Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

If we had destroyed the volunteer militia here, it might well have made all the difference to the outcome of the war, for these volunteers are the most effective force the British possess. I am not blamed for pinning the militia down, so giving them cause to fire back sufficiently vigorously for the retreating navy to hear their guns. Nevertheless I blame myself.

  During April, the British receive considerable reinforcements from Australia and many settlers return to their land, thinking the Maori defeated. The new forces, eager for action, lose no time in moving down the coastline, burning and pillaging our villages, hoping to starve us over the coming winter. We cannot meet them head-on for they are too well equipped with light artillery and grapeshot, and the most terrifying Congreve rockets. We must begin the old process of instilling fear in the settlers all over again. I send out patrols to burn every farm in those districts where we had not previously been and where the settlers have thought now to return. We carry off their cattle and horses and what food we can find, as the pakeha forces are doing to our people.

  The governor, however, makes a great display of warning that we mean to kill all pakeha, including the missionaries. It must be obvious to him, though, that had we wished to do so, we could already have killed a score or more of the pakeha settlers. The Maori are upset by the governor’s words, but I am not unduly concerned by them. I explain that it is the European way to build up hatred for the enemy. ‘If the devil were to wage war with the angels of heaven, he would declare the enemy to be wicked and vengeful. It is in the very nature of warfare to make the enemy out to be monsters. Governor Gore Browne is only proving himself to be very good at it,’ I advise the council.

  ‘The ways of the pakeha are strange. Do not the enemy also deserve honour? Are they not also brave warriors?’ War Chief Hapurona asks.

  ‘It is called propaganda. They think it will aid their cause and will make their war seem righteous in the eyes of their own people.’

  ‘War is only righteous when you defend your land, your women and your children. It is not righteous when you wish to steal another man’s land,’ Wiremu Kingi declares. ‘We, the Maori, have fought each other for generations, hoping to take each other’s land, make slaves of the other tribe’s women and warriors of their children. But we did not call this a righteous war. We did not try to justify it as the British are doing!’

  Murray promises to avenge the death of any white man killed, and the newspapers run lurid stories of those who have been tomahawked and scalped in the manner of the North American Red Indians! They have picked up the name of General Black Hawk, though they seem not to associate it with the Black Maori. They conclude that the Maori have recruited the famous Red Indian fighter, Chief Blackhawk, to teach them how to use the tomahawk on their pakeha victims. I am not sure such a man as Chief Blackhawk even exists. Perhaps he is simply the invention of a newspaper reporter with a fevered imagination. Nevertheless, there is much speculation among the pakeha population that more North American Indians have arrived by ship, landing higher up the coastline. The paper reports a reliable rumour that there are more ships en route, with whole tribes of tomahawk-wielding Indians bound for New Zealand!

  This in turn fuels further fears that a legion of Redskins, led by the legendary Chief Blackhawk, will soon attack New Plymouth on horseback, whooping their dreadful war cries as they scalp women and children.

  Rumours aside, if we can keep the soldiers at bay until the winter, we may become strong enough to achieve an equitable truce in this war. The onset of winter works in our favour. The heavy rains make movement of the large British baggage trains near impossible, the roads turn into quagmires and the rivers are flooded. We are less hampered and our guerrillas roam the countryside until we have driven all the settlers back into New Plymouth.

  By June we have recovered our strength somewhat and, working in difficult conditions, we construct two forts at Puke Te Kauere. I am forced to reconsider much of what I thought about fighting from a pa. I now realise the Maori have a genius for earthworks and fortification, and that we will need to meet the British head-to-head if ever they are to be brought to a truce. When this time comes, we shall need the forts to have some advantage in the proceedings.

  The two forts at Puke Te Kauere are backed by heavy forest, the immense kahikatea trees. Wiremu Kingi takes Tommo and me into this primeval world of giant trees, ferns and damp. Tommo is at once at home.

  ‘Ah,’ he says, laughing, ‘I knows this world of tall trees. If we was to fight in this I would become a general and we would surely win.’

  Chief Kingi sighs. ‘Not so long ago, much of my country was covered in great forests like this one. Now the pakeha have shaved us like a bald head, cutting down the trees which are older than our ancestors and have stood since time dreamed in darkness.’ He turns away and spits to the ground. ‘They cut them so that they might grow grass for their spotted cows. Once, there was the cry of birds in the morning, and the song of every kind of winged creature in the world filled the air. Now, where the pakeha have stolen the land, it has become silent and only the caw of the English crow is to be heard.’

  He pauses and smiles sadly. ‘If you listen with a Maori heart you may hear the earth trembling and weeping for the glory of the great trees. If the Maori do not hold onto their land, the pakeha will kill everything that is beautiful, so that they might make New Zealand like the faraway land of Queen Victoria, where there are no more tall trees to sweep the skies and brush the howling wind into whispers. The trees are the groves of life. Without them we are not ourselves, we are naked.’

  I think of Tommo in the wilderness and our own sweet land of Tasmania, cousin to this one, where the giant gums grow as tall as the kahikatea. There, the timber getters harvest the Huon pine— and trees, a thousand or more years old, are bashed and beaten to the ground by the saw and the axe. I wonder how much longer they too will last upon this earth? Will our home become like New Zealand, a land shaved and broken by the plough of the white invader? Alas, we are of the same breed, and I cannot see how it will be any different. Perhaps, in our drier land, it will be even worse.

  Looking at this forest, it is clear that we have placed the forts well, for no British column could think to gain access and attack us from the rear. To one side of the forts is a swamp. The water in some parts is well above waist height and it contains vast areas of sucking mud. To the other side is the heavily timbered country we can control. In the foreground, where the British will be forced to attack, lies thickly growing fern with abundant flax. It will make any approach, no matter how well organised, most hazardous.

  We have built trenches and scarps twenty feet high and innumerable palisades. Both forts are a work of genius and give the defenders a great advantage against any assault by the British regulars.

  After all is ready, we hold a final war council to discuss our tactics against the British. We have learned much of guerrilla warfare since the disastrous engagement at Waireka. With new regular forces coming from Australia, we do not expect that they will depart from conventional military tactics.

  ‘These troops will not know New Zealand or the manner of the Maori,’ War Chief Hapurona announces. ‘Therefore we may fight them in our own way. What say you, Black Hawk?’

  I am quick to agree, and point out that the terrain we occupy is not only easy to defend but also allows us to attack the enemy’s flanks. Hammerhead Jack, an excellent tactician, has suggested to me that we also use the swamp to our advantage. Now I put these thoughts together. ‘Should we not also come at them from outside the forts? They will think that, as always, we will only defend ourselves and so they will leave their flanks exposed. If we can attack them from our positions in the woods, from within the flax and out of the gullies, and you are holding them down from the forts, they will make for the swamp, believing it to be good cover. That is where our axe fighters will take them.’

  It is a bold plan and Hapurona is not sure we have sufficient men to both attack and defend. From their en
campment less than a mile away, we know that the British have much the superior numbers. Finally it is decided that I should have command over the trenches outside the forts, and also have small roving bands with shotguns hidden in the forests, gullies and clumps of flax. Tommo and his axe fighters will be positioned in the swamp with their long-handled fighting axes, while others will wield fighting sticks to ward off the British bayonets. We have erected our flagpole in full view of the British camp. This time the flag is a black cross on a white field. We hope that they will once again seek to capture it.

  We soon discover that Hapurona was right. The troops sent against us are plainly new regulars, greenhorns from Australia under British officers equally inexperienced at fighting our kind of war. The volunteer militia are nowhere to be seen and we are most grateful for this. I know that these local men are much too skilled to be drawn into attacking a position so well constructed and defended as our two forts.

  After the disaster at Waireka, it is our turn for some luck. The British officers appear quite casual in their preparation and barely send out patrols to reconnoitre the terrain over which they must advance. It seems almost as though they expect some mild-mannered skirmish, a pleasant morning’s outing for their men.

  The British attack at daylight on the twenty-seventh of June, and are almost immediately in trouble. Our muskets start to pick them off from the trenches and the forts, and their advance is made most difficult by the heavily ferned terrain. The British think first to attack our flanking trenches and foolishly but valiantly charge with bayonets, but we simply retreat from the first line of defence, leaving them to face a second set of trenches beyond. Heavily loaded with equipment, they are exhausted, and now within reach of our double-barrelled shotguns. We begin to cut them to pieces with buckshot, so that they are soon forced to retreat. Not one trooper reaches us, though we shoot several at very close range. They turn to run with their entrails hanging to the ground and blood spurting from their mouths. They cannot even cry out, taking but a few faltering steps before they collapse and die. The British will later report that the storm of shot they ran into was worse than that of Balaclava.

  As the soldiers withdraw, we come at them from the wooded flank and out of the gullies and flax, driving them towards the swamp where Tommo’s men lie in wait. The black powder of the muskets creates a great deal of smoke, and we fight as though we are in a forest fire. It is Hammerhead Jack who directs this attack, for he seems to know every Maori position and when to employ it. It is he who is the true general and I will make this known to Hapurona lest I receive credit which I do not rightly deserve.

  The retreating British regulars, thinking the swamp will provide cover and give them protection, are soon waist deep in water, and now Tommo’s men attack with their fighting axes and taiaha sticks. It is slaughter of the most terrible kind and the cries of the dying are pitiful. Soon the corpses are so numerous that they float bumping against each other in the water, which has now turned the colour of blood. Those who manage to struggle back to higher ground are cut down by our warriors, who have emerged from the forts to attack the fleeing soldiers.

  What remains of the attacking column is forced to retreat under cover of their artillery fire. The British have been routed and the Maori have established a new way of fighting.

  I return to the pa, sickened at the sight of so much blood and death. Wiremu Kingi and Hapurona hail me as a hero, though I feel far from heroic. I have had enough. The Maori now know how to wage war differently and much experience has been gained. I can play no further useful part in their affairs. Tommo is right— it is time to leave.

  Wiremu Kingi addresses me in front of the council of war. ‘You have proved yourself, General Black Hawk, and your methods have changed the way the Maori will fight the British from now on. We owe you a great debt. Our ancestors will honour you as long as the Maori stand upon this land! Tonight we will celebrate our victory and you will be foremost among our many warriors.’

  I know I should think this a great moment, but I am war-weary and most anxious to find Tommo, whose men have taken the brunt of the fighting in the swamp. The attentions of Chief Kingi and War Chief Hapurona and the other high-ranking warriors mean I am forced to remain with the war council until well after dark. In this time I am able to extol the virtues of Hammerhead Jack as a born leader of men, and I declare him a better general than ever I shall be.

  I have already sent Hammerhead Jack to find my brother and expect them both to be waiting for me. Finally I am able to take my leave, and go to tell Tommo that our task with the Maori is complete, our debt repaid in full.

  But Hammerhead Jack is waiting alone outside, and I see at once that something is wrong.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask in alarm. ‘Where is Tommo? Where is my brother?’

  ‘Ork, he has not returned from the swamp. Five of the axe fighters are not back, and he is among them.’

  ‘Have you searched?’ I start to shake him by the shoulder where his arm is missing. ‘Have you sent men into the swamp to look for him?’ My panic is growing rapidly.

  ‘Ork, I have come out of the swamp to tell you. I have been in there myself with flax torches, and the others are still searching among the reeds.’

  I notice for the first time that he is wet up to the waist. His breeches are covered in mud and he is shaking from the cold.

  ‘The water is full of the bodies of the British and we have found three of our axe fighters dead,’ Hammerhead Jack pauses, ‘but not Tommo.’

  ‘We must keep looking! I will come with you!’ I turn to run out of the pa but Hammerhead Jack grabs my arm.

  ‘Wait! It is full moon in an hour, we can see better then. You must eat first, you have not taken food today! You will have no strength, Ork. The swamp is freezing and treacherous with sucking mud. You will surely perish!’

  ‘I must find Tommo!’ I shout, tearing away from him. My heart is pounding and I think I will die of the fear that has taken hold of me. ‘Oh God! Oh Mama! Ikey! Help me now!’ I begin to run wildly towards the swamp.

  Chapter Eleven

  TOMMO

  Puke Te Kauere

  27 June 1860

  I’m sitting up to me waist in a bloody swamp, near shitting meself. The redcoats are everywhere. There’s smoke covering the battle so it’s hard to see, but wherever there’s a clear patch there’s half a dozen British to be seen, loading, firing and panicking.

  I had to open me big gob about the long-handled axe being better than the bayonet, but even after Waireka, I got me doubts. I’ve learnt a great deal from how the Maori handle a fighting stick, but it’s different when a trooper with bad blood in his eyes is comin’ straight at you— him with a reach o’ six foot or more, and me with an axe what don’t extend more than two foot. All of a sudden, it don’t look too promising.

  Ever since we took the farmhouse and them two young lads was killed, it ain’t been the same for me. I’ve seen how the axe kills now. I’ve thought about that moment a thousand times. Could I have known they was lads before we struck them? The room were filled with smoke from their muskets and from the shotgun blast, so we couldn’t see hardly nothin’ at all when we entered. I know I axed someone, but who I couldn’t tell. Just a neck and a bit of shoulder in the smoke and confusion. Our blood was up and running high ‘cause we’d won the day. But when the smoke cleared, two young lads lay dead next to the two grown men. I don’t reckon I’ll ever get over that. So young and brave one minute, and then hacked meat at me feet. Oh Gawd! What would our poor mama think o’ me?

  We’ve been waiting here in the rushes for nigh three hours, having come into the swamp from the back. It’s the middle o’ winter and bloody cold! I’m thinking of Hawk in the trenches and worrying for him. But he says we’re not to come out, we’re not to fight in the open. Instead we must wait for the British to come to us. Let the swamp slow them down, then take ’em by surprise.

  I know me lads, though. They can see the British be in a mess alr
eady on the higher ground and they’ll want to go after ‘em. I pass on the word, no one must move until I say. But these be young warriors, anxious to be blooded in battle. They won’t like the idea of holding back, freezing their bollocks off while there’s a hot fight going on.

  How the hell does Hawk know the British will come? He’s pretty new to the business of being a general. The lads have waited three months to have a second go at the British soldiers. They’re spoiling for a fight. Me, I’m not so keen no more, not after Waireka and the farmhouse. When we comes back from that raid the rangatira called us heroes. Our attacks on the settlers be proof to them that we are of true value to them in this war. I’m not so sure. Waireka just about finished us off— Tommo Te Mokiri lost six good men that day. Now me boys are waiting for another chance to meet the British, and their turn will come soon enough if Hawk be right. He reckons the redcoats will run to the swamp for cover. I hope he’s right. I can’t hold me lads back much longer.

  Suddenly it happens. I watch, hardly believing my own eyes, as the first soldier comes running towards the swamp. He’s stumbling out of the smoke towards us, not charging with his bayonet, just running for cover, scared witless, fleeing the shotguns what’s pumping hot. I pray the lads will wait, not take him at once in a rush and give the game away to the rest. I send out the word to let him come right up to us, right up to the bulrushes where we hide. The redcoat is splashing through the shallows, knees pumpin’ high, trying to go faster, floosh, floosh, floosh. It’s heavy going, ‘cause his boots stick in the muddy, sucking bottom of the swamp, and he’s panting and gasping, eyes popping.

  Then they’s all heading our way, coming thick and fast through the smoke. I can hear the Maori shotguns. Bah-bam! Bah-bam! It’s a different sound from the muskets what sounds more like a ba-boom-whup. The shotguns are working fast and the redcoats are turning and making straight for the swamp. Any moment now there’ll be ten or fifteen of them upon us and twice as many more behind. ‘Hold it lads, not now, let them come in deeper, nearer, take yer time,’ I orders under me breath.