Sleeps Standing: A Story of the Battle of Orakau

by Ihimaera, Witi

  Moetū did not mince his words. ‘You need us,’ he said. ‘All the men are busy fighting at the parapets, the women have taken up arms with them, too.’

  ‘You think the council of rangatira chiefs will let you children fight alongside us, when you are all so precious to us?’ Rewi asked.

  ‘I know you won’t,’ Moetū replied, ‘even though we would gladly do that. Instead, let us be the bearers of the ammunition, real or wooden, and what remains of our water and food to the fighters. And let me direct the supply according to which section of the pā needs it.’

  Te Haa’s brother, Mihaere, spoke up for the proposal. ‘Our diminishing ammunition supplies must be distributed wisely and equally. Carey must soon wonder why there is heavy firing from their side but only intermittent fire from some parapets of the pā and nothing from others. Once he sniffs out that we are down to our last bullets, it will be the end for us.’

  ‘But children—’

  A voice came from behind the chiefs, ‘Let them do it.’ It was Ahumai Te Paerata standing there, and she smiled at Moetū. ‘The boy has a good head and the children want to help us. They know we are all in this together for better or worse, in life — or death.’

  With this agreement, Moetū assembled the children and divided them into groups. He placed the older and taller children under his and Ngāpō’s direction on a circuit in the outer ditch, where they could carry ammunition and water to the warriors there. The younger and shorter children, under Kararaina’s guidance, were on a circuit of the inner rampart, where she could direct them back to the kōhanga whenever she felt the shellfire was too dangerous. Moetū ran the armoury, dispensing the ammunition and calculating where it should go.

  ‘What about us?’ the two nursing mothers Erana and Tihei asked. ‘Is there anything we can do to help?’

  ‘Yes,’ Moetū answered. ‘Your first duty is to your babies, but you could attend to the wounded whenever you can.’

  ‘We are all Moetū’s warrior band,’ Ngāpō said to the children, ‘and he is our chief.’

  Moetū’s heart burst with pride at how fearless the children were under Pākehā fire. He realised that Ngāpō was right: helping during battle was second nature to them. And they carried on, even as the guns barked all around and the defenders slumped, having taken a shot to head or heart.

  Bravest of all was Patu, scurrying to the armoury to have hāmanu filled. ‘I do it,’ he said, seeing Moetū busy supplying another young boy. The firing had reached a crescendo and Moetū cried out, ‘Wait, Patu,’ but he wriggled away and was on his way back, safely protected by the high walls of the earth bank.

  Now Kararaina arrived. ‘There’s not much ammunition left, is there?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  There was something Moetū had wanted to ask her. This was not a good time, but he took it anyway. ‘What did your sister mean about you not having time for boyfriends?’

  Kararaina blushed and then stared hard at Moetū. ‘Would you want to fall in love during war? My sister Whetū did — her boyfriend was the one who taught her how to be a marksman, and then he was killed at Rangiriri. She speaks with the voice of experience; she knows what it’s like to lose someone. She still cries for him at night.’

  ‘But sometimes feelings for a person happen and …’

  Kararaina pressed her hands over Moetū’s, firmly. ‘I have stopped my heart from responding to another heart,’ she said. ‘Nor do I want anyone who has the misfortune to love me to weep over me, if I should die. My life is a warrior’s life, it cannot admit love.’

  Wherever the rangatira and the warrior parents went, the children went. At Ōrākau, as they became orphaned, they turned to Moetū. Ahumai was right: he was indeed a boy with a protective heart.

  He felt sad for the parents, who were in constant fear they would die and leave their children to fend for themselves in the world. They would caress their children as they ran past because, even in the midst of war, they knew the children needed to be shown they were doing a good job that benefited everyone.

  Patu’s father Maaka came to the armoury and introduced himself to Moetū. His face was wan with exhaustion, and he was standing with great difficulty as both his legs had been shot through; one was held together with a mānuka splint bound with flax. He told Moetū how he had met Patu’s mother, Pōwhiri, when he went with Rewi Maniapoto on his expedition to Taranaki in 1860.

  ‘Neither of us wanted to fall in love but … we did, and although we didn’t want a child during the war either … we did have one. I came back with Rewi two years later and Pōwhiri and Patu came with me; they were camp followers like many families that supported the husband warrior. Pōwhiri was killed a year ago, and since then it’s been only Patu and me. If anything happens to me, look after my little man, will you? Take him to my brother in Wairoa, would you? Maybe he will be able to find peace in his life, even if his parents never did.’

  When Maaka was killed in a hail of gunfire not long afterwards, Moetū wondered how to tell the four-year-old his father was dead.

  But Patu took the news stoically. When Maaka and six others were buried in the communal grave, Patu stood watching Moetū digging the earth, then took the shovel from him. ‘My father, mine,’ he said, patting the soil down. ‘I do it.’

  ‘I will take Patu to Wairoa after the battle is over,’ Moetū told Te Haa.

  ‘If he survives,’ Te Haa replied.

  If he survives.

  And then Patu asked Moetū, ‘What’s it like to die?’

  Patu was too young to ask such a question: Moetū was too young to answer. The warrior’s death was to die for the land — but even this affirmation did not allay Moetū’s fear of the bullet through the skull or the thrust of bayonet into belly; and the thought that this might happen to Patu was unbearable.

  Regardless of the prospect of death, Moetū, Kararaina, Patu, Ngāpō, Areka, Rāwinia and the other children maintained their courage as shells rained around them.

  The ramparts were smeared with blood, the nauseous smell of death — for death does have a smell, as the body begins to rot — was all around.

  And then:

  ‘We’ve run out of bullets,’ Rewi said.

  ‘Slowly, the pā was overwhelmed,’ I tell Simon. I pick up one of Dad’s books, The New Zealand Wars by James Cowan, and flick through the pages.

  ‘Ah, here it is. Cowan writes, “Further reinforcements arrived on the second day (1st April), including Jackson’s No. 1 Company, Forest Rangers, from Ōhaupō. There were now a hundred Rangers with their carbines and five-shot revolvers guarding the east flank.” The sap, meantime, advanced — an unstoppable juggernaut — and one of the six-pounder guns was placed in it. From there its gunners had protection from Māori attack and could fire at their leisure at the pā.’

  Sensing that Ōrākau would soon fall to them, the general and staff arrived to observe their army in its hour of victory.

  In another suicidal bid, ten Urewera warriors rushed the sap, throwing rocks into it. Following them, ten more warriors leapt in to engage with the diggers; Te Haa’s son, Pukenga, was with them, shooting at the soldiers. They tried another kōkiri, but this one failed also. Nothing could prevail against the mighty bulldog.

  Pukenga was shot in the heart. And then from the sap came hand grenades. Thrown into the air, they rose up high over the parapet. Some were like stunted arrows that either detonated on impact or failed to go off; others looked like small jars or jam tins, a fuse burning ready to make contact with the gunpowder packed within. All could be lethal.

  ‘Quick,’ Moetū ordered Ngāpō, Kararaina, Areka, Hineaturama and Ewa and a couple of the older children. ‘Get blankets, hold them between four or five of you and try to catch the grenade in them before they hit the ground. Pick up any that haven’t detonated as fast as you can and throw them back.’

  Ngāpō and the older children already knew what to do; they had dealt with hand grenades at other battles. Ev
en so, Moetū’s heart stopped when he saw Patu copying them and bending down to one of the missiles.

  ‘I do it,’ Patu said. He picked up a projectile that was far too heavy for him to throw more than an arm’s length away.

  ‘Patu, no,’ Kararaina screamed.

  She wrested it from his hands, pulled out its burning fuse and then crouched down to scold the little boy.

  Everywhere the women and children were running helter-skelter, dodging the deadly objects as they thumped into the ground around them. Moetū heard a grenade explode against the palisade close by, and he ducked behind the bank.

  With so much noise around them, Kararaina was unaware that another grenade had been lobbed onto the parapet and had landed behind her and Patu. This one also had a fuse; its flame caught Moetū’s eye.

  ‘Kararaina!’ he cried a warning. How long before it exploded?

  One …

  She heard his warning cry, turned and saw the grenade, and knew it was too late. She tried to smile at Moetū — there was never time to say goodbye in war — and held Patu close.

  Two …

  Someone came rushing and a voice roared out, ‘Sister!’

  It all happened in a moment: Whetū knocked Kararaina aside. With no time to think, she picked up the grenade and threw herself into an empty rua with it.

  Three …

  There was a crump and a huge concussive blast, but the burrow kept the shrapnel within its walls.

  Moetū heard ringing in his ears. No, it was someone screaming, Kararaina.

  The defenders used the rua for that day’s burials. At the tangi, the woman named Ariana led the women’s lamentations. They were wild and filled with grief, and this time it was Moetū’s turn to offer Kararaina his aroha.

  ‘I have already lost my parents,’ Kararaina wept, ‘my three brothers, and now Whetū. We were supposed to look after each other. After the war was over, we were going back to farm our family land. Now I have no one and nothing to live for.’

  Moetū pulled her head onto his chest and let it rest there where she could hear his beating heart.

  Patu joined them.

  ‘Hello, Patu,’ Kararaina said. ‘Who will I load cartridges for now? Who?’

  Did Patu understand what she was asking?

  ‘I do it,’ he said.

  Chapter Five

  Red plumes of the kākā

  1.

  The hotel is filled to overflowing with the whānau. There doesn’t seem to be a member of the family missing from the farewell. Over at the bar the jugs are lined up, full of beer, ready to be carried through the crowd for this table or that one — or out to the verandah where the smokers have gone.

  Wally seems to be everywhere at once. He must be oh-so-glad to be married to Hūhana, who orders him to check that the kitchen staff are doing their job or, if he has already done it, to check again. Over on the small stage, one of their sons, Mo-Crack, has set up the sound system for the speeches and, later, the karaoke singalong. The song sheets have already been distributed and everybody has passed their selections to the beautiful Rhonda so we won’t be doubling up on the tunes.

  Out in the snug, Hūhana is sitting with her cronies. The hairdresser has managed to tame her hair — for a few hours anyway — and people are complimenting her on the corsage she is wearing.

  ‘Not roses?’ she asked when I gave the flowers to her.

  ‘I didn’t want to give them competition,’ I said, and almost gagged on the spot.

  I take another look at the women: there’s something strange about the way they are dressed. Good grief, they are all wearing cowboy boots. And are those cowboy hats? Looks like the gals are planning a bit of line dancing later, yee-ha.

  My heart is brimming over with happiness that we will be sending Simon off to Australia in grand style. I wonder why his Grandfather Bill never came back. I guess the world is a big place and Bill’s experiences in Malaysia gave him a taste for travel.

  Different to me and Hūhana: our world is here in Gizzy.

  Hopalong — that’s what we call Jimmy-One-Leg — goes to the mike and tells everyone, ‘Time for kai.’ Our cuzzie Maybelline owns the hotel, and her staff have put on a fantastic spread of … well, healthy food, not a fizzy drink, no pork with crackling or a cream bun in sight. Instead, lots of lettuce, salads, lean meats and fish; and the kids, the poor things, are eyeing the Japanese sushi and going ‘Yummy.’ The traditional boil-up — mashed potatoes with lashings of butter followed by pavlova and whipped cream — is a disappearing dream.

  I am at the top table with Hūhana, Simon and Amber. We’ve put Amber at the end because her stomach stops her from getting close to the food — better for her to eat sidesaddle. Simon’s rellos from Bill’s side are at our table, too; I think Bill would be proud that we have all pitched in like this.

  Hūhana gives me the nod: time to say grace so that everyone can hoe in.

  No sooner do I sit down after giving the prayer than Simon raises his glass and whispers, ‘Let’s have a toast, just you and me, a private one, while we can.’

  ‘Okay, boy.’

  His toast is something curious. ‘It’s not the size of the dog in the fight,’ he begins, quoting Mark Twain, ‘it’s the size of the fight in the dog, eh, Papa Rua?’

  Yes, Simon, tino pai rawa atu tāu kōrero.

  On the third day, the soldiers shortened the fuses on their hand grenades. Rewi, Te Haa and the council of chiefs knew it was only a matter of time before the pā would fall. The view from the ramparts was hellish: men and women standing in the rifle pits, their faces smeared with pain, sweat and grease, clothes soaked with blood. There was no water left and no respite from the heat.

  The shelling continued through the morning. Moetū had long lost his hearing to the repeated thunderous roar. When instructions were given, Te Haa and the other leaders had resorted to pointing and making gestures to get their commands understood.

  Moetū should have felt fear or sadness, but all he could feel was love. There were warriors here, but there were also chiefly families. The warriors were not only retainers with allegiance to their chiefs, they were also husbands with wives, fathers with sons and daughters, and brothers following their parents into war. Had they not come to Ōrākau, they would be putting down their implements and making their separate ways home to dinner. Instead, they had chosen this: to stand and fight one of the greatest armies in the world.

  You are all very dear to me, Moetū thought. I am honoured to be among you. I will always remember you, always.

  Some of them were balancing on makeshift crutches; others had used fern fronds as poultices and bandages, or flax blades as a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood. Despite the fact that they were outnumbered and outgunned, here they were, fighting to the very end.

  Every now and then they would offer each other signs of love, a caress and a kiss before dying.

  And Te Haa was still grieving for his son, Pukenga, felled by a bullet in the battle.

  The sap had reached within ten strides of the redoubt.

  Earlier in the day, I had shown Simon an old clipping from the Taranaki Herald that reported that around noon on Saturday, ‘Mr Mainwaring and Mr Mair were instructed to propose to the rebels that they should surrender. This was accordingly done. The firing ceased for a few minutes, and the natives being called to give their attention, were informed that these were the words of the General. He had seen their great bravery and admired it …’

  ‘But if you persist in fighting,’ Mair told them, ‘you will be killed, and your women and children will die with you.’

  The Herald recorded, ‘A chief then answered — “Friends; this is the word of the Maori. We will fight on, for ever, for ever, for ever.”’

  The words were soon taken up by all the defenders in the pā: ‘Ka whawhai tonu matou, ake, ake, ake tonu atu.’

  Rewi Manga Maniapoto has been credited with this defiant phrase, but other rangatira — Hapurona of Tūhoe, Te Paerata
and Hauraki Tonganui — surely joined in, ensuring that the words would echo, and echo, and echo across the battlefield.

  Mair was kind. He continued his kōrero, ‘Then send out your women and children, so that they won’t die with you.’

  What was the reply?

  Ahumai Te Paerata appeared at the highest part of the pā: no woman ever looked more proud or Amazonian. Her voice rang out: ‘Ki te mate ngā tāne, me mate anō ngā wāhine me ngā tamariki. If our husbands and brothers are to die, of what profit is it to us that we the women and children should live? Let us die with our men.’

  From a neighbouring hillside the Māori reinforcements appeared. Throughout the siege they had been gathering, and they never gave up trying to get through the British lines to the pā. When they saw that the people of Ōrākau were not submitting to the British request, they roared with pride. The wind brought their haka of praise to the defenders; the stamping of their feet raised the dust to drift like clouds in the air.

  ‘Puhi kura, puhi kura, puhi kākā! Oh, red plumes of the kākā, we salute you, use claw, use beak, fly strong against your foe even as he brings you down to the dust, fight on.’

  The roars of acclamation split the air again and again and again.

  Suddenly, there was silence.

  The British gunners awaited the order.

  ‘Fire!’

  Shells flew through the air, and explosions rent the pā. The soldiers waited within the sap, and around the redoubt, for the order to attack.

  ‘Charge!’

  The warriors fired back a spray of small stones. Wisps of gun­smoke drifted across the battlements of the pā, then nothing.

  A moment later, a short line of defenders with taiaha and tomahawk came together just inside the palisade, awaiting the final rush of soldiers.

  Rewi, Te Haa, Te Paerata and the others of the council of chiefs at Ōrākau, however, had already decided to pre­empt the soldiers’ attack. They would leave the pā, but on their own terms.