‘You will understand that I was a little uneasy about such a mission, most particularly since the entire tribe was aware that it was solely on my instructions, and in my presence, that their chief had been so ignominiously arrested.
‘Mr Hadfield assured me I would not be harmed, but the nearer my horse drew to Otaki the more, I confess, my apprehension grew. It was a Sunday and I had been told I should find Nohorua at church at Mr Hadfield’s Mission.
‘I dismounted, was greeted a little curtly by one or two of the natives, and delivered my letter to Nohorua, then, as I had promised Mr Hadfield, I knelt down to pray with the congregation which was almost entirely Maori. And at no time did a single one of them threaten me or attempt utu for my kidnapping of their great leader. I went among them freely and left in peace.’
AOTEAROA
So Te Rau-paraha stayed many months in the North as a ‘guest’ of Ngapuhi, his former allies, and when the time was auspicious, Te Kawana returned him to Ngati Toa. I saw this return. I was fifteen years old.
Though the chief ’s mana had been broken, Te Kawana had no wish to humiliate him further, and on the shore at Otaki a gathering of more than five hundred people watched as the government brig carried the chief back to his ancestral lands. When Te Rau-paraha set foot upon the sands, we saw that he wore a splendid British naval uniform, a present from Te Kawana, and carried a magnificent sword, another of Te Kawana’s gifts. As the tribe moaned and wailed and the men stamped a welcome, the chief Poho-tiraha stepped forward to greet him. Then Te Rau-paraha raised high his weapon and thrust it into the ground in front of Poho-tiraha, crying out, ‘Take hold of this sword. I no longer wish for honour on earth but for honour in Heaven. We shall build a church upon this ground.’
But all of this, the rejoicing, the singing and the great feasting, I was permitted to watch only from the safety of the pa. My mother remembered still what had happened to my father. Even with his mana broken, she did not trust Te Rau-paraha.
Mr Hadfield, his health fully restored, returned to us at Waikanae And so we continued to live happily near the Mission, my mother, Mr Nicoll, Hone and I, until — and still I can scarcely bear to remember it — until the Pakeha fever swept through Wellington, Otaki, the Manawatu, the Whanganui, claiming within a month more than eighty lives. When I think of it, my heart twists with bitter grief. Among those struck down were both my mother and stepfather.
‘Makareta, Hine-moana,’ said my mother as she lay dying, her breath rasping harshly in her throat, ‘sit here beside me and listen carefully to my words.’
I squatted next to her where she lay, flushed and fevered.
‘Hear what I say. Look, now, at Tutere-moana, the mountain-top of Kapiti.’
I peered through the doorway of our hut.
‘What do you see?’
‘Only the head of the mountain thrusting into the sky.’
‘And at its peak?’
‘Nothing but the grey stones at the summit.’
My mother sighed. ‘Then it is certain I am about to rejoin the spirits of my ancestors.’
I clutched her hand. ‘You must not leave us!’ I cried.
‘If it is ordained, then my time on this earth is almost done. No one can defy the will of the gods. Attend to what I tell you. Around the brow of Tutere-moana, I see a wreath of cloud.’
‘No!’
‘Hush, and obey my wishes. This is the funeral wreath, the sign of impending death. No mortal can gainsay it. Now, when I have left you to join our ancestors, Mr Hadfield will wish to give me a Christian burial. Do not oppose him in this. He has been good to us; he will protect you. And what are a few Pakeha words spoken over the dead? They change nothing. And, afterwards, he will lay my bones in the graveyard of Te Ariki here at the Mission. Do not grieve that I am in such a place. The land here is the land of the Maori; my bones will lie safely in the earth of Aotearoa and my spirit will have returned to Hawai’iki. This is the only thing that is important. Accede to the desires of Mr Hadfield in all of this.’
Each night, by my mother’s grave, I recited the karakia, the sacred songs and prayers she had taught me, and waited for her spirit to visit me, but she did not come.
‘Ah, Makareta,’ said Mr Hadfield, appearing beside me, ‘I see you are reciting your Christian prayers. You must take comfort from knowing that your dear mother and stepfather are now safe in Heaven in the arms of Te Ariki.’
‘Where is this Heaven?’ I asked, and he pointed to the sky.
Though I did not say so to Mr Hadfield, I could make out no sign of anything but clouds. And had not my mother, herself, told me that when the time came her spirit would walk to Te Reinga, slide down the sacred pohutukawa into the sea, and pass along the Broad Path of Tane to Hawai’iki, the ancestral lands?
‘Shall I pray with you, Makareta?’ said Mr Hadfield.
I began to say no, but thought better of it. Suppose my mother was, after all, in the Heaven of Te Ariki? Would it not be wise for me to intercede with Him … as a precaution?
AUCKLAND, 1848
The day of the long-awaited ball dawned clear, but at midday, as it clouded over and rain threatened, Lucy became increasingly dismayed.
‘It’s no use fretting,’ said Mr Godfrey. ‘We can do nothing to control the weather.’
The veranda at Government House had been enclosed to afford a space for the guests to promenade, and the two reception rooms, which opened one into the other, provided a large space for the dancing. Supper was to be offered in a marquee on the lawn, where tables and benches had been set out to accommodate about two hundred people. Lucy and I had assisted the servants in creating garlands to be twined around the pillars of the marquee and the sides of the dancing rooms. Flags, greenery and ribbons decorated the poles of the veranda and the sides of the temporary bandstand erected in the garden.
‘And I’m fervently hoping,’ said Lucy, ‘that the food will be sufficient.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Mr Godfrey, ‘you’ll be sending the servants to Lady Martin’s little hospital with the leftovers, mark my words.’
Lucy and I had just finished dressing when we heard a loud commotion, much shouting and laughter, and the heavy creaking of wheels. The band of the 58th had arrived, transported with their instruments in three bullock drays. We stepped out to greet them in our new gowns from Sydney, Lucy’s an elegant shade of pale cream that set off her dark looks, and mine a glowing midnight blue.
‘How fine you look, Fanny. Every unmarried man will be scrambling to inscribe his name on your dancing card.’
‘I shall be the first,’ said Mr Godfrey, appearing on the veranda. ‘Please allow me to engage you for the opening dance. And, Eliza, can I mark your card for the second?’
‘Here is our host,’ I said. ‘How splendid he looks in his dress uniform.’
The Governor bowed to us both.
‘Two such beautiful ladies,’ said Mr Godfrey. ‘We’re quite spoilt here, George.’
‘Have the Maori chiefs accepted their invitations?’ I whispered to Lucy.
‘Of course. They’d be most upset to miss such a celebration.’
‘Will they dance?’
‘No. They watch our festivities and participate in the eating and drinking, but they eschew our way of dancing … Ah, here are our first arrivals.’
Sir William Martin, almost invisible within oilskins, strode out in front of two lines of natives bearing a litter.
‘It’s Lady Martin,’ cried Lucy. ‘She’s been carried here in a potato kit strung on poles.’
‘And with a large umbrella above me to deflect the rain,’ called Lady Martin. ‘It’s a most comfortable form of transport. I can highly recommend it!’
The Maori bearers gently lowered the kit to the floor and helped her to extricate herself.
‘I have my fan and gloves safely wrapped in another kit,’ she said. ‘They’re so splendid for keeping things dry. But you have more guests arriving. You must leave me and see to them.’
Securely shrouded against the weather, Miss Pitt, wearing the general’s jackboots, made her way along the muddy path towards us. Several gentlemen now appeared, pick-a-backed by Maoris who had offered their services for a fee.
‘But,’ said the Governor, more amused than I had ever yet seen him, ‘the prize for ingenuity must surely go to Mr Outhwaite. He’s pushing his wife in a wheelbarrow.’
‘Lieutenant Cowan has arrived, Fanny,’ said Lucy. ‘He looks uncommonly handsome in his uniform.’
The Lieutenant stepped forward to greet his host and hostess, and bowed to me. ‘I’ve been away with my regiment and I’m delighted to be back in Auckland. I hope I may claim you for at least one dance, Miss Thompson.’
Our attention was attracted by the arrival of a party of Maoris who rode up, wrapped in magnificent full-length feather cloaks. When they dismounted, I was astonished to see that beneath these they were, men and women alike, clad in immaculate English evening dress, the ladies’ ball gowns being equal in style and splendour to those of any of the other ladies present.
A second group of Maoris on horseback came into view at almost the same moment as the band struck up. I saw they were in traditional native costume, their hair dressed with feathers, and that one of them was Te Toa.
Lady Martin turned to Lucy. ‘I see Te Toa hasn’t brought either of his wives.’
I froze.
His wives? ‘He … he has more than one wife?’ I ventured quietly.
Lady Martin nodded. ‘Two. That’s quite normal for the chiefs, though there’s generally one particular favourite. The great Northern chief, Waka Nene, has three, but it’s only the senior wife who accompanies her husband to events like this. Look, there’s Waka Nene with his principal wife over there.’
I glanced to where she indicated, and saw an elderly Maori, his curly hair tinged with grey, his face very heavily tattooed, immaculate in white tie but with a long jade ornament in one ear.
‘That is Waka Nene? He looks exactly like a benevolent uncle.’
‘I assure you he’s a most formidable adversary to his foes.’
The dancing now being about to commence, Mr Godfrey approached the sofa where Lady Martin and I sat.
‘Away you go, my dear,’ she said. ‘I’m not able to dance but I love to watch, and my husband enjoys it greatly.’
I had not danced since my sisters’ weddings at Albany, and the whirling and wheeling, the lively music, the colourful gowns and the scarlet and white uniforms of the 58th mingled in a heady mix of exhilaration. But beneath my enjoyment ran the thread of horror I had felt at Lady Martin’s revelation. I shall put it entirely from my mind, I told myself. After all, what right have I to judge Te Toa’s way of life?
As I sat, fanning myself, Lieutenant Cowan appeared, to remind me I had promised to accompany him to supper. ‘I’ve stolen a glimpse,’ he said, ‘that cold collation will be very welcome after the heat in here.’
He offered me his arm and led me to the marquee, where he deposited me at a table and went off to fill our plates.
‘Good evening, Miss Fanny. You look like a midnight sky.’
‘Te Toa! I … I’m waiting for Lieutenant Cowan.’
‘He is in a long line of other people also hungry for their food. He will be some time, so I have decided to come and speak with you. I would ask you to dance, Miss Fanny, but I do not know the Pakeha dancing and nor do I like it.’
He had removed his great cloak and was clad in a flax kilt, with a short feather cape flung across his shoulders, caught by two red tapes at the chest. His splayed feet were bare. I looked at him, then away. I could not think of anything to say to him. He is a savage, I thought, a native with two wives.
‘You are a little cold to me, I think. For my rudeness last week, I apologise most sincerely. I have affronted you.’
I shook my head.
‘You are not telling me the truth. Is it because I have not asked you to dance?’
‘No, not that. I …’
‘What is it? You must tell me.’
Tears had begun to start in my eyes. ‘Please, Te Toa, I beg you, leave me now. I wish to enjoy the dancing, the festivities … Please go away.’
He bowed. ‘Because you wish it, I will go. But, Miss Fanny, I will be back.’
‘So much excitement,’ said Lucy. ‘First the ball and now the investiture. And only two weeks between. I’ve hardly had time to catch my breath. Come, Fanny, we must hurry and finish dressing. The general is sending his carriage for us and it will arrive at any moment.’
A pavilion had been set up. In front of it was a guard of honour of the 58th Regiment, impressive in their red and white; at its far end stood a dais covered in scarlet cloth, topped with a pedestal holding a crimson velvet throne trimmed with gold bullion lace. To the right was a chair of state for the Queen’s Commissioner, to the left another for the Knight-Elect, with rows of seats behind them. Flags of all nations adorned the ceiling, and the ridgepoles were decorated with elaborate garlands of flowers and evergreen branches.
‘Stop day-dreaming, Fanny,’ said Lucy. ‘Everyone else has taken their seats. It’s time for us to go in.’
The ladies’ procession party lined up, all of us clad in our best ball gowns although it was just after midday, and to loud applause Lucy led us into the pavilion. As wife of the Queen’s Commissioner, Lady Martin followed her, leaning heavily on her sticks. Then came General Wynyard’s lady, next Mrs Selwyn, and, after her, the wives of the Sheriff, the Colonial Secretary and the Surveyor-General. Feeling very self-conscious, I brought up the rear. We ascended the dais and took our seats behind the three seats of honour. It was close in the pavilion in the November heat, and we fanned ourselves discreetly as we waited until, at exactly one o’clock, the trumpeters of the 58th unleashed a fanfare to announce the start of the ceremony.
To the strains of ‘God Save the Queen’, the guard presented arms and the official procession moved forward, at its head, Sir William Martin, resplendent in scarlet and gold. Behind came the Deputy Sheriff and the Colonial Secretary in ceremonial dress, and after them marched Bishop Selwyn and other members of the clergy. They seated themselves on the platform as the procession continued with naval, military and staff officers, marching two by two. Lieutenant-Governor Eyre, Mr Domett and the Attorney-General brought up the rear, followed by Mr Percy, the King at Arms, holding aloft the Royal Commission on a crimson velvet cushion.
The band fell silent. Another fanfare heralded the entrance of the Honourable Constantine Dillon, bearing on a second scarlet velvet cushion the insignia of the Order of the Bath, and then a salvo of trumpets sounded for the arrival of the four Esquires of the Knight-Elect. I was astonished to see that flanking Mr Blackmore and Mr Thatcher were Waka Nene and another native. ‘Te Puni,’ whispered my neighbour, Mrs Wynyard. ‘The Governor has chosen to honour two of the chiefs loyal to Her Majesty.’ A long solo trumpet blast reverberated around us, the troops again presented arms, and a stiff, solitary figure in white dress uniform, over which was draped a magnificent crimson robe with trimmings of fur, slowly processed towards us.
‘He must be sweltering,’ hissed Mrs Wynyard.
I watched the Governor nod graciously here and there at faces he recognised in the throng, and saw, too, Lucy try in vain to catch his eye. The petulant expression which he so often wore at home was entirely absent. In this public arena, he was the epitome of regal grace and condescension. As he approached the throne, he made three reverences before ascending the first step where he remained while the Chief Justice read the commission. Then, he mounted the platform and stood before Sir William, who invested him with the insignia, thanked the Sheriff and invited us all to congratulate ‘Her Majesty’s new Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath, Sir George Grey’.
With much cheering, the assembled company stood and made its way towards the dais. Rising quickly from her seat, Lucy moved to her husband’s side and reached up to kiss his cheek. He turned instantly awa
y from her towards Waka Nene.
Most of the settler population of New Zealand seemed to be present, everyone parading in finery. I could not help but notice how the feathers in the cockades of the hats of the European men mirrored the white-banded black feathers fixed into the topknots of the high-ranking Maoris. In the line of well-wishers I saw Te Toa, who gave me no sign of recognition. I looked for anyone nearby who might be his wife, but he was in the company of a group of native men who were greeting an English clergyman and a youthful, rather sullen, Maori girl.
I turned to Lady Martin. ‘Who is that man there, with the young native wife?’
‘Gracious me! She’s not his wife in any sense, I assure you. That’s Mr Hadfield, the missionary, and a more upright man it would be hard to find. The girl lives in the pa at Otaki. Her mother died earlier this year in the fever epidemic. She’s something of a heroine among her own people; as an infant she swam from Kapiti Island to the mainland. Or so the legend has it …’
I saw how, already, this honour had altered the new knight, seated majestically like a king on the scarlet throne. I watched the crowd of people congratulating him, fawning over his hand, and noted how some of them, having moved away, whispered obviously unkind remarks. The heat was intense, yet all continued to mill about inside the marquee, promenading and preening. I had recognised Mr Eyre at once from Te Toa’s description of his uniform, and noticed how self-importantly he moved among the crowd, nodding regally to left and right.
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