Sergeant King knew why Jack wanted to get away and was upset with himself for being so tetchy. He tried to entice his officer back into the camp with long overdue praise. He took hold of the horse’s bridle. ‘Sir, I have to thank you for yesterday’s work. It was most satisfactory. Really. Most satisfactory. Over the first 700 feet the remeasurements have shown a difference only of 0.013 of an inch. Isn’t that superb?’
‘Sergeant,’ said Jack, coldly, ‘I have to confess to you that I have absolutely no idea what that means.’
‘It means, sir, that if we were to measure from the top of India to the very bottom tip, we would be accurate to within six feet!’ the sergeant cried, trying to instil some of his enthusiasm in the officer.
‘Amazing,’ replied Jack, unable to keep the irony out of his tone. ‘Now if you please, Sergeant, I wish to ride out.’
‘Oh, sir.’
The plea fell on deaf ears. Jack could stand it no longer. He urged his mount forward and cantered off into the bush. Once out of the camp he relaxed a little. The atmosphere he had left behind had not been pleasant. There was only one happy man in that camp. Even Ta Moko, who had been given tasks, was no longer fascinated by the brass and glass instruments and the coloured pens of the map-maker.
Now Jack could let his thoughts dwell on the countryside around him, which King had robbed of all interest by reducing to feet and inches. It was a wide expanse of wonderful wilderness, to be enjoyed not measured, and he was going to make the most of his brief freedom. When he came to a wild river, which tumbled and danced in high fashion over its rocky bed, he simply sat on the bank and gazed. An hour later, when the sun was almost vertically overhead, he shot a bird he could not name but which looked plump enough for the pot. It was a duck of some kind, but of a blueish hue and not like any in Britain. Before long he had half-a-dozen of the same bird and had tied five of them by their legs to hang them from his saddle. The sixth he plucked.
With the horse idly grazing nearby, Jack made a fire, let it burn down to cinders, and then roasted his bird on a spit over the glowing charcoal which remained. It smelt delicious and tasted like heaven. He realized of course that lighting a fire in enemy territory was dangerous, but he had seen neither hide nor hair of Maoris since they had begun their mapping and was inclined to think that they were all in their pas, or villages, and not out roaming the bush. Why would they be? There was little out here and the land was at war. All respectable Maori warriors would be gathering around their clan chiefs, awaiting attacks by the pakehas, or making preparations for the next battle.
It was perhaps the roaring of the river that hid the sound of their approach, but before he knew it he was being shot at from only a few yards away. Looking up he saw about a dozen Maori running at him, only one with a rifle, but the rest carrying hacking weapons the shape of small canoe paddles. Jack dropped the bones of the duck, which he had been lingering over, and leapt for his horse. With only one hand it was never an easy thing to mount a strange beast. Jack was not a natural horseman like Gwilliams or King, and the creatures knew it. This one shied away on being grabbed. Jack actually managed to get into the saddle, but, snatching at the reins with his good hand, he missed them, and thus the animal bolted, sending Jack tumbling to the ground.
He fell badly on his left foot and knew instantly that he had damaged his ankle in some way. There was some thought in his mind to draw his revolver from the inside pocket of his coat, but before he could do this a coarse-skinned brown foot pinned his wrist to the earth. Looking up he could see a grinning face staring down at him. Jack waited for that paddle-thing to split his skull in two. But the man’s right arm simply hung by his side and there was no attempt to brain him. Through the open legs of his attacker Jack could see the other Maoris going through his kit, taking his kettle, the leather belt he had removed while eating, and of course the Enfield rifle propped on a log.
‘What else in your pockets?’ said the Maori above him, releasing his arm. ‘Empty them.’
Jack took out some money, a handkerchief, the key to his quarters, and a letter from Jane. He wondered if he could reach his Tranter revolver, knowing however that it only held five shots. He counted thirteen Maoris milling around his fire, including the one who stood above him. He decided against lunging for it, hoping it might remain undiscovered and he could use it later. Something in his demeanour though, must have given him away. In the next moment the Maori had reached down and found the firearm, taking it from him.
‘Ah, you would kill me?’ cried his captor, and turned and said something in his own language to his companions.
There was laughter from them.
‘So,’ Jack said, sitting up in the dust, ‘better get it over with then.’
‘Get what over with?’
‘Whatever it is you’re going to do with me.’
They all crowded round him now, huge muscled fellows, their brown eyes devoid of pity. He waited for the blows to come, hoping one would be kind enough to hit him on the head and kill him instantly. Finally one of them raised a club and struck him on the temple and blackness entered his brain.
Four
When he woke, Jack was in a different place. It was not, as he expected, either the kingdom of heaven or even the bleak caverns of hell. He was still on earth and much the same earth as he had left. The river was gone though, and he was in some trees by a pool. It was a little while before his splitting headache would allow him to deduce that he had been either dragged or carried some way from where he had been attacked. Here they had dumped him, still alive. His head hurt. He touched the wound and felt encrusted blood. But worse was his ankle, which throbbed with live pain. Thirsty and unable to walk, he crawled to the pool and drank from its fly-dusted waters.
‘What now?’ he asked himself, sitting up and rubbing his ankle. It was swollen to three times its natural size. ‘Make myself a splint?’
But he soon realized that would do him no good. A splint is fine on a broken ankle of normal size, but the pain of strapping wood to such a tender spot made him nearly pass out twice. He knew he would have to wait until the swelling went down, if it ever did. Instead, he put his foot in the cool water of the pool, to obtain some relief from the agony.
He sat there until nightfall, annoyed to find all his pockets completely empty. He had deliberately left his small brass compass in one of those pockets, when told to turn them out. Without a compass he was going to have to wait until daybreak to go anywhere. The sky was opaque and no stars could be seen. Jack needed the sun to be able to tell in which general direction New Plymouth lay. He had absolutely no chance of finding the camp. It was while he was bemoaning his lot that the skies opened and the rain came down in torrents. His misery was just about complete as he found himself wallowing in mud. For the next four or five hours there was no respite from the flood. It rained, it then rained harder, then still harder. Lightning cracked across the heavens, filling the world with evanescent light, then longer periods of darkness. Sleep was impossible, even when he crawled to the base of a giant tree, and tried to shelter in the hollow of its buttress roots.
In the morning it continued to rain. Jack dragged himself out of the wood and tried to get his bearings, but from a sitting position this was hopeless. Even when he found a branch and got himself into an upright pose, he could not see through the dense downpour. He slid back down to the ground and sat there shivering, hoping for a miracle.
The miracle turned up on two legs. He saw the figure coming, just a silhouette in the sheeting rain, like a dark phantom, and though he prayed it was one of his men, he knew from its build the figure was more powerful than any of his soldiers. It could have been Ta Moko of course, but it was not. It was the fellow who had stood over him while his companions had robbed Jack’s camp. The fellow who had struck him with a bladed weapon.
The man had on a sodden jacket now, no doubt to protect his bare torso against the cold. It remained unbuttoned and looked far too small for the big Maori. The temp
erature had dropped very low and Jack’s visitor was visibly shivering. Jack noticed the Maori was carrying the Tranter 5-shot revolver he had stolen.
‘Come back to finish me off?’ croaked the captain.
The Maori shook his head irritably. He tossed the Tranter down at Jack’s feet.
‘Came to give you this.’
Jack snatched the weapon up, but the Maori smiled grimly.
‘It’s empty. That’s why I’m giving it back. I can’t seem to get the bullets to fit it. Not the right calibre anyway.’
The revolver was indeed light enough to be out of ammunition. Jack tossed it aside. It made a splash on the muddy ground.
‘You’re not going to kill me?’ It was a matter-of-fact question.
Again, the Maori looked annoyed. ‘Why would I do that now?’
Jack admitted, ‘I don’t know.’
‘I tried to kill you back in the bush, but you have a head as hard as a steel pan.’
This was rather puzzling to the British officer.
‘You didn’t just try to knock me out cold?’
‘No – I tried to kill you. If you could see your wound now, you’d know I did. Your skull is split open. I can see the white bone.’
Jack shuddered at these words. Gingerly he reached up and touched his head with the tips of his fingers. There was indeed a crevice there, beneath the coagulated blood. His scalp had been hacked open with a less than sharp blade. Indeed there was a flap of skin with hair on it, hanging to one side. He tried to replace it, like a divot flung from a lawn by a pony’s hoof, but it fell to one side again. The knowledge of the wound made Jack’s brain swim and he almost swooned away. He felt an ocean swell of nausea roll through his stomach and he might have thrown up at the Maori’s feet if he had not lain back on the ground, with the rain forming a puddle around his supine body.
‘Quite frankly,’ said Jack, miserably, ‘I believe I would prefer it if I had died under the blow.’
The Maori laughed. ‘Is this the British humour?’
‘No, this is the British irony. I don’t think you would understand.’ Jack was still lying on his back, looking up at the sky. One or two stars were beginning to show in the heavens above. The clouds were obviously clearing and letting through their light. ‘I still don’t understand something myself – why was there no second blow? Why not finish me there and then?’
The Maori found a sodden log and sat on it, staring down at Jack.
‘In the old days, I would have done. If you had been a warrior from another tribe I would have caved your head in just like that. But the old ways are gone. We can kill them in battle. But we must – what is that word Bishop Selwyn uses? Succour. Yes, we must succour the wounded, not bash their brains in. That’s why I have come back. To give you your pistol.’
In his right hand the Maori had a wooden staff, flattened to a broad blade at one end. He changed this to his left hand so that he could reach inside his coat. He pulled out something wrapped in muslin.
‘I also bring you food and drink. Well, drink you have, from the rain. But here is some food. And I will patch your head for you, when the daylight comes.’
The Maoris, Jack realized, took the teachings of the Church literally. In the heat of battle, of course, a man would go down under such a blow and probably stay down. He would be a fool if he did not, for Jack was in no state to fight. This Maori had decided after he had struck him that the captain was out of it, and therefore entitled to live under these new articles of war preached by the clergy.
‘Can I know your name?’ asked Jack.
‘It is Potaka. And yours?’
‘Crossman. Jack Crossman.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
Potaka stuck out a hand and Jack reached up from his ridiculous lying position and shook it. Then went back to staring at the stars. He had decided he would not move until the morning. If his skull was fractured, as it might be, he knew he still might die. It was better he did not hasten this state of mortality. Limited time was better than no time at all. A man will do much for a few more seconds, even at the end.
‘You are an honourable enemy, Potaka.’
‘I hope so. I try to be. Most of us try to be. There are a few sly ones among us, but I’m sure you find the same.’
Jack thought of Wynter. ‘Indeed.’
Potaka took off his coat and rolled it up, placing it under Jack’s neck.
‘You will be more comfortable that way.’
‘Thank you.’
Potaka nodded at Jack’s empty wrist.
Jack said, ‘In another war.’
‘Ah, my brother has only one leg – also another war. Does it bother you still? My brother’s lost leg still hurts him. He keeps looking for it, in the place where it was chopped off, hoping to find it and tend to it, so the pain will go away. He thinks his enemy ate it.’
‘Ah, the old ghost limb. Not me,’ admitted Jack. ‘I used to feel it still there, but there was no pain.’ Jack paused for a moment, finding a more comfortable position for his head, then added, ‘And nobody would have eaten it, unless they like minced meat.’
‘You have many battle scars on your face, soldier.’
‘Who can tell with you? The tattoos hide everything but your eyes.’
Potaka laughed. ‘Better to get some sleep now.’
‘I think you’re right.’
In fact sleep came very easily.
The following morning Jack woke to the sound of crackling wood. Potaka had lit a fire and was cooking something. After a while he came to Jack with a piece of flat wood and started to spoon a substance out of its shell.
‘Breadfruit,’ explained Potaka. ‘You will like the flavour.’
‘Not bad,’ said Jack. ‘What’s that stick you carry with you all the time? Do you need something to support you?’
‘This?’ Potaka held up the six-foot-long staff. ‘This is a taiaha, a fighting stick. But it was this that I hit you with.’ He showed Jack a carved-greenstone bladed club hanging from his waist by a cord. ‘My patu.’
‘And don’t I know it,’ said Jack, whose head was still very sore and ached all the way down to the roots of his neck. ‘That stick – our people used to fight with staves once, but that was long ago. As a boy I liked to play single-stick with my brother, but just for fun. I got quite good at whacking him around the legs.’
‘The taiaha takes many years to master – it is no ordinary fighting stick. My whole childhood was taken up with learning the art.’
‘Oh,’ replied Jack, feeling he was being taken to task for bragging.
Once he was fed and watered, Potaka washed the wound on his head, which was a painful business, then inspected it.
‘I think the skull is not broken right through, just dented a little,’ muttered the Maori. ‘I am going to put the piece of skin back and tie it down with a strip of cloth. It should take. I have no needle to sew it, so you must keep it still for a few days until it grows back on.’
‘Grafting. We call it grafting.’
The business was soon done with a strip of Jack’s shirt serving as the bandage.
‘Now,’ Potaka said, ‘we must look at the ankle. Do you think it is broken?’
‘No, I think I’ve torn something.’
‘Good. Better than a broken bone. Ankles are terrible things to heal, if they’re broken. Can you stand on it?’
Jack tried but went down like a felled tree. Potaka did nothing to stop him from crashing to the ground. He simply stood there with his hands on hips and said, ‘No, you cannot walk on it.’
Jack muttered, ‘I think I’ve hurt my head again,’ and started to put his hand up to feel the wound, but Potaka arrested it, saying, ‘You just jolted it. It has started bleeding again, but you must leave it alone. I do not want to have to change the dressing yet.’
Jack allowed himself to be ministered to. He felt he was in the hands of some capable female nurse, like Mary Seacole who tended him in the Crimea. Yet the man w
ho tended to his wounds was a heavy-set warrior who could have broken Jack’s back in two halves if he had a mind to. The situation was very strange: the man who had wounded him was the man who now seemed intent on keeping him alive. Jack guessed it was a matter of work pride. On the one hand Potaka had tried to kill him and had failed, but now he had decided to doctor a patient, he was determined Jack would survive. It would be a job well done, to wipe out the stain of the botched killing.
Jack did believe, however, that the Maoris now took Christian ethics very seriously. Whatever their religion before now, they seemed even more fervently Christian than the arriving white settlers. The bishops, who frequently took the side of the Maoris in land disputes, had something to do with that, but there was something else going on too.
‘Do you have a particular god you worshipped, before we came?’ asked Jack later, as they huddled round a campfire together. ‘I’m interested in your beliefs before.’
Potaka gave Jack a hard look. ‘We knew how to give mercy, if that is what you mean.’
‘But what about these old gods of yours? Where did they come from?’
The Maori shrugged. ‘They were born, like you and me. There was Tangaroa, god of the ocean . . .’
Over the next hour Jack was given a whole pantheon, few of which he would remember. Two characters however seemed vastly more important than the rest. Tiki, the divine ancestor of these people, who always sat at the head of a canoe, and Maui, a wonderful trickster god. The powers of the gods were many and various. Some were just small gods, like Rongo-ma-tane, god of the sweet potato. Others had far more exotic positions in the pantheon, such as Hine-nui-te-po, goddess of the night, darkness and death. What was clear to Jack, though, was that the Maori had a complex culture of myth and folklore which belied the simplicity of their everyday lives. An intricate, multi-meshed culture, as tightly connected and webbed as a fishing net.
‘We used to eat long pig, of course,’ finished Potaka, ‘which Jesus would not have liked. So we stopped all that.’
Kiwi Wars Page 5
