Wynter opened the hut door and presented Jack with a shiny new metal contraption, gleaming with copper and brass.
‘Da-da!’ exclaimed Abe, sweeping off his top hat. ‘You know what that is? That’s Joseph Bramah’s pan closet toilet! Eh? Eh? Cost me a packet, I can tell you, not even countin’ the bill for the passage, which made me eyes water, I can tell you.’ He put an arm around Jack’s shoulders. ‘What I wanted to say is, you can use this anytime. Anytime.’ He gave Jack a wink. ‘So long as I’m not sittin’ on it, consider it yours, Cap’n. I won’t charge you a sou. There, what d’you say to that?’
Jack shrugged the arm away and replied, ‘I would say nothing on earth would tempt me to enter that hut.’
Abraham Wynter stared at Jack for several moments, then gave a guffaw of laughter.
‘You – you’re a card, you are. My brother warned me about you. You said that with face flatter than a clothes-iron. Well, Cap’n, ’ave a good day, and I’ll be gettin’ back to you soon on that other matter.’
With that the rich gentleman walked back to supervise the boxing of his rapid-firing steam gun.
On that count Jack’s feelings were in accord with Von Tempsky’s. He did not like the major, but he agreed with his sentiments. This gun was a monstrous object, and it occurred to Jack that if it had been around since 1824, and was so amazing, why was it not in general use by the British army? Someone, several someones, had since decided it was not all it was cracked up to be. Jack wondered how many of the officers here, praising its capabilities, would actually use it. It would be an interesting study, if one had the time to wallow in study, which Jack had not, for General Pratt was anxious to get to grips with the Maori problem. General Pratt had the idea that the sappers could win the war for him by digging trenches and beating the Maori at their own game. Apparently the 14th Foot were on their way to New Zealand, full of zest and eager to dig as well as fight, but would take some 90 days to get there.
In October, Pratt ordered operations on three pas on the Kahihi River, which proved successful. The trenches aimed straight at the hearts of the pas were dug out under cover of bulletproof screens. The Maori defenders of the mud-and-timber forts had to watch in consternation as the enemy moved slowly towards them, unable to stop this snail-paced approach. However, the obvious answer for the occupants of a pa under such attack was to wait until the last minute, then vacate their fort and run off to build another one. Jack sort of agreed with the settlers that this kind of warfare got lost in itself, with neither side gaining any sort of advantage.
In November, with the promise of summer in the air, Jack took part in an engagement which took place at Mahoetahi, a point around two and a bit miles from Waitara and some few more miles from New Plymouth. A note had been sent from a Maori chief called Taiporotu to the Assistant Native Secretary, which went something like as follows:
Friend, I have heard your word – come and fight me. That is very good.
Come inland and let us meet each other . . . make haste, make haste.
It was signed by Taiporotu, who claimed to be speaking for several tribes in the region, including the Ngatihaua, Ngatiamaniopoto and other Maori peoples who supported Wiremu Kingi. Taunts such as this one were common with Maori chiefs, who had the same sort of sense of humour owned by the British soldiers who fought against them. One chief, having had a reward posted on his head by the Governor of New Zealand, promptly put up his own posters, offering the same amount to anyone who would bring in the governor, dead or alive. Another had sent directions to his pa, in order that the British attacking force should not get lost in the wilderness on the way and would easily find his fort.
Before they set out to attack the pa, which a settler told Jack gleefully was rotten and falling to pieces, there was the funeral of a local white tradesman who had been murdered when he got drunk and wandered too far off the safe limits of town. He was found with a greenstone patu axe still buried in his skull. It took two men to remove the weapon, one of whom kept it as a souvenir. Gwilliams had been on drinking terms with the settler, though not on the night he had been killed, and so asked if they could attend the ceremony. Jack reluctantly allowed his men to do so, going along himself.
It was not the dismal affair Jack expected it to be, mainly because most the mourners were half-intoxicated and not inclined to be miserable on behalf of their friend. There was the general feeling amongst the company that ‘Bill’ would have wanted a merry send-off. Moreover he had been a bachelor, so there was no widow in black or long-faced children to placate with false sentiment, though indeed a spotty-faced nephew of about 15 years was in evidence. A bottle was being passed from hand to hand behind the row of backs, even as the minister intoned the Lord’s Prayer. Finally, as the coffin went down into the clay, a hastily formed band began to play. To Jack’s astonishment a loud guffaw broke out amongst the mourners and broad grins appeared as whispers were exchanged with those who were not laughing.
‘What’s that all about?’ Jack asked of Gwilliams. ‘It seems to me to be in very bad taste, even at a wake.’
‘You recognize the tune, sir?’ replied his corporal, who had to bite his lip to stop sniggering.
Jack said, ‘Well, that tone-deaf mob is murdering it, but I believe it to be Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze”.’
‘On the nail, sir,’ said Gwilliams with a laugh. ‘You see, the man who was killed, he was the local butcher.’
Even Jack had to smile at that.
The following morning at 5 a.m., Jack, Gwilliams and Wynter joined a force led by General Pratt. The column consisted of over 650 regular troops and volunteers. Jack had maps drawn by Sergeant King and he and his two men led the way. Major Mould followed on behind with another 300 soldiers. When they arrived at the pa they found it in poor condition with almost no cover for the Maoris. Despite the fact that several tribes had joined together for this battle, Jack realized there were only around 150 of them in the entrenchments ahead. The Maori were vastly outnumbered, facing overwhelming odds, but they stood resolute with their muskets and stone axes, ready to repel the onslaught.
A red sky illuminated the battle area. It was a fine morning; no morning for men to die like cattle.
‘Sir, let me go and speak with them?’ asked Jack of a major on the general’s staff. ‘I may be able to persuade them to lay down their arms.’
‘I think not, Captain. The general is in no mood for conciliation.’
‘But they don’t stand an earthly. It would be slaughter.’
‘Too bad. They should have thought of that before Puketakauere. It’s our turn this time.’
It was true that General Pratt and some of his officers were thirsting for revenge for that earlier failure.
Jack insisted. ‘These are brave men. Their pride will never let them surrender unless we give them an opening.’
The major’s expression was like granite. There was nothing moving in his heart. He simply stared hard at Jack with blue eyes that showed nothing but contempt.
‘Is it their welfare which concerns you, Captain, or your own?’
Jack stiffened. He said slowly and deliberately, ‘Major, I have fought innumerable battles, in the Crimea, in India, and here. The last man who questioned my courage is now buried near Gwailor. Have a care with your accusations, sir.’
The major’s eyes widened a fraction. He gazed into Jack’s own for a full minute. It seemed that what he saw there prevented him from upbraiding the captain for his insolence. Finally, under Jack’s fixed stare, he turned his head away and seemed to hear a call from the general’s direction, because he strode off without another word.
‘That’s the way to tell ’em, sir,’ muttered Gwilliams. ‘I heard tell of that one. He don’t know his arse from his head.’
This was praise indeed from his corporal, though Jack knew he should not comment further on the matter.
When the attack came, the Maoris did indeed stand their ground, even when the bayonet charge came. Pratt
’s soldiers charged up the hill to the pa and overran what entrenchments remained. The Maori muskets, once discharged, were thrown aside. Hand axes and spears came into play. But such weapons were no match for the rifles and bayonets of Pratt’s soldiers. Colonel Mould’s forces then arrived and attacked the flank of the enemy. Rifles blazed from two directions and the Maori at last vacated their ruined fort. The air was full of battle smoke and stank of burnt powder. Bodies remained draped over the rotten wood of the fort’s palisade. A wounded Maori staggered along a ridge, finally falling over on the far side. An eager, excited militia volunteer chased after him only to reappear a minute later with blood pouring from the side of his head. Jack saw the pakeha’s legs go from under him, and he pitched forward into the mud with half his scalp missing.
The Maori warriors scattered and ran for a river in the rear, flinging themselves into the water, swimming and wading across to the far bank under fire. Jack saw one big fellow flee, the water around him pockmarked by balls striking the surface. Then finally one shot hit him in the back of the head, just below the cranium, and he went down into the current. The body floated away downstream past a group of parrots who screeched as it bumped their overhanging tree. Their audacious chieftain Wetini Taiporotu, was one of those who remained on the hillside along with nearly forty of his comrades-in-arms when the British troops overran it. A dozen more were killed in or over the river and tens were wounded in the retreat to Puketakauere. One old man, later identified as a chief called Mokau, was about to cross a swamp when he saw an old friend dying in the mud. He bent down to rub noses in a gesture of farewell, but because of the delay he was then mortally wounded himself by a bullet straight through the heart.
Nine
For every Maori at war with the pakeha, there were two others happy to farm the land and provide the newcomers with food. Wheat was being grown by the ton and even exported to Australia. The sweet potato had been pushed aside to make way for the pakeha potato. Cattle, sheep and pigs were moving into the millions. Every tribe had its own flour mill now, sometimes more than one, and maize crops were abundant. Less than a century before Jack arrived in New Zealand, Captain Cook had introduced pigs to the islands, which were now both domesticated and feral, running through woodlands and pastureland. It did seem to Jack that the war was but a few wrong stitches in a tapestry that would eventually show a landscape at peace, Maori with pakeha.
‘I am ready to settle down,’ he told Sergeant King, who was now out of hospital, ‘and become a farmer.’
King was astonished. ‘But you’re a soldier,’ he said. ‘How can you suddenly turn dirt farmer, sir? You don’t know anything about farming, do you?’
They were sitting outside one of the usual soldier haunts: a tavern on a green that could have been in Surrey. Behind them, rolling meadows rose and fell like the soft green breasts of a giant maiden. Nearby, ducks and geese were milling around a pond while a young child was feeding them with breadcrumbs. It was an idyllic scene that might have turned Attila the Hun into a pastoral poet. King was not above being influenced himself, by the spiritual nature of the weather and the landscape, but to give up soldiering? Why that would have meant giving up map-making, for no other profession was interested in charting the topography of these new British possessions abroad.
‘I could learn,’ replied the captain, with some stiffness. ‘I’m not a complete idiot, you know.’
‘Yes, but, sir, I’ve been trying to teach you map-drawing since I’ve known you, and it don’t seem to work. You don’t like to learn new skills, do you?’
‘Well, maps are one thing, farming another.’
The officer seemed to be implying that map-making was of lesser importance than ploughing a field. King could not take this view seriously. He began his standard lecture, even though he saw that Captain Crossman’s expression had turned from dreamy to despairing.
‘Maps,’ said King, ‘are just as important to farmers, as they are to generals. Look, don’t sigh, sir – it’s true. Every man who owns a bit of land wants to know what it looks like – its shape, its length and girth, its ups and downs, its borders. Think how delighted the first king was, who saw an accurate picture of his country on paper! What would he have known before that? What image was in his head? He would have had none, for there was no way to imagine the shape and position of his kingdom on the face of the planet. The king of the Eastern Angles, for example, would only know that his state extended from the North Sea to his neighbours in the west, to the Wash in the north, to the Thames River in the south – but he would have had no idea of its shape.’ King took a sip of his beer, before continuing. ‘You will need to know the contours of your farmlands, sir, and only a map-maker can do that for you.’
‘I admit it helps to have a map to settle land disputes with neighbours.’
‘Good.’ King’s face brightened. ‘You admit it then.’
‘I’ve been soldiering since I was eighteen, Sergeant. I’ve seen enough blood-and-thunder to last me the rest of my life. Colonel Lovelace, he’s the sort of man you need to expend your argument on. He’s a life soldier. This country is what I’ve been looking for. I’ve found it and I mean to stay.’
‘You’ll sell out?’ King made it sound like a distasteful business.
‘I don’t need to. I didn’t purchase my commission, I earned it.’
‘Well, same thing. You’re going to leave the army.’
‘I think so. I’ve had enough of slaughter – and settling disputes with maniacal cavalry officers . . .’
‘Ah, you’re talking of that blaze you had with Captain Deighnton in India. He was a madman, sir.’
‘Him and one or two others. I swear they don’t get enough of killing on the battlefield, so they have to look for brother officers to shoot down between times. My own blood lust has long been satisfied. I need a rest, Sergeant. You’ll be all right. You’ll get some officer who’s keen on your maps and you’ll be in seventh heaven. Ah, here’s the man who’s going to get me my farm . . .’
King looked up to see Abraham Wynter, black-coated and high-hatted, striding in front of his personal army of six Maori. He saw Jack and waved to him, calling, ‘We’re gettin’ there, Cap’n. Just give me a couple more weeks. Good piece of land goin’ to the south. Just need a bit more time to persuade the current owner to part with it.’
This announcement was somewhat slurred in its delivery.
‘No underhand stuff,’ Jack called back, seriously. ‘I want it purchased fair and square and willingly parted with.’
‘O’ course, o’ course.’
Abe Wynter winked broadly, which did not settle Jack’s fears in the least. The businessman looked quite drunk to Jack. Today was Saturday and no doubt Abe Wynter had been down to the marketplace making deals and sealing each one with a drink or two. It was quite difficult not to over-imbibe on such occasions, for the Maori expected such rituals, and the settlers were also in the habit of quaffing a jar on a sale or purchase.
‘I mean it, Mister Wynter. No land-grabbing.’
‘’Gainst the law, Cap’n.’ Abe Wynter nodded slowly and solemnly to show how serious he took this warning. Then his face changed again, to that sly, greasy expression which made Jack doubt the wisdom of dealing with such a man. Abe continued, ‘I’m now off with my Maori for a bit of roasted pork to settle the gin in me belly.’ He nodded back at his half-dozen minders, all dressed in shirts and trousers, but shoeless. They leaned on their rifles and grinned when they were referred to by their master. ‘We often share a bit o’ pork,’ he added, then rather more enigmatically, ‘In the past, there’s bin another kind of roasted pig we’ve indulged in, but not together, oh, no – them here, me somewhere else. But it sort of makes me like a brother to ’em, if you know what I mean.’ He slung an arm around the neck of one of his followers, who grinned even more broadly. ‘Me an’ them ’ave got this thing in common, see. We’re brothers under the skin.’
Jack tried to look under the words for Ab
e Wynter’s true meaning, and thought he found something quite unpalatable. Did Abe really mean what he was implying, or was it show? Probably the latter. If he were to demand loyalty from his Maoris, Abe would need a connection with them. Perhaps he had invented one and made use of it. In any case, Abe’s private habits were of no consequence to Jack. There were probably many unsavoury aspects to his character, but since Jack was not a friend he need not concern himself with them. Abe Wynter was merely someone to do a brief spell of business with, and then Jack need have nothing further to do with the man.
‘What was all that about?’ asked King. ‘All that stuff about pork?’
‘He’s three sheets to the wind, Sergeant. I don’t think he even knows himself what he’s about.’
King said, ‘I don’t like that man.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Yet you deal with him, sir?’
‘I don’t have to like a shopkeeper to buy an ounce of tobacco from him,’ said Jack, puffing on his chibouk to emphasize his point. ‘I might even despise the man I sell my horse to.’
‘Still an’ all, sir.’
‘I know what you mean, Sergeant, but he’s the only man around here who can get me my farm. I could try myself, but I’m not a good negotiator and I’m sure I’d be swindled. I would deserve to be, given I’m a flat when it comes to such things. I’m not happy about that, but it is a fact and therefore I’m having to swallow my dislike of the man. Personally, I think he’s going to get shot by someone soon and we’ll all go to his funeral and sing hymns, think him a fine fellow – or at least, we’ll think he was not as bad as he was painted.’
‘Not me, sir. I could see him dead tomorrow and shrug it off.’
‘Sergeant King, you’re becoming as hard-metalled as our own Colonel Lovelace.’
King smiled. ‘You could be right, sir.’
Kiwi Wars Page 11
