A Crooked Rib

by Judy Corbalis

  ‘Yes, indeed, my Lord. I spent all of my childhood years in the company of just such a tree, but one that was entirely fully grown.’

  It was two days before Te Toa joined us.

  ‘The Governor is making an overland expedition to New Plymouth, I hear,’ said the Bishop, ‘but I’m afraid he’ll find the tribes there hostile.’

  ‘I do not think,’ said Te Toa, ‘that Wiremu Kingi will allow any attack while Te Kawana is present, though it may be he is not permitted into the pa.’

  ‘They would surely not refuse the Governor entry?’ said the Bishop, in alarm.

  ‘It is possible. We will have to see. Kingi is greatly angered at the theft of his lands, and it is my belief he will attack the settlers in Taranaki if they do not give up the land they have stolen.’

  ‘But Kingi has always been a friend to the British Crown.’

  ‘So he will expect Te Kawana’s support against the settlers. But now, Pihopa, if I may be permitted to kidnap your ladies, the sun is shining and the conditions excellent for a gallop to my pa.’

  Te Toa’s pa sat at the top of a small incline, enclosed within several rectangles of fences, one behind another. The outermost fence was of sharp stakes set between large wooden posts, lashed together with supplejack and flax bindings. About a foot behind this fence was a second one, similarly constructed. This contained pits where warriors with muskets could conceal themselves behind the heaped earth and fern barricades while aiming their weapons through the inner fence at any advancing enemy.

  As we followed Te Toa up the excavated pathway to the entrance, I stopped, the better to marvel at the gateway. So narrow that it permitted the passage of only one person at a time, it was topped by a monstrous carved figure, decorated with feathers and the iridescent native paua shell.

  ‘You see,’ said Te Toa, turning back towards me, ‘how the position of the rifle pits at all times commands the entry to the gate? Now, if you were another chief, or Te Kawana, I should be obliged to welcome you with great ceremony, but you are here only to see for yourself a true Maori village.’

  We passed beneath the huge carved figure and into the interior of the pa. It seemed to me like an alien country, containing not a single house of sawn wood, such as we had in Auckland. Each dwelling was of an oblong shape, with a central doorway so low it was impossible to enter without stooping, on either side of which was a meagre window. The ridgepole was topped by a sharply sloping roof covered with thatch and the walls consisted of wrapped bundles of flax reeds, tightly lashed together to keep out the elements. Clustered together in a loose semi-circle, the huts stood at some distance from a smaller dwelling perched on a tall wooden pole, and another, much larger, version of the small houses, decorated with intricately carved figures with shining paua-shell eyes.

  ‘Is that your house?’ I asked, thinking it fit for a chief ’s dwelling.

  Te Toa shook his head. ‘No, that is the whare runanga, our meeting house. In a moment, we will look at it, but here’ — and he indicated a hut which, although a little larger than its fellows, was low and undistinguished — ‘is my own whare.’

  Fronted like the others by a thatched veranda, its only distinguishing feature was a large carving atop the central apex of the roof. I dared not look too closely at it lest it replicate the one at the slave dwellings.

  ‘You must be seen to examine most carefully the reed panels at the entranceway,’ whispered Lucy. ‘They contain his lineage.’

  I looked intently at the intricate black, red and white patterning, but saw no evidence of genealogy. ‘These are very fine,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Te Toa. ‘And now I will show you the beautiful carvings in the whare runanga.’

  Groups of bare-breasted native women squatted on the ground, apparently ignoring us until, as we passed, several of them called out to us in their own language.

  ‘They are greeting you,’ said Te Toa. ‘Haere mai … Come here … they are saying.’

  He called out something in return, and the women laughed. I averted my eyes from their casual semi-nakedness and looked towards a clutch of young boys, entirely naked but at a distance from us, who were taking it in turns to swing from a rope attached to a pole.

  ‘Our kumara gardens are over there,’ said Te Toa, ‘behind their swing. And they have another swing by the river where they take it in turns to launch themselves into the water. It is good for boys to be agile and fearless.’

  ‘I’m very glad to have seen your pa. Thank you, Te Toa.’

  ‘It was a great pleasure to me to escort you and Mata Kawana, Miss Fanny.’

  And I saw Lucy frown slightly at the familiar use of my name.

  Te Toa accompanied us on our return to the Selwyns’ house. In some manner he contrived for a few moments to stand alone with me.

  ‘That was a most interesting experience,’ I said.

  ‘I wish to tell you that you will see me again, Miss Fanny. And soon. My tohunga has read it in the omens.’

  AOTEAROA

  I had heard much of Te Kawana Kerei before I ever saw him. My mother said that, for a Pakeha, he had fine chiefly bearing. And, as a paramount chief of their Kuini Wikitoria, he had great mana. ‘Since he arrived in Aotearoa,’ said my mother, ‘he has often sought advice from Mr Hadfield on Maori affairs. He has learned to speak our language and he has great affection for our people. This shows us that he is a good man. And he is coming tonight to this house to speak with Mr Hadfield again. I have asked to be present, but you children must take yourselves out of sight and hearing of this meeting.’

  So Hone and I waited until they had exchanged their greetings, then stole under the small high window and pressed ourselves into the shadow of the wall. We heard the voice of the unseen Te Kawana speaking in our own language: ‘Te Rau-paraha is too powerful among the chiefs and these murderous attacks cannot be allowed to continue. The time has come when I must humble him. I have no choice.’

  ‘True,’ said Mr Hadfield, ‘but first you must catch him.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Te Kawana, ‘but how am I to succeed? He is wily and well guarded.’

  ‘We must think very carefully,’ Mr Hadfield said. ‘You will have only one such chance, Governor. If you fail, he will be forever on his guard against you.’

  There was a long silence. Hone stirred beside me and I prodded him with my finger.

  ‘If you look out from Peka-peka beach at Waikanae to his stronghold, Kapiti Island,’ said Mr Hadfield, ‘it appears deserted. Of the pa, the palisades, the kumara grounds, even the whaling station at its southernmost tip, there is not a trace. It is only when unwary voyagers land on its more hospitable eastern shore they discover, to their misfortune, that it is, indeed, the impregnable stronghold of the Napoleon of the South. You cannot take Te Rau-paraha on Kapiti.’

  We heard our mother’s voice. ‘Harawira is right. And since you will never take him on Kapiti, you must outwit him and capture him by trickery and stealth. I know the workings of the mind of that butcher, and I have a plan whereby Te Kawana may entrap him.’

  AUCKLAND, 1848

  Two days after we returned from our visit to Waimate, a letter arrived from the Governor.

  ‘He says that Mr Hadfield’s health is much better, but the situation in Wellington is grave, so he must remain in the south for some time,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I’m relieved to hear that Mr Hadfield is well again,’ said Lady Martin, who had called on us. ‘There’s no other man in New Zealand who better understands the Maoris and their ways. If anyone can avert war, he can. The natives are devoted to him. Even Te Rauparaha’s nephew, Te Rangi-hae-ata, who’s bitterly opposed to all Englishmen and is an even more ferocious warrior than his uncle, called on Mr Hadfield when he was convalescing at the St Hills’ in Wellington last month.’

  ‘If I were Mrs St Hill, I should have been very afraid at his presence in my house,’ I said.

  ‘She was terrified, but she said he stood quietly by the doorway
, waiting for her husband to invite him inside. He’s a most magnificent specimen of a man, over six and a half feet tall, with long black hair swept into the topknot and eyes like a hawk’s. Mrs St Hill said he looked neither right nor left and did not greet either her or her husband but merely swept into the room where Mr Hadfield lay on his couch, and bent and pressed noses with him, speaking to him urgently in Maori. The St Hills don’t speak the native tongue, but Mr Hadfield explained that Te Rangi-hae-ata had brought his tohunga with him to assist Mr Hadfield’s recovery and asked if they would mind allowing the Maori priest to enter and perform his ceremonies.

  ‘Mr St Hill was inclined to feel that he should remain to guard Mr Hadfield, but the missionary said he was quite confident of Te Rangi-hae-ata’s good intentions. So the St Hills left the three of them alone and, although it is probably merely a coincidence, Mrs St Hill claims that the very next day Mr Hadfield’s strength began to return. She says that, for another three days, Te Rangi-hae-ata and his tohunga, mounted on their horses, sat at a distance from the St Hills’ homestead, keeping watch over Mr Hadfield’s spirit … or so Mr Hadfield told them.’

  ‘What an extraordinary story.’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lady Martin. ‘I told you the Maoris are an extraordinary race.’

  In the Governor’s absence, Lucy spent long periods of time closeted with Mr Godfrey over preparations for the ball. It had become her principal topic of conversation so, when she came running to find me in the garden, I assumed they had devised some new form of entertainment. She was quite breathless. ‘Sit down, Fanny. The most wonderful news! You’ll never guess.’

  ‘You’ve thought of a novel amusement for the ball?’

  ‘No, no. Much more exciting than that.’ She took a breath and caught my hand. ‘George has been honoured with a knighthood. He sent me word this very morning.’

  ‘As you observe, Miss Fanny, I have come to see you.’

  ‘Good morning, Te Toa. Are you well?’

  ‘I am most well. I have come to ask you an important question, if you are happy to answer me.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. Would you like tea?’

  ‘Thank you, no, but perhaps we may sit on that seat there, below the pohutukawa?’

  We settled ourselves on the bench beneath the great spreading canopy.

  ‘So, what is this important question?’

  Te Toa seemed to be thinking. Finally, ‘Is Te Kawana a son or nephew of Mata Wikitoria?’ he asked.

  ‘Neither. He has no kinship ties to her,’

  ‘Then why has she given this honour to him?’

  ‘Well, he has served his country and his Queen …’

  ‘Are you sure of this? I am told that many of the dispatches that Te Kawana sends to London are not true.’

  ‘If her Majesty didn’t think the Governor was a worthy man, she wouldn’t honour him.’

  ‘Naturally. The question is not what Mata Wikitoria thinks. The question is whether Te Kawana is, in fact, a worthy man.’

  I decided to change the subject. ‘Since you are a paramount chief, will you attend the investiture?’

  ‘It seems so. There is a government vessel reserved to bring all the Northern chiefs, and another to carry the chiefs from the south.’

  ‘But if there will be chiefs from many regions attending, what if fighting should break out among them?’

  Te Toa was deeply affronted. ‘Miss Thompson, you have heard me speak often of our Maori ways. No chief would ever dishonour such a ceremony. We are not engaged to fight one another and we will not.’ And he rose and strode away.

  Without thinking, I ran after him and caught his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry, Te Toa. I didn’t mean to offend you. I was concerned not only for the Governor’s safety but for yours.’

  As I said it, I knew it to be true but, if I could have, I would have recalled my words instantly.

  He stopped. ‘Thank you for this concern but I am a warrior. I have no need of women to protect me.’

  I stared at him. His face had taken on a sinister aspect.

  No matter that he speaks so courteously, that he is deft and clever in his arguments, he remains a savage, I thought. And those who meddle with fire risk a burning.

  AOTEAROA

  We knew, my brother Hone and I, that something was about to happen. We could tell it from the suppressed anxiety of our mother, from the slightest agitation in the demeanour of Mr Hadfield.

  At last came the day when my mother said, ‘Tonight, before you go to sleep, you will stop your ears with plugs of flax. You will hear nothing and you will make no sound.’

  ‘Why?’ said Hone.

  ‘Because,’ said my mother, ‘there will be nothing to hear. Do as you are bidden.’

  So, as soon as she had left us, we pulled the flax from our ears and peered from the doorway of our hut. It was a silent night and there was no moon. In the distance we heard the faint splash of oars, but this was no new sound. Often, fishing canoes put out at night-time. Voices hummed lightly across the water, and almost instantly were stilled.

  ‘There is a ship off Peka-peka,’ whispered Hone. ‘Look. You can just make out its shadowy shape on the horizon.’

  As we stared and our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, we saw that two smaller boats beside the vessel were making for the shore.

  ‘Are they coming here, to Waikanae?’

  Hone shook his head. ‘No, they are moving further along the coast. Nearer to Otaki.’

  ‘But that is Te Rau-paraha’s cousin’s mainland pa. What is happening?’

  From Mr Hadfield’s house, three figures slipped soundlessly into the night — Mr Hadfield, our stepfather and, ‘Our mother!’

  They made their way in the direction of the beach where we could see that the two small boats had now landed. From each disembarked a party of men.

  ‘Soldiers!’ murmured Hone. ‘And they are armed. You can see the glint of their muskets in the starlight.’

  Mr Hadfield, our mother and stepfather now joined the soldiers on the sands, and the party set off on foot along the beach towards Otaki. Not a sound gave away their presence. We knew there would be no scouts guarding the Otaki pa; none of the tribes on our coast was at war. Resolved to see what was happening, Hone and I followed them at a distance. It was more than three hours before we arrived at Otaki and, as we slipped along the shoreline, we noticed a small boat skirting the coast, shadowing the figures in front of us. Its oars were tied about with cloth so that they made no sound.

  The group ahead of us left the beach and mounted the sand-hills. Just before the entrance to the pa, I saw my mother in conversation with a tall figure I took to be Te Kawana. She pointed to one of the huts and, at a signal from the man, the soldiers raised their muskets together and fired a volley of shots. Then, accompanied by a party of soldiers, he burst into the hut. There came the high-pitched sound of women wailing, and several minutes later the soldiers reappeared, one holding a lantern, three more leading a naked man covered in red ochre, and the rest holding captive two naked women.

  ‘That is Te Rau-paraha,’ whispered Hone. ‘I recognise him from the hen house. And those must be his wives. He has been taken sleeping, and with women. What dishonour for a great chief not to be captured in battle with warriors.’

  ‘We will have more than dishonour if our mother sees us,’ I said. ‘Quickly. We must run back before she returns.’

  ‘Run?’ said Hone. ‘I am already so tired I can scarcely walk.’ He grabbed my arm. ‘But, look, they have Te Rau-paraha in the little boat now and they are rowing him out to the larger vessel. It is the government brig, Calliope.’

  ‘While you were sleeping,’ said our mother next morning, ‘there was a great to-do in the night. Te Rau-paraha has been taken prisoner at Otaki by Te Kawana and the Pakeha forces. What humiliation for him. A great chief to be captured so, not on the battlefield but exposed naked in his bed. Terrible, indeed.’ She smiled. But it was a smile of hatred. ‘S
o, after thirteen years, the gods have favoured me. I have broken the power of Te Rau-paraha’s mana and avenged my husband and the tohunga.’

  ‘Mr Hadfield says we should not harbour thoughts of revenge,’ said Hone, ‘but that we should learn to turn the other cheek.’

  ‘How curious,’ said our mother. ‘For is it not written in the Bible of Te Ariki: An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth?’

  AUCKLAND, 1848

  The Governor strode over to where I was sketching in the garden. I laid aside my crayon. ‘Welcome back, Sir George. And my congratulations on such a great honour.’

  ‘Thank you. But I shall not be styled so until after my investiture, of course.’

  ‘Was your recent business in Wellington successful?’

  ‘Entirely. I’ve arrested Te Rau-paraha on a charge of treason.’

  ‘And imprisoned him?’

  ‘No, no. I could never imprison him like a common criminal. That would be seen as an unacceptably shocking act by all Maoris, even his enemies. It would destroy his mana and enrage Ngati Toa. So he is now a “guest” of his old ally in the North, Tamati Waka Nene.’

  ‘But surely, if he is an ally, he’ll let the chief escape?’

  ‘That is not at all the Maori way. Waka Nene has promised to contain Te Rau-paraha and it’s certain he’ll do so.’

  ‘And Te Rau-paraha’s nephew? Won’t he seek revenge?’

  ‘Not while his uncle remains with the great Waka Nene. So now we have a little more breathing space in the south.’

  ‘And Mr Hadfield?’

  ‘After Te Rau-paraha’s capture, he was obliged to go back to Wellington for his health. He is recovering well but still in need of medical attention. He’s a most astonishing man. I accompanied him to Wellington, and there he asked me if I would consider riding back to Otaki with a message for Nohorua, Te Rau-paraha’s brother. He wished it to be carried by me since it required a Pakeha of the highest mana to deliver it.