Hull listened as McQuade rambled on, finally shrugged the story off. “I agree there are a few bad apples in any barrel, but the Godwins were an exception. Don’t tell me that justifies the burning of Hampton Farm.”
“Nay. All I’m sayin’ is that you kinna blame all the Maoris for the acts of a few. You’ve no proof these scattered malefactors are even Kingites.”
That concluded Hull’s attempt to bring the redoubtable Angus McQuade into the activists’ camp. At least Harrington Pettit was with him. And there were others present who would carry some weight with the Governor. Hull felt confident. They’d persuade him if it took all day. Then there would finally be some action, action that should have been taken years ago. Long overdue it was, but not too late.
Pettit and the rest were talking among themselves when a well-dressed assistant returned to interrupt them. “The Governor will see you now, gentlemen.”
“About time,” Hull grumbled. With a backward glance to insure that his supporters did not back out at the crucial moment he followed the flunky into the Governor’s office.
That worthy was receptive to their complaints and suggestions but clearly hesitant to implement any of them. At least you could talk sense to him, Hull thought. Not like that damn Maori-lover George Gray. Gray had finally gone back to England and this Browne had taken his place. A reasonable man, Gore Browne. One who seemed to understand the proper relationship of Maori to white man.
He listened, but would he act? Hull let Pettit add his own complaints to the steady litany, then waited to see how Browne would respond.
“You argue very plausibly, gentlemen.” Hull was pleased to see that the Governor was speaking to him instead of Pettit or any of the others. Browne was enough of a politician to know who held the reins of power here. “But what would you have me do? Call out troops to slaughter whatever natives they happen to encounter?”
“And why not?” Pettit replied. “Teach them some manners.”
“No one is really suggesting any such thing, sir.” Browne looked gratefully at Hull, which was the idea. He and Harrington had planned it this way. Pettit would be challenging and provocative, which would enable Hull to appear the voice of sweet reason.
“We’re not really suggesting anything so arbitrary. We’d rather avoid war if we can.” As if on cue his backers murmured their agreement.
Browne looked relieved. “Then what is it you do want?”
Reasonable and sensible, yes, but not especially quick-witted. Not that unusual intelligence was a requirement for a good Governor, Hull knew. Gray, now Gray would have seen past these subterfuges and gone right to the heart of the matter, complicating the issue with discussions of personal vendettas, personalities and other inconsequentialities. Not Browne. Browne was a man other men could deal with.
“We’re starting to face some real pressure on our resources, sir, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“I know there have been complaints,” Browne admitted.
“More than a few, sir. The colony is growing by leaps and bounds, but always under restraint. Unnecessary restraint, to our way of thinking. We’re doing well. We can do better. But not the way the system is currently operating. It’s too restrictive, sir. Confining, if you know what I mean.”
Browne’s fingers were twisting. “You’re suggesting a breakup of the Crown monopoly on land sales, I believe.”
“Among other things. That would certainly help. It’s only a few tribes who are being unreasonable, sir. These damned Kingites and their allies.”
“Yes, yes, the Kingites, the Kingites.” Browne leaned back in his chair, sounding tired. “I’m sick of hearing about this Maori King. It’s tiresome and aggravating. Still, they have committed no atrocities, attacked no towns. What am I supposed to do?”
“I know how you worry about the problem, Governor Browne. We all do.” His supporters made appropriately sympathetic sounds behind him. “But we have to do something, and soon. We can’t continue to expand without land. Land for sheep, for cattle, for growing grain and other foodstuffs, land for people to live on.”
“The Maori representatives claim they’ve already sold us more land than they intended to.”
“The Maoris say!” Hull’s voice dripped contempt. “Liars all. Why, they’ve hardly sold us any land to speak of. They’ve vast tracts they lay claim to that they haven’t set foot on in years. They don’t farm it, don’t fish in the rivers. Yet they refuse to sell it to decent, hard-working settlers who’d make something of it, who’d turn it into useful, productive country. They’re just mean-spirited, sir, if I may say so. Their constant raids and harassment of honest folk is proof enough of that. Put an end to this King foolishness and the raiding will stop.”
“I must disagree with you there, Mr. Hull. We’ve no evidence the Kingites are responsible for these incidents.”
Hull smiled knowingly and tried to inject a confidential tone into the discussion. “Ah, but don’t you see, sir, that’s just how they’ve planned it. These Maori have a certain savage cunning. The declared Kingites stand aloof and insist they’ve nothing to do with thievery and assault. They tell us a few rogues and criminals are responsible. The fact of that matter is that the very existence of a so-called Maori ‘King’ lends others the courage to commit these outrages. They’re confident their King will shield them, as we believe he does. Disband the Kingites, declare their self-appointed King subject to the Crown, and we’ll see an end to this banditry as well as a proper increase in land sales. The Maori must be taught his destiny does not lie in defiance but in cooperation. If he will not cooperate voluntarily, he must be instructed on how to behave.
“We must have an end to these raids, sir, and we must have land. Putting an end to this sham of a King will accomplish both ends at a stroke.”
“That’s the way of it, sir,” Pettit put in quickly. “It’s the way it’s been everywhere the British flag has gone. New Zealand mustn’t be any different.”
“I don’t know.…”
Hull pressed him relentlessly, sensing his hesitation. “We have to show them who’s in charge here, sir. The presence of this King undermines your authority and we can’t have that.”
Browne sighed. “I ask again, gentlemen: what would you have me do?”
“Let us buy whatever land the people wish to buy. We don’t want war. We don’t want conflict of any kind. Bad for business. All we want is a chance to buy—not take, but purchase for an honest price—land for new settlers and expanding farms that the Maoris themselves are not even using. If they won’t sell this land voluntarily then they must be compelled to sell. Once we’ve forced some to do so the others will see how powerless the Kingites really are. They’ll see how they’ve been duped by their own chiefs. It won’t take much to do so, sir. One or two such sales will put an end to this dangerous organization permanently.”
Browne was nodding to himself now. “I’ve heard reports of fighting and dissension among the Kingites.”
“Exactly, sir.” Hull leaned over the Governor’s desk. “By compelling one or two tribes to sell land they’re not using anyway it will show every Maori they must obey our laws. This Potatu I will be laughed off the island. Once the Kingites have been disbanded the Maoris will become cooperative and peaceful. It can all be accomplished without anyone firing a shot.”
“You hope,” said Browne with unexpected sharpness.
“Really, sir.” Hull smiled broadly. “You’ve just pointed out how feebly this Potatu holds his realm together. If the Maoris can’t stop fighting among themselves how can they present any real danger to us? These aren’t the old days, when one renegade chief could march into a town and burn it to the ground.” He gestured to his left. “I could walk out on the street and raise a thousand militia in a few minutes, and more in Wellington. The Maoris may think they still control North Island, but in reality it is we who have them surrounded.”
“You might indeed raise your regiments,” said Browne, “but the Maoris ha
ve guns too.”
“Which they use to slaughter each other to our eventual benefit.” Hull turned to regard his companions. “In fact, if it was up to me I’d sell them all the guns they’d buy.” There was some nervous, uncertain laughter. Hull looked back at Browne.
“That way they’d kill each other off all the sooner. Give a Maori a gun and the first thing he’ll do with it is turn on his neighbor, not on a farmer or stockman.
“We all know this Kingite organization is a farce. But it’s a dangerous farce, sir, because it gives all the Maoris a false sense of invulnerability. It encourages their young men to raid and steal and burn. Compel them to sell us the land we need anyway and you’ll shatter this illusion for all time. Then and only then will we have a lasting and practical peace.”
No one applauded but Hull knew he’d done well. Pettit and the others had done their part. Now it was left to Browne.
They could see him wrestling with their arguments. Hull couldn’t understand the delay. It was a simple question that brooked only one possible answer. He held his patience, however. Let Browne have a decent interval in which to make it look like he was really pondering nonexistent complexities.
When he finally looked back up at them he spoke with assurance. “You’re right, gentlemen.” Hull relaxed for the first time in weeks. “We must have more land, and these Kingites must be shown their place. It’s not right for good land to lie fallow merely because a few natives choose to be obstinate.”
“Then we’re in agreement, sir.” Hull moved to the side of the desk and extracted a map from one pocket. He spread it out so Browne could see it clearly. “If I may be so bold, Governor, we’ve already taken the liberty of marking certain tracts of land which could be put to immediate use. Not by those of us here today, but by other settlers and new colonists. These are the areas we feel should be opened to immediate development.”
Browne’s brows drew together. “Immediate? I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. We are agreed in this matter, I admit, but it might be best now that we are decided to move with some caution.”
“I must differ with you, sir,” said Hull firmly. “The Maoris grow more confident by the day. We must move quickly and decisively to stabilize the situation.”
“If necessary we can bring regular troops in to see that it stays stabilized,” one of the other men added emphatically.
Browne looked up narrowly. “I thought you said this would mean no fighting.”
“It will, it will, sir.” Hull glared at the individual who’d spoken. “I think what Mr. Howard meant was that the presence of some of His Majesty’s soldiers will be a sign to the Maori chiefs that we are serious in this. We should not miss any opportunity to awe the natives. The mere presence of regular army would indicate to them that all further resistance is futile. Call it an inducement to peace.”
“An inducement to peace.” Browne was obviously pleased. “Yes, I like that. And I suppose it would be a good precaution.” He looked down with renewed interest at the map spread out before him. “These new lands you wish to compel the Maori to open to settlement—this portion here, for example.” He tapped the map with a finger. “I always thought this region was too mountainous for farming.”
“For farming, yes, but not for sheep. As you can see by the presence of these streams here, and here,” and Hull moved to stand at the Governor’s side while the rest of the supplicants crowded eagerly around the desk, completely blocking it from sight.
4
Sumner paused with the heavy axe in mid-swing as Gould came up behind him.
“Excuse me, sir. Something’s up.”
Sumner let the axe fall carefully, surveyed the tree that was only a quarter cut through, then turned to regard his field hand. “What is it, man?”
“I don’t quite know how to tell you, sir. There’s a Maori here to see you.”
“A Maori?” Sumner wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, leaned on the axe. “What does he want? Can’t you or one of the other boys deal with it? What about Fieldston?”
“We tried that, Mr. Sumner, sir. He insists on seeing the owner.”
Sumner let the axe fall, the handle bouncing off a log, and turned to shout into the woods. “Harkin! Keep the men working. I have to go an’ talk to some bloody Maori!” The foreman’s reply was faint but audible, masked as it was by the sound of cutting and chopping that rang through this portion of the forest.
Auckland and Wellington and the new towns springing up everywhere needed lumber. Sumner and men like him stood ready to provide it. The owner of the logging operation shook his head sadly as he followed Gould down the slope toward the bunkhouses and newly erected sawmill. Not for Sumner an office and lackeys. That was no way to keep watch over a man’s business. Besides, he liked getting his hands dirty, liked the smell of fresh sap and sawdust. Hardly enough hours in the day for cutting trees as it was and now some dumb native had the gall to interrupt him.
“Did anyone think to ask the beggar what the emergency is?” He made no effort to disguise his impatience and displeasure.
“No sir.” Gould sounded as if he didn’t believe the entire business. “This fellow shows up at the front gate and demands to talk—demands, mind, doesn’t ask—to talk to the big boss. So I tell him that’s impossible and can someone else help him? Me for instance? And he looks at me and says that’s impossible. He mentioned you by name, Mr. Sumner, sir, so I couldn’t very well say I was you. He seems to know quite a lot about our operation here.”
“We haven’t exactly made a secret of it, Jack. Bloody Maoris. Be better for everybody if Browne would send a company down here to push ’em out.” They were inside the compound now, striding toward the main gate. “Right! We’ll soon have this settled and the fellow sent on his way.”
Since none of the men would let him inside the perimeter the Maori was waiting patiently outside the gate. If this offended the native he gave no sign of it. He turned to face Sumner and Gould as they approached.
Newly tattooed, Sumner noted with interest as he studied the native’s face. There’d been quite a revival of interest in the ancient arts since this ridiculous Potatu chap had set himself up as King. Well, they could tattoo themselves to blazes for all Sumner cared, so long as they stayed clear of his mill and men.
“What do you want?” Sumner had no time to waste on formal greetings for savages who couldn’t appreciate them anyway.
“My name is Alexander Gibson,” the Maori replied.
Sumner grinned and behind him Gould stifled a chuckle. “Gibson, eh? Thought you looked too good to be all native.”
The visitor’s expression did not change. “My father was Irish.”
Sumner just nodded. There’d been quite a lot of intermarriage between settler and native the past half-century. Dark meat wasn’t to Sumner’s taste but he knew plenty of men who were not as discriminating. Certainly the Maori women were willing and comely enough.
“That’s very interesting, friend Gibson, but I’m right busy now. If it’s a job you want there’s plenty of hauling to be done.” He gestured behind him. “This is Jack Gould, one of my foremen. He can tell you where to start. We can always use another strong back.”
“I am not here to help you cut the forest.” Gibson spoke softly, without a hint of an accent. “I am here to tell you to stop.”
Sumner gaped at him for a moment, then grinned back at Gould. “Oh, are you now? Well then, Mr. Gould, I guess we might as well break early today. We’ll just put down our saws and axes, shut down the mill, pack up our things and hurry back to Auckland.”
“That would be good,” said Gibson calmly.
“Speaks nice for a native boy, don’t he?” Gould said.
“You see,” Gibson continued, “this is not your land.”
The two white men exchanged a glance. When Sumner spoke again it was slowly, as though addressing a child. “Maybe you’d like to see the deed? You know what a deed is?”
�
�I know. It is the paper you used to cheat the tribe out of this land. I know how you got the rangitira from Maware drunk and then had him put his name on your paper.”
“I didn’t get him drunk.” Sumner was grinning knowingly. “He managed all by himself. I’ve noticed you boys are always ready to top off a few pints.”
“This land was acquired fraudulently. It is not yours. Therefore you must take your belongings and go.”
“Who says so?” said Sumner belligerently. He was convinced he’d wasted enough time on this impertinent native.
“I say so. My ariki says so.”
“You tell your ariki he’s full of shit. That’s what I say.” He turned to his foreman. “I don’t have time for this foolishness.”
“The land must be returned.”
“Sure, we’ll return it. As soon as we’ve logged every marketable tree. That shouldn’t take more than a year or two. Then you can have it back. See, I’m a reasonable man.”
“No.” Gibson shook his head slowly. “You must leave now.”
“And if we don’t?” Sumner asked tiredly.
“Then you will be moved forcibly. We will move you.”
“Will you now? You just bloody well try, me bucko.” He gestured for Gould to head toward the office. “Enough. I’ve real business to attend to.” They turned their backs on their solemn visitor and unconcernedly strolled away.
“You think he’s serious, sir?” Gould wondered.
“No, but we won’t take any chances. Have Harkin set out a night guard. I don’t want anybody sneaking up on me when I’m asleep. All the raids in this region have been minor. If fifty or a hundred Maoris want to try and push us off this land, let ’em. That’ll mean fifty or a hundred fewer Maoris we’ll have to argue with in the future.” The foreman nodded understandingly.
After checking in at the office Sumner returned to the tree he’d been cutting, but he never did finish felling it. Gould was turning to leave to report back to his own crew when they heard the first shot. Both men turned to stare into the woods.
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