by Joanna Orwin
Rain fell steadily again, and the morning light was dull. The wind was rising, its susurration in the nearby trees constantly causing André to cast anxious looks in that direction, thinking savages were amassing once more. But there was no sign of them, nothing to show they had ever been there. The rain swept down the surrounding hillsides, carried on gusts of wind that flattened the bracken fern. Only the heaviness of his saturated greatcoat, his uncontrollable shivers in the increasing cold, and repeating images of Te Kuri falling to the musket fire reassured the ensign that the whole episode had been real, not a nightmarish figment of his already strained mind.
Jean, aware his cousin was close to breaking point, sent him to organize the retrieval of all the essential equipment from the grass huts where it was stored. Grateful for the distraction of activity, André supervised his working party as they carried the equipment down to the beach. Late in the morning, as he stood with Jean watching the last load being transferred into the longboat, the senior ensign said suddenly, ‘I think we should seize the advantage. I’m going to ask Monsieur Crozet for permission to attack the island’s fortified village while so many of the savages are gathered there.’
Extract from the Te Kape manuscript, 1841
One of Ngati Pou friendly with those strangers went to their settlement on Moturua to tell them of Mariou’s death, hoping that on hearing this they would retreat to their ships and sail away without the need for further bloodshed. Those strangers instead prepared for battle. Accordingly, the war party gathered on Moturua took advantage of a dark, wet night to try to take those strangers by surprise. But Mariou’s people were alert, and, they fired their many guns. Although our warriors fought bravely, they were forced to retreat to their stronghold, taking their dead and wounded with them.
Accordingly, when news of the failure of both the surprise attacks planned at Manawa-ora and on Moturua reached Te Kuri, he set out from Orokawa to take reinforcements to the island. Then, not wishing to lose any more warriors, he marched forth with ten picked men to challenge the strangers to send out their champions so the matter could be decided one on one. I was present when the strangers’ champion and his best men accordingly marched out to meet us, and Te Kuri stepped forward to accept the first challenger. Instead of standing to fight, those strangers kept on approaching until they were within a stone’s throw, at the same time raising their guns. We turned to flee, but it was too late. Despite the protection of his heavy war mat, Te Kuri fell mortally wounded, and, we bore him off to the stronghold on the island, where we lamented the loss of that principal chief.
Those strangers having thus avenged the death of Mariou, honour having been satisfied on both sides with the reciprocated deaths of both those principal chiefs, and appropriate retaliation already taken against Mariou’s people for the major transgressions against tapu, we expected that peace would now be negotiated.
Of the opinion that any savages remaining on Marion Island would constitute a continuing threat, Monsieur Crozet readily agreed to Jean’s request. He sent a message at midday, saying that clearing the island of savages would ensure they could safely carry on accumulating the water and firewood supplies essential to their onward voyage. ‘Having lost so many of our best men, we can’t afford to lose any more if the ships are to be manned adequately.’
Monsieur Crozet seemed to be making most of the decisions. André doubted whether the Mascarin’s new commander even bothered to consult Monsieur du Clesmeur, now the nominal leader of the expedition. So much younger and far less experienced than any of the surviving senior officers, the hapless captain of the Castries must be in a difficult position whenever he tried to exert some authority.
‘He should be grateful Monsieur Crozet has taken charge,’ said Jean. ‘Who cares about his pathetic sensitivities? We need to stay cool-headed here.’ He pointed out that not only were many of the chiefs seen that morning those from the island who had been most friendly towards them, but they were also those who had constantly badgered the Frenchmen to take up arms on their behalf in skirmishes amongst themselves or against Te Kuri. ‘Worse, these sworn enemies of Tacoury are obviously now in league with him—and all of them united against us.’
His words echoed André’s earlier thoughts. Both ensigns were now only too aware of their precarious position. If the combined force of the savages decided on attack, they could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. The ships could be seized and they could all perish. Jean added, ‘We need to take the initiative before they do.’
André nodded. ‘It’s certainly our good fortune that once these savages lose the advantage of surprise, they don’t seem willing to attack en masse.’
Marshalling the men, the fired-up senior ensign explained what he intended, then called for volunteers to join his selected twenty soldiers. Armed with muskets, belt pistols, cutlasses and forty rounds of ammunition each, the twenty-six-strong detachment set off at one o’clock. André was amongst them. Although Jean had suggested that he stay in charge of the camp and the remaining thirty men, the young ensign knew he would never forgive himself for not taking part. He could not go on putting his scruples about Te Kape before the interests of his own countrymen.
The wind was blowing strongly now, but the rain had eased. Led by the two ensigns and the officer in charge of the soldiers, they marched steadily up the mountain, bayonets fixed. The few savages gathered on the summit hastily withdrew towards the fortified village. When the village came into sight, André could see frantic activity within and without the palisades. Even as they wended their way down the hill into the bay, men were directing women, children and young people into a fleet of canoes drawn up at the landing place. The canoes were launched and speeding across the passage towards the mainland before the French detachment emerged onto the beach. The men had all withdrawn up the hill and were back inside the palisades. All they could see were the lookouts stationed on platforms above the defences.
‘Excellent!’ Jean stopped at the foot of the steep spur leading up to the village to reassess their options. ‘At least they realize we mean business.’
Although they knew the path up to the village was narrow and treacherous—and would be greasy after all the rain—both Jean and André were familiar with the approach and the layout of the village. Leading the way, with the military officer close behind them, they marched on, the rest of the men following. André’s stomach churned with nerves, but he clenched his jaw and straightened his shoulders. He had put any thoughts of Te Kape out of his mind. This was their chance to avenge the slaughter of Monsieur Marion and his companions, the chance to show these treacherous savages that Frenchmen were not to be taken so lightly.
Buffeted by gusts of wind, they negotiated the first part of the path and had almost reached the narrowest section, which traversed a steep ridge with an angry sea pounding the rocks below, when André spotted two chiefs emerging from the palisades. They were beyond musket range. ‘Mort-diable!’ he exclaimed. ‘They’re coming to parley for peace.’ To his surprise, his heart lurched with disappointment at the thought they were to be denied their revenge.
But even as he spoke, the two chiefs hurled whip darts towards them. It was immediately clear these would not reach anywhere near them in the strong cross-wind, and Jean ordered his men to ignore them. ‘Keep your eyes on your footing and don’t look down.’
Bracing themselves against the gusts of wind that threatened their already precarious balance, they picked their way across the crumbling clay path, taking care not to look down at the foaming sea surging amongst the rocks far below. Ahead of them, the two chiefs gestured and pranced in challenge, protruding their tongues and rolling their eyes fiercely. They then held their ground, holding their war mats up against their bodies for protection as the Frenchmen approached within musket range. André could not help but admire their courage at the same time as he pitied their foolhardy and futile stance. Jean and the military officer aimed carefully, taking their time. As the smoke blew clear, one of
the chiefs fell clutching a stomach wound, his thigh bone also smashed. His less severely wounded companion hastily retreated inside the gate as the French contingent marched towards the outer palisade.
Now the defenders poured calabashes of water onto the path skirting the inner palisade to the low entrance into the village. Jean cursed, ‘Foutre! It’s slippery enough without that.’ He again cautioned his men to watch their footing, but to move as fast as they could without risking a fall into the deep fosse below, at the same time maintaining a running fire. ‘Fire, then move on quickly, not stopping until you reach the entrance. Watch out for darts and spears.’
As they started along the track, André saw several savages climbing the ladder to the platform towering above the inner palisade. Without hesitating, he raised his musket, aimed carefully and fired just as they reached the platform. Beside him, Jean followed suit, then the military officer. To his satisfaction, the man he had targeted fell silently back to the ground, obviously dead. The others sprawled unmoving on the platform. They were soon replaced, but their showers of darts lost all force in the unpredictable gusts of wind. At Jean’s shouted command, the French party pressed on, one by one negotiating the treacherous path below the palisade while the others maintained their running fire. When it was his turn to cross, André held on tightly to the rough poles of the palisade with one hand and pressed his feet as close to their base as he could, each slippery step threatening to send him toppling into the fosse below. The three hundred or so paces seemed to take forever, but at last he was across and took up his station beside Jean and the military officer. One by one, the others joined them in the narrow space in front of the entrance.
For a brief moment, they stared at the closed entrance, defended by two more chiefs. Crouched in fighting stance, their long pikes twirling, these fighting chiefs hurled insults and defiance at the Frenchmen, now within ten paces of them. Then Jean ordered his companions to begin a fusillade of fire into the village.
The savages inside showed great fortitude under fire, fighting without a sound. Only the chiefs’ voices could be heard, calmly giving orders. Although the two chiefs defending the entrance soon fell, it quickly became clear to André that the palisade was deflecting most of the musket balls. ‘We should get close enough to poke our muskets through the palisade,’ he shouted to his cousin over the din of the fusillade. ‘We’re wasting ammunition.’
Once they had the barrels of their muskets inserted through gaps in the palisade, André saw they had gained an even greater advantage. As each wave of savages came out into the open parade ground behind the palisade to attack, the Frenchmen had plenty of time to target individuals before they could get close enough to throw their darts or in turn thrust their lances through the palisade. ‘Aim at their chiefs first and foremost!’ Jean shouted. ‘They’re the ones standing out in the open, behind that low barricade.’
As the wind whipped the smoke of their firing away, André saw an old woman standing with the chiefs, calmly handing them prepared dart-throwers. Even as he stared in amazement at her courage, she was hit and fell, her armful of weapons clattering to the ground. Neither the barricade nor their war mats gave the chiefs any protection. One by one, they too fell to musket balls. The seventh and last one rushed out, his long lance held at the ready. Before anyone could shoot him down, he launched his lance directly at the military officer, who cried out and clutched at his eye, blood streaming between his fingers. The force of the blow sent him staggering, and André just managed to catch him before he fell backwards into the fosse.
‘I’m indebted to you, Monsieur Tallec,’ he said breathlessly, then shrugged him off. ‘I’m not hurt badly, sir. That spear missed my eye.’
The chief was killed almost before he had time to yell his delight at finding such a target. No others followed him outside the entrance and the showers of darts and spears ebbed to a trickle. The savages had resisted their attack on the entrance for more than forty minutes.
‘Excellent,’ said Jean, blowing the smoke away from the lock of his musket. ‘He must’ve been the last of their chiefs. We should be able to break through into the village now.’
It took many blows with the butts of the muskets and the help of several rocks before they could breach the closed entrance. As they pushed their way inside the village, André saw that the few savages remaining had retreated to the far rampart. Without their chiefs, the rest seemed to have lost their courage. He could just make out a stream of men scrambling down the path to the landing cove where canoes were waiting. The savages left behind were already facing the French party, their lances ready for hurling.
‘Foutre!’ Jean exclaimed as a lance hit him in the thigh. He lurched, then brushed André away as he rushed to assist him. ‘No matter—it’s minor.’ He turned to his men and raised his musket in the air and shook it, shouting, ‘In your own time, gentlemen! Finish these varmints off!’
With a great shout of ‘Vive le Roi!’ the Frenchmen fired at the few savages still inside the rampart, valiantly trying to cover the retreat of the last of their people.
Before long, André was clambering down the path towards the landing cove, chasing after the remaining fugitives. Behind them in the village, none were left alive. Bodies lay sprawled, amongst them all of the chiefs. Below, two large canoes laden with men were being paddled swiftly out into a turbulent sea. The final defenders were flinging themselves into the one remaining canoe. No longer sparing any thought for their bravery, his eyes red with blood lust, the ensign joined in the last few volleys that killed most of them. Other fugitives hurled themselves directly into the sea and began swimming. The mainland was half a league away and the waves were precipitous. They were unlikely to make it.
Along with the rest of his party, André now threw aside his emptied musket to take up his cutlass. The vengeful Frenchmen attacked without mercy, cutting down any savage they came across. None of those left stranded on shore escaped with their lives. Although Monsieur Crozet had requested that they take captives, offering fifty piastres for each one, Jean’s small party were in no mind to comply. Without mercy, they hacked and slashed their way along the beach, then worked their way methodically back up the hill slope towards the village, killing any wounded they came across.
It was not until they re-entered the now silent palisades that André came back to his senses. Panting with exertion, his bloodied cutlass still raised above his head, he stared around at the parade ground littered with the bodies of savages, then slowly lowered his sword to his side. It fell unheeded from his fingers.
‘Search the village,’ he heard Jean say from somewhere close by. ‘Check all the huts and houses carefully.’ Dully, André turned to see his cousin strapping his bloodied thigh with a sleeve torn from his shirt. Jean looked up as he approached, his eyes still alight with excitement. ‘Pardieu, André!’ he exclaimed, ‘We’ve surely shown them that despite us being vastly outnumbered, their flimsy defences and futile weapons are no match for our firepower.’
When André shook his head mutely, overcome by reaction, his face white, Jean took him by the shoulder. ‘Cousin, why so shaken? You’ve fought in battle before.’
André found his voice. ‘Not this way,’ he said slowly, trying to untangle his thoughts. ‘I’d assumed we were facing great odds, but it’s clear now that despite their courage, these savages never stood a chance.’
Jean nodded, his excitement ebbing. He looked searchingly at his cousin. ‘You’re not suggesting something dishonourable in our action?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘We wouldn’t have succeeded if our men hadn’t shown equal courage. Besides, compared to Tacoury’s treachery, our intentions were nothing but obvious. As I see it we had no choice but to hit them hard, show them we’re not dependent on the presence of our chiefs to be a force to be reckoned with.’
When André could not meet his gaze, he shrugged then clapped him on the back. He said briskly, ‘Allons donc, we’ve work to do.’
Slowly, André fol
lowed his cousin as he limped through the village. Although they searched each and every hut and storehouse, they found nothing of value. Nor did they find any trace of Monsieur Marion or their massacred people. Jean could not resist saying to André, ‘You see? They removed all their booty and their possessions to safety, obviously expecting us to attack.’
The bodies of about forty savages lay strewn around the parade ground and below the fighting platform. André found his heart thudding painfully as they checked each one. Te Kape was not among them. Indeed, none were youths like him, but mature men. All he could hope was that the young savage was not amongst those slain on the slopes below the village, that he had reached the mainland earlier with the evacuated villagers.
Piled around the gate were the bodies of all the chiefs who had challenged them one by one. Jean examined each body closely. His voice full of respect, he said: ‘Each and every one of them has three or four musket wounds, any one of which should’ve proved fatal.’ His voice hardened as he looked at André. ‘I don’t deny these chiefs are amongst the bravest of men when it comes to a direct fight, cousin. But equally, you can’t deny they prefer the advantage of treachery.’
André nodded in reluctant agreement, but could not help thinking that the savages had paid a heavy price for that treachery. Of the four hundred or so men Jean estimated had defended the village, he thought maybe two hundred had escaped in the canoes. Their small party had killed the rest. They themselves had only three injured, and none seriously. Jean, wounded in the thigh, the military officer with his head wound, and a soldier with a chest wound had all been able to continue fighting.
After Jean had the village searched once more, he ordered the men to set fire to the huts on the windward side. They retreated across the approach path and watched as the wind quickly carried fragments of burning thatch to the other huts in the compound. Soon everything inside the palisades was ablaze. The black smoke billowing across the narrow peninsula was shot with flares of yellow flame. In less than an hour and a half, the buildings had all been razed to the ground. Only the fighting platform and the palisades escaped destruction.
