Kiwi Wars

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Today though, in his dressing room, with his maid and sometime bed companion assisting him, Captain Wynter was reverently unpacking and laying out the uniform which had arrived by the latest ship. Since 1830, when King William IV had taken notice of the HAC, its uniform had been based on that of the Grenadier Guards, an aspect of his newly found regiment that pleased Abe Wynter immensely. The Grenadiers were a highly respected, superior force.

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt, Sadie,’ said Abe, using his pet name for his Maori maid, ‘to be mistook for one o’ them Grenadiers.’

  He began by putting on the scarlet coat with its splendid golden epaulettes and buttons gleaming in the sunlight that speared the window. There were several uniforms in the pine wooden box, but the only one he was really interested in was the dress uniform, with its various sashes and its wonderful sword and scabbard. In a separate box was the bearskin hat, which almost stopped Abe Wynter’s heart with its magnificent aspect. He put this on and was immediately over seven feet tall. Once he was fully dressed, with Sadie fussing around his shoulders with a little dusting brush, he stood in front of a full-length mirror.

  ‘My God, Sadie,’ he said, genuinely astonished at his own splendour. ‘No wonder them officers look so regal-like. It an’t hard to be a gentleman in togs like these. Why, I look like I was a high-born warrior from a top-class family, don’t I?’

  ‘You look like a king, master.’

  He turned this way and that, admiring himself.

  ‘Don’t I just. I feel like a bloody king. Look at this bleedin’ titfer! Like an Aussie wombat squattin’ on me napper. You can’t do better’n this for style, Sadie. Here . . .’

  He suddenly drew the sword from its sheath and, whirling on her, brandished the blade underneath her chin. He flicked the steel back and forth as if fending off an enemy. Once or twice the razor-edged blade passed but a notepaper’s thickness from her glistening skin. Then curiously, he suddenly held it still. Light from the blade gleamed on the upper part of Sadie’s throat. She stepped back, pale with fear. She knew her master’s unpredictable moods. Abe grinned, knowing he had frightened her. It was the sort of joke he enjoyed.

  ‘You like silver, eh?’ he said to her.

  She looked puzzled and he explained. ‘When we was kids we used to hold buttercups under a girl’s chin – if it showed yeller we said she was fond o’ butter. But you like silver coins, eh, Sadie?’

  Sadie nodded violently. Abe then tipped the sword point down and hooked her woollen skirt with it. He lifted the hem to reveal her legs all the way up to the smooth brown thighs. He grinned again.

  Sadie tilted her chin, almost in defiance. This puzzled Abe for a minute. Then he grinned and let her skirt fall. ‘With legs like them, you an’t got no worries about getting your gold and silver, Sadie.’

  Later that morning Captain Wynter stepped from the porch of his house into the Main Street. He was wearing his full dress uniform, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He imagined he heard one or two gasps of admiration from passers-by in the street, which gratified Captain Wynter immensely.

  ‘I am on my way to war, madam,’ he told a woman who was gaping at him. ‘I aim to teach them Maori rebels a lesson, if you please! Oh – Captain Wynter, at your service, ma’am.’ He clicked his heels together in the manner of a Prussian officer and saluted. Then he called over his shoulder, ‘Catch up, you two. Chop-chop.’

  Close behind him were two of his Maoris, carrying a crate. Inside the crate was Mr Perkins’ Extraordinary Steam Gun, the very one which fired one thousand shots per minute, using 900psi steam. The crate was long, since the barrel itself was six feet in length. It could even, with an attachment, fire around corners. The captain was going hunting in the bush this morning. He had been granted a column of thirty soldiers, a loan so to speak, by one of the regimental commanders, a colonel who wished at some time to purchase some land. Wynter had promised the colonel the men would be used with discretion.

  Abe Wynter enjoyed the walk to the garrison in his magnificent bearskin, where his temporary loan was waiting on the parade ground. A colour sergeant called them to attention as Abe approached. The clash of arms in his honour greatly excited the ex-sailor, who recalled how proud the captains of ships had looked when marines had performed the same duty for them. He too felt proud. He was now a soldier – yet not just a soldier, a commissioned officer. And not even just a lowly lieutenant, but a full-fledged captain in a top-class regiment. That was something to be proud of, by damn, coming as he did from such humble origins. Probably half his cousins and brothers had been admitted, often under violent protest, to the sordid cells and passageways of Newgate prison in London. Some of them had never come out. One or two had been forced to leave by exiting through a small trapdoor on the floor of the gallows.

  Yet here was he, Abe Wynter, inspecting a troop of Her Majesty’s soldiers.

  ‘At ease, Sergeant. That is, at ease once I’ve inspected ’em, and I’m satisfied as to the smartness and such.’

  The colour sergeant rolled his eyes.

  Captain Wynter gravely walked up and down between the ranks of the soldiers, nodding, frowning, pointing the sergeant towards a grease mark or blemish. Once the tour had finished he told the sergeant they should be on their way. ‘If you follow my tracker, Kunu, he’ll lead us to where these damn rebels are, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ muttered the Scottish sergeant, clearly not pleased with the arrangement his colonel had made. ‘Follow the tracker.’

  The small column left the garrison and headed out into open country in the wake of a keen-eyed Maori with his hair tied in a black ribbon. Captain Wynter wanted no horses or pack animals of any kind with the main party. He was of the opinion that such creatures slowed a march down. Also, they had a habit of whinnying, or braying, just as you came within earshot of the enemy, and you would arrive at their hideout to find it abandoned. It was important on this mission to catch the rebels at home. Abe wanted no mistakes. There was money attached to this venture. However, thousands of musket balls weighed heavily and could not be carried by men on foot. He needed this ammunition for the Perkins gun. This meant that pack animals would have to follow on in the expedition’s wake. Abe’s sixth Maori was left to haul the reserve ammunition, while the main party carried only a thousand balls.

  The tracker and the soldiers went ahead, with Abe and the sergeant taking up the rear. There were four Maori taking turns to carrying the machine gun. This engine of war also followed after the rifle-bearing soldiers, as they trudged through the bush.

  ‘So, Sergeant,’ said Abe, ‘what do you think of the old uniform, eh? Pretty smart, wouldn’t you say?’

  The grizzled sergeant, a veteran from a Burmese campaign, looked him up and down, and nodded curtly.

  ‘Aye, it’s no bad – sir.’

  ‘Not bad? It’s bloody good, Sergeant.’ Abe stroked his scarlet breast with his palms. ‘This is good stuff, not like that itchy blue serge you’re wearin’. I don’t even put on under-pants made out of stuff that coarse. I’ll let you into a secret – it only takes money. If you make it rich, then it’s all open to you, see? I was just an ordinary seaman once. Now look at me? Captain in the Honourable Artillery Company – which, by the by, I been meanin’ to ask one o’ you army types. I thought artillery was big guns, but some o’ the HAC, me included, an’t gunners.’

  The Scottish sergeant was better informed than most about such things and had the answer for the captain.

  ‘You want to know, sir, how that comes about?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I’m askin’, man.’

  ‘Fact is, sir, the word artillery was used first to mean bows and arrows – when muskets came along, they were called “great artillery”. Yon HAC was probably formed early on, when it meant archers and such, ye ken?’

  ‘Oh, so that’s ’ow it worked, eh?’

  ‘I should think so, sir.’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  The march through the bush was slow and
cautious. They had at least one night in the open to look forward to, where they would not be permitted to light fires or do anything which might give warning to the rebels. When evening came round they camped by a small brook in a narrow valley. Since they were travelling light, the soldiers simply placed a blanket on the ground to sleep on. It was midwinter now and the nights were cold and damp. Captain Wynter had brought with him several sheepskins, some to lie on, some to cover him. He used his precious bearskin as a pillow. He hated sleeping in his bright new uniform, but there was nothing else for it. His Maori aides slept in a circle round him, their shotguns to hand, just in case. This helped to keep him warmer than he would otherwise have been.

  Strangely – the mind is a complex machine – Abe slept more soundly out there in the mud than he ever did at home. Perhaps it was because of the exercise and fresh air, but more likely it was because his brain was freed from reminders of past misdeeds. Back at the house there were all those trappings of a rich gentleman which threw his mind back to the time when those riches came to him. Striker probably had the same dreams, the same nightmares. Abe wondered if it was one of the reasons why Striker had gambled his money away. Perhaps the load was too heavy to carry and he had jettisoned it willingly?

  Abe woke as the dawn light was clawing its way up the sky. A murky mist was flowing over the damp ground. His bones ached and his temper was on the edge of nasty. Coffee. He would at that moment have given a bag full of gold for a cup of coffee. But he knew that lighting a fire would have been foolish. Why come out at all if the bird was given warning to fly the roost? He settled for a cup of clear stream water, hoping sheep had not shit in the headwaters. Around him the soldiery was waking, exchanging greetings, while the sergeant prowled amongst them telling them softly to ‘keep the noise down’.

  The five Maori that Abe had brought with him were washing in the brook. They were big quiet men who asked no questions and only gave answers when asked for them. Looking at them, at their marvellous physique, Abe did not wonder they made such a ferocious enemy. They were warriors through and through. It was as if God, or Nature, had designed them for that role. They were muscled fighters in the mould of Ancient Greek heroes. Achilles himself would have changed bodies with any of these dark-skinned combatants. The British soldiers – some skinny, some fat, some heavily built, some short – paled by physical comparison and were entirely reliant on organization and discipline, and numbers of course, for their position as a great force in the world.

  The march continued from early morning. When they came close to the enemy, they fanned out, approaching cautiously. The attack, thanks to the Maori guide, was a great success. They surprised the Maoris at their fire outside a cave. One of the enemy went down under fire straight away. The others, a dozen or so, had no option but to retreat into the shallow cave, which was not much more than a rock hang. A fight ensued, with those in the cave firing out at the troops in the bush, and the soldiers firing back. It was a sporadic battle, sometimes with periods of silence broken in the end by a single crack or a shouted jeer from one side or the other. Stalemate, in fact, though the defenders knew they were not going to escape. They had water and food in the cave, but these supplies would eventually run out. Abe Wynter’s sergeant was of the opinion that it would take about a week before the spirit of those in the cave was broken.

  ‘I can’t afford a week,’ grumbled Abe Wynter. ‘We’ll ’ave to finish them off before then. Can we smoke ’em out? Where’s that damn ammunition for the Perkins? Shouldn’t it be here by now?’

  They tried fires, but the wind was in the wrong direction and they only succeeded in burning a huge area of bush, endangering themselves in the process. In the early evening the pack animals with the ammunition for the Perkins arrived. Abe Wynter had already carried out the erection and mounting of the steam gun, but had been reluctant to use the first thousand rounds of ammunition in case those in the cave immediately surrendered. Abe wanted no surrender. He intended to kill all the defenders before they had a chance to show a white flag.

  By the time they had unpacked the ammunition, the sun was low on the horizon, a big orange ball. It was growing cold with the onset of the gloaming. Abe Wynter knew that once darkness fell it would be difficult to prevent the defenders from escaping. He and his men might catch one or two, but others would slip away for sure. He consulted his sergeant on the matter and the sergeant confirmed his fears.

  ‘Right,’ said Abe, his heartbeat quickening, ‘time to use Mr Perkins.’

  A charcoal fire was lit to boil the water in the generator of the engine, which would be released under pressure into the chamber of the gun. The hoppers were filled with musket balls from which the balls would drop one by one into the chamber of the gun. Finally the gun was moved on the swivel joint and aimed at the entrance to the cave.

  Abe Wynter was managing the whole of this procedure himself, since no one else present had any idea what a Perkins steam gun was or how to operate it. The sergeant had not been present at the first demonstration of the weapon, there being only officers in attendance at that time. The NCO had no notion of what was to follow. All he was aware of was that the so-called captain had a newfangled weapon, which looked a rather dubious piece of equipment to the sergeant, being made up of pipes and funnels, and needing a coal fire to make it work. Indeed, it looked more like a contraption that should have been part of a steam boiler in a Chinese laundry rather than out on a battlefield.

  He soon changed his mind.

  Lying behind the Perkins, Abe Wynter began to fire. The soldiers around him were both astonished and horrified as the machine gun rattled a thousand shots into the mouth of the cave. Inside the cave they could hear the screams, as musket balls that did not hit any direct target, ricocheted off the inner walls of rock. Zing, zing, zing, zing. The noise from a thousand balls striking stone was astounding from outside the cave; it must have been terrifying within. One minute after releasing the trigger, the hoppers were empty. Abe, sweating profusely, screamed at one of the soldiers, ‘Quick! Fill the hoppers again – now!’

  There were cries of agony coming from the cave. A man came running out. Abe Wynter drew a revolver and shot the man before he managed to get ten yards. The soldier on the ammunition yelled that the hoppers were again full of musket balls. Abe went down behind his weapon again, his sweat soiling the collar of his precious scarlet coat. He knew what he was doing and he wanted it done.

  ‘Sir!’ cried the sergeant. ‘Can’t you give ’em time to surrender? Let me talk to ’em. They might—’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Sergeant. I’m in charge here,’ screeched Abe – and then he released the trigger again, pouring another thousand balls into the cave. When he had finished, there were only groans coming from the defenders’ position. Still he was not satisfied, despite the sergeant’s obvious agitation.

  ‘Again!’ cried Abe. ‘Fill ’em again.’

  Out of the corner of his eye Abe saw his own half-dozen Maoris walk off into the bush. They did not want to witness this slaughter of their own kind. They had chosen sides – for money or revenge over ancient enemies – and they knew there was no going back. But they did not need to watch this feverish butchering of men with the same ancestors as themselves. They would come back when it was all over and the screams and pleading from the cave had ceased.

  Five thousand rounds went into that cave mouth. The sound of rapid fire, which had so shocked the soldiers witnessing this massacre, had left the wildlife of the evening as silent as the dead. Those in the cave had not stood a chance. Indeed, when the soldiers went to look the next morning, they were sickened by the carnage. Gory body parts lay everywhere, limbs having been ripped from sockets, heads pulped, and torsos mangled. The sergeant had seen a great deal of action, in various parts of the world, but this was one he wished he had not been part of. It had been ugly, horrifying, dishonourable, and for the most part unnecessary.

  ‘Shall we bury the bodies now, sir?’ he asked.

&nb
sp; ‘Nah – leave ’em to rot,’ growled the captain. ‘They don’t deserve a decent burial.’

  The sergeant’s voice was quiet but determined. ‘Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, sir – all men deserve a decent burial. These here Maoris are Christians. They fought us fair and square. I’ll no deny a Christian soul his last resting place.’

  ‘Oh, do what you like, Sergeant. I couldn’t give a tinker’s damn what you do with ’em. But we’ve got to get going, back to New Plymouth. Who knows, there might be other war parties out here? Hey, you! Soldier! Be careful with that weapon. That’s an expensive bit of metal, that is. That there gun will change the face of war.’

  ‘I hope to God I never see the like,’ muttered the sergeant. ‘When that thing comes into service, I aim to take off my uniform for good and aye.’

  Once the Maoris were in shallow graves with markers, the soldiers packed up and began the march back to the garrison. One of them happened to mention something about ‘the woman’. Abe Wynter overheard.

  ‘What woman?’ he asked.

  ‘One of them dead Maoris, sir,’ answered the soldier. ‘She weren’t a man – she were a woman.’

  Abe felt uncomfortable with this news. He did not know why, because women had been killed on the battlefield before. Chiefs’ daughters and wives had been caught in crossfire, or had been part of a Maori defence, and had died as a result. This was an unfortunate turn of events which had not been in his reckoning. He had a good idea who the female Maori was, though he did not know her name, and decided that this need not go any further than the raiding party.

  He asked the sergeant to call a halt.

  ‘Listen up, you lot,’ he cried. ‘This ’as been a secret raid, as you might say, and is to stay confidential. It’s me what’ll put in the report to the colonel and I’ll tell him what he has to know, understood? Any man caught discussin’ these events, including you, Sergeant, will find himself up on a court martial for disclosin’ secret information. This ’ere Perkins gun is a secret weapon, see, what we must keep from the enemy’s knowledge. Any man here that jabbers in a tavern about what happened yesterday will regret his mouth, understand? I’ll personally see him stripped and flogged.’