by Peter Watt
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Andrew suddenly stand and wield his rifle over his head like a club. A Maori warrior had leapt over a fallen log to bring his axe down in a wide swing at Andrew’s head. It caught on the stock of the rifle, crashing it down to the earth, leaving Andrew helpless against another attempt with the axe.
Lachlan lunged forward and with the tip of his bayonet caught the warrior in the thigh. The warrior stumbled back, as Andrew scrambled on his hands and knees for his rifle. Although wounded, the warrior roared his defiance and this time came at Lachlan. The world had come down to a tiny place on the earth for Lachlan. This was not the arena of the bare-knuckle boxer who was most likely to walk away from a fight but a case of being up against a man who had every intention of killing him. All around in the forest, similar scenes were being played out. Men cursed and cried for their mothers as they fought to stay alive.
Lachlan was only concerned with his own plight, as already Andrew was engaged in battle with a Maori armed with a greenstone war club. The half-naked warrior Lachlan was facing was wearing only a small grass skirt but the mass of ornate tattoos over his body made him a fearsome spectacle. He was shouting words in his own language and his rage was obvious. Lachlan realised that even if he had fought this man in the boxing arena he might have come off second best.
The warrior did not launch into an attack immediately. He was sizing Lachlan up, the axe steady in a two-handed grip held to the right of his shoulder above his head. Lachlan stood with one foot slightly forward to balance himself in the classic stance of the bayonet thrust, his rifle fully extended from his body to keep the warrior at bay.
The Maori made a half lunge forward but Lachlan did not fall for the trick. Instead he allowed the huge man to come forward but the warrior was not fooled by Lachlan’s attempt to lure him onto the point of the bayonet and flashed a savage, disconcerting grin at the young Scot.
‘Die Pakeha!’ the Maori roared as he swung the axe in a wide arc, inches from Lachlan’s face. Only Lachlan’s years of fist fighting had prepared him for this moment. The heavy brass butt plate slammed into the Maori warrior’s head and he dropped senseless to the forest floor. Lachlan recovered his stance as the Maori attempted to rise from the ground. Without thinking, Lachlan lunged forward to drive the bayonet square between the warrior’s shoulderblades.
The warrior staggered to his feet and turned to the man who had beaten him. For a moment the two men’s eyes locked and then a stream of blood erupted from the warrior’s silent scream.
Now, all Lachlan had to do was retrieve his rifle, but having ripped right through to his chest the bayonet was stuck firmly. Lachlan unlocked the bayonet boss. What had taken seconds felt like hours but all around him men were still fighting for their lives.
Andrew lay face down, blood welling from the terrible gash to his head. The warrior who had felled him now came at Lachlan, swinging the blood-stained war club and yelling his ancient war cries.
Lachlan gripped his rifle by the barrel and roared his own defiance. Club struck rifle butt with such force that the weapons were plucked from the men’s grips and they stood face to face unarmed.
Lachlan grasped his new opponent in a head lock as the man clawed for his eyes. He sank his teeth into the Maori’s neck and was rewarded with the taste of blood.
A blow to the side of Lachlan’s head shook him loose and the warrior staggered away, screaming and holding the bleeding wound to his neck.
Lachlan searched around him and found the warrior’s club. He scooped it up and ran at the wounded man, who in the last split second attempted to shield himself from the blow. The club came down with a sickening crunch of bone.
‘To me, boys,’ Lachlan heard through the din of battle. He glanced down and knelt to examine his friend. Andrew’s eyelids were flickering, so Lachlan hoisted him over his shoulder. He bent down and retrieved Andrew’s rifled musket and staggered to a group of soldiers he could see regrouping a short distance away in the trees. They were delivering aimed fire into any Maori appearing in the openings between the trees.
Lieutenant Lusk stood at the centre of his men, calmly issuing orders. One group was to provide covering fire while another moved back in the direction of the fortified church at Mauku.
‘Have you seen Mr Perceval?’ Lusk asked as Lachlan placed Andrew gently on the ground.
‘No sir,’ Lachlan answered, quickly preparing his rifle for action.
‘Damned man,’ Lusk swore and turned his attention to the fight. ‘Corporal, prepare your men to fall back.’
Lachlan bent down to scoop up Andrew once again. Bullets chopped away at the foliage as he ran in a shuffling jog until he reached the point where the corporal had ordered his section to stop and return fire.
Once during the retreat, Lachlan was suddenly confronted by a warrior who stepped from behind a tree with a musket and fired wildly. The shot missed. Lachlan brought his rifle up to his waist and fired an equally wild shot, causing the warrior to step behind the tree for cover.
Lachlan kept moving forward until he reached the next designated position. He was nearing the end of his physical reserves. He knelt by Andrew, panting for breath through cracked lips. Would it ever end?
‘The church,’ he heard someone call and when Lachlan raised his head he could see the welcome sight of the fortified walls.
Sensing that they had run out of time, the Maori warriors suddenly broke off the fight and withdrew with their wounded. A couple of militia men came forward to carry Andrew’s unconscious body to shelter.
‘You put up one hell of a fight.’ Lachlan immediately recognised Michael Duffy’s cheery voice. ‘I am sure your feat will impress the Von.’
‘Michael,’ Lachlan gasped, struggling to his feet. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
‘I was sent by the Von to carry a message to our brother Rangers at Mauku. We could hear the gunfire and from my estimates I didn’t expect to see any of you get here alive.’
‘It was a bloody close-run thing,’ Lachlan said, wiping his brow with the end of his sleeve.
‘That fellow you brought in a friend of yours?’ Michael asked gently.
‘A good friend,’ Lachlan replied bleakly. ‘I hope he lives. He took a pretty savage blow to the head.’
‘Well, I have to return to my company,’ Michael said, thrusting out his hand. ‘Take care.’
‘You, too. Put in a good word for me,’ he added. ‘I want out of the militia.’
‘If you join us the pay and conditions may be better but I can promise you long days of sitting out in the bush and getting your backside wet,’ Michael grinned. ‘See you soon.’
Michael left Lachlan to himself on the grassy slope just outside the church. Instinctively, he went to check his firearm and realised that his hands were shaking uncontrollably. In his head he could still hear the screams and shouts of dying men. He sat down and placed his head between his legs. He wanted to go to sleep and not wake up for a long time. And when he awoke, he would be back on the track with Duncan by his side at a camp site on the banks of a gently flowing river. But he knew this would not happen. He was in a foreign country, fighting a fierce race of people who refused to give up their land. For a moment Lachlan understood the sympathy expressed by an older, battle-seasoned Scot. ‘It’s a bit like when the Brits cleared us from our land in the Highland clearances after Culloden,’ he had said. ‘Now we are doing it to the poor, wretched native people of this land in the name of the bloody British Empire!
That late afternoon two companies of the Waikato militia arrived from Drury, but too late to have any impact on the battle. The staff officers in Drury had not accepted the dire circumstances the defenders of the church had found themselves in.
Early next morning a reconnaissance party from the church defenders found the bodies of their slain comrades stripped of their uniforms and equipment. The Maori warriors had laid eight bodies out in a row and a white haversack had been placed on a stick t
o mark their location. All the bodies displayed tomahawk wounds. Amongst the dead was Lieutenant John Perceval of the 1st Waikato Regiment.
TWELVE
Only the clink of tea cups against saucers and the ticking of a grandfather clock in the hotel’s foyer disturbed the tranquillity. Outside in the spring warmth there were no sounds of cartwheels along the paved street. Nor the clatter of a trolley car being hauled by draught horses – or the shouts of street hawkers plying their trade.
John MacDonald sat in a comfortable leather chair with his cup of tea before him. It had become his ritual to peruse as many papers as possible for items that might assist him in his decisions for investment.
Having learnt about Lachlan’s enlistment in the army and the identity of his commanding officer, John had been trying to decide the best way of dealing with the situation. Part of him wanted to jump on board the first ship and head over to New Zealand, but he realised that this might not be the most rational course of action to take. He’d been spending some time researching the country and its war and had added news of that country to his reading.
He picked up a copy of the Daily Southern Cross and read a report by the war correspondent William Morgan. The paper was dated Tuesday, 27 October, 1863.
The bodies of Lieut. Thomas Alabone Norman, Lieut. John Spencer Perceval, Corporal M. Power and Privates Obein, McIlleray, W. Williamson and W. Beswick – the officers and men who were killed in the affair at Mauku – were yesterday committed to the grave in the Episcopalian burial-ground. Having fallen in the same engagement, they were all interned in one common tomb. There were a large number of persons, consisting of Waikato Volunteers, Regulars and Marines in attendance, paying a last tribute of respect to these brave men. There must have been nearly five hundred present. The funeral was to have taken place at two o’clock, but it was nearly three before all the necessary arrangements were completed. Just before that hour, the rain – which had long been threatening – began to descend and it ceased not the whole of the time occupied by the interment. At three o’clock the firing party, fifty in number, belonging to various companies, were ordered to reverse arms and beat time and then the order was given to move on. The firing party, in command of Lieut. Minnington, headed the procession. The fifes and drums of the Royal Irish followed, playing the Dead March. The Rev. Mr Morgan walked in front of the corpses, each of which was carried by Volunteers. Officers of different Waikato companies acted as pall-bearers. In the rear came the Volunteer companies, the Regulars, and the Marines, each accompanied by their officers. There was also, notwithstanding the weather, a good many civilians present to witness the affecting sight of so many comparatively young men carried to their final resting place . . .
John put down the paper, not bothering to finish the article. It was impossible not to think about his long-lost brother. He did not know it but Lachlan had stood in the pouring rain at the funeral parade, shivering as the water soaked through to the wounds on his back.
John picked up another paper and flipped through the pages advertising pills to prevent hysteria in women, soap to make you smell fresh and many varieties of Indian and Chinese teas. There was a further article on the New Zealand campaign, about the militia volunteers and how they were in capable hands with such British officers as Captain Charles Lightfoot to lead them.
John threw down the paper in disgust. He refused to sit by idly while Lachlan risked life and limb in battle under his commanding officer who was the murdering cur that had killed their brother and father. If Lightfoot were to realise Lachlan’s identity, then his brother would be in mortal danger. John decided that he must travel to New Zealand to see if he could do anything to bring Lightfoot to justice before he killed his only remaining brother.
How could he inform Nicholas of his decision to sail for New Zealand? Nicholas would understand. He was very wise in the ways of the world and John trusted his opinions.
There were times when the truth was best sought and this was one such time. John placed the newspaper on the table beside his cup of tea now grown cold. He would go to his room and compose a letter to Melbourne.
Amanda Lightfoot travelled to Drury to stay with her brother in a little cottage he had been able to acquire within the town limits. He had protested her desire to join him. However, Amanda had defied her brother, stating that she was growing bored in Auckland living amongst strangers. She was not about to tell her brother her real reason.
The only person Charles Lightfoot truly felt close to was his sister and eventually he relented. At least he would be able to better keep an eye on her, he justified to himself, even if Drury was on the front line of the war. There were other advantages too to having his beautiful young sister in close proximity. Amanda was an excellent hostess and had a way of charming all she came in contact with. It could not do his military career any harm to have her entertaining visiting senior staff officers and their wives.
Charles stood by the fireplace of their sitting room with a sherry glass in one hand and a cigar in the other as Amanda sat embroidering the small tapestry on her lap with pictures of flowers and butterflies.
‘That young Scotsman of yours, Private MacDonald, certainly redeemed himself in that skirmish at Titi Hill,’ Lightfoot said, watching his sister’s face carefully, puffing his cigar and taking a swig of the imported sherry.
‘Who?’ Amanda asked, distracted from the delicate needlework.
‘Lachlan MacDonald, the boxer you championed in Sydney,’ Lightfoot reiterated. ‘You know, he is in my company.’
‘Oh, how is he?’ she asked, attempting to sound disinterested.
‘Got himself into a spot of bother and had to be lashed for disgracing the Queen’s uniform,’ Lightfoot replied. ‘But I was informed that at Titi Hill he personally killed two of the natives with his bare hands and carried out a comrade to safety, fighting all the way. Under other circumstances, he might have been recommended for the Victoria Cross except that has been negated by his previous disgraceful behaviour.’
Amanda had tried to put Lachlan from her mind but this did not work. She’d had many sleepless nights since Lachlan’s visit to Auckland but the memory of his face and gentle ways persisted. However, she was a practical young woman and knew that he was too young and lacking the proper means to secure her love. Nonetheless, the thought that he might be killed was beyond her comprehension – as was learning of his punishment.
‘Why was he lashed?’ Amanda asked, hoping that her brother had not detected the tightness in her voice.
‘He assaulted one of my sergeants,’ Lightfoot replied lightly. ‘Mr Grimes sentenced him to fifty lashes, which I heard he took like a man. MacDonald was lucky not to be court-martialled and imprisoned.’
Amanda closed her eyes, attempting to put the vision of the cruel punishment from her mind. Lachlan was scarcely twenty years of age and this would mark him for the rest of his life.
‘Is Private MacDonald posted to Drury?’ she asked.
Lightfoot turned from the glowing flames of the hearth. ‘Why would you want to know that?’ he asked intently. ‘He is not of any special interest to you, is he?’
‘No,’ Amanda retorted. ‘It was nothing more than curiosity.’
‘Anyway,’ Lightfoot continued, ‘he will not be in the militia for much longer. I have approved his request to be transferred to Von Tempsky’s Ranger Company, effective as from the day after tomorrow. I granted him compassionate leave to remain so that he can see if his comrade, Private Hume, lives or dies. He was the man that MacDonald rescued in the fighting.’
Lightfoot felt smug in his decision. When he had agreed to his sister’s request to join him in Drury he knew the best thing he could do was have MacDonald transferred out of his company to another unit posted well away from Drury.
Amanda sat very still, reflecting on what her brother had told her. Many thoughts raced through her mind but one above all persisted. She knew that she must see Lachlan before he left, although she did not
know what she might say to him after their brief conversation in Auckland.
John opened the envelope and read the telegram that had been delivered on a silver platter to his room by one of the smartly dressed young boys on the hotel staff. It was from Nicholas in Melbourne, informing John that he had received his letter and was not to leave for New Zealand without him.
Walking down the stairs to the hotel foyer, John smiled at each person that he met. It was not the answer that he had expected to his letter, but one that pleased him very much.
Amanda found Lachlan on a wood-chopping detail. She had been directed to where he was by the corporal of the guard and had walked through the camp with its rows of white conical tents, past men drilling in the early morning sunshine on muddy fields and the camp kitchens steaming the day’s stew in big pots over open fires. Her fresh beauty turned many a soldier’s head.
Eventually she found the field. At the edge of a stand of tall trees a group of men stripped to the waist were chopping felled logs into usable sizes for the camp fires. Lachlan was not aware of her approach until one of his comrades ceased chopping to make a flattering but crude comment.
Amanda could see the wounds crisscrossing Lachlan’s back. She knew that she had gasped at the sight, but repressed an urge to run to him and smother him with her sympathy. As the sister of a regular army officer, she knew to control her emotions.
Lachlan ceased wielding the axe and turned to face Amanda. Sweat ran down his chest although the morning was relatively cool.
‘Hello, Lachlan,’ Amanda said uncertainly, seeing both surprise and an enigmatic expression on Lachlan’s face in her presence.
‘Miss Lightfoot, what are you doing here?’
Amanda looked around at the half dozen men staring at her. Some knew that she was the sister of their commander and were respectful. Even so, Amanda felt awkward in their presence. ‘Would it be possible to speak with you alone?’ she asked quietly.
