Kiwi Wars

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  One of the books was an American novel about whaling by a man named Melville. The book’s title was Moby Dick and one of its readers had marked the margins in various places with such phrases as ‘Knows his stuff’ or ‘Got it wrong, here’. During the periods when his headache was not thoroughly in command, Jack read this novel and was amazed by the skill and imagination of the author. He had never read anything like it before in his life.

  He was lying on his bed absorbed by Moby Dick when a newspaper reporter came to see him. Jack had only a curtain for a door and the man had knocked on the partition and then held the curtain aside. Since the noise in the whalers’ shed was always at a high level, with officers coming or going, having friends in for drinks, or – on the far side but still well within earshot – some untalented fool of an elderly naval surgeon squeaking away on his fiddle, Jack had not heard the rapping the first time.

  ‘All right to come in?’ said a rather round, fat face.

  Jack was annoyed at having to move his head, for he found if he kept it quite still the pain was bearable.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, testily.

  The man entered without invitation. ‘How d’ye do? Sorry to disturb. My name’s Strawn, Andrew Strawn. Civilian.’ A hand was extended. Jack’s natural good manners made him reach out and shake it, but it caused him to wince in agony. ‘Oh, so sorry,’ said Strawn. ‘Heard you were laid up with a head wound. Hurt, does it?’

  ‘Like hell.’

  ‘You should take something for it.’

  ‘I’ve got these powders from a local woman,’ Jack said, indicating some little parcels of folded newspaper about the size of a postage stamp. ‘They seem to work a little.’

  Strawn frowned. ‘You want to watch these local witches – they’re liable to poison you with slow-killing banes.’

  ‘I’m sure this one is not a witch,’ stated Jack, but he could not help feeling a twinge of concern. His headaches were getting worse and more frequent all the time. ‘Look, I’m not in any real state to receive visitors. What is it you want?’

  ‘Oh, yes – well, I’m from the Te Pihoihoi Mokemoke I Runga I Te Tuana.’

  ‘What the deuce is that?’ muttered Jack, irritably.

  ‘Newspaper. You won’t have read it. Published in the Maori language. Title means: The Lonely Sparrow On The Rooftop. Mouthful, ain’t it? Not sure where the relevance lies, either, but there you go. I’m just a lowly reporter and don’t have a say in these matters. There’s this other Maori rag called Te Hokioi, which extols the virtues of Maori kingship. We were sort of brought into being to counteract articles which appear in the Te Hokioi. You know the sort of thing, one gives a battle one sort of slant, the other the opposite. Similar to Whig and Tory papers – different political bents.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m someone who can give you what you want. I’m not at all politically minded, you know. William Russell gave up on me in the Crimea. Told me I was a born soldier because I had no political bent and was prepared to fight for whoever was in government. I told him I fought not for Whigs or Tories, or even Independents, but for one person only – the Queen – whereupon . . .’

  Strawn held up his hand to stop Jack’s rambling, and said in a hushed, awed tone, ‘You know William Howard Russell? Russell of the Thunderer? Why, he’s my hero. I would like to be just like him – a fearless man with the pen. The thin red streak tipped with steel. Had I written those words, I would have laid down my own pen and been happy. He is a god amongst mortals, Captain Crossman.’

  Andrew Strawn, whose torso followed the same contours as his face, sat down on Jack’s coffin box making it creak at the seams.

  Jack was slightly embarrassed by the man’s worship of Russell. ‘Yes, well, be that as it may, I’m still not good at politics.’

  ‘That’s all right, old boy – not here for politics. Doing an article on Mr Abraham Wynter. Understand you’ve got a soldier who’s his brother?’

  ‘Private Harry Wynter.’

  ‘That’s the man. What’s his background?’ Strawn took out a leather-bound notebook from his tweed jacket pocket. ‘Poor as a church mouse, I understand.’

  ‘Most private soldiers are,’ said Jack, placing Moby Dick by his pillow. ‘For some reason army life doesn’t attract wealthy gentlemen. It’s probably the weevils in the bread which puts them off or the worms in the pork and cheese.’ He warmed to his theme, hoping to alienate this unwelcome visitor. ‘Or possibly the thousand-mile marches and the diseases which kill them off like flies—’

  ‘Ah,’ interrupted Strawn, ‘sense of humour, eh, despite the debilitating injury? Good, I like that. I see you’re a reading man? What’s the work? Ordnance For Boys?’

  Jack smiled, in spite of his mood. ‘Touché. No, I wish it were so. It’s a novel – Moby Dick.’

  ‘Never heard of it. Must have had poor sales, because I read like a man possessed. Anyway, back to the Brothers Wynter. I understand you have employed Abraham Wynter to buy you some land? Good move, if you want to jump the queue. He’s very good at what he does.’

  Jack coloured and lied. ‘Well – I wasn’t aware I was queue-jumping.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. Settlers are mostly rough-heads and rogues in any case. You don’t want to stand in line with that lot. Employ an agent by all means, if you can afford one. As land agents go, Abe Wynter is one of the best. He knows how to use the army to shift the Maori. Would do the same myself if I had the blunt.’

  Jack’s earlier misgivings rose to the fore. Did he really want a man like Wynter as his agent? It was true he wanted to surprise Jane with an established farm when she arrived, knowing how pleased she would be with him. His vision of their meeting again made him feel like a small boy, needing praise from a woman who had become almost a stranger in his head. Indeed, in the last few years it had even become difficult to picture her face, and he knew things would be very awkward between them for a while. It was those thoughts which spurred him to cut corners, though he knew the morals of doing so were dubious to say the least.

  ‘I’m a little bewildered by Wynter’s influence,’ Jack said. ‘I mean, I’m aware of his riches. Does he buy politicians?’

  Strawn looked uncomfortable. ‘That I do not know.’

  ‘And the army? Why are they in his pocket?’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s easy. It’s the old back-scratching thing. You know he’s a captain in his own right?’

  Jack sat up abruptly, making his head pound madly. He suddenly felt sick and likely to swoon.

  ‘A captain? How’s that?’

  ‘Why, he purchased himself a commission in the Honourable Artillery Company. He did it by mail, he tells me. He’s quite proud of the fact.’

  ‘Is-is that usual?’

  ‘Highly unusual I understand. He employed a member in London to grease the wheels. It’s one of the reasons I came to see you. I was told you had a cousin in the Honourable Artillery Company. Abraham Wynter himself doesn’t seem to know an awful lot about the company – says he doesn’t need to know, just needs to be in it.’

  ‘Who told you? About my cousin?’

  ‘A Lieutenant Williams – you spoke with him about your cousin in the mess the other evening. You seemed to know a great deal about the HAC. What can you tell me? When it was formed?’

  Jack’s English cousin, Sebastian Whenteworth-Carter, was indeed a subaltern in the HAC, and had talked with Jack extensively regarding his good fortune on becoming a member of that unique military establishment.

  ‘What can I tell you?’ mused Jack, settling back down on his bed. ‘Well, the company was given its Royal Charter by Henry the Eighth, somewhere in the mid 1500s. I forget the exact date. It began life under the name of the Guild of St George – better known as the Gentlemen of the Artillery Garden – and its members were supposed to be adept with the long-bow, cross-bow and hand-gun. The HAC has always had a strong connection with the City of London, but so far as I know has no battle honours. I understand it
had the unique role of fighting on both sides in the Civil War. The company hasn’t seen active service abroad yet and seems to operate more like a private club than a regiment.’

  ‘Really?’ said Strawn. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘The head of the company is known as the “Captain-General” who at the moment is Prince Albert, but it’s actually run by a body called the Court of Assistants. It sits more or less monthly and conducts the company’s business and civil affairs, but there are nine committees which sit under the Court.’

  ‘It even has its own church, so I’m given to understand?’

  ‘Ah, yes, strange title. Can’t remember exactly.’

  Strawn flipped back a couple of pages in his notebook.

  ‘I have it here, from Wynter himself. It’s a chapel, actually – St Botolphs-without-Bishopsgate. He did know that much, which is strange for a man who hates the clergy here for their stance in the Maori situation and professes to have entered a church only once in his life, when his mother took him to be christened. Wynter seems to like the quirky aspects of the company. There a Vellum Book apparently, which bears all the names of the members of the regiment.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Jack said, ‘but if you are chasing quirky, my cousin has always been particularly taken with the regimental toast, called the Regimental Fire. It takes the form of a ninefold shout of the word “Zaye!” accompanied by side-ways movements of the right hand, and ending with an upward movement on the last zaye. Guests, of which I was one before I left London to go to India, are toasted with the Silent Fire – eight silent zayes, followed by a single audible last zaye which comes out with great force.’

  ‘As you say,’ murmured Strawn, scribbling in his pad, ‘the sort of thing that exclusive clubs employ. Good fun, really. Nine zayes, eh? Wonderful stuff. Where do they get ’em from?’

  ‘Well, I asked the same question of course, and I was told it’s supposed to stem from the movements and timing required to light the fuse of a grenade, but who knows?’

  Strawn, with extravagant gestures, dotted a couple of i’s and crossed one or two t’s, then said, ‘That should be enough. Thank you, Captain. And I’m sorry you’re ill.’ He stared intently at Jack. ‘You do look very pale, you know. I would check on those powders, if I were you. Don’t trust these natives. Some are all right, but others . . . well. I would get the stuff analysed if you can. Do you know any chemists?’

  Jack snorted, impatiently. ‘Yes, Mr Strawn, they’re two a penny out in the bush.’

  ‘Sorry, yes. Silly thing to say.’ He stood up and made ready to go, but then said, ‘Oh, one last thing. What about this sergeant of yours – what’s his name?’

  ‘King? Sergeant King?’

  ‘Yes, the farrier chappie. How long has he been lost? I was going to do a short piece on him too, when I knew I was coming to see you.’

  Once again, Jack sat up. ‘Lost?’

  ‘Why, yes, went off into the bush to do some mapping and never came back. He’s been in there two weeks now. Shouldn’t think he’s alive, would you?’

  Jack was stunned. Why had no one told him about this? Where was Corporal Gwilliams? This was monstrous!

  ‘Ah,’ said Strawn, ‘you look shocked – didn’t know about it, eh? Sorry to be the bearer. I’ll leave you now.’

  The newspaperman left without another backward glance, having got what he came for.

  Jack rose from his bed and dressed, before going on a search for his men. He found Gwilliams in the sickbay, laid low by some fever or other contracted (they thought) through drinking water from a stream where sheep had been wading. Gwilliams was aware enough to tell Jack what had happened. When Jack finally tracked down the last member of the group, Private Wynter, he found him still half-drunk from the night before, sleeping in a ditch. On being roused and doused with cold water, Wynter admitted he knew that Sergeant King was lost.

  ‘I din’t come an’ tell you, ’cause I knew you was sick and din’t want to make you worse,’ said the private, indignantly.

  Jack was blazingly angry.

  ‘That’s not the reason – me being sick – is it, Wynter? The fact is you hate Sergeant King and you couldn’t give a damn whether he’s found or not? Tell me the truth, that’s it, isn’t it?’

  Wynter shrugged, knowing it was useless to deny it.

  ‘Gwilliams, your NCO, gave you an order, to report the matter to me – you disobeyed that order, Wynter.’

  Wynter looked up, sharply, the wake-up water still dripping from his mean-looking face. Disobeying an order was a serious crime. The punishment could be just as serious. Wynter did not want a flogging. He had had several such punishments in his army career, but he was not as strong has he had once been. The venom he had once had in him had provided enough backbone to metaphorically spit in the eye of the man who wielded the lash. Lately though, such vitriolic energy had been drained from him. He was haggard, half-blind, grey-haired and old before his time. Even though only in his thirties he looked fifty.

  ‘I was tryin’ to save the captain bother. Me bein’ the only rank what wasn’t sick, the decision was up to me, I thought. So I give an order to Ta Moko to go look for the sergeant. He come back this mornin’, sayin’ he couldn’t find the bleeding . . . couldn’t find the sergeant. You was sick, sir. I made me decision an’ I stick by it.’

  Jack realized Wynter had a point. Although he was at the end of the command chain, the private had been the only man who was not ill and therefore however bizarre the situation he was nominally in charge of matters to do with the group. Jack was relieved to know that he had sent out the Maori to look for King, but concerned to learn that Ta Moko was back without finding the sergeant.

  ‘You get cleaned up, Wynter. Be ready to leave for the bush. I’m going to speak to Ta Moko.’

  Another hunt and he was rewarded with the Maori, who was just sitting down to a meal of pork and beans in an eatery.

  ‘Sir, I did not find the sergeant. I think he must have strayed into Waikato country. If I go in there I will be killed. The Waikato tribes are very fierce and they do not like my tribe. I will go in if we take soldiers with us, but you will need to find another guide if you go in alone.’

  ‘Thank you, Ta Moko. I like a plain-speaking man.’

  Jack went in search of a senior officer. He found a major, who told him there were no troops to spare. Everyone was on alert, either guarding the town, out on patrol or fighting.

  ‘The sergeant’s probably dead by now, Captain. You need more than just a patrol if you’re going up to the Waikato – you need a whole company. And I ain’t got ’em, Captain. I’ve been depleted of men for some time now. If you’re going to do it, you’ll have to hire some civilians from the town. But if I were you, I wouldn’t. Most of them have no idea of the bush. They’re townies, or at best farmers. Take the roof away from their heads and they get frightened by the stars.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Jack said. ‘I like a plain-speaking officer.’

  It was only when he was on his way back to his quarters that Jack realized his headache was gone. His brain was as clear as crystal. Whether it was because he needed to be worrying about something or his brain needed to be busy, he did not know. He was just relieved that the pain was gone, even if only temporarily. He felt guilty for doubting the Maori woman, whose powders had finally worked.

  He bathed, dressed in bush clothes, armed himself, then went in search of Wynter again. Jack found the soldier ready to go. Wynter had already been to stables to saddle and bridle two horses. He had been given a little trouble by the NCO in charge of the stables, but Wynter had told him his captain had ordered it. The pair then went to the stores and begged provisions for a journey into the bush. Finally, they went down to the alehouse which was frequented by friendly Maoris and Jack asked if any of them knew of a man called Potaka.

  At first he was greeted by sullen looks, but after buying a round of drinks, one of the Maori said, ‘You may find him at the old L-shaped
pa – but do not go there, Captain, or you will be killed.’

  Jack thanked the man, gave him a coin, then he and Wynter set out for the L-shaped pa, which had been the scene of an earlier battle in this war. Wynter did not complain, which was a miracle in itself. Jack supposed the soldier was anxious to redeem himself, but it was quite unlike Wynter to admit, even by inference, that he was in the wrong. In past times he would rather be burned alive at the stake than give any credit to rules and regulations. Here he was, however, silent and stoic, ready to ride into the halls of death for the sake of his captain.

  When Jack and Wynter were three hundred yards from the pa, Jack dismounted and called, ‘I wish to speak to a man named Potaka. Is he here?’

  Wynter shifted uneasily in his saddle, turning this way and that, wondering from which direction death would come to him. In what form would it be? A rifle shot? A spear? A flung stone axe?

  ‘Potaka,’ shouted Jack again, as the wind soughed through the fern trees. ‘A man named Potaka.’

  The pa looked deserted. Jack could discern no movement within. The silence made the wait seem long. A hawk passed by overhead, letting out a wild cry. Wynter ducked an invisible missile.

  Suddenly a voice rang out, which made Wynter start in his saddle.

  ‘Go away!’

  Jack had no intention of going away.

  ‘I must speak with Potaka,’ he insisted at the top of his voice. ‘I have business with Potaka.’

  There was another period of silence, then a young Maori woman stepped out from behind a palisade. She was beautiful. Long black hair tumbled over her broad, covered shoulders. As she walked towards Jack and Wynter, Jack could see her wide, brown eyes gleaming in the light which lanced through the trees. She was barefoot, wore a blanket wrapped tightly around her body, and the two men could discern a trim figure beneath its folds. There were some small square-keyed tattoos on her chin and at the back of her head were two tall eagle’s feathers – dark with white tips.