by Sarah Lark
The others nodded. They were young and hardworking, but the months of compulsory labor had worn away their strength.
“Do you want to leave?” asked Matariki quietly.
If she were to be honest, she contemplated it herself occasionally. She was ready to take the high school exam, and sometimes she dreamed of doing so in Otago.
Pai shook her head. “No. Too many are leaving as it is. We just have to endure. And now, I’m going to polish the statues of the gods. Who’s with me? Maybe the spirits will take pity on us and bring the pakeha to reason.”
In the middle of September 1881, Governor Gordon went to the Fiji Islands—a long-planned state visit. In Parihaka, they hardly noticed his departure. So far, the Maori-friendly representative of the Crown had not done much for the village. He might not endorse the land sales, but the laws regulating them had been signed by his predecessor, and he could hardly take them back now. Nevertheless, he did not allow their enforcement with violence. The land the Maori worked would not be touched no matter who owned it on paper.
He did not have much reason to intervene in the situation in Taranaki either. The farmers’ complaints did not reach him any more than the laments of Matariki and her friends about the enormous amount of work. These latter complaints did not reach the ears of the Minister of Native Affairs, William Rolleston, either. But the farmers complained loudly, and Rolleston did open his ears to their protests. He, too, was a landowner, after all, and he did not want to think about what uproar would follow if the Ngai Tahu on the South Island decided to check the correctness of the deeds of land sale.
With the governor out of the country, Rolleston seized his opportunity. On October 8, 1881, a beautiful spring day, he visited Parihaka right after he had succeeded in coaxing Parliament into the appropriation of a hundred thousand pounds to continue the “war.”
Te Whiti ordered his people to meet in front of one of the lodges for welcoming rituals. A full powhiri was on the program, with prayers, dancing, and singing. The new minister was to be greeted with all honors.
The red-faced, squarely built minister, however, hardly seemed to appreciate it. He followed the girls’ dances with a certain fascination, but he watched the men’s war dance with abhorrence and the prayers of the elders with impatience.
“Can we get to the matter at hand?” he called out during the most sacred part of the ceremony: the release of the karanga by the priestess.
Arona, a young student who had been granted the honor of letting it out, was shocked at the sacrilege. She broke off the call, and the spirit of Parihaka was not summoned on that day.
Despite all of this, Te Whiti attempted to remain polite, but William Rolleston did not mince words.
“It really is a nice estate you have here,” he said, glancing around at the village and fields, “but it must be clear to you that you have to respect the government’s decisions. You’ve played your little game with us long enough. It has to stop. You need to face the facts, you, the angel of peace. If the fighting escalates and a new war breaks out, the government won’t take the blame for it. The fault will be yours alone.”
Te Whiti had listened to Rolleston in silence, and he did not speak to his people in the following days. When he walked through the village, he hung his head.
“What are they going to do?” Matariki asked as she and her friends talked over the situation.
Matariki felt exhausted, disconcerted, and now abandoned. Without Te Whiti’s encouragement and Te Whetu’s clear announcements, everything seemed to lose its meaning. More and more people left Parihaka. And the word was that the Minister of Native Affairs planned to flatten it.
“Did he really say that?” Pai asked.
The news that came to Parihaka was often contradictory. Nothing was documented, but that William Rolleston was making plans to storm Parihaka was considered certain.
“He can’t do that.” Kupe, who had by now studied his first books on juridical questions, tried to comfort her however he could. “He has no legal basis. We haven’t done anything, and the governor wouldn’t sign off.”
“What if he doesn’t even know?” Matariki asked.
Koria shook her head. “He knows something. Or will know. We wrote to him. As soon as he receives the letter, he’ll do something.”
James Prendergast, chief justice of New Zealand, often served as a government administrator. He was originally an attorney on the South Island, where he became friends with Rolleston. With Governor Gordon away on Fiji, Prendergast went to the North Island to serve as the governor’s deputy. However, his attitude toward the natives was well known—in trials he always decided against them and had previously called the Maori primitive barbarians whom one could not allow under any circumstances to take part in decision-making. To bring such a man to ratify invasion plans of Parihaka was not difficult. However, time was working against Rolleston. It simply took time to convince all the decisive men to set aside the money and to formulate the documents.
The Minister of Native Affairs called a session on October 19, 1881, at eight o’clock in the morning. Prendergast, Rolleston, and his executive committee released a proclamation: Te Whiti and his people would be rebuked for threatening settlers and their uncooperative attitude. Moreover, they presented them an ultimatum: within fourteen days, the chieftains would have to accept the revision of land allocation, cease all protest actions, and leave Parihaka; otherwise, consequences of a military nature would follow.
Two hours after the signing of the writ by his deputy, the real governor arrived in Wellington. He had broken off his state visit at once after word had reached him of Rolleston’s unilateral action.
But it was too late. Rolleston had already authorized the publication of the ultimatum and the delivery of the writ to Te Whiti. Two hours had sealed the fate of Parihaka.
“The governor fired Rolleston at once,” Arona explained to Matariki and her friends. As priestess, she had attended the reading of the proclamation to Te Whiti—and listened to the governor’s subsequent apology. Gordon’s messenger had caught up to Rolleston’s man, and the two riders arrived in Parihaka at the same time. Te Whiti had received them with all honors. After all, neither messenger was responsible for the message he brought. “Or at least he suggested he resign. He can’t really fire anyone. Just as he cannot withdraw any proclamation his deputy signed. In any case, not officially. Maybe it all transpired under the table, but Rolleston knew every trick in the book: the signatures under the text weren’t even dry yet, and it was already in the Government Gazette.”
“Gordon could have resigned,” Kupe said, “in protest. Then there would have been a hubbub in England. The queen could have nullified the proclamation.”
Matariki laughed bitterly. “What does the queen care about us?” she asked, scratching Dingo who snuggled against her. “And Mr. Gordon is attached to his pretty little post. They’ll throw Te Whiti in prison and make Rolleston a knight.”
Kupe shrugged. “Maybe, but what do we do now? Has Te Whiti said anything? Or Te Whetu? We’re not really going to give up Parihaka, are we?”
Arona shook her head. “No. We stay and we await what happens. But they will make good on their threats; they will come. We should prepare ourselves.”
“To die?” asked Pai.
At first, the pakeha in Taranaki reacted with more panic at the ultimatum than the Maori in Parihaka. They had gotten used to peace and feared a new war. Major Charles Stapp, commander of the barely existent volunteer army of Taranaki, immediately declared that every male citizen between seventeen and fifty-five had to prepare to be called upon. In other parts of the North Island, the expected battle met with more enthusiasm. At a single call of the Government Gazette, they succeeded in forming thirty-three units of volunteers. The army, which ultimately took up position outside of Parihaka, consisted of one thousand forty-seven armed constables, one thousand volunteers from all over New Zealand, and six hundred men from Taranaki—four pakeha armed to th
e teeth for every adult Maori in Parihaka. The units established camps around the village and immediately began with exercises and target practice. The current and former Minister of Native Affairs—after Rolleston’s ouster, John Bryce had been reinstated—demonstrated his agreement with the actions of his at-once successor and predecessor by riding out to the troops every day, inspecting them, and encouraging them.
On November 1, 1881, Te Whiti gave his last speech before his assembled people.
“The only ark that can now save us is to endure with strength of heart. Flight means death. Don’t think of fighting. We were peaceful, and we will remain peaceful. That is the will of the gods. We are not here to fight but to honor the gods and hallow the land. We will not defile it with blood. So, let us wait for the end. There is no other option. We remain to the last on our land. No one fetch his horse or his weapon. He would die by them.”
“So, what do we do?” asked Matariki again. “I mean, we have to do something. We—”
“We’ll do what we always do,” stated Arona. “We’ll greet our guests with music and dance.”
The invasion began early in the morning of November 5. Matariki almost lost her nerve when she saw the men marching toward them. The troops were armed as if for a battle. They carried heavy weapons and rations. The artillery marched forward, and an Armstrong gun was positioned in the hills overlooking the village. Bryce commanded everything on the back of a white horse. He seemed to like the role of the hero.
“That’s not exactly how I pictured my prince,” Matariki joked uneasily. “Hopefully they won’t do anything to the children.”
Pai shook her head. “Nonsense, the children just have to remain calm, and that’s what we practiced. Look, here come the troops.”
The gate of Parihaka was wide open. The troops did not need to storm it or fire warning shots from their guns as they galloped through. Bryce had sent the cavalry in advance. The men hardly managed to halt their horses in time before they crashed into the first line of the Maori defense: on the street leading to the village’s gathering place, two hundred little boys and girls sat, supervised by an old priest who now had them sing a song of greeting. Behind the children, girls were arranged in rows. They sang and danced while they kept an eye on the children.
Matariki and Pai, who were not to give their performance until later, had climbed onto the roof of a building and followed the events from there.
“The children are wonderful.” Matariki was excited when she saw the little ones showed no fear and did not give way even though the riders almost galloped over them.
It had rained recently, and the mud sprayed from under the horses’ hooves. It struck the children in the face and in the eyes, and some of them cried quietly, but they did not run. More troops followed the horses on foot. The children and the girls kept singing but switched to a sad tune. The old priest called for the protection of the gods.
When the riders passed the children, they encountered Matariki, Pai, and other young women, who blocked the soldiers’ path by swinging and skipping over jump ropes. None of that seemed hostile—only Dingo hid himself behind the corner of a building, growling. Apparently, the dog felt the threat, even if the people tried to ignore it.
“Would you like to play with us?” Matariki asked the invaders—and at that, her heart almost skipped a beat. The leader of the riders was a tall, slender man on an elegant black horse. Hazel eyes stared at her: Colin Coltrane.
The young sergeant twisted his mouth into a smile, although no cheerfulness shone in his eyes. “Why not?” he asked. “Miss Drury.”
Matariki’s heart beat faster. Was it possible he remembered her? The man turned his horse, gave himself some distance, and assessed her with a cool gaze. The horse leaped elegantly over the rope. The other girls were so astonished that they let their ropes fall.
“Come, men.” Colin Coltrane grinned as he brought his horse to a stop behind the barrier of jump ropes. “And you, miss, should take care. I’ve overcome other hurdles.”
With that, he galloped toward the village center, followed by his men. Matariki let her rope fall in front of their horses.
She flashed hot and cold at the thought of what Colin Coltrane had risked there. In the middle of the village, directly behind the girls with the jump ropes, sat twenty-five hundred people. Residents of Parihaka and delegations of other tribes of Taranaki. In the days since the ultimatum, no one had fled. On the contrary, like pakeha to the governor’s weapons, the Maori thronged to Te Whiti’s troops of the peaceful. It was a quiet final triumph.
Colin Coltrane now made his horse prance between them. Matariki noted that he had complete mastery over the animal, far better than most of the other riders who had solved the problem of the jump ropes by riding around the girls. The sergeant’s black horse moved sideways and backward, and even reared on command. Colin Coltrane had him do that again and again to scare and provoke the people frozen in motionless protest.
Matariki wanted to despise him for that, but she was spellbound.
The frontline soldiers seemed unsure of what they were supposed to do with the silent villagers, who were still seated. Just behind them, the foot soldiers ran into the girls’ jump rope, and their leader made a fool of himself by insisting on moving Pai, who was a stout girl, out of the way by himself. He yanked the jump rope out of Matariki’s hand, and when Pai held on to it angrily, he lifted her up and hauled her to the side. Pai acted like a sack of flour. The other girls and the soldiers all laughed. Then, one of the soldiers reached for Matariki, when suddenly hoofbeats came up beside her.
“No one is to touch this girl,” said Colin Coltrane, who reared his horse in front of the dumbfounded infantryman. “I’ll move her myself.” Before Matariki could even react, he bent down, put an arm around her hips, and swung the petite girl up in front of him on the horse. Matariki resisted, but he only laughed. “Where does my lady wish to alight?” he asked.
Matariki fidgeted and moved to grab his reins. Her dog—Colin recalled that the animal had also accompanied her on her visit to the camp—nipped angrily at the horse’s fetlocks.
“Well, well, aren’t we feisty, girl? Do recall that you invited me to your meetings.”
“Between a visit and an invasion lie a host of differences,” Matariki hissed. “Let me down. I—”
“Sergeant Coltrane,” the commander of the foot soldiers furiously addressed Colin, who was beneath him in rank. “What’s all this? What do you intend to do with the girl?”
Coltrane laughed. “Just lending the infantry a hand, sir.”
Matariki tried to bite his hand. “I’m a chieftain’s daughter,” she screamed. “I’m tapu.”
The scream had the desired effect. A few warriors of the more conservative North Island tribes stood up threateningly.
“Set the girl down this instant,” roared the commander.
Colin Coltrane followed the directive, but Te Whiti had noticed the unrest and strode toward Colin, the officer, and the girl.
“I hope you’ll respect our customs,” the chieftain said calmly. “Even if you don’t respect our lands. And please show respect to this girl. Not just because she’s a girl—even among the pakeha it is, I believe, forbidden to abduct and violate a woman—but also because of her rank. Among the tribes, the daughter of a chieftain is elevated to a war goddess. She sends the men to battle. But you do not see our daughters amid our warriors. You see them singing and playing and dancing in front of their houses. Respect her and respect us. Come, my daughter.” He laid his hand gently on Matariki’s shoulder and led her to his fire.
Colin watched the old man and the girl go. Was she really his daughter? He could have sworn that she was no pure-blooded Maori. Granted, her hair was black like that of most of the girls in the tribes. It fell in soft curls down to her hips—like all the other girls, she wore it down that day and decorated with flowers. And she had played her skipping game in the traditional piu-piu skirt. Colin looked with pleasure at M
atariki’s swaying gait; her long, slender legs; her narrow hips. He would surely see her again.
Chapter 8
Violet married Eric Fence soon after Caleb Biller left for London. The pregnancy was barely visible, but it would not have bothered anyone if it had been. Most of the miners’ wives had married their husbands because a little one was on the way.
After the truth had come out, to Violet’s amazement, Jim Paisley had not directed his rage primarily at his daughter but at Eric Fence. It was not the rape he held against him but his presumed lack of readiness to marry Violet right away.
“What is that supposed to mean: he’s not about to marry you? I’ll have a word with him. You can count on that, even if I have to haul him to the altar myself.”
Violet fought with the courage of desperation. “I don’t want to marry him either, Dad. Please, listen, he, he doesn’t even know that—”
“Oh, you haven’t told him yet.” Paisley laughed, relieved. “Then it’s about time, Vio, if the womenfolk can already spot it.” He eyed his daughter as if he were undressing her. “Well, I still don’t see anything. But no matter, you’ll tell him now, and he’ll be happy, such a young love.” Her father’s voice almost sounded touched. He must have had whiskey before dinner.
“It wasn’t love,” insisted Violet. “He, he forced me. I didn’t want to—”
“You went willingly,” Fred Paisley interrupted. “We’d saved her from, hmm, well, what you call a fate worse than death.” He laughed salaciously. “A few blokes were hounding her on the way to Greymouth. And after, she was so grateful to Eric that she—”
