But Hammerhead Jack refutes this. Hone Heke, he says, had come to the conclusion that the Treaty of Waitangi was most treacherous to the Maori people, for it was an attempt by the settlers to steal their land.
From our conversations with the Maori on board, we have learned of some of their beliefs. Paramount among these, as far as we can understand, is that by swearing allegiance to Queen Victoria and signing the Treaty of Waitangi, the Maori believed unequivocally that they had transferred merely the ‘shadow of the land’ to the British monarch, and that the substance remained their own.
‘We cannot sell the land to the European, for it is not ours to sell,’ explains Hammerhead Jack. ‘One man, one chief, does not own the land. The land is owned by the Maori people and they would all have to come to one voice and one opinion if they were to give up forever their land.’
Hammerhead Jack waves his lone paw and makes a point too obvious to contest. ‘Why would my people sell what is their mana, their spirit, their life force? Papatuanuku is our earth mother and we her children. Who would sell their mother? Land,’ he explains, ‘may only be gained by one tribe from another through war. Then it may be used by the victors, but it is still owned by the Maori. It keeps our mana, which is the same for all the tribes. The pakeha who wish to use the land may purchase its shadow, if the Maori tribe who control it agree. But though he may enjoy it and grow his crops upon it or graze his sheep over it, he may never own it! The substance must always belong to the Maori people, only the shadow of the land may be sold to the pakeha.’
It is a difficult concept for us who are not Maori, but it is Ikey again who helps me to comprehend the idea. For Ikey believed that property was also ‘one of life’s little essentials’. When telling me of the marvels of London, he would always explain how the English nobility are able to retain their fortunes and protect themselves against loss, even though they might spawn children who are drunkards and wastrels. The gentry build great terrace houses in the most salubrious parts of the city which may be leased for a period of a hundred years. If the purchaser of the lease wishes to vacate after only a few years he may re-sell what remains of the hundred-year period to another lessee, who may do the same again until the hundred years are up. Then the property reverts to the descendants of the nobleman who built it. They will then put it up for lease for another hundred years and, in this way, the aristocracy of England never lose the property they own, even if their sons prove profligate in the extreme and squander their inheritances.
I think upon this and decide that it is not so very different from the Maori selling the shadow of the land but retaining its substance. The British themselves have created a precedent and it would seem to me that those who own most of the land in Britain have their own kind of mana. They see themselves as the guardians of the spirit of their land, always maintaining the substance while leasing the shadow to any newcomer.
The great chief, Hone Heke, came to the conclusion that the mana of his land, its spirit and nourishment, had been stolen by Queen Victoria. The Maori people had become her slaves, for only the shadow has been given to them and the substance taken by the Europeans. Already twenty million acres of land have been purchased by the whites, who see this land as belonging to them for eternity. They see no cause for future redress to the Maori people, and what they have claimed, they will defend, if necessary, at the cost of Maori lives.
I am deeply saddened by this knowledge. If, as I have come to think, a good man must have a conscience, then the New Zealand Maori is much cheated by the rapacious white, who has shown no conscience whatsoever in his dealings with the land’s original owners. Who amongst us is a good man, then?
As always, the church, which claims to be the custodian of the conscience of man through the salvation of Christ Jesus, is foremost among the greedy. It claims a large portion of the twenty million acres, some of which has been purchased at a cost of ten pounds for each four hundred acres, but most of which has been obtained for a few trinkets.
From the beginning, when in 1814 the Reverend Samuel Marsden, notorious chaplain of New South Wales, was instructed to establish the first missionary settlement in the Bay of Islands, Christ has become the major property owner in New Zealand. Jesus is now Hammerhead Jack’s landlord.
There is no admission from the pulpit that the church owns only the shadow of the land. Instead these holy men give twice-on-Sunday praise to God that He has bequeathed them in perpetuity this new Land of Milk and Honey, this second Canaan, this green and pleasant paradise upon the earth.
It was this which caused Hone Heke to become disenchanted with the British since the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi. Queen Victoria, in return for dominion over Hona Heke’s people, promised so much, but instead her rule has brought the Maori guns with which to kill each other in ever increasing numbers, disease, drunkenness, and a dependence on the white man amounting to virtual slavery. This is the real substance of her promises, so that the Maori are but a shadow of the mighty people they once were.
This is the New Zealand to which Hammerhead Jack returns, without one arm and one eye. A young whaleman who has been thus used by the white man is coming home for more of the same.
Since Hone Heke’s vengeance destroyed the town, Kororareka has grown back in a most higgledy-piggledy manner and shows no promise of improving. The buildings, but for a very few, are rickety tin and timber affairs, with no sense of permanence about them. We are not anchored in the bay more than twelve hours before we learn that there is much foment among the Maori people. The great chiefs are once again on the warpath.
Our friendship with Hammerhead Jack is cut short when Captain O’Hara dismisses him from his service. It is a sad moment for Tommo and me. We have both grown most fond of the giant Maori, whose arm stump is not yet completely healed but which, he assures me, will soon enough be cured with the good medicine of his tribe.
Our friend will take with him only his few belongings, and a paper given him by O’Hara which shows how his lay has been fully and ‘legally’ used up with the provision of goods from the ship. Of course, there is no mention that these goods were, in every case, medicine to which he was freely entitled. The Maori is made to place his mark upon a duplicate and this is witnessed by Tom Stubbs. He will be rowed ashore on the morning tide.
I carefully explain to Hammerhead Jack in his own language that what has been done to him is unlawful and that he should complain to the colonial authorities, who may impound the ship while his case is heard.
But he scorns this. ‘I am of the Ngati Haua. We do not go snivelling to the British! Their laws have robbed us of our mana and turned my people into drunkards.’ He gives a bitter laugh. ‘Look at me, Ork. Why should they take the word of a one-armed, half-blind Maori against the white captain of a whaling ship, who professes himself a Christian like Queen Victoria?’
I have long since known that Hammerhead Jack is not an ignorant savage and that he understands much more of the English language than he would admit to. I have also come to respect his understanding of the Maori situation with the pakeha intruder. He has often been surprisingly even-handed, admitting that much of what has happened to the Maori since the white man came is due to the wars they have waged amongst themselves, albeit with the use of the white man’s gun.
‘Our people must stand together against the white man or we are lost,’ he has said often enough.
But I cannot convince him to pursue his case against O’Hara.
‘If I complain against this madman O’Hara, then I am again a member of the British tribe.’ Hammerhead Jack turns aside and spits his disgust. ‘Accepting their justice and their ways in the past have not been good for my people. Why should I trust them to give me justice now?’
I search for words in my disbelief. ‘You mean you will simply let this man go free, having beaten you and then robbed and cheated you?’
Hammerhead Jack throws back his head and laughs. ‘With your new voice, will you complain for me, Ork?’
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‘Yes! Yes! I will go with you!’ I insist. For a moment I feel almost confident that the law will prevail against the Yankee whaling captain.
‘Don’t be such a bloody stupid bastard, Hawk!’ Tommo interrupts. ‘It’s bad enough a Maori complaining. What hope has a nigger got?’
I am at first hurt by my twin’s outburst, but then I see the point and smile. ‘You could do it, Tommo,’ I reply, feeling brave. ‘I will prepare an affidavit and tell you what to say. There would be no problems with the colour of your eyes and skin!’
‘Me?’ Tommo says, shocked. ‘I trust them buggers less than Hammerhead Jack does! You can stuff yer affydavy up yer bum!’
Then, to my surprise, Hammerhead Jack, who gives no sign that he is listening, speaks to us in English. ‘We do Maori way, Ork,’ he says quietly.
The following morning with the six o’clock tide, Hammerhead Jack is lowered into a whaleboat carrying only a small canvas bag with his belongings. He waves his single arm at me as I stand much saddened by his departure. ‘Ork good!’ he shouts, then throws his head back and laughs. His laughter carries across the water and I am forced to laugh too.
‘He be a good man,’ Tommo says softly beside me. ‘I hope we meets again.’
We are permitted to go ashore that afternoon. The whole crew has been granted shore leave, with the exception of the three remaining Maori, who are placed on watch by Captain O’Hara, under the supervision of Seb Rawlings. The skipper has refused them leave to go with Hammerhead Jack, though it is plain they wish to follow him. He says they must see out the voyage and guards them closely. O’Hara and the two other mates are also to go ashore, and a whaleboat will be beached for any who wish to return on board fifteen minutes before the midnight hour.
From the first of the morning light, Tommo has been anxious to go ashore. My heart is filled with trepidation that he will not be able to resist the first grog shop we come upon. There is nothing to do in this whaling town but drink and fornicate, and we have been told by the Maori that the pox is rampant among the wahine who frequent the grog dens, gin shops and brothels. ‘You must not take these women!’ Hammerhead Jack warns us. I am much afeared that Tommo will not be able to resist the temptation of hard liquor and so I conceal from him that I have money, hoping meanwhile that he has spent what coin he has won on medicine for our backs.
But, of course, I am deluding myself. The lack of money never vexes Tommo. He is a prime example of the value of Ikey’s ‘little essentials’. With a deck of cards and a space at the table Tommo can have cash in his hands in a matter of moments. Even if no card game is to be found, he will win the drink he needs by demonstrating his sleight of hand to the wonderment of all who watch. He can pluck a card from behind a whaleman’s ear. He can make him shake the sleeve of his coat to watch the ace of spades he has nominated just a moment before fall from beyond the cuffs. He can even pluck one from the bosom of a doxy.
But Tommo surprises me when we come ashore. We visit many a grog shop and all five hotels and even a brothel, where we pass the time until the madam sees we are not customers and throws us out. Tommo asks me to buy two packs of cards, as he says his old ones are too well worn to be used on board and the others think he cheats by knowing every crease upon them. He picks two packs, one red and the other blue, both made by DeLarue & Sons, and asks me to hold them for him until we return to ship. And then it is onwards again. We enjoy the music and, at one hotel, the singing of six wahines who render love songs in a harmony to break any sailor’s heart.
Tommo will not tarry long at any place but wants to see every hell-hole, grog den, gin palace, rum shop and hotel in this poxy whaling settlement. Card games are everywhere to be found. Men are going furiously at them in the one-shilling hells where they beckon him over and invite him to play. But Tommo shakes his head and grins. ‘Too easy to take yer coin, lads!’ It is as grand an exhibition of abstinence as ever I’ve seen and I am truly proud of Tommo.
In the course of the evening we meet every whaleman who has come ashore from the Nankin Maiden. At a hotel which is more salubrious, though only by comparison with the others, Captain O’Hara is to be seen seated in a private room leading from the main saloon. He is interviewing seamen to find a replacement for the late and unlamented Crawlin Nestbyte.
Several men sit on chairs outside this room with their knees held tightly together and their caps on their laps, in the manner of men anxious to make a good impression. They are a seedy looking lot, with raw faces and complexions which suggest that the rum bottle is a frequent gargle against the debilitating effects of inclement weather. O’Hara will be hard put to find a Christian gentleman among this scurvy assortment!
Tommo moves ever onwards from one hell-hole to another, but never a glass of spirits touches his lips nor a deck of cards his hands. His blue eyes dart everywhere and it is as though he is drinking in the sights and sounds he has missed for so long, that they are grog enough for him.
I am so proud of him, for he has been true to his word. I am already envisaging our happy return to Hobart Town and to our dear Mary, whose forgiveness I have begged for in a long letter telling of our adventures. This I posted as soon as we came ashore.
I am hard put to keep up with Tommo, for I am like a lumbering carthorse and he like a yearling with spirit. My back is not yet completely healed and hurts where my blouse sticks to it in the evening heat. After nine hours ashore I am anxious to return to the ship. I have not told Tommo that we have the means to pay for a doss house and a morning meal, eking out small coins for the ginger beer and sarsaparilla we are drinking. I fear he will have us up the whole night, visiting every nefarious establishment in town, though I believe we must nearly have done so already.
At last Tommo agrees to return to the ship. Before the midnight hour, we are back in the fo’c’sle, sober as two judges, with only the cockroaches and the snoring drunks who have made it back aboard to keep us company. Tommo has bought a bag of boiled sweets for the three Maori who have been forced to take the watch. He goes to give them their sweets. I can scarcely summon the energy I need to climb in to my bunk and am asleep on my stomach before the first cockroach climbs up my leg.
The following morning Tommo and I are summoned to Seb Rawlings’ quarters and asked if we know the whereabouts of the three Maori. The watch, he says, has reported us as coming on board just before midnight, and being unusually sober as well.
He points to Tommo. ‘You were observed talking to the three kanakas not much later.’
Tommo does not deny this, explaining about the bag of sweets, and I am quick to support him in this matter.
‘I were back in the fo’c’sle not ten minutes past the hour, Mr Rawlings,’ Tommo says.
‘That is right,’ I volunteer, though I have no way of knowing whether it is true.
‘Besides your brother, who else saw you?’ Rawlings asks Tommo.
Tommo shrugs. ‘All who was aboard and not on watch were drunk and snoring in the fo’c’sle, Mr Rawlings. Only the night watch what saw us return in the whaleboat and the three kanakas would know we was aboard.’ He shrugs again, ‘As you already knows, Mr Rawlings, sir.’
Rawlings scratches his forehead with the tips of his fingers as though to smooth out the frown etched upon it. On a whaling ship there is not much that the crew do not know about the mates. It is known that the skipper remained ashore overnight and will spend tonight ashore as well. So too will Stubbs and Hollowtree. They have done Rawlings’ duty watches while he was consumed with the fever and now, in return, he will remain on board and take their duties as well.
Rawlings is silent for some time. Then he says musingly, ‘We have searched the ship, there is no whaleboat missing. They could only have escaped by monkeying down the anchor chain and swimming ashore!’ He points to the town bathed in the early morning sun. ‘It is a good two cables to the shore and this bay is well known for its sharks.’
It is not clear whether he says this in admiration or whether he
thinks the Maori have likely been drowned or eaten for their trouble. At any rate, the three Maori lads have seemingly escaped the ship, and Seb Rawlings isn’t happy. He has lost what remains of his whaleboat crew with only me, the new chum, remaining. Worst of all, he must explain this to O’Hara when he returns on board tomorrow morning.
‘You two will be on watch today, and tonight you will be manacled to your bunks!’ he barks.
‘But why?’ I ask. ‘We have done naught!’
‘You returned to the ship sober last night!’ he retorts.
‘Aye?’ I say, my voice questioning.
‘Six months at sea and you go ashore and return on board sober? I know you not to be religious. Do you take me for a fool, boy?’
‘We are Temperance Union, Mr Rawlings, sir,’ I attempt.
‘Ha! You lie!’ He points to Tommo but he is still looking at me. ‘Your brother is a gambler and I have heard tell of how, when we were in Hobart Town, you were seen dragging him aboard from out of a notorious grog shop!’
‘We were seen on shore last night by most of the crew, sir. They will vouch for us,’ Tommo says.
‘Christ Jesus!’ Rawlings exclaims. ‘No whaleman who ever lived returns from shore leave with a dry throat after six months at sea! They come back with sore heads and empty pockets, to a man!’ He paces the tiny cabin and then turns abruptly. ‘I shall know what you two have been up to, or I shall ask Captain O’Hara to strap you to the mizzen stays!’
Tommo meanwhile has his head bowed, but now he looks up slowly to meet the mate’s angry eyes. ‘We thought you was your own man, Mr Rawlings, but now we see that you is no different from the others.’
‘Shut your gob, boy!’ Rawlings shouts. ‘You two were friends of the kanakas. I’ll vouch you are all in this together!’
But Tommo, to my surprise, will not be quiet and now baits Rawlings still further. ‘Oh, I see, guilty again is we? What will the Lord Jesus decide our punishment be this time, Mr Rawlings, sir?’
Tommo and Hawk Page 14