“Wonder what the boys are firing at?” Sumner mused aloud.
“Maybe the Maoris are making some trouble after all.” Gould shivered slightly. It was one thing for the boss to talk about fighting Maoris from behind the shelter of wooden fences and walls, quite another to have to deal with them out in the open. He moved to stand alongside Sumner.
“Maybe we better get back, sir.”
Sumner shook his head. “Worried? It’ll be over in a minute or two. These Maoris fight pretty well for heathen but there’s no way they can break a line of well-armed white men.”
The instant he finished, a dozen loggers burst out of the woods. They were running at top speed, throwing aside axes, saws, chains and everything else that might lighten them. Several of them fell, skinning themselves badly on the rough ground. Instantly they scrambled back to their feet to continue their headlong flight, heedless of cuts and bruises.
Sumner didn’t react until the first few had raced past him without stopping. Then he tried to intercept a member of the remaining group.
“Wait there—you, stop—stop, I say!” Finally he stepped into another man’s path and grabbed him bodily.
He recognized a logger named Johannsen. A big man, stout and powerful. His eyes were wild and his face streaked with grime and blood. A deep cut ran from his chin around the side of his jaw. Raw flesh showed where the beard had been slashed away.
“What is it, man? What’s happening?”
Johannsen didn’t take kindly to being held up and struggled violently as he looked back into the forest. “The Maoris! Jesus, Mr. Sumner, let me go! They’re killing everybody!” He ripped his way out of Sumner’s grasp and plunged down the hill in pursuit of his friends.
Gould was already starting to retreat, keeping a wary eye on the trees. “I think we’d better go too, Mr. Sumner, sir. I think we’d best take cover behind the stockade.”
“Shots.” A dazed Sumner allowed himself to be pulled along by his foreman. “We heard shots. It should be over by now.” He was staring blankly at the forest and shaking his head.
They heard the yelling then: a high-pitched ululation. When howled by a few Maori it was sufficient to chill the blood of even a brave man. When the same sound was produced by more than a hundred throats wise men took shelter and primed their rifles.
Then they were coming out of the woods, a line of tattooed, heavily armed warriors. Their feathers bobbed against their black hair and their weapons glistened in the bright sunlight. They waved shark-tooth-edged spears and greenstone clubs above their heads and gestured with shiny new muskets.
Gould was all but dragging his employer now. “Mr. Sumner, for God’s sake, move your damn legs! Run for it!” At last he released his grip and turned to race for the camp buildings, legs raised high, arms pumping.
Sumner’s lethargy left him and he turned to follow. He was a fast runner, always had been, and he soon passed Gould and then several others. A moment later the air shook to the thunder of dozens of muskets discharging. It was an echo of the gunfire he’d heard before. That’s when it dawned on him that those first shots had come not from weapons wielded by his own men but from guns carried by the attacking Maori. Decades of practice had made them expert in the use of European firearms.
Several bullets whistled past his head. Half a dozen loggers pitched forward or back almost simultaneously. Sumner fought to lengthen his stride. His heart pounded and his legs ached each time a foot struck the ground. By the time he reached the stockade, the last survivor to do so, he was completely out of breath.
But he’d made it. Now he could relax. It would be all right. The Maoris had been known to raid farms and rural villages but never to attack a fortified position. They would prance about outside for an hour or so, firing their guns into the air and hurling insults before slinking back into the woods.
Even so, he didn’t have time to catch his breath because he saw Martin Carroll, his second-in-charge, beckoning to him from atop the stockade rampart. Sumner climbed up alongside him and stared. Carroll pointed, a thoroughly unnecessary gesture.
The ground beyond the stockade was brown, but not with the color of earth. The Maori army covered the cleared area all the way back into the first trees.
“God help us, Mr. Sumner, there must be a thousand of ’em.”
“Easy, Martin. We’ll get out of this yet.” Sumner hoped his assistant couldn’t smell the fear sweat staining his attire. “What the hell’s that?”
Two dozen Maori warriors had advanced to take up a position ahead of the main body of fighters. Now they paused atop a low hillock. As methodical as any platoon of grenadiers they raised their loaded muskets and fired in unison.
Just before the guns went off someone yelled to take cover. Sumner didn’t hear the warning clearly because he was too dazed to listen. They really are going to attack, he mumbled to himself. The muskets roared and he felt something strike his left shoulder. Staggered, he glanced down and was surprised to see blood welling from a hole in his shirt half an inch in diameter. Then he was falling.
They carried him off the wall, but by the time they reached the ground he could look up and see Maoris coming over the top. They’d brought scaling ladders with them. Very well made ladders, too. They really knew how to work wood and flax, he thought weakly.
His bearers had to put him down to defend themselves. Men engaged in that peculiarly jerky, unsteady dance called hand-to-hand combat all around him, screaming and bleeding and dying as the loggers tried to beat back the overwhelming assault. Some of them fought bravely, but there were too many Maoris. Far too many.
He rolled over and tried to crawl towards the main building. Halfway there he stopped as a masklike face materialized in front of his own, staring down at him. The warrior’s eyes were bulged and his tongue darted in and out in the traditional war challenge.
Sumner raised a hand, but it did nothing to slow the descent of the heavy club. The carved whorls and designs on the jade matched those tattooed on the native’s face. That thought was Sumner’s last as the sharpened edge of the war club sliced through skin and nerves, halting only when it cut into the upper vertebrae near the base of his neck. He died instantly.
The man who’d killed him extracted his club from the pakeha’s neck and hurried off in search of combat elsewhere. Soon the only screams and cries to be heard the length and breadth of the camp were those of Maori warriors disappointed there was no one left to fight.
Tobias Hull rode out of Auckland several days after the logging camp massacre in the company of four hundred armed men. They brought along not only guns and ammunition but supplies and a dozen heavily laden wagons. The latter would slow them down but permit them to pursue the offending natives all the way to their home pas. This time there would be more than “lessons.” The members of the expedition vowed to continue the hunt ’til the last Kingite had been exterminated.
Nor was the massacre at the logging camp the only incident of its kind. Everywhere on North Island the Maoris were making their frustrations and anger known. Meanwhile Governor Browne sat in his office, consulted the provincial councils, and dithered over how to respond.
While politicians debated, men decided. Determined men, who would take action to resolve the crisis as it ought to have been resolved years before.
Harrington Pettit rode his favorite sorrel next to Hull. The attention of both men lay on the road ahead as they watched for any sign from the scouts who’d ridden out in advance of the main body. The brush through which they rode appeared undisturbed, but that was not reason enough to relax vigilance. The Maori could stand motionless as trees until the time came to attack.
“I’m still not sure we shouldn’t have waited for the Governor’s blessing, Tobias, if not for an official empowerment.”
Hull spat into the bushes. “If we stand around waiting for Browne to make up his mind the Kingites will devastate the whole interior. We must nip this rebellion in the bud.”
His compan
ion looked resigned. “I suppose so. I just wish we hadn’t left in such an all-fired rush. I’ve had to leave important business unattended.”
“As have we all. So the sooner we flush these Kingites and put paid to them the faster we’ll be able to get back to normal commerce.”
“That’s so.”
It was a startlingly clear day, devoid of cloud. Men had to be restrained from dashing into the woods after the slightest sound or suggestion of movement, so anxious were they to cut a few Kingite throats. Hull turned to examine the column behind him approvingly. Let the Maoris attack now! They wouldn’t find well-armed militia as easy as farmers and loggers.
Pettit was not quite as confident. “I hope we’re ready, Tobias. Some reports claim these Kingites have fifteen hundred warriors in their war party.”
“We may find ourselves outnumbered, but our firepower will carry any battle.” Every man in the column carried a rifle. Some had more than one, and there were pistols and cutlasses as well. “I doubt these Kingites have a hundred muskets among them. Nor will they have the advantage of surprise this time.”
“Still, I worry.”
“Thinking of turning back?” Hull knew it was a risky question. Pettit had paid for a hundred of these men out of his own copious pockets. If he lost his nerve now and took his people back to Auckland, the expedition’s strength would be severely reduced. Pettit considered a moment, then shrugged.
“Of course not. We must put an end to this devilish business now or more Maoris will flock to align themselves with the Kingites.”
“Exactly.” Hull masked his relief. “And I wish I could get you and everyone else to quit referring to them as ‘Kingites.’ I realize the label is convenient, but it gives their cause a ring of legitimacy it does not deserve. I would not ennoble this Potatu. We’re after heathen bandits and no more.”
That night they camped on the southern shore of a river too deep and wide to ford. Though none in the expedition called soldiering a profession, many had served twenty years and more with various European armies before emigrating to New Zealand. Their advice gave the expedition the air of a real military campaign.
By camping against the river they protected the column’s rear. Supply wagons were arranged in a circle to make a corral for the horses and mules. Rifles were properly tripoded in front of tents. While the tired marchers set up tents or put out sleeping bags, a line of pickets was established to watch for Maori thieves.
Meanwhile the expedition’s leaders met to discuss forthcoming operations. As the sun dropped behind the tree-fringed horizon lanterns were produced and lit.
Pettit drew on smooth ground with a pointed stick. “The village of Avakerere lies three days’ march from here. It is known the tribe consists largely of Kingite sympathizers, though the chief still wavers. It’s almost certain some of them participated in the attack on the Sumner settlement. If nothing else we can be certain they viewed the outrage with approval. We must press them to tell us which way the Kingite army has gone.”
“And if they refuse?” asked one of the onlookers.
Pettit rose. “We must convince them it is in their best interests to be frank with us.”
“Even if they did not participate in the actual fighting they probably provided supplies and support.” Hull didn’t smile. “If we threaten to burn their granaries and homes I think they’ll be forthcoming with the information we need.”
“And if they still prove reluctant to talk,” Major Williamson put in, “there are other ways to persuade them.”
Williamson had served thirty years in His Majesty’s forces. His claimed rank of Major was open to debate, but none disputed his knowledge of military matters. So despite the fact that Pettit and his genteel associates looked down on the commoner, his actual combat experience resulted in him being named the expedition’s battlefield commander. His language was blunt, his attitude unsophisticated, and his approach to war not for the gentlemanly or the squeamish.
Hull did not belong in either classification in spite of the wealth and status he had acquired over the years. Men like Williamson had their uses. This was one of those times. After all, it wasn’t as if they were going to war with real human beings. Noncombatants were inevitably drawn into the conflict and would have to be dealt with. Hadn’t some of the Kingites already demonstrated callous disregard for the rules of civilized warfare?
Pettit and the others could stand aloof if they wished. While they pontificated, he and Williamson and other men of action would put a speedy end to this rebellion, in such a way as to insure that no Maori would ever again raise a gun or spear in defiance of English law.
5
Sleep inspires contentment but not confidence, so Hull was as startled as his less militant colleagues when the shot roused him to wakefulness. The sun was barely peeping over the horizon when he scrambled out of his tent, fighting with his trousers. An excited, out-of-breath guard nearly ran him down.
“Maoris! A whole army of ’em!”
“Easy, man. Where?” Looking past the wheezing guard, Hull could see frantic men running back and forth, loading muskets and waving swords dangerously about while Williamson and his subordinates yelled and cursed.
The guard turned and pointed, almost too excited to talk. “Downstream, Mr. Hull sir. Came sneaking up on Matthew and me. Matthew, he and I we work at the mill up on the.…”
“Spare me the details of your domestic life. What happened?”
“Tried to surprise us, they did, but Matthew spotted ’em right off. We both fired. The Maoris fired back and missed, so soon as we saw we were outnumbered we came running for the rest of the boys.” He took a deep breath, grinning hugely beneath his floppy-brimmed hat. “Before they can get away we’ll wipe ’em clean off the face of this Earth.”
Hull was checking his pistols. “How many are there?”
“Hard to say, sir. We didn’t have time to count ’em. A hundred, maybe two. Wiremu Kingi’s men for sure!”
“I hope you’re right, man. If it is and we can trap him we’ll put paid to this nonsense once and for all.”
Both men looked downstream as a series of distant pops reached them, toy guns going off in the distance.
“Major Williamson’s already started after them, sounds like. I heard an officer say they’re gonna try to get two lines of men up on the high ground so we can pin the buggers down against the river.” But Hull was already running in the direction of the fighting.
Mull Cosgrove joined him, his smooth-cheeked face full of excitement. Cosgrove owned several large general stores. He wasn’t used to hard physical exertion but seemed to be bearing up manfully.
“Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” More gunshots, louder and more frequent, could be heard as they neared the battlefield.
“They thought to surprise us by sneaking up the river and using the sound of rushing water to muffle their movements, but some of our people caught them out. Williamson says if we can hold them here he’ll send a hundred men around their flank. If they try to retreat then we’ll wipe them out, and if they stand their ground we’ll push them into the river.”
It sounded like a good plan to Hull, simple and thorough. They were close enough now to smell blood and powder. Men milled about in front of him and he recognized many of the anxious faces. Williamson and his officers moved through the ranks, trying to organize a formal military battle line. It took Hull several minutes to catch up with him.
“Where are they?”
Williamson turned to growl, took note of who his questioner was and stopped long enough to point. “Over there, back against the river. Tried to break away a couple of times. Each time, our boys threw ’em back. My only worry now is that they’ll spot our reinforcements coming up and decide to make a dash for it before we can cut them off entire.”
Hull nodded his understanding. With the roar of pistols and muskets filling the air he’d barely been able to make out Williamson’s words. Dense smoke began to
obscure the river and the brush clinging to its banks.
When the firing subsided slightly, he pressed close to Williamson. “What are our prospects?”
“Prospects, sir?” The old soldier looked composed and confident. “Well Mr. Hull, it’s my considered opinion we’ll have every surviving man-jack among this lot hangin’ from the Kauris before suppertime.”
Nodding, Hull tried to find a place from which to watch the battle. It should be simplicity itself. The Maoris had tried to sneak into camp only to run afoul of Williamson’s well-positioned sentries. Now the attackers found themselves pinned down. If they held their ground a while longer the flanking troops would cut them off completely. That would spell an end to at least a few of Wiremu Kingi’s outlaws. The execution of several dozen should take some of the fight out of the others, when word reached them. They’d think long and hard before attacking another defenseless village or farm. With luck they might disperse altogether. Why, the war could be ended here and now, today, in this place.
Williamson had finally managed to cajole, threaten, and whip his undisciplined fighters into two battle lines. They were ragged and uneven, but they held.
“Ready? Fire!” Hull heard him shout, whereupon the front line of militia unleashed an impressive mass volley of shot. As they fell back to reload, the second line was brought forward a dozen paces before Williamson called for them to halt and fire. The first line had advanced beyond the second again when Hull hurried up to join the Major, a pistol in one hand and saber in the other.
“Just a moment, Mr. Williamson.”
The old soldier turned to glare at him. “What do you mean, just a moment, sir? Who is giving the orders here?”
“You are, Major, but while I defer to you in most of this I think you’ll agree in matters of war it’s best not to waste shot and powder. Who are your people shooting at?”
Williamson started to say something, hesitated, then turned and squinted toward the brush lining the river. There was no longer any return fire emanating from the spot where their quarry was supposed to be trapped. Faces turned toward them as the line of ready men awaited the order to unleash the next broadside. The only sounds at all came from a few isolated groups of militia firing on their own without discipline or direction.
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