept smacking his lips long after the meal had been eaten.

  ‘You must ride the mule,’ said Ta Moko firmly, ‘before your feet are cut to pieces.’

  But the mule was already giving trouble. He had stopped once or twice with an obstinate air about him and Jack was afraid they would have to battle with the creature all the way. If he climbed on the mule’s back and added to the weight of the equipment already there, he was sure the beast would rebel with the stubbornness for which they were renowned. Nevertheless Jack envied the hooves which clattered amongst the rocks, wondering why God in his wisdom had not thought fit to endow man with such wonderful permanent shoes.

  In the afternoon they entered a narrow rocky-sided valley which was deeper than others they had come through. Kingfishers flew down this channel at great speed, diving for small shards of silver that wriggled in their beaks. A low mist hung about the ferns and tree-parasitic plants, which needed this kind of environment to flourish. The dampness of the valley floor made it soft to walk on and Jack even took off his boots so that he could feel the moss under his feet. This green carpet lasted for three miles and it saved Jack’s tears for a while, though he knew it could not last. Nor could they stay there for the night, because the moisture-filled air would have soaked them. To sleep in such an atmosphere would invite respiratory problems. As well as tender feet, Jack had a weak chest and he knew they had to get out of the valley before he started coughing and gasping. He hated these weaknesses in himself but could only try to thwart them.

  Night fell before they reached the end of the valley and they proceeded over the last few hundred yards by dark-lantern. Jack’s idea of taking off his boots and socks had not been a good one. He had not realized that the moss had been full of mites, sometimes called sand-fleas by the pakeha, which had bitten his ankles and feet quite savagely. So as well as the flesh wounds he had swellings to contend with. It meant he could not replace his boots and had to walk barefoot over the new stony ground which met the end of the valley.

  ‘How I hate that man,’ Jack told himself, as he inspected his extrem
ities. ‘I could cheerfully watch him hang at this moment in time.’

  In the light of the fire Ta Moko lit, however, he watched the bats, darting this way and that, taking insects out of the air. It was not an unpleasant land, these islands of New Zealand. Not like India with its terrible biting insects, snakes and wild beasts. And even in the summer the heat was not appalling, as it had been in the Far East. There were diseases here, of course, but nothing compared to the Crimea or the Indian subcontinent. The only creature that gave Jack any trouble at all, and it was simply because of its size and revolting looks, was the giant weta insect, which was so fearsome and ugly it disgusted him. Jack would find these creatures in his clothes and shudder like a small girl.

  The pair rigged a bivouac for the night, and Jack wrote up his official report diary, similar to a sea captain’s log, which would condemn Private Harry Wynter. Had they caught the man within a couple of miles of the last camp, he might have had a chance, but Jack knew that this was the last escapade of his troublesome private. This report in his diary would put the noose around Harry Wynter’s neck. It was not without some misgivings that Jack closed the cover of the black book, wrapped it in a waterproof skin, and put it in his saddlebag. Then he relaxed and smoked his chibouk for a few peaceful minutes.

  ‘Ta Moko,’ he said to the Maori, before they laid down their heads for the night, ‘he must have left the stream now. Do you think he went the other way, and Gwilliams and King have him by now?’