Sleeps Standing: A Story of the Battle of Orakau

by Ihimaera, Witi

  ‘The lands of Ngāti Maniapoto were so fertile, just like ours, but they were at greater risk being on the border of Auckland, the fastest growing settlement in New Zealand. Watch out, Maniapoto, Governor Sir George Grey is covetous—’

  Dad, you should see Auckland today!

  Ah, found it. A bulldog, in the image of John Bull, towers over a Māori figure with a taiaha in his hand. The bulldog has jumped across from the northern hemisphere to squat, glowering, at the Māori defenders of the pā. But it is the Māori figure, not the bulldog, that is growling, ‘Woof, woof.’

  How were the Māori at Ōrākau to know that behind the frontline soldiers there lay a military operation some years in the making? Ever since 1861, Governor Grey had been determined to make war in Aotearoa, and the British Government gave him the resources to do it. Construction of the Great South Road from Auckland to the Waikato came first. A main base was established in Ōtāhuhu, and redoubts were built in such places as Drury, Pōkeno and near Mangatāwhiri River. By 1864, 20,000 imperial troops were marshalled under Lieutenant-General Duncan Cameron, a veteran of Crimea. A major stores depot was set up and called Camerontown after him. The Royal Engineers laid a telegraph line to keep Grey and Cameron apprised of progress as their forces advanced throughout the Waikato. A Commissariat Transport Corps moved military supplies from Auckland by land and water to Drury and beyond. Gunboat steamers like the Pioneer, Rangiriri and the Sandfly prowled the coast.

  It was only a matter of time before the stockpiling of men, munitions, provisions and rations — and more military depots and redoubts from which to fight — created breakthroughs for the bulldog.

  And yet the Māori could still growl ‘Woof woof’?

  Yup.

  2.

  Hūhana and Simon interrupt my thoughts.

  ‘Oh, here you are,’ Hūhana says. ‘Me and Simon were wondering where you had got to.’ Yeah right, more to the point is that Hūhana probably needed an audience and two are better than one, even if one is your younger brother.

  As they are sitting down, I try to grab the reins. ‘According to our family history,’ I begin, ‘Moetū met Kararaina during the church service at the time Brigadier-General Carey, who commanded the troops at Ōrākau, began the first attack.’

  ‘Is that what you heard, Rua?’ Hūhana asks. She has her back to me; all her attention is on Simon. ‘Who told you that?’

  All I can see is her ample — I’m being very nice about my dear sister — posterior as it rises in the west. She proceeds to tell Simon her version. Ah well, let her do that, it’s similar to mine anyway, except that Hūhana likes to embellish the details, add a flourish here and a bit more colour there … whereas I keep to the facts, more or less.

  Moetū heard someone give a warning shout.

  In the distance he saw the bayonets and rifles of soldiers glinting in the sun. The Forest Rangers and 120 men of the 18th Royal Irish came marching four abreast on the pā.

  ‘What a numberless people are the Pākehā,’ Paitini Wī Tāpeka said in awe. ‘They smother the land.’

  The earlier shout was taken up by a voice nearby: ‘He whakaariki, he whakaariki, a war party, a war party approaches.’ The voice belonged to a striking young woman standing on the main parapet of the pā, holding a musket. Wearing a plaid skirt and dogskin cape, and a hat to keep the sun out of her eyes, she fired off a warning shot.

  Her name was Whetū, and she was a crack markswoman.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ she yelled at the warriors. ‘The soldiers are coming.’

  She gave her gun to a girl standing with her, who handed over a loaded musket.

  ‘The girl was Kararaina,’ Hūhana continues. ‘She was Whetū’s younger sister, and what stuck in Moetū’s memory was the bright red ribbon she had used to tie her thick hair back.’

  Immediately Rewi leapt onto the central platform and scanned the pā to the north, south, west and east. The external trench around the redoubt had been completed but, auē, the other parapets and fencing were still not finished on the east side, nor was an outwork situated to the northwest. The soldiers would surely break through those quadrants.

  ‘They need to be enticed to make their attack here, where our fortifications are strongest,’ Moetū said to Te Haa.

  ‘Our leader Rewi has already come to that conclusion,’ Te Haa answered, bemused, ‘but good boy for working that out.’

  Rewi had begun to haka, jabbing his taiaha in the air to draw the soldiers’ attention and divert the attack.

  ‘Puhi kura, puhi kura, puhi kākā,’ he chanted. ‘Here I am, Carey. I’m the one you really want, the one you wish to capture and parade in chains in the streets of Auckland. ‘Come one, come all, see the great Rewi shackled like a slave.”’

  Moetū heard other Maniapoto warriors taking up the taunting chant: Rewi’s half-brother Te Raore was one and Rewi’s lieutenant, Tūpōtahi, was another; they were joined by Niketi Pōneke and his father.

  ‘Red plumes, red plumes, plumes of the kākā,’ they chanted.

  In his mind’s eye, Moetū imagined the forest parrot opening its wings, pinions flaring against the morning sky, inviting attention.

  Rewi’s impassioned war cries inflamed the soldiers — and the strategy appeared to work. They diverted their course to make a full-frontal attack. Bullets whistled around Rewi as he jumped into a trench.

  ‘Take your positions,’ Rewi called to the warriors.

  Te Haa, his brother Mihaere and the main body of warriors, men and women, dropped to the ground behind the makeshift palisade, guns pointing between the posts.

  The pā may have been unfinished, but that did not mean that the warriors at Ōrākau were unprepared. Ngāti Maniapoto defended the southeast; the Urewera the southwest and part of the west flank; Ngāti Raukawa, Ngāti Te Kohera and Ngāti Tūwharetoa the northwest.

  Heart thudding, Moetū joined his Rongowhakaata tauā at the part of the pā they had been allocated — it was the sector they would defend for the next three days.

  ‘Hold your fire,’ Rewi called.

  The imperial forces advanced in skirmishing order, and a bugle sounded the charge.

  The Royal Irish and the Forest Rangers dashed at the pā; Moetū saw von Tempsky draw his famed Bowie knife and hold it, flashing, to the sun. To the rear another regiment waited at the ready.

  ‘Brace the butt of your rifle hard into your shoulder,’ Te Haa told Moetū. ‘Wait for the order to fire.’

  Today I may kill a man, Moetū thought. The possibility made him feel sick.

  The advancing soldiers were unaware of the strength of the pā. On they came, onward.

  ‘Not yet,’ Te Haa said. ‘They are still too far away.’

  But, within minutes, they had reached the fifty-yard range.

  ‘Pūhia,’ Rewi shouted. ‘First volley, fire!’

  Moetū fired his rifle and was knocked back by the recoil, its loud report ringing in his ears. On both sides came the crack and thump of other guns; flashes and smoke-puffs ran along the front of the rifle pits.

  ‘Too high,’ Te Haa called out as the rifle fire flashed above the soldiers’ heads.

  ‘Second volley, fire!’

  Lines of flashes again, and the air was filled with gunpowder smoke. The acrid fumes stung Moetū’s eyes and pushed into his lungs. He was coughing and in tears. When the smoke cleared, he saw that this time some of the attackers had fallen and the rest were withdrawing.

  A bugle call broke through the chaos.

  ‘Kua pai?’ Te Haa asked Moetū.

  Moetū wanted to reply that yes, he was all right, but a different response kept him silent: If I’ve killed someone, will God forgive me?

  ‘They come at us again,’ Rewi cried.

  The imperial forces had regrouped and were charging a second time. But they were unprepared for the protection afforded by the palisade surrounding the fort.

  Rewi gave the command. ‘Fire on your first barrel.’

&n
bsp; Keeping flat to the ground, the warriors let the volley roar.

  ‘And now the second barrel.’

  For this round the warriors stood to deliver the volley.

  But the soldiers rallied a third time. Moetū could not but admire their courage — or foolishness. They advanced to only a few yards away from the defenders. Would the pā be overwhelmed on the first morning?

  ‘Withdraw to the rampart,’ Rewi commanded.

  Moetū followed orders, taking cover behind the higher bank of earth.

  ‘Come on, be quick,’ Rewi told the others, ‘the boy is showing you all up.’

  Moetū found himself next to Kararaina. He nodded to her in acknowledgement, and Whetū saw the look.

  ‘Kararaina, concentrate on loading for me,’ she said.

  Embarrassed, Moetū turned away. On his other side a woman close to the chieftainess, Hineatūrama, was struggling to fill a hāmanu, a cartridge holder, with bullets; he helped her. Hineatūrama’s daughter Ewa was praying for them all. There were other women pressed against the bank beyond. Some were taking up arms for the first time and needed help. ‘Here, let me show you,’ Moetū said.

  Already he had become an expert.

  All around the perimeter of the pā, the Pākehā soldiers were trying to get close enough to breach the palisade.

  ‘Prepare to fight at close quarters,’ Rewi called to the warriors, who were keen to venture out to tackle anyone who came near.

  ‘Come on, Jack,’ the warriors taunted the soldiers. ‘Come on.’

  From afar, Brigadier-General Carey made a decision: ‘The pā is too well defended. Draw off the troops and bring in the artillery.’

  The six-pounder Armstrongs were brought into position. Moetū watched as the shells soared into Ōrākau from 350 yards away.

  Without thinking, he pulled Kararaina into his protective arms while the heavens split apart and the earth quaked with explosions. Nor did evening bring respite to the beleaguered pā.

  One of the big guns had been placed on a small hill, and it carried on firing shells into the redoubt. The two sides kept up small-arms fire, too; the night was shredded with the crack, pop and thud of bullets — and the sudden cries when they hit their mark.

  While the day had gone well for Ōrākau, the combined forces in the pā had suffered losses of some forty warriors to Tū, god of war. The Urewera warriors in particular had been badly hit.

  ‘I have a job for you,’ Te Haa told Moetū. He assigned him to go with his brother, Mihaere, and son, Pukenga and assist with digging graves in the southwest corner of the pā. There, anguished wives and sweethearts requested water so that they could ceremonially wash the blood from their men and bind the bodies in preparation for their journey into the next life.

  ‘We must not waste water,’ Wī Karamoa cautioned them.

  ‘Just a little,’ a woman named Ariana entreated, ‘to anoint our loved ones, cleanse and release them from their service, here on this earth.’ Wī Karamoa nodded. He intoned the burial service and, when the dead were placed in the ground, Ariana began to wail in grief.

  Moetū bowed his head. He felt a hand slip into his: Kararaina was there. ‘The living should give each other sympathy, too,’ she said, ‘as we pray for our dead warriors.’

  These were the first words she spoke to him. He wanted to reply – but didn’t – that yes, he needed her aroha because, in his prayers, he was also asking for forgiveness for himself.

  3.

  On his way back to the Rongowhakaata sector, Moetū saw Te Haa talking to Rewi and other chiefs of the council, including Ahumai Te Paerata, who had arisen as a leader of the women; among Māori she became as well known as Rewi for her sterling leadership during the siege.

  She pointed Moetū out to the others. ‘That’s the boy,’ she said.

  Ahumai had noticed during the battle how Moetū had looked out for the chieftainess Hineatūrama and other women who had not been assigned a leader; there he was, among them, giving guidance. ‘Don’t be in a hurry to reload, do it carefully, someone else will cover you,’ he told them; or ‘Your sector to protect is in front of you, leave the men to protect the sectors on both sides of you.’

  ‘He has a protective heart,’ Ahumai said. ‘When a young boy came running with cartridges and was returning to the armoury, Moetū said to him, “Not you, you stay here.” He chose a shorter boy whose head would be below the ramparts as he ran. A simple decision, but clever.’

  The chiefs nodded. Te Haa approached Moetū and put an arm across his shoulders.

  ‘You did well today,’ he said. ‘Some people were impressed with your work. And we fended off three charges from the soldiers. But Carey was clever: by attacking the pā before it was finished, he prevented us from fully provisioning it with munitions and food. All we have is what we brought in before the soldiers advanced. The back-up powder and lead is still in the villages, and now the troops are in occupation of them. Maybe there are three or four casks of gunpowder left.’

  So that was why Te Haa’s brother and son had been distributing some of the ammunition brought by the Rongowhakaata squad to others. Moetū realised it now.

  Te Haa had a wry look on his face. ‘From now on,’ he said, ‘we’ll also be firing wooden bullets. Niketi Pōneke, his father and some of the younger warriors should be back soon with peach stones and apple branches from the orchard. A wooden bullet might not be lethal but it can maim and slow down an attacker. Luckily for us, Carey and his men don’t know our plight. If they did, they would plan an all-out assault and overrun us at their leisure. Now, come with me—’

  Mystified, Moetū followed.

  ‘The chiefs and I have been in council on three other problems. One of them is food. There was little in the pā when the attack began, and already the people are starving. Rewi has sent out some of the young men to penetrate the soldiers’ lines and bring back whatever they can: maize, potatoes, pumpkins and kamokamo. The second problem is water, as the soldiers have cut off our pathway to the stream on the east side of the pā. And there’s a third problem, which concerns you.’

  The pā was a complex of rua, burrows and dugouts. Te Haa stopped at one of them, an underground sheltering place. The dugout was the pā’s kōhanga, a nest for children; unlike the other burrows, this one was deeper and had a thick compacted-mud covering to give it better protection from shellfire. Young children were sleeping, two infants being nursed by their mothers. Some of the tamariki were tossing and turning, crying for food and water.

  ‘Tomorrow, all the able-bodied men and women will be busy fighting,’ Te Haa said. ‘Just as we must use our ammunition wisely, we must also deploy our manpower with wisdom. The chiefs and I can’t spare anybody except you. Therefore, your job will be to look after the children.’

  ‘I am an adult, I can help on the frontline,’ Moetū protested.

  ‘There is to be no argument,’ Te Haa continued gently. ‘The parents will be relying on you. The kōhanga is yours to defend. You are the man for the job. You’ll have two others your age to help you in protecting the children.’

  He motioned a stocky young boy to join them. ‘Ngāpō—’

  When Ngāpō was introduced to Moetū, a look of relief flooded his face. ‘I’m not good at leading,’ he whispered to Moetū. ‘But we have been children of warriors for a long time now: you won’t need to show us what you want us to do — just tell us.’

  ‘Kararaina will help you, too,’ Te Haa said. ‘But you are in charge and you must look to the needs of the children. Act on your own initiative. And if anything happens to me, to all the men and women, you must take the children to safety.’

  Around midnight the redoubt was abuzz with news that Māori reinforcements from Ngāti Porou had arrived and were trying to break through the military cordon to the rangatira families within. For a while, warriors in the fort tried to create a diversion, but the soldiers still prevented the newcomers from crossing over.

  ‘Kia hiwa rā! Kia hiwa
rā!’ the sentries called throughout the night. ‘Kia hiwa rā i tēnei tuku! Kia hiwa rā i tērā taku! Be alert! Be watchful! Be alert on this terrace! Be alert on that terrace!’

  The first watchman, Āporo, was shot dead before night’s end. His call was taken up by Te Huia Raureti, who continued to chant sentinel songs and war cries throughout the siege.

  As for Moetū, he was accustoming himself to his charges. He took a head count: twenty-six, two nursing mothers and two babies in addition; thirty in all. The two mothers were Tihei and Erana. Most of the children were aged between nine and thirteen; he calculated that the rest were younger.

  Moetū thought with gloom, ‘I am only sixteen and already I have children!’

  It was long overdue for the older children to bed down for the night. Moetū ordered Ngāpō and Kararaina to go among them with water — one sip — and bread — one portion. He took up a calabash to help them — and, as he did so, four-year-old Patu suddenly slipped into his life.

  ‘I do it,’ Patu said, taking the calabash. He was a fuzzy-haired and pugnacious whirlwind of pint-sized energy and, when Moetū tried to take the calabash back, he glared, ‘No, you’re the boss of us, I do it.’

  ‘Whose child is Patu?’ Moetū asked Kararaina.

  ‘One of the Ngāti Maniapoto warriors,’ she answered. ‘His mother is dead. He is here with his father.’

  The shells were still falling at around 3 am when Tihei, one of the nursing mothers, approached Moetū where he stood as sentry at the entrance to the kōhanga.

  ‘Some of the infants are still unsettled,’ she said. ‘We should get them some more water, perhaps they might be able to sleep then.’

  Te Haa had given him the order: Act on your own initiative. Kararaina was busy with a boy called Areka, repairing a shell-damaged wall, so Moetū woke Ngāpō. ‘I’m leaving you in charge,’ he said. He gathered as many calabashes as he could, slung them around his neck and made his way to the sentry stationed on the eastern side of the pā.