Kiwi Wars

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  The woman stopped not far from the two men and stared at them.

  ‘Go away,’ she repeated, ‘or you will be killed.’

  Quietly Jack said, ‘I am looking for my friend, Potaka.’

  ‘Does he know he is your friend?’ asked the woman, tilting her chin.

  ‘I think so. He kept me alive, at least.’

  She smiled, wryly. ‘That does not mean he will not kill you if he sees you again, Captain Crossman.’

  ‘Ah – you know me. Potaka has told you about me. You have me at a disadvantage. May I know your name?’

  ‘Amiri.’

  ‘Thank you. Has it any meaning?’

  ‘It means the East Wind, but knowing my name will not save you from being chopped in two by your enemies. The ugly skinny one there –’ she nodded towards Wynter – ‘they will use him for firewood.’

  ‘’Ere!’ cried Wynter.

  Jack said, ‘Please, Amiri, will you take me to Potaka? I need his help. I have lost one of my men and if I don’t find him, he’ll die.’

  She shrugged. ‘What is that to us? You have killed many of our men.’

  ‘Some of our men have died too in this smouldering unhappy war – but this is an unnecessary death. I can honestly say that if Potaka came to me, and asked for my help for a similar problem, I would certainly give it to him without a second thought.’

  She stared at Jack again, with those fathomless brown eyes.

  ‘All right,’ she said, at last, ‘follow me. But do not blame me if he shoots you. It will not be my fault.’

  She led the way through the bush. Jack made Wynter dismount and they too went on foot, since Jack would have felt uncomfortable riding while a woman walked. The trail went through a bouldery valley and eventually led to a cave on a hillside. A lookout had seen them coming and six armed men were waiting at the cave’s entrance. One of them, Jack noticed, was Potaka himself. The woman Amiri strode ahead and called to the Maoris, ‘I told him you would kill him on sight. Are you going to make me out to be a liar?’

  One of the Maoris – not Potaka – raised his shotgun. But the moment he did this, Amiri stepped in front of Jack, shielding him with her body. Jack thought: why are women always so complex? First she virtually orders my death, then steps in and saves me from it.

  ‘What?’ said Amiri to the man with the shotgun. ‘Would you shoot a man under a flag of truce?’

  ‘What flag?’ asked the shotgun man, lowering his weapon. ‘I see no flag.’

  ‘I am his flag,’ Amiri said. ‘Do you not understand? Potaka, am I not the white man’s flag of truce?’

  Potaka grinned and shook his head sagely.

  ‘You are all things to all men, Amiri,’ he said. ‘Step aside. The officer will not be harmed. Jack, what brings you here? This is no place for a British captain. You are lucky to have reached this far. Come and sit by the fire. Your soldier too. Is he hungry? He looks half-starved. Do you not feed your men, you high-born officers? We all eat the same fare, whether high or low rank. Come, join us. Tell me why you have come here. I am listening. I am listening with my best ears.’

  Seven

  Once they were around the fire and were tucking into the roasted limbs of unknown birds, Jack was able to tell Potaka why he had come.

  ‘I have a man missing. He may be dead by now, who knows, but I feel it my duty to find him. No one in New Plymouth, British or Maori, will take me up into Waikato country. You are my last hope. I am prepared to offer you a large sum of money to guide me through the bush.’ Jack had been in such situations before and he knew the dangers when dealing with other cultures. ‘I will not do so if you feel it would be insulting you. I merely mention it to show how serious I am about finding my sergeant. This sergeant is no great threat to the Maori nation. All he wants to do is make maps of Aotearoa’s landscape. He is useless as a warrior and I’m sure he has been unable to shoot any game to eat, since he is the poorest shot with a weapon I have ever had the misfortune to lead into battle. I am prepared to leave this man –’ Jack indicated Wynter, who was gnawing on the greasy thigh of his roasted aviator, shining hot fat running down his chin – ‘as a hostage with your men, until your safe return to them.’

  ‘Eh?’ exclaimed Wynter, his head coming up fast. ‘What? You an’t goin’ to leave me? What if you both get killed and don’t come back?’

  ‘Then you’ll likely be executed,’ Jack stated, and as he spoke he used his left stump to indicate a point, bringing his missing hand to the attention of the Maoris, who he knew would consider such a wound a battle honour, ‘which will be a shame for you.’

  ‘You’d be court-martialled for it, you would!’

  ‘Since I’d be dead, I hardly think that’s going to trouble me. In any case, I’d just tell the court you volunteered.’

  ‘That’s lyin’, that is,’ cried the incensed Wynter. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a liar.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ Potaka interrupted, pointing at Wynter, ‘that this creature is quite worthless, and therefore not a suitable hostage.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Wynter again, predictably.

  ‘British officers have to value all our soldiers’ lives equally,’ replied Jack, ‘however useless and pathetic the individuals might be. This man here is as valuable as a general, in human terms. Were I to murder him, which I frequently have a strong desire to do, I should receive the same punishment as if I had murdered the governor of New Zealand. Our law is equal in that respect. It’s a shame because the world would be a better place without him, but I am bound by the codes set by my forefathers, as you are, and have to treat his life as more worthy than that of a garden slug, though we both know it is not.’

  All the Maoris around the fire roared with laughter.

  Wynter jumped up. ‘I’m not standin’ for this,’ he shouted. ‘I’m a man! You can’t talk about me like I’m nuthin’. I’m a man an’ entitled to respect . . .’

  One of the Maoris was now staring intently at Wynter and now he too jumped up and faced the soldier.

  ‘You have the same look as Scarface, the land stealer!’

  Wynter was thrown off-balance by this sudden outburst.

  ‘What? Who’s Scarface?’

  Potaka said, ‘Yes, he does. He has the features of that pig Abraham Wynter.’

  Wynter drew in a sharp breath. ‘Don’t you call my brother a pig, you bloody savage!’

  ‘Careful, Wynter,’ Jack said, soothingly, as the other Maoris began to get to their feet, gripping their stone patus, ‘we don’t want to upset our hosts, do we?’

  Wynter looked at his officer and suddenly he became aware of the danger of the situation. He sat down and picked up his bird-bone. Jack could see the private was still too angry to talk without landing himself in more trouble, so he spoke for him.

  ‘Abraham Wynter is indeed the older brother of this soldier, but as you see, this man is still in the army. If they had been close brothers, with the love for each other which brothers should have, this one would not be in the army but at Abraham Wynter’s side, would he not? Abraham Wynter has gold enough to purchase the discharge of a thousand soldiers, yet he lets his own flesh and blood rot at the bottom of the army’s lowest rank. You cannot blame this one for the work of the other. He is not his brother’s keeper, but a jealous and vengeful man who would work the downfall of that brother, if he could.’

  Potaka nodded. ‘What you say makes sense.’

  ‘Well,’ asked Jack, ‘will you help me?’

  ‘Leave the campfire flames to the Maori,’ said Potaka. ‘We will discuss it amongst ourselves.’

  Jack and Wynter withdrew to the shade of a large tree. As soon as they were out of earshot of the warriors, Wynter complained bitterly about Jack’s insults. Jack told him that humour had to be used to reach these Maori or they would be lost.

  ‘We had to get on friendly terms with these men, or you and I might not see our comrades again.’

  ‘You din’t mean none
o’ that stuff, then? About me bein’ lesser than a garden slug.’

  ‘Of course not, man. Of course not.’ Jack paused and then could not resist adding, ‘You’re at least as far up the Chain of Being as a snail.’

  Wynter was actually sharper than he looked.

  ‘You’re joking again, an’t you? Well, I’ll think up somethin’ for you, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Ah, there’s the rub,’ said Jack, sighing, ‘you can’t.’

  Thinking the officer was impugning his intelligence, he asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m an aristocratic captain and you’re what Wellington called the scum of the earth. If you were to make jokes about me, I would have to have you flogged.’

  Wynter bristled. ‘That an’t fair.’

  ‘Nor it is, but who said the army was fair? Oh, hello.’

  Jack got to his feet as he realized Amiri was standing over them, looking down at him.

  She squatted and Wynter’s eyes nearly left his head like bullets from a gun muzzle as her skirt wafted up revealing much more thigh than any Englishwoman would consider proper. The soldier then had the good grace to look away, aware that his stare had been noticed. Amiri glared at him, and folded the skirt between her legs to recapture her modesty.

  ‘Captain Crossman,’ said Amiri, putting an arm around the stiff officer’s shoulders, ‘do you like me?’

  It was Jack’s turn to be taken aback. He was suddenly aware of a new danger. In India two Eurasian girls, the grown daughters of a corporal and his Hindu wife, had followed him around like doting schoolgirls, claiming to be in love with him. Jack had been flattered at first, as many men would be since the sisters had been quite beautiful. But they quickly became a nuisance. He was a handsome man and he knew it, though no one could call him vain. He was bound to attract women without meaning to, not the least because of his aloofness towards them. Jack was the kind of man that women saw as a challenge, a remote region to conquer, a heart they had to reach and capture with their character and beauty. It was no good Jack telling them he was married, that only made him more irresistible to them.

  ‘I’m married,’ he blurted out.

  ‘So am I,’ she said, squeezing his shoulder lightly, ‘but we are probably both unhappy.’

  ‘Shall I go off somewhere and wait,’ said an embarrassed-looking Wynter, ‘so’s you can make out?’

  ‘That had better be your attempt at a return joke, Wynter,’ snapped Jack. Then more softly, ‘Amiri – I am not in an unhappy marriage. I love my wife and she, I believe, is quite fond of me . . .’

  Amiri did not release him. She merely smiled disarmingly into his face with those huge brown eyes. He left the arm there, not shrugging it off because it felt so good, so very, very good. His blood was hot and racing through his arteries, making his heart beat faster than the battle-call tattoo on a drum. And she was a handsome woman. More than handsome: beautiful. She smelled of nut oil and frangipani flowers. One full warm breast pressed gently against his ribs. He had long ached for such company and her bare brown arm, with its flawless skin, looked good enough to eat. He would have made love to her there and then in the dust, thrown all thoughts of Jane out of his head, if there had been no others to witness his fall from grace.

  When Potaka came over to him Jack tried to shrug her off, but Potaka took no notice of this compromising scene.

  ‘I will come with you,’ said the warrior. ‘This one will stay here with my men. If we do not return, they will kill him.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ said Jack. ‘I thank you.’

  ‘No, it an’t,’ growled Wynter. ‘It an’t fair at all, an’ if you don’t come back I may hope you roast in hell, sir!’

  Jack and Potaka left the Maori camp on foot, leaving the horses there. Potaka said it was easier to track and navigate the bush without the use of mounts.

  ‘The first thing to do,’ said Potaka, ‘is to question people we meet. You must stay behind me at all times, when we approach other Maoris. Even I am not safe from some. If a fight starts, then you must come to my aid, but otherwise keep silent and still.’

  ‘You are the expert here,’ Jack replied. ‘I bow to your knowledge of the bush.’

  Potaka took Jack off on a half-running, half-walking trek which tested the officer’s fitness severely. They went through bush country, forest and open landscape, Jack struggling to keep up with the Maori. Fortunately, his head stayed clear and he began to hope that at last he had rid himself of the pain. Perhaps he had jolted something in there? A clot of blood? A piece of bone? Heads were such complex devices, being the boxes which carried the thinking machine. No wonder the Maori used their stone hand axes, their patus, with such frequency.

  The rain stayed off, though several days into the trek black clouds gathered in towers over the Hauhungaroa Range, near Lake Taupo. Potaka said that it always rained in the Hauhungaroa, so that was nothing unusual. They had one night of fierce winds, which kept them awake with its noise and power. This was followed by a day of complete calm, during which not a ripple appeared on the still waters of the island, though of course there were torrential streams to cross. They did this by linking arms, for which Jack was grateful, since Potaka was more sure-footed than himself, especially since the stream beds seemed to consist of boulders and huge stones. There was always the danger of a twisted or broken ankle, with rocks you could not see.

  Jack had hoped that Potaka could pick up a trail, but the Maori told him this was impossible. King had been missing for quite some time now and the rains had come and gone with regularity. Any trails would have been washed away. In any case they did not know where to start or which direction the sergeant had taken. To follow a trail through the bush you need definite early signs, which you know belong to the lost man and not to some other roving individual.

  Indeed, they had to rely on sightings by other Maori, who may or may not have been hostile. In King’s favour was the fact that the Maori were in general naturally curious men. They would wonder what a lone soldier was doing, wandering around the bush, scribbling on a pad. They might just leave him alone, not approaching him in any way, to see what developed. Certainly a single man was no threat to a tribe or nation. If you kept a watch on him, he could do little harm. On the other hand if you killed him straight away, you might never find out what he was doing there. The Maori had seen surveyors before, of course, especially on land that had been sold to the whites. This one looked like a surveyor, but what was he doing on Maori land? So Jack hoped they might have left him alone, intending to rob King of his notebook once he looked like leaving the region he was charting.

  The first two or three groups of Maori Potaka questioned claimed they had not seen anything of a lone sergeant. One group said they had encountered a patrol, further south, and had exchanged fire, but surely only an insane soldier would wander right into enemy territory on his own? This same group, a hostile bunch of warriors if ever Jack had seen one, was not the friendliest they encountered. They wanted to know what Jack was doing there, why Potaka was guiding him across their land, and they needed a good reason not to kill both intruders.

  Potaka proceeded to give them several ‘good reasons’ none of which seemed acceptable. He then offered to do battle with the biggest of the party for the right to cross their territory. The largest warrior amongst them, a huge but amiable-looking fellow, declined to fight. His argument in essence was that he refused to get his head caved in over something as trivial as unsanctioned trespass. He was willing to do his bit when it came to full battle, but he was not interested in single combat. One of his companions called him a coward, which contrarily resulted in a healthy scrap between the accuser and the accused, making the big man’s refusal to fight Jack somewhat nonsensical. The big man eventually flattened the smaller man with a hammer fist on the top of the head. Finally the party left, carrying the unconscious loser and wishing Jack and Potaka luck in finding the missing sergeant.

  A weak winter sun shone on the day aft
er this encounter. Potaka decided they would take a hill trail, which involved crossing chasms on fallen trees and fording wider and faster rivers than Jack had so far encountered. There were one or two rope bridges too, which had his heart fluttering in his chest. Potaka drove them at a mighty pace and once, while they were negotiating a six-inch-wide path on a slope of scree, Jack almost plunged to his death. Only a healthy right hand full of uncut fingernails saved him. He buried the hand into the scree thus arresting his slide down a steep slope to a ledge that went out into nothing but cool clear air. In those few seconds Potaka managed to get fingers on Jack’s collar, eventually hauling him to safety. Potaka berated Jack for his carelessness.

  They spent the night in an abandoned hut, only to find themselves in the company of three Maori when they woke.

  More questions followed, this time with a satisfactory outcome. Yes, the three men had seen a solitary soldier.

  ‘He is off his head,’ said a lean Maori with a pot belly and a tattooed skin that was a work of art worthy of wall-space in any London gallery. ‘No one bothers him because he is a witch man, who weaves evil magic in the night. He talks to the moon, even when it is not there.’

  King had probably been gabbling at them about his work and would have been regarded as ‘speaking in tongues’ or something like. Madmen, Jack decided, got away with their lives while sane men would have been cut down where they stood. He found that in India, during the mutiny. Officers and soldiers had been discovered wandering, often naked and filthy, talking away to themselves. Even though many of the locals they encountered had been rebels, the madmen continued untouched. In many societies it was considered bad luck to harm a simpleton, a man whose reason had left him. Such a person drew sympathy and pity, rather than hate and hostility.

  Jack asked, ‘Where did you see him last?’