“All that you say is so, Father.” Opotiki gestured with his own rifle. “But we can shoot as well as any of them and when it comes to close fighting,” he smacked his greenstone war club with an open palm, “we are better than they. Each day we learn new ways to beat them. It is true we cannot defeat them all at once, but we can keep bleeding them. The strongest man will fall if he bleeds constantly.
“Some day we will have bled them so much that they will realize it is better to make an honest peace with us on our terms then to go on bleeding. Maybe we cannot defeat them, but so long as real warriors are left neither can they beat us. This is still our land first. We know the valleys and the forest. The land is our ally, as it was Rui’s, as it is the other war chiefs’. We will keep bleeding them, Father, and it may be that with the help of the gods we can even defeat them in spite of all you say.”
“You speak of our gods. What of theirs? They claim their god is the greatest among gods and that he will give them the strength to defeat us.”
Opotiki rose and began pacing. “I do not believe in their god, but if they are right, if he is real, if he is the greatest of all gods, then it must also be that he is the kind of god the pakeha tohungas say he is. A god of peace and not of war. The Maoris have war gods to help them. The pakeha have no war god. Only their lies and their guns.” He halted suddenly and walked over to look down at his father.
“I and my warriors thank you for the shelter and food you have given us.”
Te Ohine did not meet his son’s gaze. “I remember Maori hospitality,” he mumbled, “and you are still my favorite son.”
Opotiki leaned forward and rested one hand on his father’s shoulder. It was not a properly respectful gesture for a young warrior to make to a high chief, but they had seen little of each other the past three years.
“You and Mother must keep well, must stay healthy until this war is over. Then you will see that I was right. I hope you may come to see it sooner.”
A very young warrior, not yet out of his teens, entered in haste and waited until Te Ohine spoke to him. “What is it?”
“Your pardon, ariki, but there are pakehas at the gate.”
Opotiki was instantly on guard, grabbing up his rifle and club. “I must go.”
Te Ohine indicated his son should wait. “Stay. Perhaps you will learn something.” He addressed the young warrior. “What do these visitors wish?”
The adolescent hesitated. “They say they want to trade.”
“There, you see?” Te Ohine looked up at his son. “You were wrong. The pakeha are not the people of the gun. They are the money people. That is what will bring this war to an end, because the Maori are money people too.”
Opotiki’s gaze narrowed as he regarded the messenger. “What kind of trade?”
Te Ohine indicated the youth could reply. “They say they have swords and guns to sell.”
At that Opotiki’s eyes lit up. “Weapons! You see, father, the war gods of the Maori help us even here. It is true the Maori still quarrel among themselves, but the pakeha do not always agree either. We cannot stand together because we always argue. The pakeha cannot unify because their lust for gold is their greatest love.” He looked sharply back at the youth. “What kind of guns? Army? Sporting rifles? Old muskets?”
“The pakeha leader did not say.”
“It does not matter.” Te Ohine was clearly upset. “We have no need of guns here.”
“Father, please!” Opotiki came around in front of the old man. “You should buy some to defend yourself. This pa is badly situated.”
“Not for access to fields and water. I have no need for a great fortress around my home. I am at peace. That is the strongest stockade of all.”
“At least see what he is offering, what they have brought. You know I cannot approach him in your village without your permission.”
“I will not buy weapons for you, my son.”
“We have gold of our own. You must at least speak to them.”
Te Ohine went silent while both his son and the young messenger waited for a decision. At last the ariki looked up. “Yes, you are right. I must speak with them.” Opotiki smiled broadly and Te Ohine was quick to chasten him. “But not to buy his guns! It would be impolite to turn a trader away without greeting him properly.”
Te Ohine hurriedly assembled a formal retinue, including Opotiki. Then he went out to greet his visitors.
The two big wagons had already been wheeled inside the gate. There were only four pakeha, which Opotiki thought foolish even though they were well-armed. He and his warriors could have overpowered them easily. But his father’s village was a “neutral” one. Though tempted, he did not give the idea serious thought. Even if such an attempt proved successful, he would have gained some guns at the expense of a father.
Besides, there was a good chance they could buy the guns without trouble. And the four pakehas were alert and well-armed. Better to pay for them without the risk of losing any more of his men. He was not surprised to see that the pakehas who sat atop the wagons, one in front and one behind, kept their own rifles close at hand. They had to be ready to defend their cargo not only against marauding Maoris but against their own people. The pakehas looked with great disfavor on other whites who sold guns to the Kingites.
On seeing the chiefly retinue approaching, one man hopped down off the nearest wagon. Opotiki frowned. Could this sorry specimen be the pakeha leader? The man looked more nervous than he ought to be considering he was inside a neutral village. He was unsteady on his feet. As he drew near the reason for this became evident: he was quite drunk. So were his companions. Opotiki sniffed in disgust, hoping they traded in a better grade of guns than they did of whiskey.
The trader focused rheumy eyes on him. “You the chief?”
It was expected such men would know little of politeness, but even among the ruder pakehas there was usually an attempt at cordiality. Opotiki detected no hint of this. Still, if their guns were good.…
“No.” He stepped aside as his father moved forward.
“You may call me Te Ohine.” The ariki did not bother to give his full name since it clearly would be wasted on these visitors.
“I’m Barber. Simon Barber.” The trader did not offer his hand in friendship. Instead he retreated a couple of steps until he was standing next to the wagon he’d been riding. He patted the heavy tarp that covered the load. “Got somethin’ in here oughta interest you.”
“Guns, weapons. More death,” Te Ohine muttered distastefully.
“Why sure. That’s what you folks are interested in, ain’t it? Fightin’ an’ killin’.”
“We value the ways of the warrior,” Te Ohine replied slowly, “but we do not glorify death.” He made a sweeping gesture. “This pa is a peaceful one. We take no sides in the war, as any of the pakehas nearby will tell you.”
“Yeh, we talked to some of ’em.” Barber stroked his whiskey-sodden beard, then ran the same hand through his hair. The strands protruded like tree roots from beneath his filthy brown hat. “O’ course these farmers an’ sheep herders, they ain’t real bright. Don’t even know what’s good for ’em.”
“We don’t need your guns here,” Te. Ohine said sharply. “Take them and go away.”
“Father!” Opotiki stepped forward. “You said that.…”
“No!” Furious but obedient, Opotiki retreated. To challenge his father in front of the whole village would have been an unpardonable insult. Te Ohine turned back to face the trader. “This is a neutral village. My people are farmers. We do not fight.”
“Maoris what don’t fight? Ain’t no such thing.” Barber’s cracked lips split in a wicked, unpleasant grin. “Don’t you want to see what we got anyway, just to see what you’re missin’ out on?”
Te Ohine was unyielding. “I will look at your weapons out of politeness, but I tell you now I will not buy any of ’em.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said the smiling Barber as he backed closer to the
wagon, “cause we didn’t bring ’em here to sell ’em.” He let out a whoop as he yanked hard on the canvas tarp. “Let’s get ’em, boys!”
The canvas sheet was wrenched aside to reveal not crates of rifles or ammunition, but a wagon crammed with armed pakehas. Some of them were as drunk as the drivers, but it didn’t much matter since at point-blank range the massed fire of more than forty rifles was enough to cut down every Maori standing in the line of fire. In the still afternoon air the thunder of so many guns going off simultaneously was deafening, shocking.
At least a dozen Maoris went down. No one had time to count and the smoke from the guns momentarily obscured the wagons and their immediate surroundings.
Opotiki didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He moved fast to one side, shouting for his men to rally around him. Without waiting to see who responded he raised his greenstone club and rushed through the smoke in the direction of the pakeha leader.
Simon Barber’s eyes widened as he saw Opotiki plunging through the haze toward him. He had his pistol up and ready and fired when the Maori was not more than six feet away, but in his drunken panic the shot went wild. Opotiki felt it singe his cheek, as if someone had touched him with a hot splinter. It didn’t slow him down.
Barber managed to get his sword up in time to counter Opotiki’s initial blow. The club shattered the cheap steel, sending fragments flying. Opotiki raised the weapon for another swing, intending to crush the pakeha’s skull, but the man let out a terrified yelp and ducked beneath the wagon.
The smoke was clearing and the pakehas in the wagons had begun to reload. Opotiki hesitated. He couldn’t see the pakeha’s legs. Perhaps he’d burrowed into the ground. If he stayed where he was he’d surely be shot, and that would do no one any good. So he turned and ran, not pausing to stare as he raced past his father’s body, a large and somehow peaceful form lying on the ground with at least three bullets in it. He was too busy screaming to his own men, trying to organize some kind of defense in his mind.
It was useless. The lightly armed villagers were in a panic, running in all directions, their chief dead. The pakehas’ surprise had been complete. Now they were pouring out of the two wagons, stumbling over each other in their eagerness to get off as many shots as possible, whooping and hollering as they fired loaded pistols at any Maori within range. They did not discriminate in their choice of targets, not bothering to ascertain whether their victims were armed or not.
A few pakehas made for the gate, cut down the two guards there, and flung the entrance wide to admit the rest of their fellows who’d been hiding outside. Opotiki could see that all of them had been drinking, perhaps to bolster their courage.
The attackers comprised the worst of pakeha society, men too cowardly or criminal to be allowed to serve in the militia, much less the regular army. Somehow this Barber and his colleagues had gathered a mob of them together, scrounged weapons, and decided to aid the war effort in their own way. How secret could such plans be kept? Opotiki wondered how many “respectable” pakehas had known of the attack but had voiced no opposition.
Off to one side a woman was running toward the presumed safety of a house when one of the pakehas cut her off. She whirled and tried to retreat in another direction, clutching a small child in her arms. She ran straight into another pakeha’s sword, impaling herself. The baby fell to the ground, squawling. Both men ignored it as they began arguing among themselves, the first man screaming at the second for killing a young woman. While they fought among themselves she bled to death at their feet.
Other screams began to rise above the constant crackle of gunfire, screams that had nothing to do with murder. Opotiki ignored them too as he finally found his own warriors. Several were using their own rifles but many didn’t know what to do or how to react. He had to hit them to get their attention.
“We cannot stay here!” he shouted. “We must leave!”
“But this is your father’s village,” Auruneri protested.
Opotiki gave the man a shove. “My father is dead. So is this village. It died when it thought it had made peace with the pakeha.”
One of the other warriors was reloading his musket. “We can still fight them!”
“Not here.” Opotiki tried to see back through the smoke. “There are too many and my father’s best fighters were all killed right away. Others are dying before they can reach their own weapons. We must flee or we will all die here.”
Another woman’s scream lingered piercingly in the air. Several of the warriors turned in its direction. One looked pleadingly back at Opotiki, who was also staring in the direction of the heart-rending sound.
“Warriors do not abandon their women.” The expression on the young man’s face was pitiful to behold.
Opotiki steeled himself. “These are not our women. We have women of our own to protect elsewhere. If we die here they will die too. Quickly now, this way, go, go!” He began grabbing them by arms and shoulders, shoving, urging, cajoling them toward the rear of the pa.
Flames began to fill the sky as the pakehas set fire to the long houses and granaries. Inside the smoke it was difficult to tell pakeha from Maori. While this restrained Opotiki’s men it did not seem to bother the pakehas. They fired wildly and frequently, not appearing to care if they hit their own people.
Opotiki formed his remaining warriors into a defensive semicircle as two of them began to cut at the ropes that bound several logs in place. As Te Ohine had said, his was not a strong pa. The stockade was as much for show and tradition as for actual defense. The ropes parted easily. Logs were shoved aside, creating an opening large enough for men to file through one at a time.
“We could circle around outside and get behind them.” Auruneri looked hopeful. “Attack them where they do not expect it.”
Opotiki spoke deliberately. “We are few, they are many. There could be a hundred or more. Besides, that is how the pakehas would like to fight us: out in the open where we can be surrounded and shot down like pigs. We must get back to the woods.”
Auruneri considered this, then straightened. “Animals hunt in the woods. I am tired of hunting like an animal.”
“Live animals can still bite. Dead ones are just meat.”
The two warriors locked eyes for a precious moment. Then the defiant Auruneri slumped, nodded once, and vanished through the gap in the stockade.
Opotiki waited until the last of his men had gone through. He paused at the makeshift exit for a final look at the village of his youth. This was where he had spent his childhood, his happiest years, before the pakeha had swarmed over the land. Off somewhere to his right, hidden by the swirling smoke, was the maypole where he had played with his friends. His friends and his sister, who was dead to him now because she sought the affection of pakehas. Perhaps after all his father had been right about that. Perhaps she was nothing more than a servant, which was bad enough.
But if it could be proven true he would kill her pakeha lover. And if she had also slept with Robert Coffin who had been a friend to his father, he, Opotiki, would kill this Coffin as well, as they would kill every pakeha on Aotearoa.
His father had spoken of peace. There could be no peace with creatures like this, Opotiki knew. One might as well try to make peace with the shark. Like him, the pakeha knew only how to kill.
He tried to close his ears to the screams of dying women and children even as he tried to shut his mind to what he’d already witnessed, to no avail. Everything had been burned into his memory. He could never, would never, forget. At last he turned and followed his men into the trees that grew behind the village, covering the ground in long, powerful strides.
He would remember it all until the end of his days, and the worst of it wasn’t the sound of men dying or of women screaming. The worst of it was the echo of drunken pakeha laughter.
10
Merita watched him dress. As it often did, her gaze went to his silvery hair. So strange. He had gone gray as a young man, he’d told her. Tha
t meant he looked older than he was. It also meant that while other men aged, Coffin seemed to stay the same. Sometimes he seemed eternally young, at other times eternally old. A contradictory man, even for a pakeha. Knowledgeable, strong, yet naive in ways even he didn’t realize.
The past months had been difficult. She had done what she could to try and comfort him, but he still mourned for his son. When first she’d learned of his tragedy she feared he might not care for her anymore, might look on her differently because the death had come at Maori hands. She relaxed only when she saw this was not so.
Then word had come of the death of her father and the destruction of her village and it was his turn to comfort her. Instead of driving them apart their mutual pain only brought them closer together.
His hurt was deeper than hers, for in some ways she had given up a part of her family when she’d come to stay in a pakeha house, even though it had been partly at her father’s bidding. And she still had many relatives to turn to, members of her whanau living all across North Island. Coffin had only his wife, and from what he had told her that woman was no comfort to him at all. His other relatives lived on the other side of the world, in that strange pakeha land called England. Here, now, there was only Merita, and though she tried she could not take away his sorrow.
When she’d moved away from her home she’d left behind the warmth and reassurance of her family. She’d needed him. Now he needed her.
At first he and some other pakehas had talked of revenge, of justice, but even that was a dead issue. As dead as her village. After the massacre the men who’d perpetrated it had looked on what they’d done and become ashamed. They’d drifted away, scattering to the distant corners of the colony and across the sea. Their leader, a man named Barber, had been killed soon after in a fight with warriors over in the Urewera country. Most of his men had died with him, having found armed warriors harder to deal with than women and children.
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