Maori

by Alan Dean Foster

  Smoke obscured the front lines, cleared long enough to reveal the second line advancing to fire. Thunder ripped the air for a second time and a new smoke cloud formed in the wake of the first. Still the Maoris did not respond.

  A man on horseback rode over to greet him: Angus McQuade taking a moment’s leave from his own company. Both men stared at the silent pa.

  “What kinna be happenin’, Robert? What are they up to in there?”

  “Either they’re arguing among themselves what to do next, or they’re waiting out of sight until Gold’s men are well within range before responding.” He shook his head. “If they let Stoke’s men get too close to the wall they won’t have a chance of driving them off.”

  “Which means the battle will be won.”

  Coffin nodded. “I don’t understand, Angus. I know Maoris who could shoot as well as any European.”

  “Perhaps no such marksmen have joined the Kingites.”

  The first line of regulars continued their steady advance. They paused only once and then briefly to fix bayonets. It was possible that the massed fire had driven the defending Maoris away from the stockade wall. If so then fighting would break out furiously once the soldiers broke through the main gate. Meanwhile Coffin knew that a large body of troops waited alertly on the other side of the pa, ready to cut off any retreat should the Kingites attempt it.

  Buglers blew the charge and the soldiers, yelling and whooping, rushed the gate. They spread out, slipping their own muskets through the gunports that had been cut in the stockade. Others brought up scaling ladders and scrambled up the rungs while their comrades covered their ascent. Rifles slung, they went up with pistols and swords drawn.

  Musket smoke continued to obscure much of the scene, fading gradually along with the now irregular firing.

  “Kinna you see anythin’, Robert?”

  “No. I wish I’d brought my old seaman’s spyglass. In the rush to get off I forgot to pack it.”

  “Nay, see!” McQuade fought to control his excited mount. “There’s the flag already, at the top of the wall!”

  The militia and irregulars saw it at the same time and a great cheer arose from the waiting men.

  “All that fire must have driven them back to the main houses,” McQuade opined. “Once we got over the wall they had no choice but to surrender.”

  “I wonder.” The assault had gone like a textbook exercise: too smooth, too efficient. They had participated in a parade not a battle. Yet—there was the Union Jack waving over the Kingite’s pa, a sure sign of victory. Moments later it was replaced with signal flags as the troops inside communicated with their commander. Looking to his left Coffin could see Gold and his orderlies riding up the trail that lead to the main gate.

  Both Coffin and McQuade watched as the last of the smoke lifted. They expected to see at least a few bodies strewn about the hillside below the wall. There wasn’t a one.

  “Something’s wrong,” Coffin muttered uneasily. He turned to Rollins, the young banker who was his second-in-command. “Keep the men alert and ready, Will. We’re going down to see what’s happening.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Come on, Angus.”

  Together they rode toward the pa, following in Gold’s wake.

  The pa had been captured: of that there was no doubt. But there were no bodies inside either. Coffin located Gold and his officers, Stoke among them, inspecting a line of Maori granaries. Eyes formed of bright paua shell stared down from garishly carved tikis and other heathen symbols.

  Of the Maoris there was no sign.

  Coffin thought he heard something different then, drew McQuade off to one side. “You hear that, Angus?”

  “I dinna think—wait, yes. There’s somethin’.”

  They climbed one of the ladders that would have enabled the pa’s defenders to reach a platform running along the inside of the wall near the top. From this height one could see the whole battlefield. Off to the left were the reinforcements that would not be needed. Far off to the right could be seen the mass of troops defending the stream.

  They could hear it clearly now, even though it was already beginning to fade. Laughter.

  “Damn them!” McQuade was so angry he was shaking. When he saw that Coffin was hard put to restrain his own laughter his eyes widened. “Robert! You canna be laughin’ with them?”

  “I’m sorry, Angus. It’s just that, well, see what they did. They left a few warriors behind, just enough to make us think the pa was defended when we first arrived. They fired a few shots to keep us busy and spent the rest of their time tending all these cook fires. Kingi hasn’t set foot inside this pa for no telling how long.” McQuade shook his head slowly, numb at the discovery that the entire army had been badly fooled.

  “You realize what Kingi’s done, Angus? Not only has he bought himself more time, but his scouts have had the chance to see regular troops in action. They’ll not only know what to expect from now on, they’ll have a good idea of our strength and disposition.”

  “Then,” McQuade looked over at him, “where are Kingi and his people now?”

  “Probably holed up in another pa somewhere.” He turned, could see by the way Gold was haranguing his officers below that the Colonel had finally realized they’d been duped. “I hope Gold doesn’t take this personally. We’ll all need clear heads when the time comes for the real fight. At least he had the sense to let someone like Stoke lead the actual attack.” He turned away from the noisy cluster of frustrated soldiers, let his eyes sweep across the country that the Maoris had refused to sell to the settlers.

  “I’m sure Kingi will fight next time. He’s learned what he wanted to learn. Once is amusing, but if he runs a second time it will smack of retreat. He can’t afford that.”

  “Dinna worry, Robert. We’ll catch up with ’em.”

  “I know we will Angus. That’s what’s always worried me.”

  8

  It took the scouts weeks to finally locate the pa where Kingi intended to make his stand. The hill on which the village sat was not high, but it was surrounded by a deep ditch which would slow any attack. Scaling ladders would have to be used to span this wide moat. Worse, there was a small lake nearby. This meant the pa’s defenders had wells inside the wall. No matter how long the battle took there would be no shortage of water for cleaning and cooking.

  As the soldiers formed their lines they were greeted not with silence but with gesticulations and insults from the Maoris who lined the stockade wall. They bugged their eyes at the troops, jumped up and down, gestured obscenely with their weapons and flicked their tongues rapidly in and out in the traditional form of challenge. Gold and his officers merely sniffed at the barbaric demonstration and went about their business, but it riled the average soldier. Men clutched their muskets tightly and glared at their half-naked opponents, eager to engage them in combat.

  As he heard them talk of what they would do to the pa’s defenders, Coffin reflected that barbarism was all a matter of perspective.

  He and McQuade and Tobias Hull and several other militia officers tried their best to persuade Gold not to repeat his strategy of marching troops straight up to the stockade as he had the previous time, now that the Maoris were aware of the tactic. Gold held his ground. Even Captain Stoke, whom Coffin had come to respect, was convinced that such an attack would scatter the pa’s defenders.

  “If there’s trouble we’ll hit them with the militia and the volunteers,” Stoke argued. “They’ll be overwhelmed, sir.”

  Coffin shook his head impatiently. “It won’t work. They’re ready for us this time, Stoke.”

  McQuade spoke up. “I’ve men who won’t march against Maoris over open ground.”

  “Then they’ll be shot,” Gold said evenly. “Need I remind any of you, gentlemen, that this is a formal military expedition operating under military law. You’d best tell that to the fainthearted among your people. I will not tolerate desertion in time of battle, not even from volunteers. Be
sides, you worry needlessly. Once they see how the battle progresses your people will be eager to follow my troops into this village. I suggest you steady your men as best you’re able, have confidence, and leave the conduct and manner of the actual assault to those of us who are trained to manage it.”

  Coffin departed trying to convince himself Gold was right. True, the Kingites had had the chance to observe British troops in action, but against an empty pa. Some of Gold’s men were veterans of the Crimean War. They might just be able to awe the Kingites into surrender.

  Once again the lines were formed, the bugles blew and the drums rolled. Muskets at the ready, brass gleaming, the regulars commenced their assault. This time they were met halfway up the hill not by a cryptic silence but by a steady barrage of musket and rifle fire from within the stockade. Thick smoke soon obscured the battlefield.

  Out of the noise and acrid cloud came the order for the militia to advance. Shouts and curses stood in for bugles as the colonials began to move. Some of the men held back but, mindful of McQuade’s concerns, officers had been stationed in the rear of the column to drive the recalcitrant forward.

  Musket balls were soon whizzing through the smoke around them. It was impossible to see anything directly ahead and almost as difficult to hear due to the steady firing on both sides. The smoke was a sulfurous fog that obscured their vision. Only the fact that they were advancing uphill told them they were moving in the right direction.

  Soon they were able to see more than the earth underfoot. Men began tripping over the twisted bodies of dead and wounded soldiers lying where they’d fallen. Coffin couldn’t remember a great deal of what happened after that. His own men were falling around him. They couldn’t shoot through the damnable smoke lest they hit the regular troops in front of them, while the Maoris had only to aim and fire in the general direction of their assailants.

  The nearer they drew to the stockade itself, the thicker the bodies became. Angus McQuade had his horse shot out from under him. Seeing their commander go down, his men panicked and began to retreat.

  Ignoring the shots whizzing about his ears, Coffin rode through the pall of blue-tinged smoke and fairly flung himself from the saddle. McQuade lay on the ground, his face contorted with pain.

  “My leg,” he whispered agonizingly, “it’s my leg, Robert.”

  Looking down, Coffin saw that his friend’s left leg was pinned beneath the dead horse. Blood streamed from the animal’s neck and its eye bulged hugely.

  “Here, over here, you cowardly buggers!” Coffin waved angrily at a cluster of men. At his shout they hesitated, uncertain whether to advance or retreat. Their eyes were full of fear. With a curse Coffin yanked a pistol from his belt and pointed it at them.

  “Get your worthless carcasses over here now or I’ll shoot you down where you stand! This man needs your help!”

  It was enough to shock them out of their paralysis. They hurried over. Coffin put his pistol away and directed them. Several grabbed the saddle strap while two more helped Coffin.

  “Together now, on three. One, two—lift!”

  As they dragged McQuade from beneath the horse Coffin thought he recognized one of the men leaning on the saddle strap. Hodgkins, yes, that was his name. A miller from just outside the city. He called him over and together they bent to examine McQuade’s injuries.

  “Broken, certainly,” Hodgkins commented worriedly.

  Coffin used his knife to slit his friend’s trousers. There was no blood, no bone protruding whitely. He breathed a little easier.

  “How bad?” McQuade had his eyes shut against the pain.

  “Not as bad as it feels, Angus. The bone hasn’t come through.” Both men knew that meant there would be no need to amputate the leg, provided it healed without infection. Coffin rose, gave orders.

  “You men make a litter with your muskets.” When this was done and McQuade lifted from the ground he turned to Hodgkins. “Get him back to camp and to a doctor. And don’t abandon him until he’s safe or you’ll hear from me.”

  Hodgkins nodded reassuringly. “Don’t worry, sir.” Coffin’s calmness under fire and his cool words had restored the man’s confidence if not his courage. “We’ll see him back safely. But what are we to do then? Do you know how the battle’s going?”

  Visibility had improved to perhaps ten feet. “No more than you, sir.”

  One of the other men spoke up. “They would have sounded the bugle if they’d taken the gate.”

  “Never mind the fighting. Get this man to camp.” He watched until they’d vanished into the smoke. Then he hefted his saber and moved sideways along the hillside until he’d rejoined his own men.

  They were milling around confusedly. As he tried to organize them one man pointed. “There, look there!”

  Shapes were materializing out of the mist: Gold’s soldiers. They were not walking in neat, disciplined rows now. Many had lost caps and helmets. Blood showed on torn shirts and trousers and their faces were streaked with powder and soot. Shots continued to fill the air around them like drunken hornets.

  Coffin watched as one man bent double and went down, his body arching like a bowstring as a musketball struck him in the spine. A mustachioed sergeant bent over the man briefly, then rose and fought to rally his ragged troops.

  “Form up, boys, form up! Keep your line!”

  They weren’t listening to him and you could hardly blame them. The soldiers were being asked to assault a well-protected enemy they couldn’t even see. Bodies continued to fall, shadows in the smoke. The volume of fire was beginning to decrease. Visibility improved but little else. Dozens of figures were crawling, limping down the hillside. None was advancing. Coffin reached a decision.

  Recovering his horse he mounted and rode among his own militia. “Keep firing, keep firing!” Regular troops continued to retreat all around. “Aim high for your targets!”

  “What targets, sir?” a colonial sergeant asked plaintively. “I can’t see a bloody thing!”

  Coffin bit his lower lip, then swung his sword decisively. “Then get back! Get clear!” This order was not met with cheers, but it was obeyed with alacrity. Coffin was damned if he was going to wait for instructions to retreat when the attack had obviously collapsed. He would not stand by while these men, many of whom he knew personally, were cut down by the withering fire the Maoris continued to pour down the hillside.

  “Back to camp, get out of range! Make sure you take the wounded with you!”

  A semblance of order returned to the colonials as they commenced a measured retreat. Coffin rode back and forth among them, quietly urging them on, trying to raise their spirits. Ironic that they should be more easily rallied in retreat than when on the attack, he thought.

  He saw Tobias Hull once as he rode past in the smoke. Hull was trying to urge his men onward but they were breaking, retreating in small groups. Not even Hull’s threats were strong enough to maintain determination in the face of defeat.

  What was important now was to minimize the disaster and prevent panic, keep the colonials and volunteers from running all the way back to Auckland. With the help of the regulars. Coffin and his colleagues succeeded in reforming their units in front of the camp. Panic subsided as soon as the exhausted men realized they were out of musket range and therefore out of danger. The Maoris had won, but they were not strong enough to abandon their fortress to give chase. Shouts and screams gave way to the moans of the wounded and dying.

  Those who had escaped unhurt moved to aid the injured. Militia worked alongside regular army to carry the wounded to waiting beds.

  As the firing ceased, the true extent of the defeat could be ascertained. There was no way of telling how many Maori had been hit since those who’d been shot had fallen inside the stockade, but the gentle slope outside the pa was littered with corpses. Losses were heaviest among the regular troops, though the colonials had suffered their share.

  As the survivors counted the cost, the hooting challenges of the Maori
s still safe inside the pa resumed. Certainly the Kingites had been hurt, but they had not been defeated and their tone indicated they were anything but intimidated.

  Gold tried again that afternoon, still again the next day. Each time the result was the same. While the soldiers advanced in predetermined formation the Maoris greeted them with devastating fire. They spent powder and shot as though they had enough to last for a hundred such confrontations. Militia and volunteers backed up the troops with increasing reluctance.

  A few men actually managed to reach the stockade and put up scaling ladders. They were promptly cut to bits by the defending Maoris. In close-quarter fighting shark-toothed clubs, spears, and greenstone axes proved the equal of bayonets.

  The mood in Gold’s tent that night bordered on the funereal. The Colonel’s face was gaunt and his eyes hollow. He’d aged visibly in only a few days. But his determination had not weakened.

  “Tomorrow,” he told his subordinates. “Tomorrow we’ll overwhelm them.” He looked up. “Captain Rogers, you’ll take your men up the south side this time. Then we’ll.…”

  “With your permission, Colonel.” It was Stoke who interrupted. Coffin held his breath. He’d expected the Captain to speak up earlier. His silence had cost another hundred men. “We can’t fight this war that way.”

  Gold stiffened. “I beg to differ with you, Captain. I know my tactics. We must show them we can’t be discouraged, that we won’t give up. In a war of attrition the professional will always emerge triumphant.”

  “Which professional?” someone whispered.

  “Colonel, traditional tactics don’t apply here. We’re not fighting a traditional opponent. They make up their own rules as they go along.” Stoke leaned forward. “I’d like to speak bluntly, sir.”

  Gold looked at the anxious faces filling his tent, then seemed to slump. He waved an indifferent hand. “If you must, Captain.”