‘No, Captain – I have seen his prints, just before we made camp. They are still following the stream, but on the far bank.’
‘Good, good. I wonder if he will break for open country.’
‘He will die if he does. The tribes there will kill him.’
‘What if he offers them gold?’
‘They will kill him and take his gold.’
‘Of course.’
Jack lay down in the darkness of the wilderness, wondering if he was going to sleep despite his physical fatigue. His mind was still buzzing and that was what kept people awake. His thoughts were swirling round in there; circular thoughts which seemed to have no end or beginning. Nathan was probably on his way to Australia by now and would not be around to help with the court martial. Nathan’s influence might have saved Wynter if he had pleaded some sort of temporary insanity. But who would believe that a man who stole a fortune in gold was insane? Wasn’t that the sanest thing on earth to do? To make oneself rich overnight and never have to worry about money again. No panel of officers was going to be convinced of madness in that respect. Nathan and Jack together might have argued that long years in the field had turned the man’s head, but Jack could not do it alone.
They set off after Harry Wynter just after dawn. The sun came up over this green and pleasant land, glancing off the hills and honing the rivers like silver knives, so sharp the brightness hurt their eyes. Birds littered the trees and ran through the undergrowth. Insects formed smoky clouds over favourite shrubs and bushes.
Wynter’s course was erratic and meandering and frustrated his pursuers with its unpredictability. Jack decided his private was either lost or had some thought of disguising his trail with loops and turns. It was, the captain decided, most likely the former. Despite being with a ‘mapping group’ for several years, Wynter had made no effort to learn the skills of navigation. Being the lowest member of the force he left the responsibility of pathfinding to his superiors, of whom there was always at least one with him. He had never been required to find his own way out in the field. Thus it was almost certain he did not know where he was going or what he was doing. At least, Jack believed that until late in the morning, when he discovered his spare compass was missing.
‘Did I give you a compass?’ he asked his Maori guide.
‘Compass? What would I want a compass for? I know my way around these hills without pakeha toys.’
Ta Moko was irritated with the chase. Jack knew he had expected to catch the runaway very quickly. It hurt the Maori’s pride to be outrun by a pakeha and a stupid one at that. But Jack knew they had made the usual mistake; the one all men made with Harry Wynter. They had underestimated him. Jack was fairly certain now that Wynter had stolen maps from the sergeant’s folder too. The private knew exactly what he was doing and where he was going. Furthermore, his walking skills were second to none. He and his mule would keep up a pace that would be difficult to keep up with, let alone gain on.
Yet still, as Jack trudged through bogs brimming with mire, and along stream beds, and through tangled bush country, he could not imagine what was in Harry Wynter’s mind. All those years when Wynter had not bothered to learn navigation, but knew the value of compasses and maps, Jack should have learned how the man thought. He should have been able to predict Wynter’s moves. A good leader knows his men inside out, yet Wynter always had the ability to surprise Jack. Sometimes the surprises proved just how stupid the man was, but other times some hidden skill would come out.
It had to be remembered, while out in the wilds of New Zealand, that in civilian life Harry Wynter had been a bodger for a while. Bodgers mainly lived in the beech woods of Buckinghamshire and made rough chair legs out of greenwood, using a pole lathe made out of a springy sapling. It was a hard life, living in the open most of the time, using a bivouac for a shelter. Purchased food was not easy to come by in the forest, so bodgers lived for a greater part of the time on what they could find in the way of fungi, berries, roots and edible plants, supplementing their diet with the odd rabbit or wild bird. Harry Wynter certainly had outdoor skills or he would never have survived the bodger’s life. There was no reason why he could not transfer those skills to New Zealand. Of course there would be plants unknown to him here, but he was astute enough to be able to recognize poisonous fungi and berries.
So, thought Jack, was his runaway preparing for a long haul out in the bush? Was he hoping to wear down his trackers, until they gave up and went home? It certainly seemed that way. Yet Jack had with him an expert on the landscape, on living in the wild, and on tracking down men who did not want to be tracked down. Did Harry Wynter honestly believe he could outrun and outwit a determined local Maori? Surely even Harry was not that much of an idiot? And there could have been no preconceived plan, for the gold did not appear until two days ago.
So the soldier’s mind was still a closed book. Not a very fascinating book, but a mystery none the less. One thing was sure: Wynter was giving his officer the runaround, and that would please him. Because they felt they were getting close, Jack abandoned the mule, hoping they could move faster without it and so overtake the malefactor in front of them. They took the remainder of their provisions on their own backs and determined to sleep under the stars.
Mid-afternoon, on the third day of the chase, Jack and Ta Moko almost ran into a hostile Maori war party. The Maoris, their bodies gleaming with water since they had just waded through a torrential river, were standing on the bank talking. Jack was close enough to see the tattoos on their naked bodies as the Maoris had taken off their shirts and trousers and had fastened them round their heads to keep them dry. Harry Wynter’s tracks went right alongside the river, but the Maoris did not seem aware they were standing on pakeha spoor. They seemed in no hurry to dry off, but remained chattering by the rushing white water, one or two of them cleaning their rifles which presumably they had held above their heads on the crossing.
Jack and Ta Moko were lying in a copse where the insects and spiders were using them as bridges. If they moved they would be seen. The copse was an isolated island in a sea of grass. Jack hoped the Maoris did not want to light a fire because the only source of wood for miles around was his hiding place. Then it began to rain, which was miserable for Jack and Ta Moko, though the Maoris by the river simply looked heavenward and laughed, carrying on with their conversations. They did, however, dress themselves which gave Jack hope. But even when the rain stopped, some twenty minutes later, the Maoris remained.
Finally, that which Jack dreaded most occurred.
A tall lean Maori left his group and walked up the slope to the copse. If he had wanted to urinate he would have done it down by the river, so Jack knew he had come to defecate. Naturally he chose to do it by the bush behind which Jack and Ta Moko were lying. When the smell hit them Jack made a face at his Maori guide, but Ta Moko was in no mood to reciprocate. Then one of the Maoris down by the river decided, as a joke, to fire his musket over the trees to hurry his friend. This resulted in every bird and insect being stunned to silence.
‘Pöauau!’ yelled the Maori with his pants down.
The group down by the river laughed and jeered.
But a great danger had now asserted itself. Within the eerie silence the gunshot had caused, Jack could hear his pocket watch ticking. It sounded, to his ears, louder than a long-case clock. Surely the Maori on the other side of the bush could hear it? From that side came the tearing of grass and a grunt as the man finished his business. Jack willed the birds in the trees and the insects in the grasses to begin their chorus again. But they failed to respond to his prayers. The Maori stood up and seemed about to leave but then stopped. Jack knew he had heard the ticking and was listening. At that moment the group by the river called up to him, and they started ambling away to the west.
Still he listened, cocking his head to one side, clearly unable to discern where the sound was coming from. Jack hoped the man would think it was a beetle or insect of some kind. But the sound wa
s too regular, too much like the ticking of clockwork and the Maori began to circumnavigate the bush.
Jack leapt up, but before he could do anything, the hostile Maori fell at his feet with a groan on his lips. He lay there, full stretch, now unconscious. Ta Moko was standing over him, with his stone patu in his right fist.
‘Quickly, we must move,’ said Ta Moko.
Jack and Ta Moko scrambled down the slope and ran eastwards. Luckily this was the direction taken by Wynter. Both knew the hostiles would soon miss their companion and go back and look for him. Then they would search for tracks, which would not be hard to find. The chase was now a three-fold affair, with two pursuing one, and seven taking up the rear chasing all three. Jack and Ta Moko decided at that point to give up their chase and headed up into the hills, to seek somewhere to hide. They found a stony plateau, which they crossed without leaving prints, and thence to a cave. There they remained for two days, knowing the Maoris would be scouring the region for them.
On the sixth day they slipped out before dawn and retraced their tracks to the river. Once again they started out on the trail of the gold thief. When they reached a ford, they found that Wynter had crossed the river at that point, and to Jack’s astonishment was heading back in the direction of New Plymouth.
‘The man must want to be hanged,’ he said to Ta Moko. ‘Once in India he tried to commit suicide – and failed. Surely this is no way to take one’s own life? Hanging is a dreadful enough thing to watch – it must be a thousand times worse to have to participate. I wonder if he thinks he’ll get the firing squad. He won’t. Not for this.’
Jack and Ta Moko were hounded all the way back to the garrison at New Plymouth, but the hostiles never caught up with them. They found Sergeant King and Gwilliams had arrived a day before them. King met them coming through the main gate. King was clearly agitated, but Jack put this down to the fact that a man was soon to hang.
‘Where’s Wynter, in the stockade?’ asked Jack, wearily trudging towards his quarters.
‘No, sir – in his billet,’ came the reply.
Jack almost stopped in mid-stride.
‘In his billet? Surely not under open arrest?’
‘Not that either.’
‘Well, don’t just stand there, Sergeant – tell me!’
‘Private Wynter came back with the gold and reported to the orderly officer. He said he had been out with his mapping party when they had come across the victims of a robbery, probably the Otago robbery.’ King’s face was blotched red and Jack could see his sergeant was seething. ‘However, he told the officer he – Private Wynter – had not trusted his commanding officer and NCOs to bring in the gold. He said he had heard talk of deserting with the money and sailing to Australia in a Maori skiff.’
‘What?’ cried Jack. ‘That infamous . . .’
King continued, almost choking on his words. ‘Wynter informed the authorities that he had gathered up the gold, put it on a mule, and brought it in for safe keeping. It was a very clever ruse, Captain, because he told them, “I couldn’t be certain sure that they was goin’ to take the gold – after all, it were an officer I’ve ’ad the honour of servin’ under for many a year now – but I thought I heard it said. I didn’t want to be part of no robbery, sir, for that’s a hangin’ offence, sure, so I brung it in anyway, then if I were wrong there’s no harm done, is there, eh?”’
‘He said that?’ Jack expostulated. ‘Why, I haven’t given that man credit enough for his fiendish imagination. That is the cleverest lie I’ve heard in a long time. I’ll strangle him. I swear I will. He has led us the sorriest dance . . . I’ll kill him with my bare hands. Where is he?’
Jack stormed into the billet that housed Harry Wynter and two dozen other soldiers. Wynter was lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling. Someone yelled, ‘Officer present!’ and all but him jumped up and stood to attention. Harry Wynter rose slowly and saluted; an insolent smile on his face.
‘Sorry to beat you back, sir. Guess I’ve got better feet than the rest on you.’
‘I’ll beat your bloody back,’ shouted Jack. ‘What was this all about? I don’t understand it, Wynter. Was it just to run us ragged? If so, you were playing a very dangerous game.’
The other soldiers in the room were round-eyed and glanced at one another, still remaining at attention.
Wynter turned an innocent face to his room comrades, then back to Jack again. ‘Captain – I swear. I just wanted to see the gold get back safe. That’s what I told the officers. It’s the truth.’
‘You lied, you insufferable toad. You insisted that you heard talk of desertion. There was no such talk. There was no such conspiracy.’
The look of innocence grew wider. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I thought there was. I wasn’t sure I heard such. I know me ears an’t what they were, afore cannons did for ’em, but I did hear somethin’ around those lines while I was fallin’ off to sleep. I told the officers I could ’ave bin mistaken, but couldn’t take the chance, see? You can understand that, sir, not takin’ the chance? No harm done, after all.’
‘No harm . . . you nearly got us all killed, soldier.’
Wynter grinned. ‘No, sir, not you. Take more’n a thing like that to get you killed, wun’t it?’
Jack stared at his man for a full minute, but he knew that if he did not get out of the billet, there and then, he would strike him. King was concerned about this too, and steered his captain towards the door.
‘I’ll do it later,’ he told Jack, ‘behind the washrooms.’
‘No, no, don’t do that, Sergeant,’ said Jack wearily. ‘I think he’s beaten us this time. I’ll see what I can do.’
Jack went back to his quarters, bathed, and changed into full dress uniform. Then he reported to General Cameron, who had already been informed of the affair. Jack stood before the general’s desk, ready to give an account of himself. The general, a grave expression on his features, tapped with his pencil on the woodwork.
‘What do you say to this accusation, Captain Crossman?’
‘Sir, the man is an incorrigible liar. He has been under my command for several years now and has been nothing but trouble.’
‘But, forgive me, Captain, for playing devil’s advocate, but of course if it were true, you would say that.’
‘It is true, sir. I hope you are not insinuating that I am a liar?’
The general rocked back in his chair and stared at Jack through narrowed eyes.
Jack continued. ‘I can bring you a dozen reports and as many live testimonies to substantiate my claim, sir. It is there in writing. It can be heard from the mouths of my NCOs. The man has an animal cunning. I have no doubt he intended to steal that gold – I can only think that by our dogged pursuit we forced him to return it to the garrison.’
The general’s chair came upright again with a snap.
‘About that gold, Captain. There is a small amount missing. I say, small, but of course that is relative to the whole. In monetary terms I would put the value at over a thousand sovereigns.’
Jack was astonished by the general’s vague look.
‘Well, there you are, sir.’
‘Well, there I am not, because this Private . . .?’
‘Wynter.’
‘Yes, this Private Wynter claims that the original thieves must have used the missing gold in some way.’
Jack laughed. ‘They went on a shopping expedition in the bush?’
General Cameron frowned. ‘No, Captain, they used it to bribe Maoris to let them through their territory.’
‘Oh.’ Jack was crestfallen. ‘I suppose . . .’
‘Or someone else could have taken it.’
Jack realized the general was again making veiled accusations regarding him and his NCOs. He was allowed no time to dispute this imputation because the general continued with, ‘There’s no proof, either way. Certainly I can’t court-martial a man without the tiniest shred of evidence. He would claim he thought he was doing the right thing in bringing
in the gold himself. It’s a strange and funny do, Captain. I really don’t know what to make of it.’ General Cameron gave a huge sigh, then said, ‘But on the plus side, most of the gold, the greater part of it, is now in our hands again. I will be mentioning your name in that regard, in my official dispatches, and no doubt there will be a commendation. With regards to this soldier, if it is as you say, I suggest you settle with him quietly. Get your sergeant to do it. Or await the next opportunity to punish him for some misdemeanour. You tell me he crosses the line often? Then throw the book at him next time. Give him the maximum. That’ll be all, Captain.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Jack left with the general saying after him, ‘Good work on that gold – and the murderers got their reward, eh? God sees all and metes out justice. He doesn’t always need us . . .’
Fourteen
June was a miserable month; day after day of rain, cold swirling winds blown from Antarctic regions, and the long dark nights did nothing to improve the men’s spirits. Whales could be heard moaning out in the winter seas, calling to each other like night owls on the British landscape. A sort of heavy gloom settled over the hills and valleys around New Plymouth. Soldiers and settlers alike kept to their quarters and only ventured forth when it was absolutely necessary to do so. Even the Maori huddled together, wrapped in woollen blankets, like sheep on a mountainside.
In Taranaki, rebel Maoris gathered at the mouth of a river known as Katikara. They were intent on building a pa from which to taunt the British soldiery. However, Jack’s spy network, though still a fledgling organization, was beginning to show profit. Jack received warning of the rebels’ intentions and informed General Cameron – the same man who had refused to court-martial Harry Wynter – and the general’s response was much as Jack expected. It was the sort of reaction Jack had been getting from generals since first becoming an intelligence agent in the Crimea. The general treated the information with disbelief.
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