Kiwi Wars

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘For which I am eternally grateful, being quite attached to my thighs and liver.’

  Potaka stared, licked and smacked his lips – then openly grinned with malicious pleasure. ‘Just joking.’

  ‘So, how did you find these great islands?’ asked Jack. ‘I mean, how did you discover them? You have no great sailing ships, like the British. Was it an accident? A fishing canoe blown off-course? Something like that?’

  ‘There was a man called Kupe,’ Potaka began explaining in a storytelling voice, ‘who lived on an island far away. The name of the island was Raiatea. One day Kupe was out fishing when an octopus stole his bait. He was angry and set out in pursuit of the thief, which led him to these islands. In those days we could not write, so everyone had very good memories. Kupe remembered everything about his voyage, from the colour of the waves, to the direction of the swell, to small islands on the way. I am told by your navigators that Raiatea is 2,500 miles away, but Kupe described how to get to the Land-of-the-Long-White-Cloud by sailing to the left of the setting sun in November.’

  Potaka paused for effect, then said, ‘So we came. We brought our dogs and pigs, our taro, sweetbreads, sweet potatoes, and other seeds and plants. We did not mean to bring the rats, but they came with us anyway, as rats always do. When we arrived there were only birds. Many, many birds. There was a big one called a moa, twelve feet high, but we killed all the moas before you came here.’

  Jack was impressed. ‘That’s quite a story. How many people in each canoe?’

  ‘Perhaps a hundred or more. They navigated by the star paths and sea and land birds. There were blind navigators, feelers-of-the-sea we called them, who knew which part of the ocean we were in by its temperature. Some were just nature’s tricks. Did you know if you throw a pig into the water it will always swim towards the nearest land, even when that land is out of sight?’

  ‘Something to do with the scent of the soil on the wind, I expect. I must remember, next time I am lost at sea and have a pig handy.’

  Potaka stiffened and stopped poking the fire with a stick. ‘You are making fun of me.’

  ‘Only a little. Actually, I have a great admiration for a people who travelled thousands of miles over open ocean, while my own nation were still coast-hugging in far more seaworthy ships.’

  ‘Your navigators are good now though, with their charts and brass instruments. Captain Cook was such a man.’

  ‘I have heard of one of yours whose ancestor was Speaker for the 7th Canoe.’

  ‘He is my cousin,’ said Potaka, proudly. He grinned again. ‘But then, most Maori people are my cousins.’

  Following this conversation, Jack was allowed to rest. Potaka showed no signs of leaving him to his fate. The Maori made a camp, collected wood for the fire, cooked Jack’s meal and changed his dressing. Their exchanges were not always as pleasant as their talk about migration. At times the festering anger which many Maoris felt regarding the influx of strangers in their land burst through and Jack was subject to a tirade. Why had the white men come here? They had not been invited. Why did they keep coming? When would it stop? When they had taken all the land there was to be had?

  On the one hand Jack sympathized with Potaka’s complaints. Had this been Scotland or England, with strangers arriving by the boatload every few months and establishing themselves on the landscape as if they had owned it since Adam, he too would have felt great resentment. On the other he knew the settlers would continue to arrive until they were stopped, either by the government or by a natural law such as a dearth of jobs and land. He felt it would be better for the Maori to integrate themselves and try to assimilate the new culture which had been thrust upon them, than battle against it. As in all other colonizations by Europeans, so far as the natives were concerned the resources of the army they were fighting were infinite in terms of men and equipment. They would keep pouring in until the fight was won – by the British. Jack hesitated to call his people invaders, since they had not stormed the beaches of New Zealand but had simply arrived in batches until there were too many here for the Maori to ignore.

  ‘Isn’t it better to have established a rule of law here, Potaka, than for your people to have to suffer the dregs of our society?’

  Jack was referring to the first settlers, who tended to be escaped convicts, sailors who had jumped whaling ships, and tough, rough traders. Not the cream of British society, to say the least. They had introduced prostitution and grog-shops, sex and drink being their raison d’être, and all the vices and violence that went with them. Jack was not sure why the Maori had put up with them, but he guessed it was because they had not been a huge threat to their way of life. These were pockets of men, living on the edge, and of no great importance. If one or more killed your brother, you took lives in return, but these whalers and convicts were only dangerous when they grew in numbers. And of course they did. They grew until they were unmanageable, and then the British authorities had an excuse to come in and manage them.

  ‘No,’ came the emphatic reply. ‘If we had known what trouble it would cause, we would have wiped them out ourselves.’

  ‘Well.’ said Jack, sighing, ‘it’s too late now – now that gold has been found in South Island and elsewhere you haven’t a hope in hell of getting rid of us. We have to learn to live with each other.’

  ‘You have no right to be here.’

  ‘There’s such a thing as right of conquest, which both our nations recognize.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Potaka said. ‘If a Maori tribe conquers another Maori tribe and captures his land, the land still belongs to the first tribe.’

  ‘That surprises me, but let me ask you – do you ever relinquish that land to its former owners?’

  Potaka raised his eyebrows. ‘In truth? Not often.’

  It was during one of these conversations that Potaka suddenly stopped in mid-sentence, threw a look backwards into the bush, and promptly disappeared in the opposite direction. A few minutes later a group of soldiers emerged from a hollow. They were led by Lieutenant Burns. King, Gwilliams and Wynter were among them. Burns greeted Jack with a salute and asked him how he did.

  ‘Tolerably well,’ said Jack, who was sitting with his back against a tree. ‘My head was split and my ankle twisted, but both seem to be on the mend now.’

  ‘Thank the great good Lord we’ve found you, sir,’ said Wynter in a voice that hovered on the edge of sarcasm. ‘We thought you was a goner for sure.’

  Jack decided not to rise to the bait. ‘Thank you, Private Wynter, God has indeed received my thanks several times over the last few days.’

  ‘Well, we wrote you off good and proper. I was just sayin’ to the corporal the other day, the captain owns a good six-feet-by-two of New Zealand land now, and is become a lifelong settler. The corp says to me—’

  Lieutenant Burns interrupted him. ‘Will someone shut that man up? Sergeant?’

  Sergeant King rapped the back of Wynter’s skull with his knuckles. ‘Wynter – you heard the officer.’

  ‘Ow! That hurt.’

  ‘Not another word, Private, or it’ll be my boot.’

  Jack was assisted to his feet.

  Burns asked, ‘Shall we make you a litter?’

  ‘That’ll take time and this is hostile territory,’ said Jack. ‘Just give me a couple of supporters. No, not you, Wynter, damn you! Gwilliams and King? Thank you. One either side, if you please. Let’s get back to New Plymouth before I’m banged on the head a second time.’

  They did indeed make it back to the barracks without further incident. Jack learned that they had been sending out search parties every day. A friendly Maori had told the commander of the base that Jack was still alive but in Maori hands. The man did not know where Jack was being held, but the word which travelled through the bush said he was still breathing. King and Gwilliams had not given up hope either and had been persistent in their demands that each new day a party went out over new ground, despite the obvious dangers. In fact the Maori had lef
t them alone, for reasons which did not seem clear but had something to do with Captain Crossman himself. It would seem there was little honour in attacking a party of men who were retrieving a wounded soldier. The Maori were strong on their own code of honour.

  Jack was taken to a regimental surgeon, who took a look at his skull wound and rebandaged it.

  ‘Nasty crack, that,’ said the surgeon. ‘Lucky to be alive.’

  ‘Don’t I know it.’

  ‘Who dressed the wound?’

  ‘Man who gave it to me.’

  ‘Funny chaps, these Maoris. Bash you one minute, arm around your shoulder the next.’ The surgeon looked wistfully at his range of saws, one or two of them with rusting teeth. ‘They don’t like you taking off anything, either.’

  Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Do any of us?’

  The surgeon, a young man of about twenty, laughed at this.

  ‘I suppose not. But you know, the rot will creep up a limb until it stops your heart. Better to have no hand –’ he indicated Jack’s left wrist – ‘than a stopped heart, eh? Who did that for you, by the way?’

  ‘A Frenchman.’

  Without invitation, the young surgeon inspected Jack’s stump.

  ‘Nice cross-grain action,’ he said. ‘Obviously an experienced sawyer. Some of these Frenchies are artists with a saw. I’ve seen ’em in Paris, practising on mahogany table legs. Mahogany, you know, has about the same density as human thigh bone? Not so, my colleagues. I’ve seen chums hack ’em off while discussing last night’s rum-swilling. Leave a stump looking like a tree with its branch torn off in the wind. What you want is your nice rounded smooth stump – bit like the end of a scullery maid’s copper stick, if you know what I mean. Nice white bump of a thing.’

  ‘Yes, well, I can’t stay here all day discussing amputations,’ Jack said, wryly. ‘Have you finished with me?’

  ‘For now, Captain, for now. But don’t be a stranger. You may need my services again soon.’

  I damn well hope not, thought Jack as he fled the hut.

  Five

  Over the next few weeks Jack Crossman’s men continued to survey areas indicated by Colonel Gold. The triangulation methods King had begun using were abandoned in favour of rougher results due to the inordinate amount of time needed for precise mapping. Gold had told them he simply wanted an aid to finding their way through the wilderness, not pinpoint a particular two-by-four rock to within twelve inches. All they had to do was pathfind their way to the enemy and provide the journey back again. Sergeant King fell back on his old standby, the linear route map, which he sketched on a yard-long pad showing a ribbon-like route with reference points either side. For the army this type of map was often good enough: they got the troops to the point where their commanders wanted them – and back again.

  Jack’s ankle mended relatively quickly, but his headaches gave him problems for a long time. During the worst he would go for long slow walks seeking solitude and quiet. He became, as many men did, enamoured of the scenery and landscape. Some of it reminded him of the Lake District of Northern England. Other parts, of Devon and the West Country. It truly was a wonderful island. After a month of convalescing he was convinced that New Zealand was the place to settle with his wife Jane. Here in this land of contrasts they could happily raise a family. He wrote to Jane, telling her to take a ship out to Australia, and thence to the farther-off New Zealand shores. Go to Auckland, he wrote, and I will meet you there.

  The thought of being reunited with his beloved Jane after so many years apart filled him with joy. The flora and fauna of New Zealand looked like Eden to him once he had dispatched the letter. In the meantime he could apply to become a resident army officer. If that was unacceptable to the government then they could keep their commission and he would find employment elsewhere.

  It was on one of his walks that he met Abraham Wynter again, as that man came up against him on a bridge. Abe Wynter was surrounded by a gang of friendly Maoris, all well armed. Jack guessed he paid these men to protect him against hostiles. As before, Abe Wynter was dressed in expensive clothes, including a shiny black stovepipe hat. This he doffed as Jack stood aside to let the men pass him. As Jack stared down into the tumbling waters of a braided stream below him, a thought came to him. He called after the group of men, who all turned at his cry.

  ‘Mr Wynter,’ Jack said. ‘Do you have a moment?’

  ‘Ha, you know me name. Yes, yes – I remember. You’re that cap’n, an’t you? Can’t recall the name, but I know you’re me brother’s officer. Please-ta-meetcha again, Cap’n.’

  ‘Crossman. Captain Crossman. Have you been out buying land again, Mr Wynter?’

  The lean, sharp-faced man stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and suddenly glared.

  ‘What if I have?’

  ‘No, don’t misunderstand me. I’m just curious. You see, I’d like to purchase a plot myself. A small farm would be enough I think. Perhaps five hundred acres? Something of that nature.’

  Abe laughed, turning to invite the Maoris to share his humour, which they seemed to decline, remaining with stony expressions.

  ‘Five hundred acres? That’s a piddlin’ backyard, that is, Cap’n. Five thousand’s what you want, more like. Do you know that in Australia they have single farms bigger’n England and France put together? Farms! That’s what you want. Somethin’ as big as two countries. A small farm would be the size o’ Holland or Belgie. It’s true this an’t Australia – New Zealand is a country the size of the old country – but you can do better’n five hundred acres, old chum.’ I’m not your old chum, thought Jack, but he did not say so. ‘Do you want me to get it for you, Cap’n?’ Abe continued. ‘Seein’ as how you look after me little brother, I could do you a deal you wouldn’t get nowhere else. There’s coves out there all linin’ up for land, and you’d be at the back of the queue, just now. You just tell me where you’re lookin’ at, and I’ll see what I can do for you.’

  Jack glanced at the Maoris, who were lounging around at the end of the bridge, smoking pipes. They were dressed in woollen jumpers and trousers, and one or two wore caps. All carried rather scarred, elderly shotguns, which they leaned on like crutches. None of them had the magnificent build of Potaka or Ta Moko, but one or two were wiry rather than pot-bellied. They all looked tough and able.

  ‘Admirin’ my Maori, eh?’ said Abe Wynter. ‘Proud sort of fellahs, an’t they? Me an’ them get on just fine.’ He winked. ‘We got somethin’ deep in common, see.’

  ‘Something in common?’

  ‘Ah, can’t tell you, Cap’n, or you’d know all me secrets, wouldn’t you? Now, what about your problems, eh?’

  ‘You think I would have trouble finding land?’

  ‘Know it, old chum. It’s premium, an’t it? But I got ways of jumpin’ the queue, if needs must. Come an’ share a pot o’ beer with me. We’ll discuss it. How much money you got? Honest now!’

  Jack told him as they walked along. Abe nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘We can do somethin’ with that, certain sure.’

  Jack felt very uncomfortable in the company of Private Wynter’s brother. Jack was no snob and Abe Wynter was often in the company of far more exulted persons than a captain of foot, but there was too much of the Harry about Abe for Jack to feel easy.

  However, it would be nice if he could build a farm on his own land before Jane arrived so that he could surprise her. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. And Abe Wynter was a legitimate agent, recognized by the government. What harm could there be in using him to purchase the land? Certainly Jack had not the time himself to deal with the negotiations and bureaucracy involved.

  ‘I don’t think I need to tell you, Mr Wynter, that I require everything to be legal and above board.’

  Abe Wynter wore a shocked expression.

  ‘Cap’n Crossman, ’ow could you think otherwise of me? What need have I to be underhand or chiselling? I’m a rich man already.’ He leaned forward as they s
at at a table outside the alehouse. ‘Listen, I admit it – I jumped ship. But I’ve made amends for that with the navy. Paid a proper fine and all’s forgiven, so far as they’re concerned. Steep fine, mind you, but I accept that, to clear my name. Why would I want to besmirch it again? Not on your life. I’m a man with gold in his pocket, but I like somethin’ to do, in the way of business, see, gold or no gold.’

  ‘I can understand that. A man should be busy in this world or he feels useless. By the way, what happened to your two partners? Are they in New Zealand?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You told your brother you had two pals with you . . . when you discovered the gold . . .’

  Abe Wynter stuck two fingers up at the waiter and, having made his order, bent down close again.

  ‘Ha, there’s a sad tale, to be sure. You see, after we sold the nugget we didn’t know about this fine business. The navy was after us and they came to the goldfield, looking for deserters. We didn’t know what to do. We was scared if we turned ourselves in we’d be lashed or hung and the money took from us. So we did the only thing we could do – we run. We run off into the outback of Australia.’ He paused. ‘We went what the natives there call walkabout. ’Cept we run instead of walked. Truth to say, we was lost almost afore we started. That there outback country is the very devil. It all looks the same. I swear I saw the same white broken tree a thousand times, yet it was different ones. There’s nothin’ but dry creeks, dust holes and bloody snakes and lizards out there, I can vouch for that. Water? We didn’t see a drop for days. We roasted under a blisterin’ cruel sun, our skins as red as soldiers’ coatees. Our mouths cracked and slimed over. Danny, he went stone blind with the sheer hard whiteness of the light comin’ off the sand.’

  Abe Wynter licked his lips and looked longingly towards the doorway through which his cool beer would appear.

  ‘Then one day some Abos found us. They took us to a creek and dug us out some muddy water. It was a bloody blessin’, I’ll tell you that, Cap’n. We drunk our fill, but the Abos vanished the same way they come, and though we stayed a week by the waterhole, we was startin’ to starve. I tried catchin’ them lizards, but they was quicker’n roaches when they wanted to be. Anyways, we knew we couldn’t stay there for ever, so we started walking again, this time usin’ our canvas hats to carry some water with us. 01’ Danny, he didn’t make it though. Died of the sun on his neck, he did. Went down like a felled tree and cracked his head open on a rock. We left him there, Striker an’ me not knowing if we was next for the Lord’s back pocket. He was on our side, though, Cap’n, ’cause we found a dirt track that led to a farm, and so providence delivered us two poor unfortunates back to the livin’.’