‘Correct. That is, correct about map-making, but not about the hand. I lost that in the Crimea.’ He paused before adding, ‘And none of us is Irish, though the regiment was formed there of course.’
Jack’s left hand had been crushed by a siege ladder and then amputated. He was now quite used to working round its absence. He could load his revolver by tucking it under his elbow. A rifle was more difficult, but being an officer he was not required to carry one. Of course he could not present in battle like other officers, with a pistol in one hand and sword in the other, but then battle was not his normal stamping ground. He was more used to sneaking around in the bush, blowing up enemy emplacements, and relaying intelligence to generals.
‘Ah, the Russians,’ murmured Williamson, ‘a more pedestrian enemy. Down here we fight a more colourful enemy under different skies, different stars. Do you know what the locals call New Zealand? Land of the Long White Cloud. Poetic, don’t you think? You should listen to some of their stories, too. I have. There’s a chap down at the quay they call “Speaker for the 7th Canoe”. His ancestors passed down the history of their migration to these islands to him. Memorized the whole voyage and told it to a grandson. Marvellous memories. Don’t borrow money from them and expect them to forget it.’
Jack smiled. ‘I have no intention of borrowing money from anyone, least of all a Maori.’
‘Oh, they’d lend it to you all right – generous to a fault. Now where’s my three fingers of gin . . .?’
While Jack was comfortably ensconced in the officers’ mess, his men were down at a beer tent, swilling ale. Wynter was on his third jug and Gwilliams, the barber from North America – the United States or Canada, no one really knew which – was not far behind. Sergeant King was with them, though he could have been in the senior NCO’s tent. King did not drink. He was trying to write a letter to his son Sajan, avoiding slops on a rickety table. Sajan was a child King believed he had fathered of an Indian mother. The biological connection was doubtful, but King had declared himself the parent and that, as far as he was concerned, was enough. Sajan was now in England at a Board School in Yorkshire, an exotic pupil amongst mill workers’ children.
Gwilliams was thinking there were an awful lot of naval men around, but when he asked one of them why, he was told they were actually army. Apparently they had discarded their red coats in New Zealand and were wearing blue serge jumpers and blue trousers. It made a lot more sense to wear muted colours, since in this environment they were not fighting in neat lines, but battling through bush country.
‘Well, soldier, what do you reckon on this territory?’ Gwilliams asked of the man. ‘Farming country?’
‘Sheep pasture,’ replied the soldier, leaning his elbows on the table. ‘When I get done with the army, I’m like to settle here for good. Rolling hills, meadowland. It’s a paradise, man. You only got here today, but you wait till you get out there and see the main of it. Hot springs, too. Lakes the size of seas. Yes, sir, I’m going to send for the family and settle.’
‘A long way from anywhere, though?’ argued Gwilliams.
‘Everywhere’s a long way from anywhere, if it an’t home – but if it is, you got the best of it here. No wild beasts. No snakes. When the Maori came there was only birds in the forests – and what forests they are! Hardwood trees the size of cathedrals. Down in South Island they got mountains with snow on top, and glaciers, and them Norwegian inlets, what are they called . . . ?’
‘Fjords?’
‘That’s them,’ said the soldier, tapping the table now to emphasize his approval. ‘Man, you got everything here, right on the doorstep. I’d be as happy as a king if I had the missus here. Plan to get her out. Bay of Islands – prettiest piece of land and sea you ever saw.’ His face darkened for just a moment when a loud guffaw rent the air. ‘Only trouble at the moment is them damn colonists. Bunch of ruffians.’
‘But,’ Gwilliams pointed out, ‘if you settle here, you’d be one of ’em.’
‘Well, you hope they’ve been diluted by then, so to speak. Fact is, soldier, at the minute they’re the dregs. Not all of ’em, of course, but quite a sizeable lump of ’em. Ex-cons from New South Wales, drifters from the whaling ships, foreigners thrown out from their own countries. I can see the day we get a better class of citizen here – some good honest ones have come already – but there’s also a lot of riff-raff on the make.’
By the bar, a big sawyer was lifting two men up by their collars and shaking them like dolls, asking those around him to wager how far he could throw them. The barman seemed afraid to intervene. Gwilliams did not blame him. The sawyer was twice the size of any man in the place. Wynter slammed down his ale jug and stood up. He was a thin wiry creature, pale and bent-looking though still in his thirties. One of his eyes had been pierced by a bush with three-inch-long thorns in India. There was a burn-crease in his temple where he had tried to shoot himself and missed. This poor creature looked like a straw that would break in a draught.
Wynter caught the attention of the whole tavern by rolling up his sleeves and roaring out, ‘Now who’s the biggest bastard in the room?’
The sawyer, his black hair falling round his dark face, dropped the two wriggling men he held as if they were fish.
‘I am!’ snarled this giant of a man.
‘Right,’ replied Wynter, stepping forward, ‘you an’ me’ll fight any two others.’
There was a moment’s silence, then the whole tavern erupted in laughter, and Wynter got the slaps on the back he expected. The sawyer invited him to partake of drink with him, but at that point Gwilliams decided to leave. He knew by the end of the evening Wynter’s temper would turn nasty under the influence of the drink and he was tired of wading in to help the private get rid of the venom in his veins. Gwilliams quietly finished his ale, said goodnight to the soldier, and weaved towards the door.
Three
Fancy Jack Crossman believed his primary duty was spying and his secondary role was as a saboteur. Here in New Zealand the gathering of intelligence was carried out by Maori loyal to the government, and sabotage, which usually involved digging, was the province of the sappers. He could not, as yet, speak the language and was therefore fairly useless as a spy and there were no magazines, storehouses, railways or ships to blow up, as in the Crimea or India. Way down the list of Jack’s duties was mapping, and here in New Zealand there was a rugged wilderness that needed good maps. Colonel Lovelace, his boss, had decided Jack’s team would chart this unknown landscape of volcanic activity, mountains, braided rivers, fjords, glaciers and islands.
When Jack had protested to a senior officer that his primary function was the gathering of intelligence, that officer had replied, ‘Exactly what is intelligence, Captain?’ ‘Why, information, sir.’ ‘And that’s exactly what we require in New Zealand, Captain, information. Cartographic information.’ Jack bowed to the system.
The trained mapper amongst them was Sergeant King, who had never really accepted his role as a spy and saboteur. King, a terrible shot with a firearm, was best with coloured pencils in his hand. He owned and used a vocabulary which included such words as: theodolites, Gunter’s measuring chain, perambulators, quadrants, spirit levels, plane tables, barometric levellers – and many others. A lexicon that made Jack’s head spin. Jack had had triangulation up to his ears and it pained him grievously to have to hand over the main duty of the group to King. He was the officer in charge of something he did not fully understand; he would never be as proficient as his subordinate NCO. He mourned the loss of his former dashing position as the leader of a forward action group.
Captain ‘Fancy’ Jack Crossman was not a fancy dresser, nor did he pomade his hair. He had been given his nickname by the troops when he was a sergeant amongst them. Being obviously from aristocracy he was at that time distrusted by both officers, and rank and file. The former wondered what a member of their exclusive club was doing parading as a common soldier. The latter believed him to be an officers’ spy in
the ranks, there to monitor any insurrection or mutiny. Jack could have, of course, asked his father to buy him a commission, but chose instead to work his way up without the assistance of his hated father’s influence and money. Now he was a captain of foot, the old epithet remained with him, leaving others to wonder if the ‘Fancy’ referred to his way with the ladies.
He was indeed a handsome man, despite his disability, but his interest in women stopped with his wife, Jane. Jane Mulinder of Derby, who would have been his cousin had his mother been his father’s wife, was a tall beautiful female, daughter of a merchant.
Jilted by her former fiancé, Jane met Jack in the Crimea and they fell in love. Since then he had only window-shopped other women. He could still be aroused by a lovely female, naturally, but his fear of hurting his beloved Jane always curbed those wayward instincts. Jack believed that though she might forgive an indiscretion, especially as they had been apart for most of their married life, things would never be the same between them if he were to stray. He wanted them to be the same. He loved being exclusively loved. Jane was his anchor, his sanity during the insane bloodlettings of several wars. Without her devotion and regard he knew he would collapse under the horror of it all.
So, on a clear day when the New Zealand hills looked like green baize over soft mounds, Jack gathered his men together to brief them. They sat at a table outside a shack near to a parade ground where troops were being drilled. It pleased them all, but especially Wynter, that they did not have to be part of the army system. They were a unique unit, responsible only to themselves. It was a grand situation that made them special.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you,’ Jack said, ‘that we are not here as spies and saboteurs.’
‘What?’ said Wynter. ‘We an’t goin’ to go regular, are we?’
‘No, we an’t,’ replied their commanding officer, mimicking his only private soldier. ‘We’re to concentrate on map-making.’
There was a stunned silence, then Sergeant King stood up and threw his cap in the air, shouting, ‘Hurrah!’
‘A little dignity if you please. You will take your seat again, Sergeant, and behave in a manner more becoming of a senior NCO.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied King, grinning. ‘Gladly.’
‘Well, then, you’ve got your wish at last, Sergeant. I can only stand by and give you advice on army matters if you require it, but for the operations themselves I shall hand over to you.’
‘You’ll be told the areas, sir, where we’re to work?’
‘Oh, yes. I have that much control over you still. Well, perhaps not me, but the army. You’ll have to instruct us all in the art and craft of it, Sergeant. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. That theodolite thing you seem so proud of. Do we need to carry it everywhere? It’s a heavy creature.’
‘Essential I’m afraid, sir. As are the measuring chains.’
‘Then we shall need packhorses and perhaps even a cart, which won’t make for easy travelling in the wilderness. I would have liked us to travel as light as possible, so that we could sneak about without being noticed, but I suppose that’s not to be. Now, this is important – many of the Maori tribes are friendly, don’t forget that fact. Wynter, I don’t want you blasting away at someone just because of the colour of his skin. There will be no shooting unless we’re shot at first.’
Gwilliams protested here. ‘That ain’t right. We’ll be on the back foot the whole time.’
‘Orders I’m afraid. You may challenge anyone we see, but do not fire first.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Wynter in a sarcastic tone, ‘I’ll just ask ’em, “Are you a friendly Maori, or one who likes to kill pakehas?” and if he says, “Well, now, soldier, I’ll just tell you the answer to that question after I’ve loaded and fired me weapon,” I’ll wait patient-like to be shot dead.’
‘Be sensible, Wynter . . .’
There was a civilian passing them at that precise moment and this man suddenly stopped in his stride and swung round at the sound of Wynter’s name. He was a well-dressed individual, if rather tasteless in his choice of attire. There was a tall black stovepipe hat on his head that shone with a silky gleam in the morning sun. His boots were clean and also gleaming. A white frill-fronted shirt nestled under a black frock coat with larger buttons than were fashionable in Auckland or New Plymouth. He looked like a man who was struggling to find a compromise between dandy and businessman. The effect of the expensive clothes, however, was offset by a horrible fork-lightning scar striking down at his chin, disfiguring the wearer’s lean hard features.
Private Harry Wynter stared back at this tall figure. For a moment the two men remained with eyes locked, then Harry Wynter shouted in amazement and surprise, ‘Is it you, Abe?’
The man’s expression became a sidelong smile.
‘Young Harry! What, the army has sent you here, eh?’
Harry Wynter jumped up and cried, ‘It’s me brother – me long lost brother, Abraham. Sarge, sir, it’s me next oldest kin!’
Jack groaned and whispered, ‘There’s two of them?’
An excited Harry ran to his sibling and threw his arms around the man. Abraham extricated himself very carefully without returning the affection in any way. Instead he held Harry by the shoulders at arms’ length and looked him up and down.
‘My God, Harry me boy, what ’ave they done to you? You’ve got less meat on you than a gypsy’s lurcher.’
Harry looked puzzled for a moment, then realized his brother was referring to his physical condition. He shrugged. ‘Ah, well, you know – diseases and such. I got a terrible ague up there in the tropics. An’ I lost the eye to a bloody great thorn bush ’cause them buggers over there din’t get me out in time.’ Gwilliams scowled and Sergeant King opened his mouth to protest, but shut it when he saw Jack shaking his head slowly. ‘Me hair went white at the same time. Listen, I marched from Russy to the Indian continent, I did, an’ even the officer thinks that’s a great feat and saps the life-strength from your body. Stuff like that.’
‘Remind me never to join the army,’ replied Abe. ‘Not that I ever wanted to. Navy was bad enough.’
‘Where’d you get that scar then, Abe?’
Abraham Wynter touched the crease in his face with his right forefinger.
‘This? From a Lascar, a shipmate, in Liverpool. I gave him a worse one back, you can be sure, brother.’
Harry now stepped away from his big brother and looked him up and down.
‘But Abe – now look at you. Fine clothes. Fat as Christmas. You an’t in the navy still, that’s for certain.’
‘No, I an’t in the navy, nor ever will be again, thank you very much. I come out of the navy, all legitimate, up there in Austrailee. Me an’ two pals went to the goldfields in 1851 and struck it rich. We found a nugget as big as a sucklin’ pig. Now I’m as rich as crows is, Harry. I’m a respected citizen now, a landowner, and gettin’ richer all the time. I own more land in New Zealand than the railways in England, and it an’t long and thin like theirs, it’s good prime sheep grazin’ land, some of it bottom land and good for plantin’. I’m sittin’ pretty and like to be the biggest man in this new country afore very long.’
Harry took off his forage cap and threw it into the air.
‘You hear that, lads?’ he screeched. ‘My brother’s a rich man. My brother.’ He tried to put an arm around Abe’s shoulders, but his brother slipped skilfully aside avoiding this clearly unwelcome display of filial affection for a second time. ‘My brother Abe. Rich as crows is.’
‘That’s Croesus,’ muttered Gwilliams, the classical scholar, who had winced when it was mispronounced the first time. ‘Croesus.’
‘Who the fuck cares?’ cried Harry. ‘Me an’ my brother is rich – rich, rich, rich. No more bloody army for me. You can keep your skulkin’ and conniving, Captain Crossman. I’m off with my brother Abe, to assist him in any way he needs me to.’
Private Harry Wynter had been through a whole war in the Crimea with J
ack Crossman supposedly as his tyrannical sergeant. Then through the Indian Mutiny with Jack as his despotic lieutenant. Now he was still with the same slave-driving officer in New Zealand in the Maori wars. But clearly Harry thought enough was enough. Here was an end to his time under a British satrap. The years of bloody Fancy Jack Crossman lording it over him were past. He had found a rich brother who would take care of him. He started to remove his coatee.
Abe stepped away from his younger brother and brushed non-existent dust from the shoulders of his fine coat with a pale hand.
‘Now, now, Harry boy, we’ve never been that close.’
Harry’s expression revealed his bewilderment at this remark.
‘What I mean to say is,’ said Abe, gently, ‘we ‘aven’t been near each other in twenty-odd years. I wouldn’t want to claim you as one of my own at this late date, old chum.’
Harry stared with uncomprehending wide round eyes. ‘But – but we’re brothers, Abe.’
‘Well, yes – but, in actual real-life fact, do we properly know that? Half-brothers, maybe? Yes, that’s most likely. You know what a strumpet our mother was. Who knows if we had the same father, Harry? An’ fathers is what’s important, in the family line. The paternal is what it’s all about, Harry, not mothers. Mothers is just coincidental.’
Harry Wynter spat on the ground in contempt as his anger rapidly passed the white-heat stage and into bitter disbelief. Had he a rifle in his hands before that moment had gone, he might have shot Abraham Wynter where he stood. It was lucky for both of them that his weapon was in the hands of Corporal Gwilliams. Abe would have had a hole between his eyes and a fratricidal Harry would be heading for the noose.
Harry spoke evenly and carefully, despite the terrible emotions that swirled inside his heaving breast.
‘You are my proper brother, Abraham Edward Arthur Wynter, and you God-damn well know it.’ He came down like a blacksmith with a hammer on the words ‘God-damn’. There were hot tears in his eyes. ‘We was the youngest of eleven babes, you an’ me, me bein’ the total youngest, all the rest girls. By the time our mam got to us she was wore out and as wrinkled as a dry prune. No other man would’ve looked at her except Pappy, who loved her dear. I’ll give you three God-damn days to come to your sensibilities. If you don’t, I’ll write to our mam and tell her what you said about her bein’ a trollop. An’ the rest on the family – our sisters. It’s a blamed good job for you our beloved pappy, God rest his gin-soaked soul, an’t alive to hear your blaspheming. But I’ll tell all our sisters what you said and how you’re treatin’ a real properly conservated brother of yourn. You’ll never be able to show your face in England again.’
Kiwi Wars Page 3
