Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Hold your fire!” Williamson abruptly bellowed. One more lone shot rang out. It did not come from the bushes in front of them. “Hold your fire, I say!”

  As the men stood poised and alert the smoke surrounding them began to dissipate. “By God,” Williamson rumbled, “they’ve gone and run off! I knew we should’ve advanced faster.” He glanced into the hills off to their left, where his flanking force was moving. “The others won’t be in position yet.”

  Hull was frowning as he stared at the bushes and the river beyond. “Something’s wrong here, Mr. Williamson. This isn’t right. Maoris don’t run away from a fight. They’re heathens but they’re not cowards.”

  “You know them that well then, sir.”

  “Well enough to say that this battleground suddenly smells of more than powder, Mr. Williamson. I’ve dealt with the natives here longer than just about any other man on North Island.”

  “Then if they’ve not run away, where are they?”

  Hull had no answer for that. One was, however, forthcoming.

  The sound of musketry made both men turn, not to where their opponents ought to be but back toward camp. Williamson looked across to a thin man attired in sailor’s garb.

  “Merrick! Did you leave anybody in camp?”

  “No sir,” the subordinate shouted back. “You said to bring every available gun.”

  “By damn!” Williamson threw his hat to the ground and kicked it. Hull ignored it as it went sailing into the bushes. “Get back to camp, everybody!” Behind him the twin lines of riflemen were gaping at him, at one another. “Back to camp I said, on the double!”

  Williamson took off. The lines broke as men began to follow, suddenly panicked. Hull tried to keep up with the Major. When he found he couldn’t handle the pace he slowed and let the rest of the expeditionary force race past him.

  There was no fear of losing his way. The smoke insured that. Smoke rising from burning tents and food bales. By the time Williamson and the first militia men stumbled into camp most of the horses were gone along with every last one of the supply wagons. While they’d been off hunting down a supposedly trapped and demoralized enemy, other Maoris had slipped into camp to hitch up the dray horses. Then they’d simply driven away, untouched and unseen.

  The distraught returnees organized in an attempt to put out the fires and save what goods and supplies the Maoris hadn’t made off with. It did not take long because the Maoris had missed very little.

  Cosgrove was standing alone in the road the natives had taken, dust settling on his boots. “We have to go after them,” he was mumbling.

  “What, on foot?” It was Harrington Pettit.

  “Unless you can fly, sir.” The two men glared at each other.

  “Stop it, the both of you.” Hull sat down on a nearby rock, tired and worn out but not as dispirited as his companions. Not only had they been duped, they’d been duped by a bunch of ignorant natives. Obviously they were going to have to rethink this campaign and all subsequent ones. Their opponent was cunning and deceitful in ways they had not imagined.

  Pettit articulated what everyone was feeling at that moment. “This is no way to have a war! Don’t they intend to fight? This is nothing more than theft on a large scale.”

  “Your pardon, Harrington,” Hull said, “but let me remind you that the Maoris are not civilized. So don’t expect them to act that way in war any more than in times of peace. They’re interested only in winning. At this point we should be thinking similarly. In any event, Mr. Cosgrove, Harrington is right. We can’t go after them. Not through that.” He raised his untested blade to gesture into the woods where the wagon tracks turned off the road.

  “And why not, sir?” the store owner wondered. “Our best and most fleet of foot should be able to overtake them, slowed as they are by their booty.”

  “Suppose they do manage that? What then?”

  Cosgrove made a face. “I do not understand you, sir.”

  Hull sighed. “If you somehow manage to overtake them on foot you’ll be too tired to fight. Isn’t one lesson a day enough? There are easier ways of committing suicide.”

  Cosgrove stiffened. “Are you suggesting that in battle a Maori is the equal of a white man, Mr. Hull?”

  “I’m saying you don’t track a lion to his lair unless you’re damn well sure you’ve got him outmatched ten to one. I’ll wager you haven’t watched Maoris hunt. I have. A Maori can stand still as a tree all day without moving a finger until his prey steps within range.

  “And that’s not all.” Hull looked back downriver toward where the brief battle had been waged. “You think they missed all those shots because they don’t know how to handle guns? Some certainly, but not that many. That bothered me right off but everything was happening so fast I didn’t have time to think on it. They were missing us deliberately, leading us on to think we’d have an easy time of it.” He nodded at the woods.

  “The way I see it, gentlemen, we should be thinking about survival instead of revenge. It’s a long trek back to Auckland on foot. All our supplies are in the hands of our enemies. They must know how badly they’ve hurt us. Eventually they’re going to start trying to exploit that fact. I’d rather not be around when they do.” He pushed himself off the warm rock. “Best we get moving immediately.”

  At first Williamson resisted. Like Cosgrove, he wanted to pursue. Hull was a man of little patience. He had to employ all of it to hold his temper.

  “The men are tired and they haven’t had any breakfast,” Williamson argued.

  “Breakfast? Most of our supplies are in the hands of the Maoris, or have you forgotten that already? If they’re hungry, let them eat greens and berries. It’s a diet they might as well get used to. There won’t be more than that between here and the nearest farm. You wanted to trap them between high ground and the river. Hasn’t it occurred to you yet that that’s just where we’re sitting right now?”

  Williamson blinked at him, then glanced toward the hills off to the right, suddenly nervous. “That’s right. By God, you are right, sir. We must move.” He hurried off in search of his lieutenants.

  So instead of pursuing the Kingites to their lair the disgruntled members of the glorious punitive expedition found themselves trudging listlessly homeward, glancing uneasily over their shoulders all the way. Nor did the Kingites let them retreat in peace. Without warning, shots would come from between the trees to fell several men. The whole column would fire back in unsupervised, erratic fashion until by dint of word and the occasional blow to the head their leaders succeeded in getting them to stop. By the time a rational defense could be organized, the Maoris responsible for inspiring it had inevitably vanished from sight. Loud challenges quickly gave way to cursing and muttering as the men picked up their dead and wounded and resumed the long march.

  These hit-and-run tactics devastated the column’s morale. It was an uncivilized, unorthodox way to fight. It was also ruinously effective.

  “Had an uncle fought in America back in the ’90s,” one of the marchers was telling his companions. “Remember him tellin’ me this was the way the Red Indians used to fight. They’d just sneak up on you and pick you off one at a time, and if you chased ’em they’d ride off and hide until you gave up.”

  “They’re spirits, these Maoris,” the man next to him whispered. He’d acquired a severe limp thanks to a native musketball that had grazed his thigh. “Bleeding spirits. This is their land and they know the countryside. Never should have been a war anyway. Damned land speculators.”

  “You ain’t sayin’ you’re afraid of ’em, are you?” a man walking behind challenged.

  The limper looked back sharply. “You’re bloody well right I’m afraid of ’em!”

  As if the random attacks weren’t bad enough, the Maoris eventually grew bold enough to taunt the column from the safety of the forest. In some ways these verbal barbs were worse than the musket fire because they struck everyone simultaneously. Only shots from the column’s
best marksmen sufficed to drive them away.

  Williamson quickly put a stop to that waste of lead and powder. The Maori pursuit continued, forcing the men to bear the laughter and insults all the way to the outskirts of Auckland. Every imprecation was delivered in impeccable, if slightly accented, English.

  They were a sorry sight as they reentered the city. The wounded were convoyed to the hospital, the dead to various graveyards. There was no formal mustering out. The column simply dispersed with nary a word, men making their own way back to homes and shops, farms and ships. They’d lost more than a quarter of their force killed or wounded, while many of the survivors were sick and weak from lack of food and sleep.

  It was a sobering, disheartening experience for every man in the expedition, and for none more so than Tobias Hull.

  6

  Several days later he found himself walking slowly but without hesitation toward the one house in Auckland he’d sworn never to set foot inside. It was easily the grandest such structure in the city, fashioned of wood and stone and imported glass. He mounted the wide steps leading to a porch that encircled the entire house and rapped for attention. The lion’s head brass knocker boomed within.

  Instead of the aged Maori servant he half expected to see he found himself greeted by a sprightly young Irishwoman clad in a green and white uniform. She eyed the gentleman visitor curiously, glancing past him briefly to observe the elaborate carriage waiting across the street. For his part Hull tried not to stare past her. The hall beyond was pungent with the smell of fine carpets and oiled furniture.

  “Sir? Was there something?”

  “Tell.…” He swallowed, had to begin again. “Tell Mr. Coffin that Tobias Hull is here and begs the pleasure of his company for a few moments.”

  The maid nodded slowly and vanished within. Hull watched the perky switch of her derriere and wondered if perhaps Coffin might be spreading his interests around. He could certainly afford it now. But no, Hull decided. Coffin was too staid, too restrained for that. He’d been something of a hellion in his younger days, but now he was a respectable family man. Hull nearly laughed aloud at the thought.

  All he could do now was wait.

  As the years had gone by Robert Coffin had acquired something he’d once vowed to have no trick with: a taste for luxury. As a result the houses in Auckland and Te Wairoa had been filled with the finest furnishings Coffin’s Captains could find in Europe, America and the Orient.

  Original muslin curtains had been replaced by folds of damask silk. The table setting of finest china that he’d bought for Holly was now flanked by finely wrought English silver. The clocks came from France. Fine paintings covered the walls. Coffin had been assured they were the work of respected artists. Respected or not, he found them pleasing to look upon: Italian ruins dappled with Mediterranean sunshine, dark English forests, horses and dogs frozen in oils.

  His favorite piece was by a lesser-known artist. It held the place of honor above the marble mantlepiece in the expanded sitting room. There was a twin in the house at Te Wairoa. It depicted Holly Coffin standing alone before a garden of flowers. She was wearing the blue dress he’d given her many years earlier. The dress was all satin and lace, but both of them referred to it simply as the “blue dress.” It flowed down her figure much as the sunshine filled the Italian paintings, illuminating hollows and niches, highlighting the swells and ridges of her body. It was not quite lewd.

  A much smaller portrait of Christopher hung nearby. Coffin’s son was almost as tall as his father now, a handsome if thin and delicate young man. A sailor he would never be and both men knew it; his constitution simply wasn’t hardy enough to cope with that rigorous life.

  But while he would never become a Captain, neither had he turned into a dandy as Coffin once feared. He came by his interest in the family business naturally, without his father having to push him in that direction. So adept had Christopher become at juggling orders and papers under Elias Goldman’s careful direction that Coffin himself was able to spend many pleasant afternoons at home with his wife, secure in the knowledge that his son was watching after his interests.

  It was hard for him to take a day off. Having worked so long to inure himself to privation and long hours, Coffin found the thought of relaxation more than a little alien.

  The table in the formal dining room was long enough to seat thirty for dinner. At lunch only the seats at the north end were occupied. Coffin would sit at the head of the table with Holly on his immediate right. Christopher often sat opposite his mother, but today he remained at the office. Something about inventory control, Goldman had muttered. Coffin could have insisted, but knew better than to go against Elias’s judgement. If he needed Christopher, then so be it. It was the best business schooling any young man could ask for.

  The thought pleased him. After years of worry and concern it seemed certain his only son was not only going to survive but was going to do so in style as an important contributor to the ongoing success of Coffin House. Christopher would never be one to go exploring new country on horseback or sailing to San Francisco to develop new markets, but now that he’d discovered a niche where he could prove himself the equal or better of any man his age he was definitely happier than Coffin had ever seen him before. And he was in the best of hands with Goldman, who treated him like his own son.

  Few people knew that Goldman had married Kamine, his Maori mistress, and that they had two fine healthy girls of their own to raise. Coffin often wondered what the members of Kamine’s whanau, or extended family, made of Goldman’s Jewish beliefs as they struggled to sort out the various Christian doctrines vying for their souls.

  Like everything else in Auckland, the quality of the city’s medical community improved a little each year. Yes, with good doctors to care for his body and Goldman to look after his mind, Christopher was going to survive to take control of Coffin House completely one day. Then Coffin would allow himself to retire to the life of ease to which he was reluctantly becoming accustomed.

  There was little, he mused, that a man could have that he didn’t. Why not learn to enjoy some of life’s finer things? He could afford the time to appreciate them. He pushed a forkful of fresh venison into his mouth and chewed slowly.

  “This is excellent,” he said expansively. “Be sure and tell Cook.”

  Holly put down her knife and fork and gaped at him. “What’s this? A compliment from Robert Coffin? You can be sure I’ll tell Cook, husband, though it would be best to have a doctor standing by to rouse her from the fainting spell she’ll surely suffer as a result.”

  “Now Holly,” Coffin said, chiding her, “you know I’m not that bad. I always give credit for good work done.”

  “In business, yes. Credit to one of your Captains, congratulations to a master of fields, compliments to a clerk—but never to a member of your household. Nevertheless, I’ll take care to break it to her gently.” She grinned as he took a playful swipe at her, ducking back out of his reach.

  She was so beautiful when she smiled like that, he reflected. Holly had hardly aged at all. The woman was a wonderment. Somehow she had stopped time, still looked almost as she had when he’d courted her back in London. Nor was he the only one to remark on her unmarred beauty. She doesn’t change at all, they whispered enviously. She’s as beautiful as ever she was.

  No one said that about Robert Coffin, nor would he have cared one way or the other. There was no vanity in him. Lines and wrinkles gave him character while his hair could turn no grayer than it had been on his twentieth birthday. His developing taste for fine food had not made him fat, but it couldn’t be denied that he was not as lean and muscular as he’d been when he’d spent half a voyage standing on the bowsprit of the Resolute or weeks fighting his way through previously unexplored bush country. He patted his waist appraisingly. A slight increase in girth was nothing more than an indication of prosperity, to be admired as such.

  Emily, the day girl, came in from the main hall. Coffin refle
cted that some day soon he would have to see to engaging a proper butler to supervise the household staff. There were two full-time maids now, as well as Cook and the groom, Wallace, who saw to the livery, and a housekeeper on watch at Te Wairoa. Coffin could have done with less but Holly enjoyed the luxury of servants and there was no dearth of destitute new immigrants ready to work hard for modest wages. A butler would be a help to her.

  Emily curtseyed adequately. “Excuse me, sir, but there’s a gentleman here and most anxious he is to see you, sir.”

  Coffin put his linen napkin on the table, pushed back his chair. “Always when I’m having lunch.”

  “Now don’t bark at him, whoever he is, husband,” Holly admonished him. “Midday is the only time anyone can catch you.”

  He bent to bestow a quick peck on her forehead. “I’ll be right back. I wouldn’t want to miss whatever Cook has conjured up for dessert.”

  “Perhaps you should.” She gave him a mischievous poke in the middle.

  Though Coffin had seen much in his life it still never failed to astonish him how rapidly a human being could travel from the heights of contentment to the depths of disappointment. It wasn’t Emily’s fault, of course. How could she have known who it was she’d politely permitted to enter?

  Hull sat on a couch in the parlor, openly admiring the crystal and other furnishings. Coffin halted in the portal.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Hull. You always did. Look all you want to. It’ll do you no good. The good silver’s put up and my wife’s jewelry is in a safe.”

  Hull flashed his famous crooked smile. As always he appeared to be laughing at some particularly nasty private amusement.

  “I’ve no need of either, thank you, Coffin. I’ve plenty of my own.”

  “How’s your daughter getting along, Hull?”