‘I’ll leave you now, sir. Sorry again.’
King saluted smartly, turned, and left the room.
Jack sat there for another half-hour, then picked up his pen and began to write a letter. Once it was finished, he sat back and read it three or four times, before putting it in an envelope and sealing it. Then he leaned back and relaxed. King had been right. He did feel a great deal better, a great deal less fraught. The letter had not been sent yet, but just getting his confession on paper was cathartic in itself. He did not exactly feel purified, but his mind was clearer and more alert. It was no good wallowing in self-pity anyway. No good telling himself he had been a stupid fool or any of that rubbish. There was no healing in that, only self-recrimination. If Jane were devastated, he would have to take her disappointment in him on the chin. Things would never be the same again between them, their union would always remain stained, but that was the price of his folly and he was going to have to live with it.
He left the building for the first time that day, taking the letter with him to the mail room. Sergeant King intercepted him on the way. He quickly stuffed the letter inside his tunic before King could see it.
‘Sir, have you thought about what I said – about the Maori, I mean?’
‘Ah, yes, the potential agent?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve got him in my quarters, if you want to talk to him. He’s a Waikato man.’
‘Right. Good work, Sergeant. I’ll see him now.’
Jack went with King and interviewed the man in question, who turned out be a shifty-eyed creature interested in money. Jack did not mind that the man was mercenary – most of his Maori spies were not in the work out of love for the pakeha – but the captain had the feeling that this particular fellow was one of those who worked both ends. He would be taking information back to his tribe, as well as bringing information out of it. Such men were useful in other ways. It was just as important to sow false rumours amongst the Maori, as it was to discover the truth about their movements and intentions. Jack paid the man, told him he was now a servant of Queen Victoria’s secret army, and began to question him on the situation amongst his people.
‘You know, sir, about Orakau? This was a bad thing.’
Jack did indeed know about the battle in question. After the fight at Rangiriri Ridge, the Maori had fallen back on their old ways of retreating from pa to pa, keeping just out of reach of the soldiers who were trying to lock them down. Stronghold after stronghold was captured, but without any resolution. Then came the battle at Orakau, in the Waipu basin, where about 300 warriors including some women in the pa were attacked by British forces. The defenders held out for several days, despite lack of food and water, braving the storm of lead and shells that was hurled at them. Then a trench was dug by the British sappers and hand grenades lobbed from there right into the heart of the besieged pa. Those within the pa were by now exhausted by lack of sustenance, and their ammunition had almost run out. A call was made to them to surrender, saying the troops greatly admired their courage, but the day was lost to them. The Maoris replied that they would fight to the death and could never make peace with the pakeha.
Not long after this, the Maoris suddenly left the pa and at a measured pace trotted through the British lines, much to the astonishment and bewilderment of the attackers. At first not a shot was fired from either side, but then the soldiers began rounding up the retreating Maori, taking prisoners and shooting those who resisted. Just under a third of the defenders managed to escape, including their Chief Rewi, leaving behind prisoners and their dead. They also left, within the pa, many wounded Maoris, including women. For once the soldiers forgot themselves. They had been fighting a bloody battle for several days and their blood was up. They ruthlessly bayoneted several of the wounded Maoris, including the women, and only stopped when officers ran amongst them commanding them to desist. This was an unusual occurrence amongst troops, who ordinarily respected and admired their heroic Maori enemy, and they were condemned for it.
‘Yes, indeed, it was a bad thing,’ replied Jack, ‘but in war such things are bound to happen, for men fall foul of themselves.’
‘It was bad,’ continued the Maori, ‘but it means the Waikato no longer wish to fight. This war will now go to Tauranga.’ This was on the east coast. ‘The Ngataerangi there have built a road to their pa, so the pakeha do not get tired and turn back. The pakeha will be able to find their way easily to the fighting grounds.’
Jack had heard that certain chiefs did such things. Inwardly he smiled. It was typical Maori humour that one could not help but find endearing. ‘How many Maori defend the pa?’
‘There are two hundred and fifty. Some Koheriki are there with the Ngataerangi. There are two pas, one small, one big . . .’
Jack questioned the man closely on the details of the landscape and the force of warriors that were there. He learned that the pa was on a ridge, high up, near a borderline between Maori land and settlers’ land, just two miles from the sea. There was a fence that ran between the two territories, with a gate in the middle. Jack decided to pass this information on to General Cameron, who would no doubt want to bring in the navy as well as his own men. The new spy was paid off, but Jack was reluctant to bring him into the live network. He let the man know that his information would be useful at any time, but gave him no indication that there were others like him. Not for the first time he felt distaste for his work, though he could not tell why. All he kept saying to himself, as he crossed a yard to reach General Cameron’s office, was, ‘This was not what I joined the army for. I’m a captain in the Connaught Rangers, a proud regiment – a regiment I have not had the opportunity of fighting for since I received my commission.’
Once he had unloaded his information on the general he went back to his quarters, consciously forgetting he had a letter in his pocket that had not yet been posted.
Seventeen
Captain Fancy Jack Crossman came away from the battle for the Gate Pa ragged, weary and bloodied. General Cameron had indeed attacked the pa from the front, while General Greer had taken up a position to the rear. Nearly 2000 men had been involved in the action, facing an enemy numbering just 250. Pakeha artillery included two 40-pounders and one 110-pounder. There were seamen, marines, 43rd Foot, 68th Foot, and various other regiments, including Jack’s men from the 88th Foot. It should have been an easy victory for the government forces, but it had been a mistake to box in the Maori. The rebels could not employ their usual tactic of hit and run since Greer and the 68th had cut off their rear. And so they did what any self-respecting Maori warrior would do – they decided to fight to the death.
At twilight on the evening before the attack, over 700 men of the 68th slunk away into the murky swamps of Waimapu. Guided by a Maori by the name of Tu and one of the settlers who had a house nearby, they trudged a stretch of mud flats that went on for almost a mile. It was soggy ground and the soldiers found themselves sucked down and floundering to the tops of their calves in mire. Foul, silent curses surged through the head of the infantry soldier. More elaborate, but equally potent oaths went through the mind of his officer. It was a constant struggle to prevent the sludge from stealing the footwear of the marchers. The going was slow and tortuous. It took them two hours to cross that short piece of boot-greedy bog and they finally made it to firm ground on a spur to the rear of the Gate Pa before the moon briefly rose. A deep darkness descended and it started to rain. A miserable night lay ahead, but there was the comfort of knowing they had performed a brilliant piece of circumnavigation: to night-march a regiment through a swamp without being seen or heard by an enemy who lay watching and listening close by. Jack was all admiration.
During the battle, the fact that the Maori had no way out caused confusion, not just amongst themselves but in the ranks of their attackers. Soldiers who saw retreating Maori suddenly turn and come back at them believed there had to be more Maori reinforcements behind them and so retreated themselves. Regimental officers tried to stem th
e withdrawal, waving their swords in the air at the fleeing troops, and as a consequence a great number were shot dead where they stood. Jack was told that the 43rd lost more officers at the Gate Pa than soldiers of any regiment were killed in the Battle of the Alma, a fact that he appreciated, having taken part in the storming of the heights above the Alma River in the Crimea.
After it was all over and the dust was settling Jack found Sergeant King was missing. He, Gwilliams and Wynter went into the pa and searched amongst the wounded.
At first they could not find him and Jack wondered whether King had been taken prisoner, or had wandered off somewhere not in his right mind. He would not have blamed the man if it had been the latter, because the hand-to-hand fighting had been fierce and terrible. Facing a Maori with an axe in his fist was a fearful thing. A Maori warrior was a fearsome creature. His physique alone was enough to strike terror in the heart of an opponent. He would twist his facial muscles into ugly expressions, and use battle cries and gestures that were both strange and frightening. It was one thing to be part of an organized attack in a line of disciplined soldiers, quite another to be thrown into a savage mêlée where men were being hacked to death by wild tattooed warriors with the strength of grizzly bears.
They turned over corpses and picked their way amongst the injured, calling King’s name. After twenty minutes Jack was beginning to think they would not find him. He feared that a headless body he had seen might have been his man. The blood and gore, which had flowed from the severed neck, had covered the dead soldier’s uniform, disguising any regimental markings. Jack was reluctant to go back to that cadaver and check whether it was King or not.
‘Here he is!’ cried Wynter, not without a trace of pleasure in his voice. ‘I got him. He’s wedged ’tween two dead ’uns. Might be he’s dead himself . . .’
They took the legs of the sergeant and dragged him out from under the bodies of a soldier and a Maori. King’s face was covered in blood, and there was more blood on his scalp. With his knife Gwilliams quickly shaved away a patch of matted hair from his sergeant’s skull to find a deep groove beneath, probably the result of a patu strike. Once his face was wiped with a damp rag they found he had also been shot in the throat. The musket ball had gone right through one side, luckily missing the spine. Though unconscious King was breathing robustly and Jack had hopes his sergeant’s head wound would not prove fatal. They laid him on a cart bound for a hospital in Auckland and followed behind.
As they entered Auckland, a man was waiting by the roadside and hailed Jack with a shout and a smile.
‘It’s me brother,’ growled Wynter. ‘What’s ’e want to see you for, Captain?’
‘You mind your own concerns, soldier,’ said Corporal Gwilliams. ‘That’s the captain’s business, not yourn.’
Jack left the column and confronted Abraham Wynter, who reached into his coat pocket and produced a folded document, which he waved under Jack’s nose with a smile.
‘Your deeds, Cap’n,’ said Abe Wynter. ‘You’re the proud owner of a thousand acres of good farmin’ land. Sorry it couldn’t be more. What do you plan to raise? Pigs, ain’t it?’
Jack stared at the papers. ‘I was thinking of growing pepper vines, and perhaps garlic plants.’
‘Ho! Exotic, eh? Spices is it, Cap’n? Well then, you’ll probably make enough money to retire afore very long. Most people likes a bit of pepper on their taters and steak. I know I do. Well, here it is then. You’ll see the price at the bottom, with my commission attached. Pay me sooner than later, but until then, good luck to you, sir. Good luck to you.’
Without waiting to be offered, he took Jack’s one good hand in his two, and shook it vigorously. For his part Jack felt this had come all too late. He was embroiled in an affair with another woman, his wife was nursing a sick father, and his enthusiasm for farming had waned accordingly. He wondered whether or not to reject this deal right now, by the roadside, but then thought better of it. Perhaps he ought to just look at what Abe Wynter had got for him. After all, he had pressed long and hard enough to get it. And even if he did not, in the end, want the land, there would be no difficulty in selling it on. Settlers were clamouring for farmland and sellers were making handsome profits. Jack would only have to hold on to it for a short while before putting it up for auction to make a profit.
He took the papers.
‘Thank you, Mr Wynter, for your efforts on my behalf.’
‘Oh, pleasure, sir – pleasure,’ said the man in the tall black stovepipe hat and long black coat. ‘Anything for our majesty’s officers – one meself, you know. HAC. Got to stick together, us officers.’
Jack held up the papers. ‘This land . . .’
‘All legitimate. No worries there, Captain. Be assured, sir. The last owner has passed on. Squared it with the tribe chief too, so there won’t be no comeback on that score. Nuthink for you to worry about whatsoever. You just enjoy your acquisition. ’Ow’s that rascal of a brother o’ mine? Shapin’ up?’
‘Mr Wynter, forgive me, but we’ve just come from the battleground and I have a sergeant with a serious head wound. I’d like to stay and pass the time of day, but I’m sure you understand. Private Harry Wynter will no doubt give you his version of the fighting later.’
‘Of course. Understand completely. Hope your sergeant’s a tough ’un and comes through all right. Good day to you, Captain Crossman.’ He took Jack’s hand again, though it was still clutching the land deeds, and shook it hard. ‘Anything else I can do for you, don’t hesitate, sir, don’t hesitate.’
Abe Wynter walked off, humming an unrecognizable tune.
Jack stuffed the papers into his coat and then rejoined the column, which was now trailing through the streets of the town. Despite all his previous misgivings and dark thoughts, he found there was a little hop in his step. He was a landowner. A landowner in New Zealand, one of the prettiest countries on the face of the earth. That was something to think about. It was a long way from home, to be sure – the farthest one could get unless one was interested in endless white expanses of snow and ice – but New Zealand’s green hills, valleys with hot springs, lakes and mountains, appeared astonishingly fresh. New Zealand had to be the last piece of the world God fashioned, and he had done it with all the love and care that someone puts into the finishing touches of a masterpiece. It was the British Isles with thermal heating, a less harsh climate, and far fewer people. Once the fighting was over and things had settled, Jack would own a thousand acres of paradise.
Once they had ensured that Sergeant King was getting treatment for his wounds – he still had not recovered consciousness, which did not bode well – Jack dismissed his men and went to his quarters. There he bathed and dressed his own wounds, which were merely small lacerations and bruises. His head was hurting again, but he told himself that this was the result of witnessing Sergeant King’s injury. A reminder. He was transferring that man’s pain to his own head in some way. So he lay on his cot and, after taking a powder, attempted sleep.
A scratching at his door woke him when it was dark. He lit a lamp and lay there for a few minutes, but the scratching sound continued. Thinking it might be a rat, Jack took his metal hand from the bedside table, intending to use it as a cudgel. On throwing open the door, he found a brown kiwi rooting around by the doorpost, presumably looking for worms. It scuttled away into the darkness of the shrubs. Jack stood in the doorway for a few minutes, taking in the silence of the night, and the fresh air. Looking up he was amazed by the clarity of the heavens: a mass of stars embedded in black velvet. It was relatively easy to pick out the Southern Cross, whose fifth star was visible to Australians but not visible in the more southern parts of New Zealand. There were others more familiar to a man from the northern hemisphere. Indeed, though, it was a refreshing night sky, somehow cleansing for the spirit. A whole weight lifted from Jack’s previously leaden mind, not for any reason but the fact that he could see how unimportant his hour-by-hour concerns were when compared with t
he aeons invested in those constellations above.
He went back to bed but could not sleep. Instead, he took up a book Jane had sent him. It was a French novel in the original by an author called Victor Hugo. Les Misérables was not the sort of book Jack would have chosen himself; he preferred factual books on factual subjects. He soon put the worthy, and wordy, Frenchman down in favour of a pamphlet: The Most Interesting History of Numeration, Including Irrational and Transcendental Numbers, Leading to the Complex Numbers Discovered by the Italian Mathematician, Raphael Bombelli (1526–1573). This was much more Jack’s style and he happily lost himself in prime numbers and rational coefficients. It astonished him to learn that the ‘zero’ had come along in the fourth century BC, with the Babylonians.
‘One would have thought,’ he murmured drowsily to himself, ‘that the Romans, coming so much later, would have had the sense . . .’
But he had fallen asleep before he could finish the sentence.
The following morning when Jack was imbibing his morning coffee at the mess, he received a visit from the overweight newspaperman, Andrew Strawn.
‘Captain?’ Strawn sat at the small round table without waiting for an invitation. ‘I was wondering if you had anything for me on the battle for the Gate Pa. You were there, weren’t you?’ He let out a sort of tinkling laugh that had other officers looking across and frowning. Seven in the morning was no time to indulge in tinkling laughter. ‘I understand it was quite a fight. Some are saying it’s the turning point of the war, though a sort of shallow Pyrrhic victory, considering the number of casualties.’
‘Why me?’ asked Jack. ‘There were others there – officers commanding regiments – who are in a better position to assess whether it was a great victory or not.’
Kiwi Wars Page 21