by Anthony Hill
Whatever else the country promised, however, the warriors of New Zealand would make them fight for it.
7
MAORI WARRIORS
New Zealand: North Island, October to November 1769
Their first encounters with the Maori were indeed bloody.
Endeavour anchored at the northern end of the bay, and late that afternoon the Captain went ashore with two boats to establish contact and find fresh water. He let Isaac and the other boys come as well.
‘Give the young’uns a chance to stretch their legs on dry land again.’
They landed near the east bank of the Turanganui River, at the foot of a high hill called Titirangi, but found nobody. A few men were seen by a stream on the other side, however, and ordering the pinnace to stand off as guard, Cook crossed the river with Mr Banks and the boys in the smaller yawl. Yet the Maori disappeared again behind a sandy ridge.
Deciding to investigate some low, thatched huts not far away, Cook told the boys to tend the yawl – ‘And don’t stray!’
But it was hard to remain still, when the lads were feeling sand beneath their feet for the first time in months. Before long Nick and Taiata were chasing each other. Isaac and Tom Matthews joined the game, romping along the beach like young colts.
Suddenly there were shouts. A musket fired. And looking up, the boys saw that four fearsome warriors had come out of the woods below Titirangi on the other side of the river, and were running abreast of them.
‘Quickly! Back to the yawl!’ yelled Coxswain Evans from the pinnace at the river mouth. ‘They’ll cut you off.’
‘Hurry!’ cried Isaac, as the boys dashed to the boat, for the river here was only sixty yards wide – a good spear throw – and the Maori could easily swim.
The lads scrambled aboard and pushed out into the swift water, the warriors keeping pace with them on the opposite shore.
‘Grab the other oar, Tom!’
The current had the yawl in its grip – like a Thames ferry – and was sweeping them towards a large rock midstream where they might well founder. As the boys struggled to control the boat a second shot was fired over the warriors’ heads, but it made no difference. The Maori were closing in.
‘Row with all your might!’ But even as Isaac and Tom righted the yawl, the river was carrying them beyond the rock to the nearer bank and the waiting Maori.
Their leader, a man called Te Maro, had his spear raised, ready to hurl it at Isaac, when there came a third shot from the pinnace. This one found its mark. The musket ball ripped through Te Maro’s ribs and out his shoulder, and he dropped.
His three companions withdrew a few paces, unsure what had felled him. Then, leaving off the chase, they returned to the shot man, carefully gathered his weapons and carried him along the beach. Where, realising Te Maro was dead, his comrades left him and disappeared into woods thick with bright, finger-leaved bushes and tall tree ferns.
Alarmed by the shots, Cook hurried back from the Maori fishing village.
‘Are you lads all right?’ he called.
‘Aye, Captain.’
‘Then bring the yawl back to us.’
Isaac and Tom heaved back up river, collected the gentlemen, and landed not far from where Te Maro had been shot. Following the blood trail, they found his body not fifty yards away: a short, stout man, wearing a cloak and loincloth from woven flax, his long black hair tied in a knot on top of his head. What made him look so fierce were the heavy tattoos on the right side of his face: three broad arches above his eye, and intricate spirals etched on his cheek and nose.
Isaac was fascinated. He knew the small blue leaf on his arm, and he remembered every mark on Heimata. But the tattoo on the warrior’s face was something else again. The youth stood wondering at the skill and artistry of it – and also at the courage of the man who’d withstood the pain of having it done.
They left him where he’d died, placing some beads and iron nails on the corpse, before returning to the ship.
Cook and the gentlemen went ashore again next morning, taking a stronger force of men and marines. Tupaia went with them, insisting he take Taiata. But after the last escapade, the other lads had to stay aboard.
‘It’s too dangerous,’ said the Captain, ‘until we’re friends with these people.’
Far from making friends, the day proved even more deadly for the Maori.
Cook landed by the river again. And not far from where Te Maro’s body still lay on the beach, he faced some fifty warriors on the opposite shore – all armed and tattooed, with feathers and whalebone combs in their hair. As the Captain began to speak, he was greeted with derision. The Maori began their war dance – a haka: rhythmically chanting, stamping, flexing their arms, and poking out their tongues in attitudes of defiance and aggression.
But Cook could not become intimidated. He had Tupaia call to the warriors, hoping they would recognise some words of friendship. To his amazement, they not only understood the priest – their language seemed almost identical. And indeed, he would learn the Maori had come from the same Polynesian homeland centuries before in their mighty double canoes. Aotearoa they called this new country, the land of the long white cloud. Tupaia and young Taiata were their first visitors from the ancestral islands for hundreds of years.
The Maori’s resistance to the Endeavour men was very different to the welcoming Tahitians, however.
‘What do they say?’ Cook asked Tupaia. ‘Did you tell them we need fresh water? That we want to be friends?’
‘They say Toote can have water. But as we have already killed one of their men, how can we be friends?’
‘It was not my wish. Tell them I will lay down my weapon if they will do the same and come to us. Say we have gifts.’
The Captain laid his musket on the shore – though he had the marines drawn up behind, just in case. Yet the Maori would not disarm themselves, except for one man who eventually stripped and swam across.
He pressed noses with Cook in a hongi greeting ceremony. The Captain got a smudge of red paint on his face, and in return gave beads and nails. The warrior called to his companions, and another twenty swam over – although seeing the armed marines, they also brought their weapons.
‘Be careful, Toote,’ warned Tupaia. ‘These people are not your friends.’
‘We must establish some contact if we are to trade for supplies.’
Certainly the Maori seemed pleased at first with their gifts. But the warriors were soon more interested in the gentlemen’s weapons, especially that object like a short spear – a tao – which breathed smoke and killed at a distance.
The Maori began to grab at the muskets held by Mr Banks and Dr Monkhouse. And when astronomer Green turned his back, a man called Te Rakau snatched the short sword from his belt and ran off with it.
‘Stop thief!’ shouted Joseph Banks. And levelling his gun, the botanist shot the man between the shoulders.
Te Rakau took no notice, but kept on running until Charles Green fired a lead ball, and the Maori fell.
Two comrades rushed to his side. Thinking they’d steal the sword again, Dr Monkhouse faced them with his bayonet. It was Te Rakau’s own weapon they wanted: a short, oval-shaped club called a patu, made of greenstone hard as steel. They then retreated with the others to the large rock midstream, shouting threats.
Further shots were fired – some by Tupaia – injuring at least three more Maori, who at length were helped across the river and into the woods.
‘So much for our friendship,’ deplored Mr Cook surveying the slain man, his body not far from Te Maro on the disturbed beach, tattooed face stained with paint like blood, a human tooth hanging in his ear. ‘Well . . . t’ river is salt water anyway. We’ll row further around t’ bay and try to find people more amenable to us.’
His next overtures were even more disastrous.
A high surf was running and the boats found nowhere safe to land. They were returning to the ship, when two waka – fishing canoes with mat sails
– came around Young Nick’s Head and into the bay.
‘We’ll cut them off,’ ordered the Captain, ‘and persuade them to come aboard to show we mean no harm.’
They gave chase. The canoe paddlers, fearing they were under attack, put on speed and the leading one made it safely ashore. The other couldn’t outrun the longboat, however, and as they closed in Cook told Tupaia to call out his friendly intentions. The seven occupants took no notice, and kept trying to escape.
‘Fire a musket over their heads, and frighten them into surrender.’
They didn’t submit, any more than Cook would have done. On the contrary, the Maori defended themselves by throwing stones, wood and even fish at their pursuers. Thus, the Captain gave a fatal command.
‘Fire ball shot!’
The muskets cracked, killing three men and wounding a fourth. The other three – mere boys – leaped into the sea and began swimming for their lives.
‘Good God!’ cried Joseph Banks, ‘What have we done?’
‘What we had to,’ replied the Captain brusquely. And turning to the Coxswain he added, ‘Get those boys into the boat, and say we won’t hurt ’em.’
Though why they should believe him, Cook couldn’t have explained. Indeed, as the three prisoners were dragged into the boat, they began weeping piteously.
‘What are they saying, Tupaia?’
‘They are afraid Toote’s men will kill and eat them.’
‘Kindly tell them we’ll do no such barbarous thing.’
‘They say that is what their enemies do.’
‘We are not savages. We are their friends!’
Assured they wouldn’t be eaten, the boys cheered up – surprisingly quickly after what had happened. The eldest was only about eighteen with a tattooed lip, the youngest no more than eleven or twelve. By the time they got aboard Endeavour the three were almost merry. They darted about the deck, talking excitedly to Tupaia, eating salt pork and wondering if the weevilly ship’s biscuits were yams.
The younger boys dressed in Nick and Isaac’s britches and jackets, laughing along with the crew. Though when they came to perform a haka they became altogether more serious. Wearing only loincloths, they stamped the Maori’s warlike dance. They sang together in harmonies that delighted everyone. And when all was done, the youngsters made a bed on the lockers and slept soundly, with Tupaia keeping watch in case they woke in the night and were afraid.
Others on board were less tranquil. Down on the mess deck, Taiata wept in his hammock as he told Isaac of what he had seen that day. ‘Awful . . . awful . . . guns and smoke . . . and three men dead who had done us no harm . . .’
In the Great Cabin, Joseph Banks trembled with emotion.
‘This is the blackest day of my life! Heaven forbid I should know another like it. Every instruction from London has been to treat these people with kindness . . . yet already in two days we’ve killed at least five of them!’
‘You may well censure me,’ replied the Captain, searching for a justification. ‘I would never have chased that canoe if I thought they’d resist us. Once they did, what was I to do? Allow ourselves to be knocked on the head?’
‘They were throwing sticks and dead fish!’
‘And if I’d turned tail and departed, the Indians would have put the triumph down to their superiority and our cowardice. We’d be ridiculed in their eyes – and never get anywhere in our future dealings with them. Remember that.’
‘They were very brave fellows.’
‘Yes. That, too.’
Cook set the boys ashore next day, hoping they’d rejoin their families and say how well they’d been treated by these white strangers . . . these Pakeha. But again they grew afraid, pleading that this was enemy territory, and they’d be eaten if discovered.
‘Cannibals? I don’t believe it. They’re just pretending,’ said Cook. Though he noticed the lads hid in the bush when the gentlemen went off to shoot ducks.
They reappeared, however, as a body of a hundred and fifty Maori warriors gathered once more by the Turanganui River. The youngsters showed their fine clothes and gifts, and invited their countrymen across. Only one did – who, as soon as he reached them, sat down on the riverbank and embraced the boys. The smallest wept and said the man was his father. Which removed any doubts about cannibalism.
They even performed a ceremony over Te Rakau’s body. The eldest boy took off his sailor’s jacket and placed it on the corpse, and the man laid a bough of green leaves as a token of peace and sacrifice. The Captain may have hoped the lads would now go home and spread the good news of his friendship. Yet they again pleaded to spend the night aboard Endeavour, which he agreed.
‘They will depart in the morning, come what may,’ Cook added. ‘We’re leaving this place. There’s been nothing for us here. We may find better fortune elsewhere: but this I have named on my chart as Poverty Bay.’
Poor in what it yielded Endeavour, though the land is rich. And many of those aboard felt impoverished in spirit by what had happened there.
The three Maori boys were set ashore next day. They came to the water’s edge, holding out their hands and crying for the ship to take them. But as Endeavour departed, Isaac saw them being ferried across the river in a canoe and go off laughing with some others into the woods. A few days afterwards they heard the boys were safely back with their families. So all was well.
Word spread along the coast of the Pakeha in their ship that floated like an island beneath white clouds. As Endeavour sailed south, canoes began to come close, and the people exchanged fish and artefacts for Tahitian cloth and European trinkets. It may have been friendship, or curiosity. Perhaps merely respect for their guns, or the fact that Pakeha were not cannibals. Nobody could say. For while some Maori traded, others continued to show derision.
In what Cook called Hawke’s Bay after Admiral Hawke, the First Lord of the Admiralty, the ship was approached by several war canoes, their prows and stern posts wonderfully carved with spirals and ancestor symbols, eyes glowing with paua shell. The warriors jeered, lolling their tongues like the grotesque hei tiki figures they wore round their necks. Dr Monkhouse saw some even bare their arses to the strangers in the universal gesture of contempt.
‘They behave just like Billingsgate fishwives!’
And he reciprocated by exposing his own arse: which threw the warriors into greater fury. They threatened to use the surgeon’s posterior as a spear target – until forced to retire by a round of grapeshot, which the Captain ordered to aim wide.
‘No more killings if we can help it,’ Cook said.
But more couldn’t be prevented a day or two later, near the southern end of Hawke’s Bay.
Trade was brisk that morning. Taiata was on the ship’s ladder, with Isaac and some of the other boys over the side, handing up the dried (and smelly) fish the Maori were bartering. Suddenly a war canoe paddled towards Endeavour, and Cook ordered the marines to prime their muskets. But the warriors didn’t seem intent on trouble. Rather had they come to market, and offered to swap their cloaks.
The chief – the ariki – was wearing a beautiful garment of a woven design, ornamented with dog’s hair. He agreed to exchange it with the Captain for a length of red baize cloth. The deal was struck. Taiata handed it down to the canoe: but instead of passing up his cloak in return, the chief brazenly put both into a basket, and ordered the waka to drop astern. Where he stood laughing at Cook’s discomfort.
‘Hey, you thief! Come back and complete your side of the bargain.’
‘Shall I shoot him, suh?’ asked Lieutenant Gore too eagerly, his pistol cocked.
‘Nay, John. We’ve shed enough blood. Let it be.’
The fishing canoes returned, and trade resumed.
All at once, however, the chief shouted some orders, and one of the fishermen grabbed Taiata. The boy screamed as he was dragged off the ladder and into the waka.
‘Tupaia! Master! Help me!’
But his cries were stifled as two men
held him down in the prow, and the canoes began paddling quickly away.
Shocked by the speed of events, it took Isaac a moment to realise his friend had been kidnapped – just like John Thurman at Madeira, though here the victim might still be rescued. As the waka raced towards shore Isaac shouted urgently, ‘Tell the Captain! Tell the Captain!’
‘Toote!’ cried Tupaia. ‘You must stop them!’
‘Shall I order the marines to fire now, suh?’ enquired Lieutenant Gore.
‘Aye, John. There is no help for it. But tell them to try and not hit the boy.’ Knowing how unreliable muskets were.
‘Marines! Take positions!’ shouted Sergeant Edgcumbe. ‘On my order – fire!’
The muskets spat flame and death. Taiata, lying rigid with fear, heard the man holding him groan and slump, and his grip loosened. As the smoke cleared, Isaac saw that Taiata had wriggled free in the panic and leaped overboard.
‘He’s swimming towards Endeavour!’
‘Lower the longboat to pick him up,’ commanded Lieutenant Gore.
But as the boat was swinging out, the Maori chief rallied his warriors and ordered the war canoe to go after Taiata. The paddlers bent to the task, chanting their war song. Closer it beat to the floundering boy.
‘They’re going to get him,’ Isaac shouted, hanging out as far as he could from the shrouds. ‘Hurry!’
‘Another round if you please, Mr Gore. And Gunner, fire ball shot.’
The cannon was primed, loaded, rammed home, and roared. The muskets struck again. This time the waka left off the chase and headed for shore, while a very frightened Tahitian boy was hauled aboard the longboat and back to the ship. The Maori carried three of their dead up the beach.
Later, when he’d recovered a little, Taiata went to Tupaia with a fish he had caught that day. ‘I wish to offer it to the gods as thanks for my deliverance.’