The Disenchanted Soldier

by Vicky Adin

  On day five, around three in the afternoon, Daniel came to the river that flowed down to the sea where the pontoon-style ferry was tied up. “Hello, there,” he called. “You going across the river today? Can I help pole it across?”

  “Hello, stranger. Yes, come aboard. I’m about to go back over. Another pair of hands will be welcome.”

  Within a short time, the ferry landed Daniel on the Foxton side of the Manawatu River.

  “Where’s the best place to find work?” Daniel asked.

  “Try the big house on the outskirts of town,” said the ferryman, pointing in the direction he should go. “That’s the Robinsons’ place. I heard he’s hiring at the moment.”

  Daniel followed the river road until he found what he was looking for. He walked up the long driveway and knocked on the door at the back of the house.

  A kindly looking woman in a mop cap and apron answered the door. “What can I do for you, young man?”

  “I was looking for a job and wondered if this is the place I should ask.”

  “Yes. You’ve come to the right place. This here be the home of Captain Francis Robinson,” she announced with pride.

  Daniel smiled back at her.

  As he later found out, Captain Robinson was the major landowner of the area, with some 400 acres known as ‘Herrington’, and the largest employer in the district, as well as being chairman of the Roads Board responsible for the road leading south towards Levin. Captain Robinson was an important figure in Foxton.

  From the look on her face, Daniel figured she’d made up her mind he was a decent-looking sort of fellow. He had, after all, approached her first, as was right – in her eyes, at least.

  “My name is Maisy. I’m housekeeper here. I heard the cap’n say just this morning he were going to need more help to keep the drains and riverbanks clear so the boats could get up to the wharf. Wait ’ere.”

  Standing on the stoop, Daniel looked at the expanse of land surrounding the house. Although green, the lower levels were obviously prone to flooding. He could see where the work needed doing. He didn’t have to wait long before Maisy was back.

  “Come with me.” He followed her through the kitchen into the hall with its high ceiling and sweeping staircase. “Stand there and don’t move.” She knocked on one of the doors opening off the hall.

  “Enter,” said a voice from within.

  She opened the door enough for her to see in. “Sir, the man I told you about. He’s waiting in the hall.”

  Daniel heard the sound of a chair scraping on the floor. A man dressed in a dark suit and cravat emerged from the room. “I hear you are looking for work.”

  Daniel stood straight, clasping his cap and hands behind his back, automatically striking a military pose. “Yes, sir. If you’ll have me, sir.”

  “Ex-army, are you?”

  “Yes, sir. 3rd Waikato.”

  For what seemed an eternity, Daniel stood there being appraised by this man before he spoke.

  “All right. I’ll give you a try. Report to the shed tomorrow morning at seven sharp. Maisy, you see to him.”

  “Yes, sir,” she bobbed.

  The captain returned to his office, shutting the door behind him.

  Indicating that Daniel should follow her, Maisy turned towards the kitchen. “Lucky you. Got anywhere to sleep tonight?”

  “No. Not yet. I’d hoped to find a suitable barn.”

  “For now you can sleep in the lean-to at the back of the stables. I’ll show you where to report tomorrow.”

  For some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he’d decided he would have a new name to go with his new life. Next morning he introduced himself to the foreman. “Name’s Charles. Charlie Adin,” said Daniel.

  From then on everyone in Foxton knew him as Charles, Charlie or sometimes Chas. Only a few were to know him as Daniel.

  “Welcome, Charlie. You can start work digging the ditches along the side of this road,” said the foreman. “The plan is to drain the swamp land and channel the water into the river and away to the sea.”

  Digging drains was hard work, but Daniel soon built up a great camaraderie with his fellow diggers. There was no easy way. On bad days, the men were forced to stand in the water to get to the bottom so they could build up the banks on either side to deepen and widen the channel.

  The coastal scows sailing up from Wellington would pull into the bank further down the river, near the homestead, to unload goods. When they arrived all hands were put to work, since the goods needed to be offloaded as quickly as possible. The boxes and crates would be hauled up to the top floor of the barn by pulley. Daniel would sometimes be given extra work helping stack everything into the two-storeyed barn. Whatever was asked of him, Daniel cheerfully obliged.

  Soon, he found a better job in the flax mill and settled into the way of life in his new community, making new friends and becoming a regular at the local pub.

  1871

  “Yeah, I was up the Ureweras after Te Kooti for a while,” answered Daniel, emptying his tankard of beer. The men drinking with him were all hardened campaigners, having fought in many battles, but these were new friends he’d made since coming to Foxton. “Why d’ya ask?”

  “Just wondered,” replied Tom, a tall, lean man around forty who worked alongside Daniel in the flax mill. “I was in Gisborne back in ’65 when he fought with us, on the government side. He weren’t a bad bloke then. Just a bit wild.”

  “I heard he got religion,” said Harry, the man who handled the horses and wagons. “Didn’t he have this trick of lighting a match so it looked like his hands created fire?”

  “I heard that one too,” said Daniel. “Never saw it myself, though, but it sure helped build up the stories around him.”

  Amos, the despatcher, who was the odd ball and most educated among them, kept up to date with the news, jotting things down in a notebook kept in his shirt pocket.

  “Chas’s right,” said Amos. “There are a lot of myths about Te Kooti. He fooled many of his own people as well as some white folk with that trick, Harry. He set up his own church called Ringatu by taking bits of old Maori custom and some of the Old Testament and mixed it all up.”

  “Yeah, but that was years later,” Tom said. “Back in ’65 he was Christian.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said Amos, “but about the time the Pai Marire an’ Hauhau lot got started, Te Kooti was fighting with the government. He didn’t like either of ’em.”

  “I ’eard them Hauhau were a violent lot,” said Harry.

  “They were. Took their revenge wherever they could,” answered Amos patiently. “But the Pai Marire were trying to work things out with Governor Grey in a peaceful manner.”

  “But ain’t that how Volkner copped it?” argued Harry, always a little behind in the conversation.

  Tom rolled his eyes. “Well, he were a bit daft, going in knowing his converts had gone over to the Hauhau. Volkner was spying on them at the same time as he was trying to sell them Grey’s policies. How daft is that?”

  “What’s that? All that politic stuff is beyond me,” said Harry. “I thought Te Kooti was working the coastal shipping routes, not fighting.”

  “At one time, yes, he did,” said Tom. “He was a good seaman, too.”

  “So how did he get to be such a rebel, then?” scoffed Henry.

  “Managed to upset his own folk as much as some of our toffee-nosed lot, that’s how. He didn’t want the land sold off, like, and said so. He must’ve upset someone important – real bad. Got accused of being a spy and sent to the Chathams with some Hauhau for his troubles,” replied Tom. “That’s when he set up his church thing. Then a couple of year ago he escaped with nearly 300 followers, both men and women.”

  “I arrived in Poverty Bay not long after his boat – um, what was it called again?” mused Daniel.

  “The Riverton?” suggested Harry.

  “No, but close ... it’ll come to me. Hey, Harry, how about you get some more beer
, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  More beer was brought to the table. The men settled down to another of Daniel’s tales. They had all been in many battles themselves but Daniel was a great storyteller. He had a way of painting a picture and changing his tone, which added excitement to the dullest account. Anyone listening could imagine the story and be a part of it. They loved listening to him.

  “I was in the 6th Armed Constabulary at the time. It was midwinter of ’69 when we arrived in the bay. Being east of the hills, that coastline gets an odd climate – brilliant one day, lousy the next – but the day they landed was fine and calm,” began Daniel. “Gets lots of sunshine that coast, but it’s still wet as hell up in the hills. Slippery as hell, too, with mud that sticks likes glue. Takes it out of yer just climbing a few feet. Anyhow, Te Kooti and his mob ...” he paused, gazing into the distance, searching for a memory. “ ... the Rifleman – that’s what the boat was called, the Rifleman. They were an ill-assorted bunch – all rebels and convicts, yet somehow Te Kooti managed to earn their respect. They did as he told them, anyway. So when he made his escape from the Chathams he captured the whole boat without wounding or killing anyone. That’s how clever he was. One sergeant was killed on shore out of revenge for something, so I was told, but no one else was hurt. This is all from a first-hand account, so I knows it’s true.”

  Daniel took a swig of beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Anyways. All went well till they approached Cook Strait. The crew tried to divert the ship into Wellington but, as Tom said, Te Kooti was a skilled sailor and knew what they were trying to do. He soon changed the ship’s course back to Poverty Bay. They landed to the south of the bay and, boatload by boatload, discharged all the supplies. They manhandled everything in a human chain, stacking it on the beach out of reach of the tide, ready to be repacked. Everything had to be carried or dragged along on makeshift sledges. Finally, the whole band, several hundred of them, headed off, taking refuge in one of the gorges high up on the cliff so they could see what was coming at them. Must have been sheer hell and taken ages.”

  “So what happened to the ship and the crew?” asked Harry.

  Daniel winked. “Never mind that those sailors had tried to deceive him, like, and take him back to the authorities – after they’d unloaded he let them all go, just like that. The sailors told us all about it later.”

  Harry looked confused. “That was a bit soft of him, considering everything. So why did he get such a reputation for being a warmonger then?”

  “I’m getting to that,” said Daniel. “Te Kooti tried to persuade ol’ Biggs the magistrate to let them go and said he would go peaceful like, up to the King Country. He wanted to become a spiritual leader, he said, whatever that meant. He didn’t want to fight, but Biggs wouldn’t have it – once a rebel, always a rebel, as far as he was concerned. So after Te Kooti left, Biggs marshalled his soldiers and chased after them. Attacked them without warning, he did, so Te Kooti fought back. Wouldn’t you, in his position?”

  “Did you ever meet him?” asked Tom.

  “Nah. The likes of me never get that close, but I knew he were a clever battler. I have to say I admired his skill. He fooled us every time. Over the next few months he won lots of battles, gaining control over most of the Poverty Bay area. Our officers got really mad. But then Te Kooti’s mob must’ve run out of food, or something changed, ’cos he went on a killing spree. But he went too far when he killed those women and children. Men dying in battle is one thing, but killing innocents like that ain’t on. He made some serious enemies with both the Maoris and British over that. Sometime later more natives joined him – goodness knows why. Out of fear, I suppose. It was around November by then, and the government put a price on his head. Guess how much for?”

  “Five hundred pound,” guessed Amos.

  “Two hundred,” from Harry.

  Daniel shook his head, “No, higher.”

  “A thousand, then,” countered Amos.

  “No. Much more. More than ever before – five thousand pounds!”

  There were gasps of astonishment at such an unheard of amount. Tom nodded, remembering. Amos stared open-mouthed. Harry whistled in disbelief.

  “It’s true. Honest,” said Daniel. “Never before had such a large sum been offered as a reward. After that it was full on, nasty stuff it were, I can tell yer. I got caught up in one of the ambushes in the gorge. One time, I was standing there next to my mate getting ready to load our rifles, and then there was a loud bang right next to my ear. Louder than anything else I’d heard before. I turned around and my mate was lying there beside me, dead. The top of his head was missing. Our guide was killed, too, and another bloke wounded, but our division got off light overall.”

  Daniel shuddered. He stared out through the open door, visions of the past drifting across his mind.

  Tom took another swig of ale. “I was back over in Taranaki in ’68, so heard nothing of this.”

  “I was never over that way. Mostly in the Waikato when I was in the army. I tell you, there were forces everywhere chasing Te Kooti’s band, capturing all the tribal leaders who supported him. There was no way they were letting him go. Then not long before I got out in January of ’70, we managed to beat him at Ngatapa, but Te Kooti and some others got away. The rest of his men were caught and executed at point-blank range. There would have been a hundred or more. Not pleasant, I can tell you,” he finished, eyes downcast, shaking his head.

  With a final swallow of his beer, he emptied another glass. “I had the chance to get out then, so I took it. I’d had enough. Headed back to Trentham and got my discharge. I heard Te Kooti disappeared up into the King Country and has been lying low since.”

  After that long speech, Daniel bought two more jars of beer. The conversation drifted to the more menial tasks of draining the swampland and gathering flax, before they were kicked out of the tavern and sent on their way to their homes and dinners.

  Walking along the track to his room at the big house a few miles out of town, he had time to think back over the last few months since he had got out of the AC. Life was looking up. He’d made some drinking friends, he had a good job, which paid well enough and included comfortable rooms. He was happier than he’d been for some time.

  The lamps of the house gleamed out as orange beacons in the night, calling him. With a satisfied sigh, Daniel strolled into the kitchen where Maisy would have some dinner for him, a simple fare of roast meats and potato with lashings of gravy. Sometimes, some in-season parsnip, or kumara, the native sweet potato he’d grown to like, or maybe carrots, were to be had. His stomach rumbled.

  “Evening, lad. You’re a bit late tonight. Where you been?” Maisy picked up a tea cloth to lift the lid off the plate of food sitting on the steamer pot. Wiping the bottom of the plate she set it down on the large, scrubbed wooden table, almost white with age. She took up the bread knife and sliced off a couple of slabs of bread, placing them on the side of his plate.

  Daniel hung his hat and coat on the pegs behind the door and sat at the table with anticipation.

  “Go wash yer hands before you sit at my table,” she ordered.

  “Oh. Yeah. Righto. Sorry.” Getting up again he went into the scullery. He poured some water from the ewer into the bowl and scrubbed his hands clean with a bar of Maisy’s soap, then tossed the used water out of the window. “I stopped at the tavern an’ we got into telling stories about our time in the army. There’s lots of stories. Too many really,” he called out.

  He came back into the kitchen and sat down. “Time passed too quick. Thanks for keeping this for me.” He grinned, putting his hand out to pinch her bottom as she passed him on the way to put things away in the food safe.

  Maisy was both too old and too experienced to be taken in by him, and pushed his hand away. “Behave yourself, young Charlie, or you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

  They both laughed and Daniel turned his attention to the meal in front of him.

&nb
sp; “You want to try and forget those stories, Charlie, me boy,” Maisy advised. “Or ye’ll never settle to anything. Always on the move and always looking over your shoulder in case someone is sneaking up on you.”

  “Not me, Maisy. I like telling stories but you won’t see me moving again. I like it here.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Maisy opened the door to the coal range and added some more wood, stoking up the fire to heat the flat irons. Her work hadn’t yet finished. Laying a blanket across the table she set about wielding the heavy iron back and forth, changing irons as one cooled: a hot iron on the bed linen, a cooler iron or an ironing cloth on the more delicate cotton and fine linen shirts.

  “Time yer got yourself a horse to get around, young ’un.”

  “Been thinking about it, but need to save a bit more money yet.”

  “That man Proctor further downstream has a couple he wants to move on.” Maisy folded the sheets, setting them to one side.

  “You mean Harry, the one who handles the horses at the mill?”

  “No, no. Not him. His father,” said Maisy.

  “How much do you think he’ll want?”

  “Can’t say for sure, but cheap, he said. Wants to get heavier working animals to pull the ploughs an’ wagons and such, and he can’t keep feeding them as can’t do that heavy work no more.”

  “Thanks for the tip-off.”

  After sharing a late night cup of tea, Maisy cleared away the dishes. “Now, get away to bed with yer. We both have an early start in the morning.”

  She damped the fire down for the night, setting a slow burning log on it, and pushed Daniel out the door.

  “Thanks, Maisy. Goodnight to yer, then.” Collecting his hat and coat, he picked up a candle and passed through the kitchen garden to the lean-to.