by Vicky Adin
“Orders are to get every man we can.” The sergeant stood up straight, rocking on his heels. “Don’t look like you fit the bill, though. Move on.”
“I will not. He’s wi’ me.” Thumbing towards Daniel, Joe squared his shoulders and glared back at the sergeant.
“All right, all right. Keep yer shirt on. I only want his mark, or signature if he can write.”
“Course I can write,” said Daniel, offended by the implication.
“Good. Then sign on, lad. Uniform, kit, regular pay and rewards for them what sees hard fighting. What d’ you say, then?”
“Will I get my piece of land what’s been promised?”
“Course. Now sign.” Daniel shrugged. The sooner he got on with it, the sooner he could make a new start to his life here. He answered all the questions put to him, signed the form and was told where to report.
Joe introduced Daniel in an astonishing number of hotels and ‘grog shops’ as they made their way along the foreshore until he turned down an alleyway at the back of the shops off Shortland Crescent. The place was small and dark with a constantly changing stream of working men stopping in for a drop. Joe ordered a couple of ales while Daniel found somewhere to sit against the wall at one of the upturned barrels used for tables, with simple wooden stools instead of chairs.
“Tell me about your place,” said Daniel.
“Not much to tell, really.” Joe puffed on his pipe. “Our place is near what they call Ring’s Redoubt, ’bout two mile outside of the township on the Papakura–Wairoa Road some twenty-five or thirty miles south of Auckland. It’s sort of an inn, store and farmhouse. Nancy, the wife, she’s a real good cook and a friendly soul. Loves to have people around, but I think she finds it a bit harder to cope since we been put into ‘a state of defence’, as they call it.”
“What does that mean?” Daniel wanted to know what he was in for in this new country.
“Building’s all been reinforced with heavy timbers, rifle slits cut in the walls an’ all, but we decided to stick it out. We’ve had the place used as headquarters for Jackson’s Forest Rangers, and some of the cavalry have been stationed there from time to time, too. Although we still get ordinary people making their way around the country staying over for a rest.”
“Did you help build the redoubt?” asked Daniel.
“Nah, too old for that nonsense. Leave it all to the soldiers, I do. They got it all down to a fine art now. Dig a trench all round, make the embankments as high as you can and you have a secure central courtyard. But it’s thirsty work so we make sure the officers and soldiers pop in for a wet one whenever they can.” Joe winked.
He spied two mates and invited them over to meet Daniel. “This ’ere be Roy and Mick. They were with me a while back on a schooner when we worked the shoreline hereabouts.”
Obviously ex-sailors, they were both slight of build and shorter than Daniel. Weather-beaten, bronzed faces scrutinised the newcomer as they offered hands calloused from ropes and rigging in welcome.
The men sat around the barrel talking about New Zealand in general: the weather, who was doing what work, who the bosses were, and explaining the differences from England. Having no running water or gas lighting and using whale oil to light the streetlamps surprised Daniel.
Joe paused to take a swig of ale. “Whaling’s a growing trade round here. Hard men, those whalers. Don’t get mixed up with ’em,” he advised. “And be careful, whatever you do. The British are tough on justice, and you’ll find yourself in the gaolhouse – or worse, flogged – before you know it.”
Daniel asked about the various ladies of the town he’d seen emerging in the gathering dark and was answered with laughter and backslapping.
“Hold yourself, boyo, if you can. Most of them are rotten,” Roy informed him. “There’s a decent house up the hill further, if you’ve a mind. It’s only just started up again after the big fire back in February. The place was burnt to the ground. Like Joe said, there ain’t no water pipes an’ such around here yet. What a sight. Everyone rushed to help, mostly to see the ladies and their customers scurrying about in various states of undress. Quite a laugh it was to see them. The flabby white flesh of the notables of this town wobbled something awful as they ran from the building, attempting to put their trousers on as they bolted. I’d’ve loved to be a fly on the wall when they got back to their wives.” Roy roared with laughter.
“Yeah,” said Mick, “but then it got serious. The fire were big an’ spread to the posh building next to it. Lines of men started bucketing water back and forth, but it didn’t make no difference. The noise was deafening, starting with a crackle and building to a huge whooshing sound. It were that hot you could feel yer skin sizzling yards away. Everyone were sweating and cursing, but once the fire got hold, there weren’t nothin’ they could do.”
More ale was bought and soon the conversation turned to the war with the Maori.
“I met the recruitment fellas at the end of the wharf, so I’ve signed up already. There seems to be more troops, military colours and people carrying arms than I expected. There’s a lot of ships at anchor in the bay,” said Daniel.
“Yeah, bloody thousands, mate. They’re pouring in from everywhere. More’s the pity. No offence, mate. Most of them are British soldiers, but some are settlers, come up from the south – Otago – or else soldiers from Australia. Many of the boats are used to transport the men and munitions up the Waikato River to be closer to the action.”
“You read?” asked Mick.
Daniel nodded.
“Then here, read this. This is what you signed up for.”
Mick passed Daniel the folded-up newspaper from his back pocket – the first edition of The New Zealand Herald, dated 13th November 1863.
‘War Escalating’ was the headline. ‘Sign up now. Every able-bodied man needed for local guard duty, building redoubts and new roads or escorting provision and munitions carts along the newly built Great South Road as far as the Maori village of Pokeno’ exhorted the editor. ‘The first telegraph link to the Waikato region has been established so communications have improved’ said the article.
“Don’t worry about that fer tonight,” said Joe. “Let’s enjoy ourselves. We’ll get organised tomorrow.” Joe rose to order more ale and food as a group of men in rough farm clothes, carrying arms, entered the smoky room.
Daniel turned to Roy. “Who are they?”
“Volunteers by the looks of them. Waiuku I’d say, by the badge. The rifle brigades help keep them Maori blokes off their land.”
“So they’re fighting over land?” said Daniel.
Roy shrugged. “What else do men fight about?”
“Maoris reckon we stole it,” Mick said. “But we reckon we bought it fair and square. Who’s to say who’s right?”
Joe returned with the food and drinks. The sky darkened to deepest night; more ale was drunk and the conversation was lively.
Sometime later, with a slur in his voice, Joe said, “Need to pop up ... livery. Make sure they knows I’m back.”
“I’ll come with you,” offered Daniel.
“No, boy, you set right ’ere ... I’ll check the horses are ready for tomorrow ... get us a room. You can share wi’ me, boy ... can’t sleep in the street round ’ere. Not safe. I’m heading south tomorrow. You can ride with me for a ways if you like.”
“Thanks. I’d like that.” Daniel nodded.
Joe staggered across the room, bumping into one of the volunteers, spilling his drink.
The man turned on Joe, pushing him hard against the wall. “Get outta here, ya drunken ol’ sot.”
Taken aback by the unexpected attack, Joe grabbed at the man’s sleeve for balance. Mistaking the gesture, the man drew his arm back to throw a hefty punch. Daniel, already on his feet, put an iron grip on the man’s arm, stopping it mid-swing.
“There’s no need for that.” Daniel’s voice was quiet but brooked no argument. “It were an accident. Leave him alone. He’s twice y
our age. Pick on someone who can fight back.”
“What’s it to do with you, boy?” the volunteer sneered.
“He’s my friend. That’s what.”
Without warning, the man took a swing at Daniel, who ducked and struck back. He caught the side of the man’s jaw a cracking blow. The stranger staggered against the bar before lunging again for Daniel. They both fell, crashing against the nearest table, knocking it over.
The room was soon in an uproar. Stools and barrels were overturned, ale was spilt and curses and shouts turned a peaceful evening into a raucous free-for-all. Wild punches were thrown at the nearest man for no apparent reason.
Daniel was no fighting man, but he had learnt a few tricks to stay out of trouble. He managed to regain his feet and, with a lot of ducking and diving and an uppercut or two, avoided being hurt. Before the place could be destroyed any further the publican clanged a large bell. The noise was deafeningly loud in the small space, and everyone came to an abrupt standstill, fists still raised, before shoulders shrugged jackets back into place and barrels were righted.
A solid-built older man grabbed Daniel’s attacker by the collar. “That’s enough, Arnie,” he snapped.
“I’ll get you for that one day,” Arnie growled at Daniel, as he massaged his jaw.
“Leave it,” ordered the older man, extending his hand to Daniel. “George is the name, George Taylor. I’m the leader of this group of ratbags – officially the Waiuku Rifle Volunteers. Taking on someone like Arnie after a few drinks is brave, if rather foolish.”
Daniel accepted the extended hand. “Name’s Daniel. Daniel Adin.”
“Well, young Daniel. Welcome to New Zealand. Where did you learn to fight?”
“I was with the 12th (Prince of Wales’s) Royal Lancers in England.”
“Is that a fact? Where were you based?” George asked, interested in his answer.
“Aldershot.”
“I know it. What’s yer plans?”
“Just arrived today. Signed up for the volunteers, so they tell me.”
George looked at Daniel. “Well, I could use someone prepared to stand up for their mates. I’ll talk to someone to get you assigned to No. 1 Company with me, if you like.”
“Thanks. Sounds swell to me.”
Joe was sitting with Roy and Mick against the far wall, watching the exchange. They had hauled him from the fracas and planted him on one of the righted stools to wait it out.
Daniel walked over to them. “Let’s go, Joe.” He picked up his kit bag, pulled on his cap, nodded to Roy and Mick and headed for the door.
* * *
Only days later, George changed from the friendly mate in the pub to Captain Taylor of No. 1 Company. Reports that not many had responded to the general conscription in force had increased efforts to make sure every fit and able man was rounded up and drafted into a militia of some sort. The new recruits stood to attention without a flicker of emotion or making any attempt to speak.
Standing square in front of the parade, the captain left them in no doubt as to who was in charge. “Now listen here, men. Just so we are all clear, I don’t tolerate whingers. We’re all in this together. There’s no room for slackers and moaners. Just get on with it and we’ll all be better off. I don’t tolerate sloppy behaviour. Any lapse of discipline will be punished. Mark my words. Volunteers you might be, but you are soldiers now. And shape you into soldiers, I will.
“But first, let me tell you what you are fighting for. When the British Government representatives and the first settlers arrived here back in the 1840s the natives had been quite happy to sell or trade their land to the Crown and settlers. But things started going wrong. There were disputes over ownership. To settle these disagreements they signed a treaty some twenty or more years ago. It was meant to unite the people under one flag, as one nation. The problem,” he thundered, pacing up and down in front of the assembled men, “is the Maoris don’t see themselves as one people. There are too many tribes and too many chiefs. They often disagree with each other. The tribe owns the land, not individuals. Some chiefs chose to work with the Crown and the settlers; others remained rebels and skulked in the bush, attacking innocents and militia alike. This war brewing in the Waikato is because the Tainui and Waikato tribes don’t want us pakeha on any land south of the Mangatawhiri River. They control millions of acres and use but a fraction of it. We offered to buy it. They refused. It’s now your job to stop those cocky natives. Show them who’s boss around here and who’s gonna own the land from now on.”
His speech was motivating. Everyone cheered. Caps were thrown into the air followed by random voices shouting out.
“Too right, mate.”
“This country is British now.”
“We’ll show ’em.”
“Lead the way,” said Daniel, caught up in the fervour, reconciling his doubts and settling his future as a soldier.
“Silence!” bellowed Captain Taylor, bringing everyone back into line. “Discipline at all times is what I expect. Never do that again, do you understand?” he roared.
Rifles and ammunition were handed out to the now chastised and silent men. Training began. Being back in uniform and training for war was a good start to his new life, but for Daniel the days soon became routine. The new recruits did rifle drill three or four times a day – from secure position to shouldering, loading, firing and back again and repeated time and again until they were perfectly coordinated. The sergeants were loud, mean and unforgiving. Lack of attention could bring the direst of consequences. They had been warned.
“What do you call that?” yelled a sergeant, after one man dropped his rifle. “Looks more like a bunch of kids than a military unit to me.”
“Let me tell you now,” yelled another, “look out if I find anything not spick and span. I want them buckles and buttons polished, saddles well oiled – with saddle soap, mind – and brassware cleaned, every single day without fail. Water bottles filled, blankets rolled and oilskins packed, with every single item in the right place, or you’ll find yourself on latrine duty faster than you can say Jack Robinson.”
Daniel had heard it all before. This attention to detail was supposed to mould the men into a tightly disciplined fighting machine, able to obey instantly and instinctively even amidst the chaos of combat. In the confusion and fear of the battlefield, inattention could mean the difference between winning and losing a battle – between life and death. He wasn’t sure he believed them. He’d once been told that in the heat of battle, and after weeks on the trail, cleanliness and tidiness were not the order of the day. Survival was.
They had a gruelling time. Called from their beds at three or four o’clock in the morning to do pack drill, carrying heavy loads until breakfast time. Marching back and forth in formation or double time into battle formation, regardless of the weather, became part of the daily routine. Daniel hated bayonet drill the most, knowing he could never kill someone that way. Hardest of all was cannon drill with the Armstrong six- or twelve-pounder, carrying all the pieces from one place to another and back again. He found it exhausting. While it was similar to the training he had at Aldershot, this was real training for a real war.
He had never been in battle before. His blood raced as the idea took hold. Am I excited or frightened?
Amongst all this training was real work: wood patrol – collecting and chopping wood suitable for the cooking fires – or kitchen or latrine duty. No one was exempt. Daniel found sentry duty at night lonely, cold and nerve-wracking. Every sound was foreign to his ears. He wasn’t used to the sounds of the New Zealand bush and felt out of place.
When they weren’t training, they were either out on patrol or put to the back-breaking toil of digging trenches for the many redoubts the army was building as defence. Daniel was happiest when on horseback. He much preferred to feel the strength and warmth of the animal between his knees and didn’t object to patrol. But the best times were the evenings around the campfire, listening to tales fro
m the more experienced soldiers about the skirmishes they had been in. Daniel could see these stories served to raise fervour amongst the rest of the company.
A month passed: a good month of hard work, making new friends and drinking. What more could he ask for? But the time came when he was formally called up to register with a militia force. In mid-December of 1863, he was appointed to No. 10 Company, 3rd Waikato Militia, Regimental Number 1298, under Lieutenant Colonel William Charles Lyon.
Chapter Six
Waikato, New Zealand
February to April 1864
Late one warm February night, close to a thousand men fell in as the advance guard. Not a bugle sounded, not a voice was heard above a whisper. Total silence was the order of the day. Even the swords and bridle chains of the cavalry were muffled with cloth. Daniel’s nerves were on edge. The dark shadows and soughing of the surrounding bush sounded eerie and menacing to his untrained senses.
A surprise expedition had been planned to block the Maori’s food source. From his vantage point, Daniel could see the imposing figure of Captain Von Tempsky at the head, recognisable by his trademark pointed beard, hair in tight ringlets and the bright orange bandanna tied around his neck. The No. 2 Company of the Forest Rangers would lead the troops out with about one hundred men of the 65th Regiment, and the 3rd Waikato Militia, Daniel included. The cavalry and mounted artillery would follow.
Behind him Daniel could see the main infantry body with No. 1 Company of the Forest Rangers forming the rearguard. The rest of the troops were to follow in the daytime with the baggage and supplies, leaving a sufficient garrison behind.
Daniel couldn’t make up his mind whether he preferred to be in the advance party or bringing the equipment they would need the next day. The orderlies, from what he could see, had an easier life, except for being at the beck and call of some jumped-up officer who didn’t know what he was doing. This time, two half-caste guides attached to headquarters, who used to live in Rangiaowhia, the attack site, had mapped out the lie of the land. At least they knew what they would find. Confidence was high.