And tell them of the lashed stockade
And thy brown brother; tell them how
That ‘ake’ rings from Orakau
On echoes that will never fade.
So stirring were Cork’s words that they were used as the epigraph for A. W. Reed’s novelisation (1944) of Rudall Hayward’s sound film Rewi’s Last Stand (1940). Indeed, it is as a feature film, or two, to be exact — a silent version in 1925 and then with a soundtrack in 1940 — that a sterling attempt was made to bring the battle into the national cultural inventory. Both films proved popular, and it’s interesting to note that the second version was released to coincide with New Zealand’s Centennial Celebrations.
What of the impact, if any, internationally? Witi Ihimaera remembers as a boy discovering a faded cartoon on Ōrākau among a cache of old London newspapers on his father’s farm at Te Karaka, but all subsequent attempts to locate the illustration have failed. Ihimaera believes that the words, deeds and sacrifices of the few must surely have spread quickly throughout the world. Yes, they echoed like a mantra among Māori people fighting a history of oppression, but, universally, the world has always admired courage, especially heroism in the face of huge odds. There are very few battles that have attained such epic stature. The 300 Spartans led by King Leonidas at the pass at Thermopylae in 480BC was one; his soldiers pledged themselves to fight the great army of Xerxes, calculated at over 100,000, to the death. The siege of the Alamo in December 1835, where 200 Texians fought off a massive Mexican army for thirteen days, was another. A third was the two-day battle of Rorke’s Drift in 1879 during the Anglo—Zulu War.
A surprise discovery for Ihimaera and me was that the battle was enacted at Wembley Stadium, London, in 1924. Staged for a huge three-day British Empire Exhibition, the vignette showed Māori warriors resisting Imperial troops. Apart from the Reed novelisation, Sleeps Standing is, as far as we are aware, the first major fictional account of the battle. The novella is the latest in a line of works in which Witi Ihimaera has explored significant little-known events from Māori history: the Te Kooti wars (The Matriarch); the events surrounding Rua Kēnana and the sacking of Maungapōhatu (The Dream Swimmer); the Battle of Boulcott’s Farm and subsequent imprisonment of Whanganui Māori as political prisoners in Tasmania (The Trowenna Sea); the Taranaki wars, including the story of Te Whiti-o-Rongomai at Parihaka (The Parihaka Woman); and the unknown story of Māori soldiers in World War I in his play, All Our Sons.
In the novella, a young man of Māori ancestry, born in Australia, returns to New Zealand to seek permission to name a child that is soon to be born after an ancestor, Moetū. The name means ‘Sleeps Standing’. How did Moetū come by that name? From this point the novella becomes a story within a story, reflecting the reclamation of our past that so many of us are setting out to discover in these extraordinary years of New Zealand’s maturity.
Reclamation of language is also a voyage of discovery for all New Zealanders. Thus, in this publication, we are providing a te reo version, Moetū, of the novella. The te reo version follows the tradition of Pounamu, Pounamu and The Whale Rider, which were translated into Māori by noted Māori linguists and te reo experts Jean Wikiriwhi and Dr Tīmoti Kāretu, respectively. Pounamu, Pounamu was the first book of fiction published in the Māori language.
What must be noted is that Ihimaera tells the story of Ōrākau not from the perspective of the Ngāti Maniapoto people, who were the main protagonists in the Battle of Ōrākau, but from the viewpoint of one of the tribes that went to support Maniapoto: the Rongowhakaata people of Tūranga, Gisborne. They are sent by the great chief Raharuhi Rukupō, of whom Witi Ihimaera is a descendant. Both Ihimaera and I wish to acknowledge, however, the right of Ngāti Maniapoto to tell the tribe’s own story and that of their ancestor, and a few words about Rewi would be pertinent here to set the scene for Sleeps Standing.
‘It’s one thing to be a leader of a tribe,’ Witi Ihimaera considers, ‘but it’s another to be able to call on other tribes — or have tribes turn up asked or not — because of who you are or what you represent.’ In this respect, Ihimaera believes that it was Rewi’s diplomatic relationships that vaulted him to the front of Māori nationalism; thus he became, during the New Zealand Wars, the cynosure of his times — the man above all others whose actions and leadership qualities made him the centre of attention and admiration.
‘What other reason could there be for the astonishing support that he inspired?’ Ihimaera asks. ‘Maniapoto, Waikato, Raukawa, Tūhoe, Taranaki, Rongowhakaata, Kahungunu, Ngāti Porou and other iwi supported him not only at Ōrākau but throughout the New Zealand Wars.’
Rewi Maniapoto was born at Kihikihi, reputedly in 1807, of the Ngāti Paretekawa hapū, and was a direct descendant and namesake of the tribe’s founding ancestor; already he had expectations to live up to. The redoubtable James Cowan has left us a short profile of Rewi in his Famous New Zealanders series in The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Vol. 8, Issue 4, 1 August, 1933. He writes, ‘Rewi was a warrior born,’ and gives us some hints on how Rewi was able to call on others to come to support him against the British troops. There was, for instance, his upbringing as a warrior. Cowan records that Rewi marched on his first intertribal fighting expedition with his father when he was not yet fourteen years old; at that stage, Ngāti Maniapoto were fighting Taranaki. Yet, by the 1860s, we find Rewi — now a highly acclaimed chieftain — leading Maniapoto warriors alongside Taranaki warriors in their bitter struggle against British army aggression. The times and circumstances had changed, and Rewi was able to redirect loyalties to suit.
It’s also apparent that Rewi acted with a pro-Māori clarity of action, which was very easy for other Māori looking on to understand and respect. Cowan describes him as ‘small, quick-moving, keen-eyed’, and, as a Maniapoto representative within the Kīngitanga, he brought the qualities of plain-speaking, responsiveness and strategy to a tribal council often riven by conflicting views of how to negotiate with Pākehā. Cowan relates a particular direct intervention made by Rewi, who was a master not just of words but action, in marching a war-party to Te Awamutu to stop pro-Government propaganda being printed by John Gorst, the Governor’s agent. While Gorst was tolerated by the King movement, ‘he (Rewi) thrust Gorst out (or rather forced his recall by the Governor),’ Cowan writes, ‘and sent his printing gear off to Auckland after him. This precipitated the Waikato War.’
‘For Māori looking on,’ Ihimaera says, ‘even if they were not involved, this action showed him to be fearless and unafraid of the Governor.’
And then there was Rewi’s personal appeal. He definitely possessed the charisma of leadership. Just prior to the battle of Ōrākau, he made a recruiting expedition to the Urewera. ‘There by his thrilling appeals and his chanted war songs,’ Cowan writes, ‘he infused a fighting spirit into the mountain men — indeed, they did not need much urging, although they had no quarrel with the Pakeha.’ They were the largest contingent at Ōrākau.
There’s another quality to note in Rewi, and this has more to do with his relationships with Pākehā. Having been brought up not just in traditional Māori knowledge but also in English — he went to a Wesleyan mission as a young boy — he was literate and able to use the English language with nuance and irony. This enabled him to present himself as an equal, speaking to Pākehā at their own level of thought and discourse, and to be pugnacious in presenting his arguments to them. Following Ōrākau, his subsequent relationship with George Grey can only be described as extraordinary: a relationship of two men who had every reason to dislike each other but who came to a position of respect.
Ihimaera tells of the battle 153 years later. He is aware that there might be different stories involving ancestors he has named in the novella. His intention has been to honour those ancestors and not to misrepresent them. Thus, with his version, he wished to set actual Māori eyewitness accounts, and we have reproduced five of them in Sleeps Standing. Three are in English translation and two in te
reo, which were not translated into English at the time they were written. The three English accounts are those of Rewi Manga Maniapoto from Ngāti Maniapoto, published in the Otago Daily Times, issue 8284, 10 September 1888; Hītiri Te Paerata, from Ngāti Raukawa and Ngāti Te Kohera, published in Te Aroha News, vol. VI, issue 293, 23 August 1888; and Paitini Wī Tāpeka, Tūhoe from Ruatāhuna, whose 1906 account was published by Elsdon Best in Children of the Mist. The two te reo accounts are from Te Huia Raureti, Ngāti Maniapoto and Ngāti Paretekawa, and Poupatate Te Huihi, Ngāti Maniapoto and Ngāti Unu; both are published in Robert Joseph and Paul Meredith (eds), The Battle of Ōrākau — Maori Veterans’ Accounts: Commemorating the 150th Anniversary 1864–2014, Ōrākau Heritage Society and the Maniapoto Māori Trust Board, 2014.
Te Paerata gave his account in person, on invitation, at the Parliamentary Buildings in Wellington on 4 August 1888. Of note is that the interpreter for Te Paerata was Captain Gilbert Mair, the very person who, as major, had been the negotiator who attempted to obtain the Māori surrender.
Ihimaera and I honour the accounts as incredible taonga. They are sacred and translucent teardrops, coming as they do from men who were actually there, at Ōrākau.
Drawn by Robert S. Anderson in 1864, this shows Ōrākau Pā encircled by contingents of troops (denoted by dotted lines). The trail snaking through the surrounding swamp below marks the Māori escape.
Alexander Turnbull Library, MapColl-032.14hkm/1864/Acc.36888
Plan of Ōrākau Pā, showing the network of trenches. Alexander Turnbull Library, MapColl-032.14hkm/1864/Acc.36888
Sketch of the countryside around Ōrākau, oriented so the escape route is to the top, with the ‘English Redoubts’ marked: Te Awamutu bottom right, Rangiaowhia directly below and Kihikihi to the right. Alexander Turnbull Library, 832.14hkm/186
This sketch of Gate Pā, attacked a few weeks after Ōrākau, shows the types of trenches and palisades that would have been at Ōrākau.
Alexander Turnbull Library, 1-033-007
Sketch of Ōrākau Pā by Brigadier-General Carey. In the foreground, soldiers wait to advance by way of the sap (military trench) as it approaches the pā.
Alexander Turnbull Library, B-033-030
As this 1860s photograph by William Temple shows, Māori were typically armed with a few muskets and more traditional weapons, such as the taiaha.
Alexander Turnbull Library, PA1-Q-250-25-2
Along with Armstrong guns, plentiful armaments, ammunition, grenades and supplies, Cameron’s Waikato Campaign even had gunboats to provide transport and patrol the coast, including this iron gunboat Rangiriri, built in Sydney for the New Zealand Government.
Alexander Turnbull Library, A-110-008
A military camp by the Waikato River, taken by Bernard Gilpin Haines, while serving with the 18th Royal Irish Regiment, which fought at Ōrākau.
Alexander Turnbull Library, PA1-F-027-34-2
A recreation of a Forest Ranger camp at Ōrākau, filmed for Rewi’s Last Stand in the 1930s.
Auckland Libraries, J. T. Diamond Collection, JTD-14K-05370
SLEEPS STANDING
Witi Ihimaera
Oh, when will your manhood rage?
Oh, when will your courage blaze?
When the ocean tide murmurs,
When the ocean tide roars —
Chapter One
A name among military papers
1.
Simon has put out the dinghy so we can go fishing.
He’s a good boy, though you wouldn’t take him for one of us: tall, strong, blue eyes, curly brown hair and his fair skin, against ours, makes us look really black. When we go walking in Gisborne and I introduce him to his relatives they are sometimes surprised. But as well as looking like he does, Simon has a quick wit. ‘There must have been a postman somewhere in the family tree,’ he grins. ‘He delivered more than the mail.’
When he takes his shirt off, auē, he is so white that he sends all his cousins diving for their sunglasses: ‘Hey, boys, someone turn off the light.’
And then he’s got that Aussie twang in his voice. But whenever somebody pokes him with ‘Tie me kangaroo down, mate’, or asks him to ‘Put another shrimp on the barbie, eh cobber?’ he takes it in good humour.
Simon’s nasal accent gave him away when he and his girlfriend Amber turned up on my doorstep. We looked at each other warily, and I thought to myself, What’s this Pākehā boy with his pregnant girlfriend doing knocking on my door?
And then he said, ‘Are you my Papa Rua?’
I knew immediately that he was one of the whānau lost to Ahitereiria, Australia; must be from Bill’s line. My dad’s older brother was stationed with the New Zealand armed forces in Malaya and, on the way home, stopped off in Perth, stayed and joined that Māori tribe we call Ngāti Kangurū, the Tribe of the Kangaroos.
How long ago was that? Some time in the 1960s.
And then Simon said, ‘I’ve come back to New Zealand to ask a favour, and the family’s blessing.’
Simon and Amber were booked in to a motel off Waikanae beach — but not for long. I got them out of there that day, and they have been staying with me on our family land ever since. Over the past month the extended whānau have had a terrific time showing them their marae and taking them on trips with the kapa haka club. Simon can do a mean haka now, though the boys like to keep him at the back because he’s not … well, colour-coded might be a polite way of putting it. Amber has tried twirling the long poi at practices but her expanding puku gets in the way.
Tomorrow they have to go back to Aussie; Simon has a job in the mines, and if Amber stays much longer she’ll drop her baby while she’s here. She’s had a scan and they know the baby will be a boy. Amber’s from the Waanji people of Carpentaria, and her son will join our tribe with her mob.
Simon still hasn’t asked his favour.
And then, while I am sitting with him in the dinghy, and the light is glistening on the sea and the water is sparkling and, shoreward, the white cliffs and greenstone land are breathing nice and easy, Simon tells me what his favour is.
‘Although I haven’t been brought up as a Māori,’ he begins haltingly, ‘and I don’t know much about my whakapapa, I have found a name among Grandad’s military papers and … well … me and Amber would like to call our son Moetū.’
The sun strikes suddenly at my eyes, deep, deep into my skull. It takes quite a while for me to reply. ‘So you want to call your boy after Sleeps Standing, eh?’
‘Is that what Moetū means?’
‘Not really, it’s a short version. The longer version, Moetū-whakaaraara, translates as The-One-Who-Sleeps-Standing-and-Sounds-the-Alarm. Moetū was only sixteen when he was given the name. At that time, back in the 1850s and 60s, he was part of a rebel group fighting the British soldiers. When the rebels pitched camp, the older warriors liked to have Moetū on night duty; they trusted him more than the adult sentries to alert them to pack up and escape further into the bush. But that’s not his real claim to fame.’
‘There’s more?’
I motion to Simon to start the outboard. ‘Let’s get back to shore,’ I tell him. ‘I better drive you into town so that you can talk to your kuia, Hūhana. She’s better qualified than me to tell you about Moetū.’
Chapter Two
Reinforcements from Rongowhakaata
1.
Hūhana is my older sister. She helps out at the local kōhanga; there people know her as a sweet old lady who gives cuddles to the kids and wouldn’t hurt a fly — yeah, right. She lives in Mangapapa, a suburb in Gisborne.
No sooner do I park the ute in her drive than she’s out of the house and looking in the back. ‘What? No fish? Everybody I know manages to hook at least something.’
Home from the crèche, Hūhana’s back to being the usual crabby, loud-talking person who likes to let you know she’s the boss.
‘I love you too, Sis.’
Hūhana gives Simon a hug. Like most of the w
hānau she has taken a shine to our moko from Australia. When he first arrived she said, ‘I could tell immediately that you were one of our bones. You look just like me.’
Wha–at? Hūhana is short, roly-poly and brown, not like Simon at all. I thought, Gee, Sis, take another look in the mirror.
‘Have you come to say goodbye?’ she asks Simon. ‘Didn’t I tell you I was coming to the hotel for your farewell?’
I give her a look. ‘Simon wants to know the story about Moetū and there won’t be enough time for you to tell it to him tonight.’
Well, that stops her in her tracks.
‘You better come inside,’ she says.
Are those tears? Nah, Hūhana never cries.
Hūhana ushers us into her sitting room, where a huge television takes pride of place so she can watch the kapa haka on Māori Television; she bought it because she didn’t trust smaller screens as they might leave out the performers on the sides. Her husband Wally is watching the footy, but when we arrive he sighs, presses the ‘Record’ button on the remote and goes out to his truck.
‘You can say a karakia for us,’ Hūhana tells me. Immediately Simon’s eyebrows arch: you don’t start with a prayer unless the talk is going to be serious.
Hūhana gets straight into it. ‘I am so happy, Simon, that you and Amber want to call your baby after our ancestor Sleeps Standing. When your boy is born, here is the story you must tell him so that he can always be proud of his name and know how important Moetū was to our family. The kōrero involves the great Battle of Ōrākau—’
Sleeps Standing: A Story of the Battle of Orakau Page 2
