Kiwi Wars

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Strawn leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Well, between you and me, Captain – you’re one of the more articulate officers in this war. Intelligence is not a commodity which overflows amongst our aristocratic officer class. You’re one of those rare ones who seem to know what they’re doing.’

  ‘You know what Lord Raglan said about officers who know what they’re doing – he thought the army would be much better off without them.’

  Strawn lifted a finger at a passing waiter. ‘Coffee!’ he said, then turning back to Jack, continued. ‘You must have some opinion on the battle. I won’t use your name, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

  Jack said, ‘I think the important thing is we won. Yes, there was a cost. There’s always a cost, but I hope you don’t expect me to criticize our senior staff, because – forgive me – I don’t trust you not to use my name.’

  ‘A source present on the battlefield. That’s how I refer to my informants.’

  ‘And I suppose you’re invisible to all these other officers in here?’

  ‘Ah, you mean they’ll put two-and-two together. Well, I always talk to a number of them. Not just one. Believe me, Captain, I can’t even remember your name. What is it? Wellington or something?’ He let out another one of those horrible laughs. ‘Please, let’s just go over the battle with an eye to detail.’

  Jack sighed and leaned back in his wicker chair.

  ‘I don’t think I’m capable of that this morning. I had a bad night and my sergeant is shot to pieces and lying on a hospital bed. I intend visiting him in a few minutes.’

  Strawn scribbled something on a pad, murmuring, ‘Interesting . . .’

  ‘What the deuce is interesting about that?’ asked Jack.

  Strawn looked up, a frown on his broad brow. ‘Why, an officer with the rank of captain bothering to visit an NCO in hospital.’

  Jack realized this was probably unusual. ‘You don’t seem to understand. My unit is very small. Though I’m in the 88th, the Connaught Rangers, I haven’t served with my regiment in years. I’m on special duties and my command is tiny – one soldier, one corporal, one sergeant. You get quite close when there’s just four of you out in the bush, dependent on each other for survival.’

  ‘Some officers wouldn’t.’

  ‘Well, I’m not some officers. The life of my sergeant is important to me.’

  ‘You get on well together, then?’

  ‘Not particularly. Like I say, we depend on each other. It would take me months, perhaps years, to train another sergeant to the standard of this one.’

  Strawn’s steaming coffee arrived and he nodded his thanks to the Maori waiter. ‘What is it exactly that you do, Captain? You and your unit?’

  ‘We – we’re map-makers.’

  ‘Ah – I remember now. The same sergeant of yours was lost in the bush the last time we spoke. You seemed very concerned about him then, too. Obviously, he was eventually found, but now still giving you cause for grief. He seems like a son to you . . .’

  Jack found the thought revolting, but did not say so.

  ‘So,’ continued Strawn, ‘map-making? Important stuff, map-making. My grandfather knew William Lambton, the India map-maker. And also Colonel Everest.’

  ‘Heroes of my sergeant.’

  ‘But not of yours?’

  ‘My heroes are men of science.’

  ‘And you don’t consider map-making a science? No, I suppose not. It’s more of an art form, isn’t it? I do love the fact that when one starts to look into things like map-making a whole new language emerges. Words. I love words, don’t you? Perhaps not. Now, what are those lines called, that show the steepness of heights on relief maps? Not contours, but another word . . .’

  Jack realized he was being tested. Strawn was delving to see if he really was a map-maker. Perhaps the newspaperman had a whiff of Jack’s prime purpose in New Zealand: the setting up of intelligence networks.

  ‘You mean hachures?’

  Strawn smiled. ‘Ah, yes – that’s the word, hachures. The thicker they’re drawn, the steeper the slope, eh?’

  ‘Would you like to join the team?’

  Strawn shrieked with laughter, causing a major buried in a newspaper to look up and mutter, ‘I say there, keep a lid on it, fellah.’

  Strawn snorted in the direction of the major, and then turned back to Jack. ‘Well, sir. What about this battle? The Gate Pa. A milestone in the Maori wars? I understand many officers were killed in the assault. General Cameron is blaming Governor Grey for that. Apparently before the battle Grey ordered the Tauranga commanding officer not to move from his redoubt, which allowed the Maori to build that formidable pa and hold it against a vastly superior force.’

  Jack now realized that blame was being apportioned. He really wanted nothing to do with the politics of war. However, he knew he would have to give an opinion or Strawn, like all crafty reporters, would make something up. ‘It was certainly a key battle. Men fought bravely on both sides. I could not say whether the building of the pa made any real difference – you’d have to ask an engineer for an opinion on that. There was chivalry from the Maori. I saw one Maori woman face rifle fire in order to get water for a wounded British officer. There were other such gestures. It’s true that at one point our men panicked, but things like that happen in war. In the heat of the battle, with all the smoke and noise, and the screams of the dying, one becomes disorientated. It’s easy to become confused in those winding trenches the Maori dig. It’s like trying to find one’s way through a maze.’ He paused. ‘Let me give you some advice, if I may. Try not to apportion blame for any perceived mistakes. Leave that to history. We – you and I, and the rest of New Zealand – are too much on top of things at the moment. Let a bit of time pass in order to reflect.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ replied Strawn, scribbling. ‘Thanks, Captain.’ Strawn rose to leave. ‘Hope that sergeant of yours recovers without too many problems. Oh, and, by the by, that land dealer of which we spoke last time I saw you – Wynter? Abraham Wynter. He just led a successful engagement in the south, against a pocket of rebels. Wiped out a whole lot of them. There’s talk of a medal.’

  Jack was surprised. Abe Wynter had said nothing when handing Jack the deeds to his land. And the Wynters were not renowned for their modesty.

  ‘Thanks for that information.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Jack put Abe Wynter out of his mind. He had other matters far more important than concerning himself about medal winners. He left the mess and made his way to the military hospital. Nearing it, he could smell those smells which turned his stomach. Jack, like many people, hated hospitals. They were supposed to be places where men recovered from illnesses and wounds, but more often they were halls of pain. The surgeons did their best, of course, but they were considered butchers by the men, since most of their work consisted of hacking off limbs. Some surgeons used chemicals to render a man unconscious before cutting, but others considered this unethical and would only amputate while a patient’s eyes were open and comprehending. One or two military surgeons were often more concerned with whether soldiers were malingerers or not, even as they were chopping through gristle and bone.

  There was the smell of urine and faeces mixed with blood as Jack walked along a narrow passageway to the long room where the wounded from the Gate Pa had been taken. Indeed, this was one good reason to hate hospitals, if there were no others. At first he could not recognize his NCO amongst the lines of patients, since he was looking for that signature shock of wild hair. Then he remembered; King had been struck on the head and would no doubt be wearing a white turban of bandages. Indeed, it was so, though the turban was soiled. When he finally saw him, in a row of wounded and injured soldiers, Jack thought he was dead. King had his eyes closed and his mouth open. But on a quick enquiry with a nurse, Jack discovered that King was simply asleep. His mouth was open because he needed to breathe, his nose having become clogged with dried blood which the doctor saw no
necessity to remove at this time. Jack went to his sergeant’s bedside and it was almost as if King knew he was being observed; his eyes opened very slowly.

  ‘Sir?’ he croaked.

  ‘I’m sorry, King. Does it hurt you to talk?’

  ‘No – doesn’t hurt. Just feels strange. Surgeon said my air pipe was holed, but it’s closed up now, I think.’

  ‘Ah. Good.’

  Jack had no idea how to converse now that he was here. He had always had trouble making small talk and he considered hospital visits the worst in the world for this kind of thing. Even if it were his own brother in that cot, he would have had trouble thinking of something to say.

  ‘You did well – in the battle.’

  King shook his head, grimly.

  ‘No, sir. I didn’t kill any Maori.’

  ‘Well, that’s not always a good measure of how one has done, to count bodies. Sometimes it’s the saving of lives which brings credit to a man.’

  ‘Didn’t save anyone, either.’

  This was hard work. Fine, Jack thought, if he does not want praise then I will give him none. Let him stew in the belief that his wound has been for nothing. This was what he disliked about Sergeant King, the man always ran counter to what Jack required. Would it have hurt King to accept the praise gratefully and thank the man who offered it? A little bit of politeness and a few manners went a long way. But, no, King had to reject any comforting talk. The sergeant was as blunt as a Maori club. He met everything head on with the absolute truth, when truth was not necessarily what was required. Sometimes what was needed was a few white lies, just to ease the situation and make people feel better. Jack’s feelings hardened and he met truth with truth.

  ‘Well, then, you got your wounds for nothing. How about the head? Any pain there?’

  ‘No – no pain. Just a buzzing in the ears.’

  King tapped the side of the turban.

  Jack was slightly annoyed. He still suffered headaches occasionally from the blow he had received from Potaka’s club. Perhaps this sergeant’s skull was that much thicker than his own? For a few moments, in his irritation, he allowed himself to be mollified by the idea that this was the difference between an aristocrat’s skull and the skull of a peasant. It only lasted seconds, before he became ashamed of such thoughts. As a man who believed in science, he knew that this was a myth, just as royal or noble blood was a myth. The queen’s blood was no different from the blood of a scullery maid. A sergeant’s skull was no thicker than that of a baronet.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ he told King. ‘Mine still hurts.’

  ‘More brains,’ croaked the sergeant, trying to smile. ‘More brains to damage.’

  ‘That’s unlikely. I’m no academic. You’re the man with the mind, Sergeant, the map-maker. I’m just a soldier.’

  ‘Modesty, sir, you think around corners – I can’t do that.’

  ‘Well, let’s not argue about it,’ Jack replied, pleased by this praise. He looked around the ward at the various cots bearing inert soldiers. There were some hideous wounds. Skull clefts open, limbs missing, horrible holes in various places. Men looked back at him with vacant eyes, those who were not totally blind. Several pairs were Maori eyes. One or two were groaning quietly. Some, he did not know how many, were no doubt dying. A hospital was of course a place where a man could be nursed back to health, but it was also a place in which a man’s spirit could dive straight down to hell. A soldier could come in here with a very treatable wound, but spend time looking at what might possibly happen to him in the future. It was enough to depress the most stalwart of souls. A mildly eccentric fellow thrown into Bedlam might end up completely mad in the company of the insane. A youth with a wounded hand, left amongst the legless, armless and blind, was not likely to imagine he had lost his sight or limbs, but he was likely to witness such suffering that he fell into a state of dejection from which he might not recover.

  ‘Are you all right here, King? I mean, I can get you moved.’

  ‘I’m fine, sir. To be honest, don’t feel like being moved at the minute. There’s no one with diseases here, if that’s what you’re thinking. Everyone’s a war casualty. No body fever. It’s a fact you can’t catch another man’s bullet wound.’

  Jack had not been thinking that. But King was right. If they started mixing the sick with the wounded, then that was the time to get his man out of there.

  ‘All right. I’m going now. If you want anything, send for me.’

  King managed a creaking laugh. ‘Send for the captain? Me, a sergeant? That’s likely, sir.’

  ‘I mean it. Gwilliams will be in, no doubt. Send him if you have need of me.’

  King’s eyes fixed on his, full of seriousness.

  ‘You’re a good man, sir. Too good, in that way. You need to look to your old ways a bit more, now you’re an officer.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true. Colonel Lovelace would do the same. It’s because we’re such a small unit.’

  ‘Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, Colonel Lovelace might or might not come. If he did it would only be to listen, in case I had anything of import to tell him – not because he felt the slightest pity.’

  Jack was inclined to agree with his sergeant, but he did not admit as much. He stayed with King for a short while longer, then felt he was able to go on his way. Once outside the hospital he breathed a little more freely, having been strongly affected by the misery within. It was not so very long ago that he had lain in such a bed with a crushed hand and other wounds and had thought he would never again feel normal.

  The evening air on the way back to the billets revived his spirits somewhat. He could smell the sea, which always had an invigorating effect upon him, and also herbs and blooms amongst the greenery of the parklands close by. New Zealand had that refreshing element to it. There was a cleanness, a clearness, about this country which was what attracted him to owning a farm on its landscape.

  A farm! He remembered the deeds in his pocket. Stepping into the light of a window, he took the papers out of his pocket and peered at them. His eyes travelled down the lines until he reached the name of the man who had previously owned the land. A shock went through him. He stared at the name disbelievingly. Then he recalled what he had been told about Abraham Wynter’s recent military activities. A second, much greater, shock went through him, coupled with a terrible fear.

  ‘Oh God, no!’ he moaned. ‘It can’t be. It must not be. Oh God, what has the man done . . .?’

  Eighteen

  Naturally, considering the history between Abe and himself, Striker did not trust his old shipmate not to attempt to kill him any more than he would trust a rafter rat not to eat his cheese. The secret between the two of them was so ghastly they could hardly bare to look one another in the face. For his part, Striker was happy not to see Abe, even though this horrific bond between them had drawn him to New Zealand once he had lost his gold. Abe, however, was always coming round to ‘see how his old shipmate was doing’ and Striker could see in the man’s eyes that he was always disappointed to find Striker in good health. The pair of them kept up this false behaviour, this pretence, of being great friends. Certainly Abe’s Maoris thought they were, for the locals nodded and smiled when the two men slapped each other on the back and exchanged hearty greetings.

  Yes, and the gold. Striker could not imagine how Abe had managed to keep his, and even turn it into a vast fortune. For his part he had felt a sense of relief once it was gone. It felt filthy. And when Striker had developed consumption, the ex-sailor felt it was fitting. He knew he deserved punishment and the Lord had decided to give it to him in spades. Striker took his just deserts like a man, accepted them for what they were, and tried to get on with his life.

  But the sense of guilt was greater than the sense of relief he first experienced on ridding himself of his fortune. It returned to swamp him again. So now here he was, confronting his sins every time he saw his erstwhile companion. Yet Abe seemed to go from strength to strength;
nothing bothering him except the living presence of an old shipmate. Striker had heard that recently Abe had been out with that rapid firing gun of his and earned himself a medal or two. Maybe that was what Abe was doing. Serving the pakeha cause in order to try to wipe clean the slate? It could not happen. There was no slate. It was a rock face engraved with their crimes and it could never be erased, not in this life.

  ‘We go out now?’

  The Maori named Tarawa, whom he and Abe called Kipper (because of his fondness for smoked fish), stood in the doorway of his hut.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  Striker lifted himself gently from his bed, only to enter a fit of coughing that ended in quite violent spasms, causing his pale narrow chest to bend backwards and forwards like a sheet flapping slowly in the wind. The Maori viewed this display with a blank expression, waiting patiently for it to pass. Then, once Striker was able, he went forward and assisted the pakeha to his feet. He kept his face averted, not wanting Striker’s stinking breath in his nose or mouth, fearful that the disease could be passed on that way.

  Striker gradually recovered his breath and, along with it, his composure. He pulled a nankeen shirt on over his head, then climbed laboriously into his pants and sandals. Tarawa brought him some fruit and bread for his breakfast, and coffee, which he sorely needed. Finally he spoke to the Maori again.

  ‘What’s the day like, Kipper?’

  ‘The wind is light.’

  ‘Enough to take us out?’

  ‘Yes, Striker. Enough to take us out.’

  ‘Good. Well, let’s get about it then.’

  They left Striker’s hut and walked down the beach to a small sailing craft drawn up on the sands. Tarawa himself dragged the vessel down to the water’s edge, since such heavy work was beyond Striker’s strength. Then the pair of them pushed it out into the surf and jumped on board as it crested a wave. Striker tumbled into the bottom, but laughingly got to his feet and found a perch.

  ‘Bugger! I used to get into these things like a fairy settlin’ on a flower bud,’ he said, wheezing. ‘Don’t ever get this bloody disease, Kipper. It takes every ounce of power out of you. Not that any on us gets it on purpose. Some is lucky, some ain’t. I was just born unlucky.’ He paused, before adding, ‘Now that there Captain Wynter, he’s one of the lucky ones, give or take a setback or two. Whatever he does he comes out smellin’ of honey.’