Rolf Boldrewood
War to the Knife
The prayers of the Anglican Church were concluded. Then the great apostle of the South Seas ascended an ornate pulpit, the gift of a few English friends of Mr. Summers, the carving of which had much impressed the native congregation, themselves by no means without practice in this ancient section of art. In his sermon – short, fervent, and chiefly persuasive – he appealed to those better feelings which the teaching of the missionary clergy, of whatever denomination, had been chiefly desirous of fostering. "What," he asked, "had been the condition of the tribes before that great and good man Marsden, the pioneer pastor, came among them? War unbridled, ruthless, remorseless, with its accompaniments still more dreadful – slavery, torture, child-murder, the eating of human flesh, practices which, to their honour be it spoken, the Maoris as a nation had discontinued. Were they not ashamed of these things?" ("Yes, yes!" from the assembled crowd.) "Who had taught them to be ashamed of these things? The missionary clergy, the pakeha from beyond the seas. Who had given them the seed, the grain, the potato, the domestic animals, the tools of iron, from which they now reaped such abundant harvests and stores of produce? Bread, flour-mills, garden-seeds and vegetables, – all these came from the pakeha. Who taught them the use of all these things? The Mikonaree. He laboured with his hands, he lived poorly, he coveted nothing for himself, he only held a small portion of their waste lands on which to grow food for himself and his family.
"He had done all this. But he had done more. He had taught them to worship the only true God, and His Son Jesus Christ our Lord – the God of mercy, of truth, of charity, of peace. And had they not lived in peace, in plenty, in good will among themselves, until this war arose, which was now raging to the destruction of Maori and pakeha alike? Who counselled this shedding of blood, this burning of pahs? The clergy? No. They knew that the voice of every clergyman, every missionary in both islands, had been against it, was against it now. If his advice had been taken, a runanga would have been held, of the wisest pakehas and the high rangatiras. Judges like Mannering and Waterton would have sat there – men who knew the Maori tongue and the Maori customs. They would have done justice. The Waitara would never have been bought from Teira. The Maori law would have been respected, as well as the English law, in which every man has equal rights, the native as well as the pakeha. Then there would have been no war; no killing of pakeha settlers who wished to cultivate the soil and to live in peace; no death of the soldiers and sailors; no death of the volunteers who wished to buy and sell in the towns, who bought the natives' pigs and potatoes, their wheat and their flax; no death of high chiefs or of the young men of the tribes, of officers of the troops, of officers of the ships. All these of the young and the old who now lie cold in the earth or beneath the sky would be alive and well this day." Here more than one face betrayed deep feeling; falling tears and gestures of unutterable anguish told their tale.
"But the war, unhappily, had commenced, and still raged. Unwise white men, proud and haughty chiefs, had been impatient, and forced on the war. Had the Maoris respected the lessons they had been taught, and been patient, even when suffering injustice, all would have been well. The Waitara block would have been given up. It has been given up now. They had many friends in the pakeha runanga; even in Sydney the Kawana Dennitoni had sent a letter in their favour, warning the council of the pakehas not to take Waitara. But there were unwise men on both sides. Blood was shed. And the state of war took place. And now you will say, 'This is all very well, but we knew much of this before. The state of war is accomplished. What are we to do? What is best for the Maori people?'
"I will tell you. This is my saying. I have prayed to God that it may be right and wise, according to His will, and for your benefit, who are my children in the Lord. We have always taught you to desire peace – peace and good will towards all men. Cherish no more hard feelings against the pakeha. You will have to live in the land with him. His race is the stronger, the more numerous; he has ships, soldiers, and guns, more than you can number; they are like the sands of the seashore.
"The war must soon be over. I, who speak to you now, say so. Heed not those foolish men of your race who tell you to go on fighting. It is of no use. When the last battle is fought, and my words come true, yield yourself to the Kawana, Hori Grey, saying, 'We are conquered. Show us mercy. We desire peace for the future.' He has always been a friend of the Maori people. He is a friend now. You will find that you will receive mercy, that a portion of your lands will be restored to you. Not all. Part will be taken for utu, as by Maori custom. After that I say, heed my words and those of the good Mikonaree who have always tried to do you good – who will do you more good in the future. 'Love your enemies; do good to those who despitefully use you. If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink,' as did Henare Taratoa, whom I taught when he was young. You can read your Bible, many of you. Do what you are there commanded, and it will be well with you.
"And now it may be that you will see my face no more. I have been called back to the land whence I came, so many years ago, to do you good, to help, to teach every man, woman, and child in this land of Maui; such I may have done, though the seed of the Word has sometimes perished by the wayside. But other seed, I will believe, has taken root, and will bring forth, in due time, some twenty, some fifty, some an hundred fold.
"And when the day comes, as come it will, when peace overspreads the land, when the churches are again crowded, when the schools are full of your children, when the harvests are bounteous, and the Maori people are as well clothed, as well fed, and as well taught as the pakehas, you will hear that your pihopa, the man who loved you and prayed with you, is no more. In that hour remember that I told you all this would come to pass, and honour his mana by obeying the words of his mouth, and the commandment of the most high God."
As the sermon neared this conclusion, the hearts of the people were more deeply and strongly affected. Tears streamed down the faces of the younger members of the congregation. Sobs and groans were frequent. And as he turned to leave the little chapel, a simultaneous rush was made to the door, so as to be enabled to say a last farewell. All doubt and hesitation as to his actions since the war were swept away by the magic of his vibrating voice, the magnetic force of his earnest tones. They now commenced to realize that they were losing a friend in need, a judge in Israel, a champion in the day of their oppression.
As he left the church with his host and hostess, the women and children clustered around him, with cries of grief and genuine sorrow. They knelt before him, they struggled for the right to kiss his hand, they implored him to come again; they vowed that they would always be his children, and would obey his commands till their death.
It was to Hypatia a scene indescribably affecting. The tears came to her own eyes as she stood there, sympathetic, emotional, wondering no more at the contagious power of the united forces of faith, enthusiasm, and oratory combined to sway a multitude and lead a people to heroic deeds. The men stood aloof while the women were making their moan, and then came forward respectfully, each to receive a handshake and a word of greeting, advice, or friendly warning. Last of all, the few elders who had attended as it were under protest, made known their recantation of doubt or distrust. An aged chief, whose scarred countenance and limbs told a tale of ancient wars, hobbled forward, leaning upon his hano. With an air of mingled dignity and despondency he thus delivered himself —
"This is my saying, the saying of Tupa-roa the aged. I have listened to the words of the pihopa rangatira; they are good words. The great Atua of the pakehas has spoken in them. If we had hearkened to them before, if we had said at Waitara, 'This thing is unjust, but we will not fight; we will leave it to a Court; we will send a letter to the Kawini across the sea; we will ask for justice till the winds cease to blow, till the fire-mountain in White Island stops breathing flame;' then our wisdom would have been great. What the pakeha says is true. We had many friends, just men, in the pakeha runanga. After all, Waitara was given back. Why? Were the pakehas afraid? No! See what has come of it. My son is dead, and his" – pointing to another elder who stood near him – "and Takerei and Puoho, all dead – all gone past the reinga, where I also shall soon follow. But we were as children, who see not into the future. Those unwise ones, who should be silent in council, were allowed to lead the nation; and now we are a broken people, our pahs are burned with fire. Our lands are taken, our sons are dead, also our high chiefs. If we had listened to the pihopa, to the Mikonaree, to Kawana, Hori Grey, these things would not have come to pass. My saying to you, O people, is to show honour to the pihopa and his mana, and so will it be well with you, with all of us, and our children's children."
Here he advanced, and motioning to one of the seniors who carried his greenstone mere, an emblem always of honour and authority, he made a gesture of humility and handed it to the bishop, who, receiving it, shook hands warmly with the old warrior and his aged companions. At this moment Mr. Summers gave out the Hundredth Psalm, which the whole congregation took up and sang with wonderful fervour and correctness, many of the voices being rich and expressive. At the close, the bishop, raising his hand, solemnly pronounced the benediction, and the congregation slowly departed.
"What a wonderful scene!" said Hypatia to Mrs. Summers, as she and the two children walked slowly after the bishop and her husband. "I feel certain that they will not believe it in England, when I write and tell them what interest these people showed in the service. There was none of the yawning or irreverence that one often sees in a village church there. How they hung upon the bishop's words! I could understand a good deal, but not all. It is a fine language, too, and by no means difficult to learn."
"Didn't old Tupa-roa talk well, mother?" said the eldest girl, a fair-haired Saxon-looking child, the rose bloom of whose cheeks did justice to the temperate climate. "He looked very fierce, too, when he spoke about the war, his sons, and the chiefs, all maté, maté, maté."
"I thought it inexpressibly mournful," said Hypatia. "The aged veteran, a war-chief, I suppose, in his time, grieving over his broken tribe and ruined land. Owning, too, that if wise councils had prevailed all might have been avoided."
"He was a great chief once," said the little girl. "Old Tapaia told me that he used to kill people, and eat them too. Wasn't that horrid? But he has been good for a long time, hasn't he?"
"You mustn't believe all that Tapaia tells you," said Mrs. Summers; "and you know I don't like you to talk to the old women, only to Hiraka, who is sure to tell you nothing foolish. You monkeys can chatter Maori as well as any child in the kainga. I think I must forbid you going there at all."
"Oh, mother, I will be good, and never talk to the old women, if you will let me go sometimes. The children are so funny, and they play such nice games. One is just like our cat's cradle."
"You can go, my dear child, when I am with you, or Miss Tollemache, but not by yourself. And now it must be nearly tea-time, so let us get home. The bishop will leave us at sunrise, I know."
That evening, with its homely meal, was long remembered by Hypatia. The quiet converse continued far into the night with Mr. and Mrs. Summers. Even, moreover, a short private conversation which the good bishop found time to arrange with her sank deeply into her heart.
Having questioned her kindly but closely as to her motives for leaving her friends, and taking up the hard, unlovely, possibly dangerous, vocation she had adopted, he warned her against mistaking a transient preference – the novelty of a mission to the heathen – for the Divine summons.
"I do you full justice, my dear child," said he; "you are devoting yourself to the noblest earthly duty, but I feel it right to warn you that, though the war must be nearing its close, there may be even greater dangers in store for isolated households such as this. Even after the collapse of the hostile tribes, there may be desperate bands roaming the country, seeking by plunder and outrage to avenge the downfall of their race. I have warned Cyril, and have counselled him, on the first rumour of such horrors, to remove his household to Auckland, and, even as I would do in the case of my own daughter, I have urged him to send you to the protection of any friends you may have in New Zealand 'until this tyranny be overpast.' Weigh my words well, and may God give you power to choose aright."
"I cannot fully express my deep gratitude, my lord, for the honour you have done me, and the interest you have taken in my welfare. That I did not devote myself to mission work without earnest and prayerful thought, your lordship may rest assured. I counted the cost beforehand, and now I cannot dream of deserting my colours, so to speak. You will not think that I am quite destitute of prudence. I shall accept the decision of my dear friend and her husband. If they think it imperative to retreat in the face of too evident danger, I shall accompany them. But as long as they remain, whatever may be the disquieting rumours, I shall be found at their side. 'Ake, ake, ake,' as the men at Orakau said. We must not let the Maoris have all the glory on their side."
The bishop smiled as she used the historical words of the unconquered garrison, but could not forbear gazing with admiration at the high-souled maiden, as she stood with upraised head and flashing eyes before him; a marvel of classic beauty, embodying all the nobility of form and feature which painters and sculptors have from the earliest ages loved to depict – an emblem of matchless womanhood devoted to a lofty ideal.
"We are all in God's hands," he said softly. "Let Him do what seemeth to Him good. May He bless and protect you, my child, and all who are of this household to-night."
Stars were contending with the rain-clouds of a stormy dawn as Hypatia drew back the curtain from the window of her bedroom and looked out. She saw the bishop come forth from the guest-room at the end of the verandah, wrapped in his cloak. He handed his valise to the Maori attendant, Koihua, who stood motionless at the foot of an English elm tree, and with staff in hand set forth on the Tauranga road with the free step and elastic stride of a trained pedestrian. Once, and once only, at the first turn in the winding path did he look back for an instant, and, noting Hypatia's face at the window, waved his hat in token of farewell, and disappeared in the woodland. There were tears in Hypatia's eyes, springing from a sentiment she could hardly analyze, as she turned from the casement.
CHAPTER XV
Orakau was abandoned. The Gate Pah had been lost and won. It had also been avenged at Te Ranga, where a hundred and twenty Ngaiterangi warriors lay dead in the trenches, and the 43rd had full utu for the slaughter of their officers and comrades. With few exceptions, all the high chiefs were among the slain. The boastful Rawiri, the chivalrous Te Oriori, the Christian convert Henare Taratoa, had fought their last fight. On the body of the latter was found a letter in the native language, and the text, "If thine enemy hunger, give him food; if he thirst, give him water."
Orakau was the Flodden of the Maori nation. As the fugitives from the blood-stained pah trooped across the fords of the Puniu on the night succeeding the fight, the parallel may well have occurred to Sir Walter Scott's countrymen, so many of whom have adopted New Zealand as their home.
"Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless splash,
While many a broken band,
Disordered through her currents dash,
To gain the Scottish land."
The war was practically over after the fall of Te Ranga. The turbulent Waikato tribes had lost their high chiefs, their bravest young men. The flower of the land of Maui lay low. The universal wail rose high in a hundred kaingas. Taught by bitter experience, the more intelligent natives had arrived at the conclusion that the resistless pakeha must be obeyed. His soldiers and his sailors, his volunteers and his allies (leading tribes of their own blood), his guns and his mortars, were all too powerful. Their chiefs who had visited England and seen the might of Britain had told them as much before. But, strong in the pride of their own power and the oracles of the Tohungas, they did not believe it. Now it was too plain to be disputed. Defeat was written in the burned and disabled pahs, in the ruined farms, in the confiscated lands of their ancestors, which they had no power to redeem. This, however, was in strict accordance with Maori usage, with the law and custom of Rauparaha, of Hongi Ika, of Te Waharoa, those ruthless conquerors and their ancestors who had ravaged and annexed the lands of tribal foes from time immemorial. Væ Victis was one of the oldest of human laws. It was theirs also. One grim feature of a returning and successful expedition, the train of downcast or weeping slaves, driven along with blows and shouts of derision, was wanting in this campaign. No heads of chiefs or warriors were tossed out or stuck on poles as village after village was passed. No bound captive was handed over to the relations of the fallen for slow and dreadful torture. On the contrary, all the combatants, save those convicted of murder or outrage, were dismissed to their homes, while their wounded were tended in the hospitals of these strangely constituted pakehas with the same care and skilfulness as their own.
At Te Ranga was the last stand made by the Maori for the possession of the lands of his forefathers. No more might he roam whither he would by river and mountain, by lake, shore, or forest stream. The white man's axe rang ceaselessly in his ancient woodlands; the white man's fields, his crops and fences, raised barriers to free untrammelled wanderings from sea to sea. Only in allotted districts, marked out by the white surveyor, would he be permitted to live out his life. Even there, the white man's school, the white man's church, the white man's policeman, would be always with him. In the place of the chief who administered justice and delivered sentence without remonstrance, without appeal, there sat the white man's magistrate, hearing evidence which he did not always understand, fining and imprisoning for offences against laws of which they had neither experience nor comprehension.
This was the state of matters to which the Maori nation had come in the opinion of the older men of the tribes, and not a few of the younger warriors who had never quite given in their adhesion to the rule of the stranger. Haughty and tameless as a race, showing by a thousand instances their preference for death before dishonour, such was their state of feeling at this time, that had there been any other land available, they would probably have trooped away in one great migration like the Moors out of Spain, there to learn to forget their hopes and fears, their triumphs and their despair, far from the snow-crowned ranges, the rushing rivers, the fertile valleys, and fire-breathing mountains of their own loved land.
On the whole, perhaps, it was as well for them, and by no means to the injury of the usurping pakeha, that the ever-girdling sea forbade a national exodus. Stern foe as the Briton has ever been while the fighting lasts, he is the most just and merciful of the world's conquerors. Of the great Roman, when the sandals of his legions trod over the prostrate peoples of the inhabited earth, it is recorded that he permitted them such personal and civic liberty as they had rarely enjoyed under their own rulers. Still, the privilege and boast of uttering the magical words, Civis Romanus sum, had to be paid for largely, as in the Apostle Paul's case. More liberal still, the Briton presents his beaten foe with the priceless gift of his equal laws, his equal suffrage. The ægis is thenceforth held over him, as of a blood-brother and a peer, a citizen of that world-wide empire scarce arrested by the poles, which rules and guards by its laws so large a proportion of the inhabitants of our planet.
While the high contracting parties were settling important points to be observed in the treaty, now necessary after the unconditional surrender made in person by, and signed by, Wirimu Tamehana Te Waharoa, the interests of private persons had their opportunity of consideration. In the ranks of the Forest Rangers doubts were still expressed respecting the fate of one Roland Massinger, reported missing since the affair of the Gate Pah.
Slyde and Warwick were lying in hospital, severely wounded, still too weak to undertake personal search. Warwick, who was near him when he fell, had information to give which, if it accounted for his wounds, was calculated to inspire doubts concerning his safety.
"He was shot from behind," he said. "I am as certain of it as that I lie here; it was the act of that skulking scoundrel Ngarara. I was near him at the time. Von Tempsky himself was hardly a foot in front of him as he was trying to spring on to the parapet, when I heard a shot behind us on the right flank. Mind, the troops were standing forward for a bayonet charge, and the covering volleys were on the left flank. It surprised me, so that I looked round; there I saw a band of the Ngapuhi that had dashed up in advance of the main body. Sheltering himself behind a tree, I saw Ngarara. He had missed the first time, but had reloaded. I caught sight of his face for a moment as the second report came, and Mr. Massinger fell forward on his face. Before I could turn towards him I was knocked over by a bullet from a rifle-pit, and knew no more. But a ranger who was close to me at the time, and helped to carry me to the rear, heard Mannering shout out an order, upon which several of the Maketu men closed round Massinger and carried him off. Following them up, he was sure that he saw two women. These he didn't recognize."
"Shouldn't wonder if one of them was the girl he was philandering with at the Terraces. Heard she was with her father's hapu. Princess and wounded knight business. Turn up all safe by-and-by."
"I'm not so sure," mused Warwick. "He's a treacherous dog, that Ngarara. He'll have another try before he gives in – unless the chief shoots him, which he's very likely to do, on sight."
"Summary justice," said Mr. Slyde. "Points in savage life, after all. Come to think."
"I saw him do it once," said Warwick. "I was a boy then. He shot a Maori dead who had helped to murder a white man before the fellow's friends."
"What did the tribe say?"
"Nothing – though there were many of the man's relations present. They knew he was in the wrong. Besides, the act was that of a chief. That means a good deal in this country."
"Seems it does. Power in the land. Must look up one with an eligible daughter. A hundred thousand acres of the Waikato land would be a snug dowry. Live like a baron of the Middle Ages. No more beastly reports to write. Tell my directors to go to the reinga."
"How long is it before the doctor says we shall be fit to travel?" said Warwick, wandering from the point.
"Three weeks at farthest. I vote we go on the scout for Massinger. Can't leave him in the tents of the whatsynames – Amorites or something. Dance at his wedding if we can do nothing else."
"I'll see it out," said Warwick.
"So we will, dear boy," said Mr. Slyde. "Have Ngarara's scalp. Revival of ancient customs. Must have rational amusement now the war's over."
What did really happen to Massinger was this. He felt himself struck under the right shoulder from behind by a hard blow as from a stone, such being the sensation of a bullet-wound from undoubted personal evidence. Before he had turned round to see who had given him such a hurt, he felt a queer faintness, and noticed a stream of blood running down his breast, while the evil face of Ngarara, lit up with revengeful triumph, glared at him, partly covered by a huge kawaka tree.
Before he could combine the concrete and the abstract sufficiently to formulate a theory, "darkness covered his eyes," and a sudden death rehearsal was in full operation.
When he recovered his senses, the night was so far advanced that he glanced upward to the stars with a half-conscious, wondering doubt as to his condition and circumstances. On a rude litter, formed of branches and twisted flax, the bed of grass and fern-leaves beneath him being by no means uncomfortable, he was moving slowly along a forest path, on which four bearers were trying to carry him as smoothly as circumstances would admit of. Two women in native dress walked in front, in one of whom, as she stopped to speak a word to the bearers, he had no difficulty in recognizing Erena.
After an answering sentence from the bearer nearest him, she held up her hand, and the little party halted. Coming close to his head, which he was as yet unable to raise, she looked anxiously in his face, and in softest accents said —
"You have awakened."
The loss of blood had been great, but by some styptic known to the natives, a people much acquainted with wounds of all degree of severity, it had been arrested. He tried to speak; a faint inarticulate murmur was all the reply he could furnish. He raised himself; but the effort was too painful, and again he became unconscious.
When he awoke once more he was aware that locomotion had ceased, and that he was lying upon a couch covered with mats. All was darkness, with the exception of flickering gleams thrown from a fire which was lighted at the entrance of the vault or cave in which he was lodged. Becoming more used to the dim uncertain light, he discerned the limestone walls and roof, which were festooned with stalactites in all sorts of fantastic, delicate shapes. There was a sound as of falling water, so that the difficulty of assuaging thirst would not be among the privations suffered by the inmates of this singular retreat. After a while he was relieved by the appearance of his good angel, as he felt impelled to call her.
"Tell me," he said, "how has all this come to pass? I am anxious to hear about the fall of the Gate Pah, and the way I have been removed to this place."
"I knew," she said, bending over him with the frank tenderness of a woman who loves passionately, and does not fear to disguise the fact, "that if you remained longer where you fell you would stand a chance of being tomahawked, if not worse treated. My father gave the order for you to be carried off, and at the same time signed to me that I and my cousin Riria were to accompany you. The cave in which you find yourself is only known to our hapu, and has always been regarded as being impenetrable to any one not acquainted with the secret approach."
"But it was evident to me," said he, "that I was shot through the body. How was the flow of blood stopped, and the wound found not to be dangerous?"
"We were told," she said, "that it was not mortal by a well-known tohunga of our tribe, who has been left a stage behind. He will be here tomorrow, and is a medicine-man of some repute, I can assure you. He applied a styptic, which was successful, and found that the bullet-wound, though it had grazed the lung, would not be dangerous, though hard to heal."
"I owe everything to you, dearest Erena," he said, pressing the hand which lay nearest to him; "and the life you have saved is yours for ever. If I come scatheless out of this war, you will have no reason to doubt my gratitude. How shall I ever repay you?"
"It is only too easy to do so," she said, as she gazed at him with eyes that glowed with all the intensity of a woman's love, for the first time awakened in that passionate nature. "But you must not talk of gratitude," she continued, with a smile, "or I shall begin to doubt whether you love me as we love – in life, in death, to the grave, and beyond it."
As she spoke, she wound her arms tenderly around him, and, kissing him upon the forehead, hastily left the cave.
When she reappeared, bringing such food as the natives had been able to secure, she said —
"Now you must eat all you can, and grow strong, as the sooner we leave this 'Lizard's Cave,' as it is called, and get back to my father, the better. I know that he will make for Rotorua as soon as the fighting is over."
"Tell me about the Gate Pah," he said. "Our men were falling fast, were they not?"
"Indeed, yes. Nearly all the officers were killed or mortally wounded in less than a quarter of an hour. Colonel Booth died next day; the captains of the 43rd were all killed, besides naval and volunteer officers. The natives had determined to retreat by the rear of the pah, but suddenly found themselves met by a detachment of the 43rd. They rushed back, and, mingling with the soldiers, were taken by them for a Maori reinforcement. Some one called out "Retreat!" and the troops, having no officers, were seized with a panic, made a runaway – what you call a rout of it."
Massinger groaned. "Who could have imagined it! Such a regiment as the 43rd! Think what they did in the Peninsular war! Such things will happen from time to time. Why didn't they starve them out?"
"That was what my father and Waka Nene said. They were surrounded. They had no water, and only raw potatoes to eat. In a few days they must have given in. In Heke's war Colonel Despard made just the same mistake. My father and Mr. Waterton were there."
