The Disenchanted Soldier

by Vicky Adin

  From this vantage point he could see a group of twenty or more natives digging a trench, their skin already glistening with sweat in the early morning sunlight. To his right he saw another group, mostly women, sitting on the ground tying what looked like bundles of sticks and ferns together. A chief seemed to be encouraging his warriors to work harder – or quicker, it was hard to tell.

  Daniel watched for a while before returning to camp with yet another report.

  “The place they’ve chosen, sir, is on the crown of some rising ground about 400 yards from the native church and 250 yards from the southern crest of the ridge, sir.” He turned the rim of his hat round and round through his hands. “Looks to me like there’s an inside ditch, sir, then a broad parapet and an external trench. I estimate the trench to be around eighty foot long by forty foot wide. Couldn’t see what else was inside. The main parapet looked about six foot thick, an’ I reckon the ditch is roughly six to eight foot deep. They’re piling earth and armfuls of newly pulled fern in layers as reinforcements. A partially completed post and three-rail fence surrounds the whole village, sir.” Daniel was sweating at the effort of remembering everything he’d seen, hoping he wouldn’t get sent back to see more.

  “Thank you, soldier,” said Captain Blewitt. “Dismissed.”

  Daniel backed out of the tent, replacing his cap. Feeling relieved, he went in search of food.

  On the morning of Wednesday, 30th March 1864, the attacking force started to move. Three columns were despatched with the object of surprising and surrounding the village. At midnight, No. 1 Column marched out with orders to head west, flank the swamp, ford the river and take a track along its south side to bring the column well to the rear of the pa. The main body, No. 2 Column, consisted of around 600 men. Escorted by one of the half-caste guides, the Column started out shortly after daylight pulling two six-pounder Armstrong guns, with orders to attack the centre. Daniel was part of No. 3 Column, a smaller force made up of detachments of the 65th and the 3rd Waikato Militia under Captain Blewitt’s command. Their orders were to cross the river and advance through the bush and swamp to the north side.

  In the early morning light, little of the defences Daniel had described could be seen as they approached.

  “Don’t look much,” muttered Daniel’s companion.

  Daniel shrugged.

  The natives could be heard holding morning prayers in the quiet, still air before the bugle sounded. Blood pounded through Daniel’s veins in response.

  “Charge!” came the command.

  With bayonets fixed, Daniel, with the rest of the 3rd Column troops, lunged at the weak-looking position. Innocuous as it appeared, masked by flax bushes, high ferns and peach trees, the fence proved to be impenetrable. The line advanced in skirmishing order from all sides. The attackers were within fifty yards when they heard a voice shouting.

  “Puhia!”

  Fire!

  “Rewi!” spat one of the veterans running close to Daniel, a glob of phlegm barely missing Daniel’s boots.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Their chief. Clever bugger by all accounts. Tough too.”

  A line of flashes and smoke ran along the front of the works and back again as hundreds of guns thundered. The tops of the flax bushes and fern were mown off in swathes.

  “Attack, attack!” ordered a sergeant in the front line. “Quick, while you can. Their powder charge is too heavy. They can’t get us.”

  Despite their efforts, the soldiers could not break through the Maori defences.

  Although their losses were light, the ‘retire’ bugle call sounded. Daniel and the assaulting column fell back to re-form and were reinforced by another company. Before they could draw breath a second bayonet charge was ordered, but they were no more successful than the first. Reserving their fire, the natives inside the pa waited until the leading files were close to the fence; then again the voice sounded.

  “Puhia, e waho! Puhia, e roto!” Fire, the outer line! Fire, the inner line!

  Fresh volleys swept the bank. Their powder charge was better this time, their aim lower. Several men near Daniel were killed. Many more were wounded. Daniel was shocked to discover men could die so violently, yet so silently, without a sound, as they fell to the ground.

  “Help me,” called one man as a retreating Daniel tripped over him where he lay.

  Daniel saw the man’s leg was shattered, blood seeped from a deep chest wound. Poor bugger. He’ll die from loss of blood before anyone can get to him. He knelt beside the man, released his water bottle from his belt and undid the cap. “Take a sip of this, man.”

  As he raised him up the man cried out in pain, but whispered, “Thanks.”

  Daniel dripped water into his mouth. The soldier arched his back in convulsion before his head slumped to his chest. This was the first time Daniel had been so close to death. He’d watched it from a distance, but to have a man die in his arms was another emotion altogether – one he needed to digest. He didn’t even know the man’s name.

  Before he could think further, the sound of horses’ hooves at full gallop made Daniel lay the man down.

  Out of the smoke a captain on horseback sped by, dismounted and rallied the men. “With me!” he shouted, waving his pistol in the air.

  Fifty or so men charged forward from behind him. Daniel ran at a crouch to catch up, but despite the captain’s gallant efforts, heavy fire from the trenches at point-blank range soon cut him and half a dozen other men down. Daniel and the others retreated.

  In the furore, another regiment had advanced to within a few yards of the defenders, who had retired behind the parapet. A few of the soldiers climbed into the outer ditch, close enough to get a glimpse of the dense row of Maori warriors lining the earth wall. Many long-handled tomahawks gleamed in readiness for the expected combat at close quarters. The natives yelled defiance and derision as each storming party fell back. Some of them called out in English, “Come on, Jack, come on!”

  Frustration and anger boiled over.

  “We have to get these bastards!” someone screamed. “Come on.”

  “Hold!” yelled a sergeant, halting the attack.

  At the sound of cannon fire, heads turned. Daniel scanned the ridge on the far side of the gully and could see where Brigadier Carey, his major, the engineer and two aides sat on their horses. Further along the ridge he spotted where the cannon had been set, some 350 yards from the redoubt. Shells bombarded the diggings but nothing penetrated the packing of fern, and their defences stood.

  Daniel and his mates were getting discouraged. The battle was proving difficult to win, worse than at Rangiaowhia. No one was more surprised than he when orders came for them to dig a sap.

  Before long the sappers, stripped to the waist and working in teams of three across, set about the digging. Daniel, along with other soldiers, received orders to provide cover for the sappers. They were forced to lie in simple shallow hollows, scraped with bayonet or bowie knife, that offered little protection from the random volleys from the natives.

  The earth from the trench piled up on either side as they dug deeper and further, turning and twisting as they went. The work was hard, and the sappers had to stop and wipe their brows with their forearms or take a swig of water. Day turned to night before the trench was deep enough and far enough advanced to use.

  “So much for boredom,” Daniel shouted to his mate beside him. The constant noise was numbing. “I’d much rather be back at camp feeling bored than in this lot.”

  “Yeah,” yelled his mate. “You can hardly think with this bloody noise all the time.”

  “It should stop soon.” At least, Daniel hoped it would. “It usually does at nightfall.”

  “We’ll be lucky.”

  As he predicted, quiet it was not. Daniel heard bullets whistling over their heads, cutting off the fern or dropping in their midst, until the early hours of the morning. The sappers worked on through the night. Cramped, dirty, hungry and tired, the men hel
d their positions, and waited.

  The second morning of the battle dawned with a thick fog that enveloped the pa and concealed the combatants from each other. As the morning grew warmer, the trench reached the post and rail fence. They were now within a few yards of the north-west outwork. Close enough for grenades to be thrown over the parapet.

  By noon, General Cameron and his staff, escorted by the Colonial Defence Force Cavalry, had arrived to take command. There were now 1,800 British and Colonial troops surrounding the pa. Surely they could not hold out against such a force? One of the six-pounder Armstrong guns was taken into the sap near the head. They opened fire on the outwork until they breached its defences, yet the Maori still returned their fire. Around him, Daniel could hear grudging admiration for the bunch of natives who were both stubborn and courageous.

  The first of the hand grenades thrown into the pa from the saphead had long fuses. Some daring fellows snatched out the burning wiki, pouring the powder out for their own cartridges. Others they threw back into the sap before they had time to explode, to detonate among the men who had hurled them. As the day wore on, Daniel found himself deeper in the trench. Under the storm of shells, hand grenades and rifle bullets, the garrison now suffered many casualties. Dead and wounded lay in every trench, the smell of death and blood was overpowering. Still the beleaguered, desperate Maori held their ground.

  Above the sounds of battle, the buglers sounded the cease-fire. The din was stilled.

  General Cameron with two interpreters carrying a white flag pushed past the soldiers to get to the front. The Maori crowded the walls to hear what they had to say. From Daniel’s position he could see through a gap in the gabions made for a field piece. The outwork in front of him was a sort of double rifle pit, with the pa behind it. The Maori stood in rows, the nearest only a few yards away, protected by the earth wall. Dust-stained faces, bloodshot eyes and shaggy heads looked back his way. The muzzles of guns rested on the edge of the ditch in front of them. One man held his musket aimed at General Cameron. Daniel heard the general shouting then pausing to allow the interpreters to repeat his words before speaking again.

  “Friends, listen! This is the word of the general. Great is his admiration of your bravery. Stop! Let the fighting cease; come out to us that your bodies may be saved.”

  The Maori talked amongst themselves for a few minutes. The answer came in a clear, firm tone. “Kaore e mau te rongo, ake, ake!” Peace shall never be made, never, never!

  General Cameron tried again. “That is all very well for you men, but it is not right that the women and children should die. Let them come out.”

  A voice asked, “How do you know we have women here?”

  “We heard the lamentations for the dead in the night.”

  A woman’s voice answered. “Ki te mate nga tane, me mate ano nga wahine me nga tamariki.” If the men die, the women and children must die also.

  Rewi Maniapoto said, “We fight on.”

  “So be it.”

  As General Cameron grimly turned away, the man at the centre fired. The bullet tipped the general’s right shoulder, cutting the revolver strap and tearing a hole in his tunic. Angry at the uncalled-for attack, someone threw a hand grenade, killing the man. The battle began again even hotter than before. Grenades were tossed back and forth from the saphead like tennis balls, with devastating results, killing and maiming attacker and enemy alike.

  The battle raged for the rest of the day and well into the second night. Daniel and his companion had no relief. The bugler got hit and their sidekick, Arthur, was killed right in front of them. Exhaustion made the rifles too heavy to lift, their eyes too tired to focus.

  “Where the hell are the officers?” yelled Daniel above the noise.

  “Dunno. Don’t matter much. Just keep shooting.”

  * * *

  In the early morning light of the third day, Daniel was part of the detachment that rushed the pa in time to see the Maori fleeing. Standing on the abandoned parapets, Daniel watched as soldiers fired into their retreating numbers. The women and children were huddled in the middle of the mass of warriors. The younger men in the lead, the older warriors ran at the rear, ready to protect their backs. Through the constant barrage the natives kept up a steady trot and were soon out of range.

  Later that night, around the campfires, stories of the battle were told. Everyone was keen to relate what they’d seen or heard and add more to the tales. Daniel didn’t know many of the voices clamouring above each other trying to be heard.

  “I was part of the regiment giving chase,” said Jack. “Some of our lot caught up with the warriors in the vanguard and fought them hand to hand. Tough ol’ buggers. Didn’t give in easily, but our bayonets put a stop to them.”

  “They poured down into the gully trying to get to the manuka swamp. It was total madness, I tell you. Lots of different regiments and brigades all mixed up trying not to shoot each other. But even though we had soldiers along the upper ridge firing down on them, and more foot soldiers on the other side of the swamp, we couldn’t halt them. The mounted men hurried round to cut them off but were too late. Most of them made it across the river. Once they’d forded it to the south side we was called off.”

  “I was bringing in some prisoners,” said Bert, “and one of them begged me for water ’cos he were so thirsty, he said. He reckoned that was why they’d retreated – they’d run out of water.”

  “Nah, don’t believe it. We beat ’em fair and square. Don’t tell us they gave up.”

  “It’s true. I was told the same thing. Many of them Maoris had become near mad with thirst and were starving. They had to get out of there.”

  “Let’s give credit where credit’s due,” said one veteran, trying to instil some balance. “Them Maoris fought well and hard.”

  “I agree. I helped pick up some of the wounded. Ghastly wounds some of them had, but they kept fighting until they couldn’t stand any longer. Gave themselves up to help the others get away. How they survived as long as they did, heaven only knows.”

  “I tell you what, though, those womenfolk of theirs were brave. Refusing to leave their men, an’ all. Hope I get me a woman that’ll stick by me like that one day,” said a young soldier.

  Nodding in agreement, the men conceded the natives had been brave and strong. Dying in battle was one thing, but dying of thirst was something else.

  “Those imperial troops are nasty pieces of work,” said one of the 65th. “I came upon one bayoneting a wounded woman. Made me sick, it did. No need to make war on women.”

  “I seen one of them Forest Rangers save a pale-skinned girl, who was bleeding heavily from her arm, from being bayoneted again.”

  “And I saw Von Tempsky’s scout, what’s ’is name?”

  “Southee.”

  “Yeah, him. He were saving an old man from their clutches. But them buggers were blood crazed, I tell you.”

  Embattled soldiers they might have been, each with a story to tell, but killing women and old men was something they couldn’t stomach.

  “I hear tell that Captain Mair come upon some regulars about to bayonet a wounded woman. She was kneeling, scraping away the dirt covering the body of a dead man; her tears streaked the dirt covering the fella’s face, so I was told. Mair tried to beat the men back with his carbine and knocked one into the ditch, but it made no difference – before he could turn to see to the woman some other bugger’d shot ’er.”

  Daniel had his own story to tell. “Last night, when I was finally relieved from the sap I was so tired – and my back was aching something awful – I crawled off a few feet. I sat resting against a tree, my rifle propped beside me, hardly taking note of what was going on,” he admitted, knowing he could get into trouble if the officers found out. “To my left, I could hear men talking in the trench, although everything was hidden by shadows,” he said, settling to his storytelling – as became his wont as the years went on. “I could still hear the odd rifle firing now and the
n, but nothing near me. The sounds softened as the night deepened. Just as the moon cleared the clouds on the east side of the pa I saw a shadow move. I crept around to the other side of the tree and strained me eyes and saw a woman,” he said. “She was carrying some calabashes over her shoulder and creeping through the fern, careful like, heading down the hill. There’s a spring at the bottom and I took it she was going to get water. Pretended I didn’t see her. I’m glad I did that now. She was doing no harm to us.” He sighed. “She never came back.”

  Chapter Seven

  Foxton, Manawatu

  1870–1872

  1870

  Daniel trudged his way up the newly opened Paekakariki Hill Road from Trentham, thinking about where life had taken him so far. There were many things he wished he’d never seen or done in the seven years or so since he’d arrived.

  Somehow he survived the battle of Orakau Pa without a scrape; others had not been so lucky. In the final reckoning, the British casualties amounted to seventeen killed and fifty-two wounded. On the other side, over half of the 300 Maori they had estimated were in the village were killed. And half of those who survived long enough to be taken prisoner also died.

  The next two years as orderly to Colonel Lyon at Cambridge had for the most part been quiet, so why he’d signed up for the Armed Constabulary once he’d got his discharge, he couldn’t explain, even to himself. He’d made a silly decision, one that put him back in the middle of the battle again, chasing Te Kooti up the Ureweras and into battle in the Whakatane Gorge. He shook his head in bewilderment at his own stupidity. But he was glad to be out of the AC now, especially after that last drunken brawl which ended him up in detention. He had a knack for getting into trouble.

  Now he was out and with nowhere in particular to go, Daniel decided to try his luck in Foxton. He’d heard there could be work there in the flax trade, and he needed work. It took the better part of a week to cover the sixty-five or so miles. For much of the journey he walked, first following the road, then along the beach in the wake of the weekly coach service. Sometimes he slept rough on the side of the road; sometimes he took cover in a hay barn or stables, doing odd jobs to earn some food and a roof over his head. He had no idea where life was leading him, but he was relieved to be out of uniform. In his twenty-eighth year, his time of being in the midst of battle was over.