The 57th Regiment of Foot: The Die Hards
The history of this British Regiment is explained well in the 1866 article below. The Die Hard name came from an incident in the Battle of Albuera when the colonel of the regiment lay dying, and called to his men, “Die hard, the 57th, Die Hard.” The term has become separated from its origins over the years and is now mostly associated with the Bruce Willis movies. The regiment spent almost a decade in New Zealand during the Land Wars of the 1860s. Note that the Land Wars were, at the time, called the Maori Wars and have now been renamed the New Zealand Wars. I have chosen to use the term Land Wars as it is more descriptive and was used at the time as well as currently.
HER MAJESTY’S 57th REGIMENT.
The head-quarters of this fine old regiment having left us, we are now at liberty to say a word regarding the only regiment in the service that can lay claim to having been, during their long and active period of service, amphibious, pedestrian, equestrian, and pedestrian again. In the 17th century the regiment was raised and served as marines, and in that amphibious capacity performed good service to their country. They were subsequently transferred to ‘the line, forming the 57th Regular Regiment. During the Peninsula war, at the battle of Albuera, whilst commanded by the late Sir William Inglis, they obtained the soubriquet of “Die-hards.” They carry on their colours the following distinction: “Albuera,” “Vittoria,” “Pyrenees,” “Nivelle;” “Nive,” “Peninsula,” “Inkerman,“’ and Sebastopol.
After their return from the Crimea, reduced to the mere skeleton of a regiment by hard fighting and hard service, they had hardly been recruited and put once more in fighting order when news reached England of the Indian mutiny. The “Die-hards” were immediately ordered to embark for India by the overland route, and on their arrival in Egypt were mounted to cross the desert, and thus for the nonce became a horse-regiment.
On the suppression of the Indian mutiny the regiment was ordered from India to New Zealand, and they arrived here at the commencement «f the war in 1860. Had Colonel Warre, C.B., of that regiment, wielded the power unfortunately placed in the hands of General Cameron, he would have made short and hard work of it, and saved to this colony and the mother country many precious lives, and a large and worse than useless expenditure of public money. Whether under General Cameron, General Chute, or their own commanders, the old “Die Hards,” whenever they had an opportunity, showed what British soldiers could do amongst the Maori race if fairly let loose on them.
During General Chute’s short campaign, the “Die-hards,” with the 2nd Battalion 14th Regiment and 18th Royal Irish, proved that they could send out a few men from each regiment who, with a few of our colonial forces, could sweep every pa from north to south of this island, caring but little how many Maoris defended it. Well may the British soldier be proud, as he always is, of being led by a brave commander. There are yet about 180 men of the 57th amongst us awaiting a steamer to convey them to join their headquarters in Auckland. We believe the regiment will leave for England in July or August next and whenever they do, the old “Die-hards” will carry with them the best thanks and wishes of the people of New Zealand.
Wanganui Times, April 27, 1866.
The Hauhau
The Hauhau (pronounced how how), also called Pai Marire, was a Christian-based religious movement that arose in provincial Taranaki in the 1860s during the Land Wars (including the two Taranaki wars between 1861-1867) and gave rise to a warrior-prophet named Titokowera. The term Hauhau was used rather loosely by New Zealanders at the time, and that has changed. Now the term Pai Marire is commonly used and is understood as referring to a peaceful group; they did indeed become peaceful in the 1870s and practiced passive resistance. However, at that time the name Hauhau still brought fear to the hearts of the settlers.
In 1868 a Hauhau/Pai Marire follower named Te Kooti massacred fifty-six settlers in Poverty Bay and he is now seen in New Zealand as having had a good reason to do so. The government officially pardoned him in 1883, during his own lifetime, after spending several years pursuing him in a mountainous region of the North Island called the Urewas.
New Zealand had fortified frontiers well into the 1870s, and there was a Front as late as 1881. But by the early eighties the Maori people had embraced pacifism. The final indignity for the Maori people came in 1881 when the Armed Constabulary and a volunteer force attacked and leveled a peaceful village in Parihaka, Taranaki.
British and Other Troops in New Zealand
Several British regiments spent time in New Zealand. Colonial Troops were also formed, as well as the Armed Constabulary who were a national police force similar to the RCMP (Mounties) in Canada. British soldiers who stayed in New Zealand when the army left often joined these bodies. Settlers usually joined local volunteer groups.
Many Maoris fought with the Colonial or British troops and these were called Kupapa, meaning that they were loyal to the Crown. Frequently Maoris would end up fighting beside Colonial troops against other Maoris and the Kupapa troops were given a red cap to distinguish them from the non-loyal Maoris. I did not make use of this fact as Army Intelligence in the British Army were also distinguished by a red cap. For the Maori, loyalty meant keeping their own land and often came with a threat attached.
Next Books in the Series
Here are excerpts from the next two books in the Sergeant Frank Hardy Series:
Recalled to Life
He edged around the cell, feeling the wall from top to bottom, looking for some kind of weakness. It was damp in places, but the dirt was hard, and propped up by heavy totara beams embedded in the soil.
He’d been kidnapped, obviously. But why, and by whom? When had it happened? He could remember being at sea on the steamer from Foxton to Wellington. Had he returned from Wellington? Yes, because he remembered boarding the steamer, the SS Stormbird, with Pieter’s dreadful sister Agnete and her two pasty-faced children. She’d boarded with a large steamer trunk of clothing, wearing a crinoline that barely fit through the doorway of the cabin she’d insisted on taking on the saloon deck. She already saw herself as one of the Royal Princesses: Vicky or Louise. He’d badly wanted to tell her that her tiny inheritance was not going to elevate her to the crème de la crème of society, even if Palmerston had anything that could be described as society, which – thankfully – it did not. That was one good thing he could say about the town.
God. Agnete Madsen. He already had his doubts about the family he was marrying into and now Agnete was going to be added to the mix. He’d been thinking that he and Mette should move to Napier, or Auckland – or even the South Island. As far away as possible. He’d heard Christchurch was a growing metropolis, and very English.
His exploration of the wall yielded nothing. He sat on the floor, leaned against the wall, and thought. What had happened in Wellington? Anything unusual? He’d booked into the South Sea Hotel on Lambton Quay, after reading in the Evening Post that it had a splendid billiard table, thinking he might need to entertain himself for a few nights while he searched for Agnete Madsen. But as it happened he’d found her quickly. Wellington was small, despite the fact it had been the capital of the colony for over ten years – under 20,000 people.
He’d started by asking at the hotel for an Englishman named Williams who kept semi-respectable women in his home who were not married to him or related to him; one suggestion led to another, and by the second day he’d tracked her down. She was living in a rundown tin-roofed boarding house built of wooden planks, on Oriental Parade, not far from the Te Aro Swimming Baths. She’d been surprisingly pleased to see him and when she heard she was about to inherit some money was ready to fetch her valise and leave right away for Palmerston. He’d had to remind her that she had children. Obviously, Mr. Williams had not been as generous as she’d hoped.
He closed his eyes and dozed, waking with a start to the sound of a trapdoor opening. He staggered to his feet.
“Hey there, you, who are you? What am I doing here
?”
A rope sling holding a basket of food wrapped in leaves was lowered down to him. He grabbed the basket and the sling was pulled up and out of view. He strained to look up, but could see no one, and no one spoke to him.
“What the hell is going on. Why am I here?”
A bucket on a hook dropped down, empty, and hung there. He stared at it for a minute, then understood its purpose. Slops. He grabbed the used bucket from the corner and switched it with the new one, watching as the old one disappeared slowly into the darkness, not seeing anything.
He opened the basket of food. At least whoever had him didn’t intend to let him die here. The basket contained the most basic of food for survival – potatoes and kumara, the sweet New Zealand potato – and a bottle of water with a glass stopper. Famished, he ate quickly, and spent the next few hours with his guts roiling, regretting his haste. He hoped that wasn’t to be his food for the day. When he was in the Armed Constabulary back in ’68 and ’69 he’d gotten by on less, at times nothing, but he’d become soft, used to eating three meals a day.
Daylight came and the sun rose and bore down on him through the branches. It was spring and the strength of the sunlight was weak, but in his hole in the ground he began to get warm; the woody scent of totara and pines wafting through the bars added to the miasma. He thought he could also detect the faint smell of blood, a smell he associated with a slaughter house – or with beatings, of the kind he’d seen so often in the army.
Dead Shot: Coming Fall 2018
From in front of Jordan’s saddlery, Frank Hardy had watched his wife walking around the Square as he spoke to Mr. Jordan. It was something he never tired of, watching his wife walk. A tall slender woman with an upright, somewhat awkward gait, she had gained confidence in the last two years in a way that had surprised him. She had been young when they married. Was still young. But now she had the look of a married woman. Back when they met she had worn her hair in braids, wrapped around her head, and most often covered by a bonnet. Now she kept it neat in one long braid, uncovered, which for some reason, although it looked like a school girl, made her look more mature.
“What do you think of the filly?” asked Mr. Jordan.
Frank turned, frowning, then realized Jordan was talking about a horse.
“The filly?”
The one Mr. Snelson bought up in Patea,” said Jordan. “Have you seen it? A one year old out of Dead Shot.”
“Most have cost him a few quid,” said Frank. “Dead Shot is one of the best sires in the North Island.”
Jordan named a price, and Frank grimaced. “I’d like a filly from Dead Shot,” he said. “But not at that price.”
“If you have a good brood mare you could take her up to Waitotara, and meet the breeder there” said Jordan. “Stud fee is five pounds. You could afford that, couldn’t you? I heard the government is paying you well for drilling the volunteers…”
Frank wasn’t sure if the fee he received for training meant he was well paid. But he could probably swing a fiver on a stud fee with his mare Dolores. She fell pretty reliably. “I’ll think about it,” he said.
He could see several of the participants from the weekly drilling still wandering around the Square, looking totally unprepared for a lolly scramble, let alone a scrimmage against trained resisters, like the ones up at the Front in Parihaka. Round-shouldered and pot bellied, the lot of them. And some with knock-knees that made their legs look like triangles in an orchestra. Never get taken on by the British army. He would line them up, heels on a line he drew in the dirt, feet out at exactly the same distance, not quite right-angled, bodies erect on the hips leaning forward slightly, and the next thing they would square up their shoulders and stick out their bellies, making it impossible to hold their weapons.
“Eyes, front. Forward, march,” drawing out the forward and hitting march loudly, as the drill manual recommended. They would step out, and be instantly out of step. He had resorted to bringing cut sticks, exactly eighteen inches long, to enforce the length of the stride, and had made them walk one at a time along a line of the sticks as he walked beside each one yelling loudly. “Hup two three four…”
“Mr. Snelson — Captain Snelson — told me they’re going to start training the volunteers for rifle shooting,” said Jordan.
“Well count me out on that,” said Frank. “Hard enough to get them to march. Did you see me trying to get them to wheel in formation this morning? Enough to make a man cry in his beer.”
“I think he has you in mind for the training,” said Jordan. “Weren’t you a dead shot, back in the war?”
Frank nodded. “I still am,” he said. “All the more reason for me not to train the volunteers.”
He looked back at the Square again, searching for Mette, and saw her come out of the book shop. From fifty yards away he could tell she was in a state of high excitement. So much so that she almost tripped over Hohepa, brother of Wikitoria, Mette’s friend from the Pa. What Hohepa was up to going in to the book shop was a mystery, although Mette had taught him and his brother, Hemi, to read. He was probably intending to shoplift a penny dreadful, as he certainly didn’t have enough cash to buy one. Hemi, his older brother, worked for Frank with the horses and slept in the old soddy. He was a wonder with horses and kept asking Frank if he could ride one in the Maori races; Frank wasn’t sure if he wanted to enter any of his horses in the Maori competitions. He was, as he always answered Hemi, thinking about it.
Mette walked towards him, smiling, her face flushed. She was clutching an envelope in her hand. Something important, obviously. He held her gaze until she was within a few feet of him, then asked, “Did you talk to…”
He was interrupted by a bullet ricocheting off the door jamb inches from his head, followed by the boom of a rifle shot - an Enfied of some sort, he thought. He grabbed his wife by the elbows and flung her into Mr. Jordan’s shop. Then he strode out into the Square to find out what the hell was going on.
Not the Faintest Trace Page 23