Yes, they charged and charged home, for they broke their way, by sheer pluck and hard hitting, right through the ranks of the enemy (Hill killing his man en route) and reached the gate of the pah, which they entered, only two of them being wounded during the rush.
The men left on the ridge opened fire on the Hau Hau rifle pits, until Te Kooti sent a party to take them in the rear, when the untrustworthy natives all bolted, the four white men retired, and only old Ihaka with two of his men were left. These three splendid warriors held the position to the last gasp, then Ihaka gave the word to scatter and try to get away. The two men were caught and killed, but the old veteran managed to elude his pursuers and reach Te Wairoa in safety, where he gave the O.C. his opinion of his conduct.
On Hill entering the pah he found it to be manned by small boys and girls, standing on mounds of earth and stones to enable them to fire over the parapet, and that even with his twenty-five men he had not nearly enough hands to man the works. He at once went to the point of the greatest danger, a bastion, and could hear the Hau Haus sapping through the hard ground. He quickly noticed that the palisades were rotten, so much so that if the enemy could sap near enough to throw a pole, attached to a long rope, over the fence, a strong pull on the rope would cause such a breach that a storming party could at once enter, when numbers must gain the day. Fortunately there was in the pah a number of oxen chains; the ends of these he made fast to the big corner posts of the work, and passed the chains outside the weak palisades, so rendering that style of attack abortive.
In the bastion with him he had only two men, two small boys and three little girls, supplemented occasionally by the Maori clergyman, who, between long prayers for the safety of his flock, hurled all the vituperations and cuss words to be found in the sacred writings at the heads of Te Kooti and his followers.
Hill, when he entered the pah, was famished for want of food; he naturally asked for some, and was furnished with a cup of tea, one biscuit and one apple. Surprised at such meagre fare, tendered by the most hospitable people on earth, he asked for more and then ascertained that the food he had just eaten was the very last particles of provisions the place contained. But the garrison swore that before they surrendered they would eat their own children rather than let them fall into the hands of Te Kooti.
All the remainder of that day and the ensuing night heavy firing was kept up, the Hau Haus attempting to tear down the palisades; but they were, thanks to Hill’s dodge with the oxen chains, unable to gain an entrance, although the defenders had frequently to rush from side to side of the works to oppose them. At daylight next morning it was discovered the enemy had constructed a line of rifle pits, close to the front face of the pah, on which were hoisted flags, and at sunrise, with much bugling, volley after volley was poured into the defenders’ works.
Hill mustered his scanty and tired garrison to repel the expected rush, and lay quiet, having directed his men to reserve their fire till the rush was made.
After some considerable time had passed the flags were suddenly withdrawn, the bugling and volleys ceased, and a dead silence ensued. The defenders, on the qui vive for some fresh devilry, sat tight, until one of them, unable to stand the suspense any longer, crept out and crawled to the edge of the cliff to reconnoitre. He reached the edge, took one glance, and was on his feet in a second, letting out a wild whoop of triumph. Out tumbled man, woman and child; they lined the edge of the cliff, and with one accord broke into a wild war-dance (the parson leading), for still close, but in full retreat, they saw Te Kooti and his baffled gang of murderers. Oh, but it was a glorious triumph, and must be celebrated with befitting honours, that the great false prophet with his much-feared, blood-smeared warriors had to turn their backs on a nearly defenceless pah, whose garrison consisted chiefly of women and children.
Trooper George Hill, however, had his duty to perform; he had no time for feasts nor triumphs, for although the Maoris begged him to remain, assuring him the roads would be ambuscaded, he caught one of Te Kooti’s knocked-up horses and started along the Napier Road, so as to convey the intelligence that the Hau Haus had retreated. Twelve miles along the track he met with the advance guard of the relieving column, who had taken three days to do a journey that should have been completed in eight hours. The men, mad with the procrastination and incompetency of their officers, were nearly in a state of mutiny, but it was of no avail; for although Trooper Hill reported Te Kooti had retreated, and offered to guide the mounted men on his track, and at all events regain the plunder, nothing was done, and the Hau Haus were allowed to retire in peace.
There is no need for me to say any more about the officers, plenty was said about them at the time they were incapable; let them rip.
Trooper Hill, however, did not think he had yet finished his work, for as soon as he had snatched a bite of food he volunteered to go out and scout for some of the unfortunate white women and children who were known to be fugitives or hidden in the wild bush and fern ranges. This he did, and succeeded in finding, relieving and bringing into safety several of the wretched, starving creatures, who otherwise must have died from privations.
Trooper George Hill received the New Zealand Cross, and I for one say he richly deserved it, not only for the courage he displayed in action, but also his gallant conduct saved the honour and repute of the white man amongst the friendly Maoris who were disgusted by the unfortunate behaviour of the officers.
Let me spin you a yarn of how a Maori was so imbued with fanaticism that he faced in cold blood extinction for the same.
Many of the Hau Haus, bloodthirsty, cruel fanatics as they were, whom the Colonial forces ruthlessly knocked on the head during the latter half of the New Zealand wars, are just as much entitled to be enrolled in the army of martyrs as are the early Christians or any other poor devils who have perished by fire or sword for believing and sticking to their faith.
Again, there are many instances of Hau Haus who were so strong in their convictions that they of their own free will deliberately offered themselves up to undergo the fiery ordeal by leaving their harbours of safety and, unarmed, trusting alone to spiritual aid, faced certain death; and I have never read of any persecuted communities doing the same.
When in 1865 the Pai Marire religion was promulgated by a demented Maori named Te Ua, the two principal promises held out to induce the Maoris to join the new religion were: first, that they should be rendered invulnerable in action; and, secondly, that they should be granted the gift of tongues. They were also promised the assistance of legions of angels, and that those white soldiers who were not turned into stone should with the rest of the settlers be driven into the sea, after which the natives should be given the knowledge of all the European arts and sciences. Please note he made no promise about a future state, nor, like Mahomet, did he invent any gorgeous paradise, thronged with pretty girls, where free drinks would be served out ad libitum.
Now these were queer promises to captivate a Maori warrior, as after the first excitement there was but little in them to induce him to abandon Christianity and cling to Hau Hauism. Let us take them seriatim, remembering at the same time that the Maori is an astute reasoner. First of all the promise of invulnerability. Well, that would be all right so long as they only had to fight against the white man, but the pakeha was to be driven out, and what would follow then? War was the Maori’s greatest pleasure, and each tribe hated his neighbour quite as much as he hated the white man. Yet his neighbour was to become just as invulnerable as he was to be himself. Where, therefore, would be the fun if he could not kill his enemy, eat him, nor turn his bones into useful and ornamental articles? Bah! the zest of war would be gone. Then again the second promise. What on earth use could the gift of tongues be to a man when there was not to be a single foreigner left in the country with whom to collogue? As for the other promises, they were not worth a row of pins, for if the warriors became invulnerable they wanted no further angelic aid; and as far as acquiring the arts and sciences went, so long as they could learn how to make rum and grow tobacco, all the rest could go swing, they being willing to live as their fathers had lived before them.
Now I am sure that if the natives had only reasoned as I have just done they would not have thrown off their Christianity in such a hurry and become stark raving Hau Haus; but they seem on this occasion to have lost their wits altogether, for, carried away by the crazy incantations of Te Ua’s apostles, they not only embraced the new faith, but believed in the truth of it, so much so that there are plenty of instances of their laying down their lives for it—and no man can do more.
Another wonderful thing is that even after four years’ continuous fighting, during which period the angel had not only failed to bear a hand, but had not even rendered one man invulnerable, as apostle, priest and warrior had been put out of mess by the white man’s bullet, still they were strong in their faith, and there are plenty of instances of Hau Haus, believing in the promise of the angel, offering their bodies as a target so as to prove the truth of their religion. And now for the yarn.
The scene is a Maori kainga on the east coast of New Zealand, date 1869, time of day about 9 a.m. The village, composed of some twenty huts, stands in a clearing surrounded by dense bush, and in the foreground stands the Niu, the sacred pole round which the fanatics perform their mad dances and mystic incantations. I said it was a Maori kainga; so it had been, though the only Maoris at present inside it are perhaps a score, and these lie about very dead indeed. The remainder of its whilom inhabitants have fled away into the depths of the bush and are safe from the pursuit of the strong party of Colonial Irregulars, who, having, after a long, wearying night’s march, surprised and rushed the place at daybreak, are now in occupation of it. These men, having eaten their frugal meal, and worn out by their overnight’s march, with the exception of the guard lie around booted and belted and with their carbines by their sides, trying to get what sleep they can, as at any moment they may again be called upon for active service. On the low fence surrounding the Niu ring, which is about thirty feet in diameter, the ground within the magic circle being trampled as hard and smooth as stone pavement by the feet of its former worshippers, lounge some half-dozen officers smoking and dozing. The day is a fine one, the sun shines hot, the white men rest, the Hau Haus, far away in the recesses of the bush, bind up their wounds and talk of utu (revenge). No, not all of them, for the undergrowth parts and out into the clearing strides a big, stark-naked Maori, who, without paying the slightest attention to any of the astonished and by now wideawake men, passes through them and, without apparently seeing the group of officers, enters the Niu ring, where, after saluting the pole, he prances slowly round it, chanting in a minor key the words: “Hau Hau, Pai Marire” (Wind, wind, good, peaceful), over and over again. Gradually he gets up steam and, paying no attention to the throng of armed enemies who now surround the mystic circle, he cavorts higher and faster, while his monotonous chant is raised to the full gamut of his deep, bass voice. Presently he foams at the mouth, his features become distorted, sweat pours through his skin like water, on his hands held rigid his fingers quiver, while with leaps and bounds his stamping feet beat time to the chant of “Hau Hau, Pai Marire.”
How long this exhibition would have continued the Lord only knows, for it was brought to a sudden termination by a big Scotch Presbyterian sergeant, who, being as bigoted as they make them, could not tolerate the ritual of a foreign denomination, so he stepped out of the crowd of men and, as the fanatic devotee pranced past him, he with a leg as brawny as that of a Highland stot let fly a kick, at the same time exclaiming: “Hae done, ye pagan, wi yer satanic cantrips.” Out flew the No. 12 boot, which, catching the unfortunate bounder fair and square on the crupper bone, launched him through space till, the momentum being expended, he landed on his nose at the Colonel’s feet.
“Get up,” quoth the O.C. in Maori, at the same time giving the officious non-com. a look that made the ower-guid mon wilt. “Now, what made you come here?”
The Colonel spoke the language like a native, and what he did not know about Hau Haus was not worth learning, so he was not in the least bit surprised when the somewhat blown native staggered to his feet and answered him in perfect English: “I came here among you to turn you all into stone, and should have done so had not that man, whose head is fit to be boiled, interrupted me.”
“Ah,” replied the O.C., “I know you; you assisted Nama to torture women and children at Poverty Bay.”
“I did,” triumphantly exclaimed the fanatic. “Sweet is the blood of women and children.” (Note this fellow had been mission bred and educated, in fact had acted as a lay Bible reader.)
“Ah, is it,” growled the Colonel. “Sergeant O’Halloran, detail four men, take this fellow to that tree and do your duty.”
The Sergeant saluted smartly, quickly told off four men, advanced to his prisoner, whose arm he grasped with a shoulder-of-mutton fist, at the same time exclaiming: “Come along wid me, ye bloody-minded Fanian.”
A few steps took them to the huge tortara-tree that had been pointed out, against the trunk of which the Sergeant, drawing his revolver, placed the Hau Hau. “And now,” said he, “a Christian ye were wance, and a bloody pagan ye are now, bad luck to the likes of ye, but ave ye wist to recant and make yer sowl, sure it’s foive minutes I’ll give ye to make it.—Fall in, boys, tin yards forninst us.”
Now no good soldier man, be he regular or irregular, likes to make one of a firing party, told off to shoot a man in cold blood, law or no law, and it is usual in such cases to detail the worst characters in a regiment to perform that obnoxious duty; but when it comes to letting daylight into a fiend who brags of having tortured helpless women and children, then no frontiersman jibs at making one of a party to do so. Therefore, no matter how distasteful the job might be to any of the four men told off on this special occasion, they fell in with great alacrity and brought their carbines to the shoulder like one man.
“Hurry up, ye spalpeen, and make yer sowl,” quoth the Sergeant.
“You can’t shoot me,” replied the fanatic, “the great Gabriel and all his angels protect me; you can’t kill me.”
“Nabocklish” (maybe not), answered the imperturbable non-com., “but by the holy poker we’ll have a darned good try. Will yez call on the blessed saints or not, ye contumacious blaggard?”
“Hau Hau, Pai Marire,” shouted the fanatic, raising his arms, stretching them to the full extent and turning the hands, palms outwards, towards the firing party.
“Ah, thin ye won’t,” growled the now somewhat enraged non-com., “thin go to hell yer own way. Ready!”
“Hau Hau, Pai Marire,” yelled the fanatic.
“Present!” ordered the Sergeant.
“Hau Hau, Pai Marire,” triumphantly shrieked the Maori.
“Fire!”
“Hau Hau” bang came all together, and the misguided fanatic, smote full in the chest by four sneider bullets, collapsed and fell on his face as dead as Julius Cæsar.
Now was that Hau Hau, blood-stained brute as he undoubtedly was, a martyr or only a bally fool? Remember, he had only a few hours previously escaped from out of a sharp fight in which many of his co-religionists had been killed, and after winning through to safety himself he is so strong in his faith that he voluntarily returns alone and unarmed to justify the truth of his conviction, although he well knows he is facing certain death providing he be wrong in his belief.
You may call him which or what you please, but I maintain that he is just as much to be enrolled in the army of martyrs as any of the poor devils who were stretched on red-hot gridirons, or were put to death in other unpleasant ways, for testifying to what they believed to be the truth.
(Told by the Old Identity)
In Australia, during the early seventies, bushrangers were still to the fore, who with cattle-thieves and hostile blacks made the squatters on the back blocks keep their eyes skinned, and the banker in the bush townships cash a cheque with one hand, while he kept the other on his revolver.
True the mounted police were very good, none better, but, like the British army, there were not enough of them, and the amount of work in covering, protecting and patrolling such enormous areas of country was far beyond what their limited number could properly do. Indeed, there are plenty of well-known cases where the bushrangers have overcome the police, handcuffed them in their own station, then stuck up the bank and, after raiding the town, started off on the best horses in the place and disappeared into the bush, not to be heard of again until they bailed up a coach, or stuck up some station, perhaps 150 miles away. Well, to get on with my yarn.
Some six and thirty years ago I was on leave in Australia, and was putting in some of it as a guest on a large cattle run and sheep station owned by two old friends of mine who had already become wealthy men, and who owned an enormous number of cattle and sheep.
The house, like most of its sort at that time in Australia, was built of split slabs of wood, with a shingle roof. It contained four good-sized rooms and a very wide hall running right through it, which was used as a dining-room and lounge.
The kitchen and offices were close to, in rear of the house, and the men’s quarters, stables, store and outhouses were near by. The whole block of buildings stood in the open, and was surrounded by wire-fenced paddocks, so that no one could approach within a long distance of the house on any side without being seen. My friends’ home staff at that time consisted of six white men, all good and to be relied upon, also two China boy-cooks, and a few aborigines (black fellows) who were used as trackers and stock-riders. All of these men were well armed, so that with our three selves we made a garrison quite able to beat off any attack of bushrangers or blacks.
I had come up from Brisbane with one of the partners to join in mustering semi-wild cattle, cutting them off from the bush by moonlight and driving them into a mob of tame cattle driven along for the purpose, and then forcing them into a run that led to the stockyards, where they would be drafted and disposed of. There is no more exciting work in the world for a good horseman who is well mounted, can use a stock whip, and who puts no excessive value on his neck or bones.
The cutting-out was to begin next week, and some of the best of my friends’ numerous and splendid stud of horses had been brought in from the paddocks and fed up on hard food, so as to get them into good fettle and wind for the work.
At Brisbane and all the way up by Cob & Co.’s coach we had heard plenty of shaves about bushrangers, especially of one gang led by a scoundrel called Ginger, who, having been hunted over the border from New South Wales, was making things lively in Queensland; as if that colony had not sufficient blackguards of her own growth to look after. These shaves were confirmed at the small bush township, where we left the coach, by the solitary trooper in charge there, who informed my companion that the sergeant and other troopers were away on patrol after this bounder.
There was no telegraphic communication in those days, and all the information we could get was that Ginger’s gang consisted of four, or it might be eight, men. So our traps having been placed in a light cart that had been sent for them, we mounted two slashing horses and rode the forty miles to the station, my friend hearing the news from his head stock-rider, named Blake, who had brought over the horses. This man, a splendid stamp of a Sidney-side Colonial, was convinced we should hear more of Mr Ginger, but feared we should be disappointed in our muster, as our neighbours, having to look after their own homes, would not come in for it.
Well, we reached the station, and I put in two days very contentedly indeed, picking and trying my horses, selecting a stock-whip and kit, and amusing myself generally, so much so that on the evening of the second day, after a good dinner, when we were sitting smoking under the verandah, I bothered my head not at all about Ginger. Presently one of my friends looked up and said: “Hallo, here’s someone coming, and in no end of a hurry too.” We looked and saw the township trooper riding as fast as he could get his horse to travel towards us. He reached us and dismounted, giving his pumped-out horse to one of the blacks who had come for it, and took and drank thankfully the proffered drink, then said: “Mr—Ginger is in the district, and I have been riding since yesterday morning giving the squatters notice to be on the qui vive. I left your station to the last, as the inspector knows you are well armed and your men are to be relied on.”
“Come and have something to eat first and tell your yarn afterwards,” quoth my host, and we adjourned to the hall, where, after the trooper had eaten with the appetite of a half-starved dingo, he informed us that Ginger had reached the district, sticking up stations on his way, and that the inspector with fifteen men were on his track. He had evidently intended to stick up the township, but the arrival of the police had prevented this, so he disappeared, and the inspector thought he would make the attempt to break south again. He therefore requested my friend for the loan of as many men and horses as he could spare, so as to accompany the trooper and stop a gap called the divide, through which the scoundrels might try to break, and where he promised to meet them, during the next twenty-four hours, but at the same time warned them not to leave their station short-handed, as it was quite possible Ginger, close pressed, might try to stick them up so as to steal fresh horses and food.
Blake was sent for, a short council of war was held and his proposal that himself, two of the white men and two black trackers should accompany the trooper was decided on. “And perhaps,” said he, “the Captain here would like to come with us; fighting is in his line, and, my word! if we corner Ginger we shall have some.”
Now Ginger was no business of mine, unless he attacked me; but, being an Irishman, I could not let the chance of a fight pass, and although my friends tried to dissuade me, I determined to go.
We were to start at midnight, so we who were to go lay down to get what rest we could, leaving the others to get the horses ready for us. At midnight we were roused up, and after swallowing a mug of tea and some food, a hurried glance over my horse and kit, to see that my water-bag was well filled and properly slung to the D’s of my saddle, we started.
We were all superbly mounted and well armed, each man carrying two revolvers; I would sooner have carried a carbine, but I was dissuaded, and we had cause to regret it. The fight might have finished much sooner had I done as I judged best; but I was in what was to me a foreign country and, having no official status, gave in to the others. So we started, the blacks leading; and they did lead us. No sooner were we clear of the paddock fences than we broke into a canter, and made for a dense line of bushes about five miles off, and just as we reached it the moon went down. I expected to see the blacks pull up and walk their horses, but not a bit of it. On they went at the same pace. The bush was some miles through, but no crow could have crossed it in a straighter line than they did. On reaching the open ground on the other side we halted and dismounted, for a short time, so as to give our steeds a blow. It was now pitch dark, with not even the glimmer of a star, yet no sooner had we mounted than we broke into a canter again, and rode through open park-like country and bush till the east began to lighten, when we pulled up at a small water-hole.
This was the spot our guides had aimed for, and it was at least twenty miles from our starting-point, so it will give you some idea of the marvellous abilities of these creatures. To be able to ride twenty miles at a sharp pace, through trackless country, on a dark night, and exactly strike the spot they aimed for, was to me wonderful. It may not strike you so, but try it.
We off-saddled, rubbed down, watered and fed our horses out of their nose-bags, then ate some cold mutton and damper, and dozed for a couple of hours, leaving the blacks to keep watch over us and our horses. Saddling up again we rode through clumps of bush and up gently rising ground towards a range of heavily bushed mountains, some ten miles off, through which ran the divide, or pass, we were to guard. We halted when we reached the foot of the range, and took cover in a small clump of bush, off-saddled and sent one black on foot to scout the pass and find by the spoor if anyone had crossed it during the last twenty-four hours.
Of course, being an utter stranger in the land, I knew nothing of the lay of the country, nor even where the pass was; but a rather acrid discussion took place between the stockriders, who declared we were badly posted, and the trooper, who asserted we were not. Unable to give an opinion either way, I was lying down with my head on my saddle when we were roused by some shots. I jumped to my feet just in time to see our scout burst out of a clump of bush and run like a hare towards us, closely followed by four mounted men firing at him.
They were about 500 yards off, and had I had my carbine I could easily have covered the black, and perhaps have ended the job there and then; but my carbine was like the Dutchman’s anchor, left at home, so there was nothing to do but throw our saddles on and try to save him. Quick and smart as we were, we were too late to save poor Tarpot, who was ridden down and riddled. As each of us got into his saddle he charged, and the bushrangers, seeing us coming, turned and galloped back to the bush from which they had issued. I was the fourth to mount, and as I galloped out of the bush I saw the three men in front of me riding in file as hard as they could gallop, with as much as from twenty to thirty yards between them. This was rot; as, if the bushrangers made a stand on reaching their bush, as they were certain to do, they would simply shoot us down from behind cover, one after the other. I therefore shouted to the leading men to rein in and let us get into line; but their blood was up, and on they went. I pulled out to their left, and Blake and the remaining black pulled out to my left. We were therefore in extended line, some fifty yards to the left rear of the last man of the leading three who were in file. The distance was short, and as we were all riding like fiends we soon crossed the open ground between the two clumps of bush.
The trooper, who was the leading man, was within thirty yards of entering it when I saw him throw up his hands and fall headlong from his horse. In a second No. 2 had done the same, and a moment later No. 3 went down, horse and man. Myself and the other two, riding wide of the line of fire, escaped and, although several shots were fired at us, gained the bush unhurt. Then, being on equal terms with the bushrangers, we wheeled our horses to the right and rode at them.
Just at this moment I heard shouts and shots going on close to, at the other side of the bush, but had no time to inquire if it were friends or foes. I spotted a horse’s head coming round a tree-trunk, and was ready for the rider. He appeared, and saw me; but I had him already covered, and had the pleasure of seeing him lurch out of his saddle and come a heavy crumpler. My mates were alongside of me, and we were just going after another bounder, whose horse’s hindquarters were disappearing, when an officer and three troopers broke out on us, and called on us to bail up. In less than a minute we explained who we were, and I was just starting off after the fugitives when the officer called on me to halt, and in a rather haughty manner informed me that he was in command of the party, and that he intended to halt until he had collected his scattered men, some of whom were wounded. As he only stated the truth, I was not such a fool as to feel offended with him, so I went with Blake to see if anything could be done for our fallen mates.
The trooper and the first stockman were both dead, the third man was unwounded, but his horse had been killed, and he had been knocked stiff and silly by the heavy fall. However, after some water and a stiff nip he was soon all right, and swearing he would make the blank-blank-blankety-blank bounders who had killed his pet stock horse and his mate sit up.
We quickly caught the loose horses and were soon joined by the officer and his troopers, who were a very fine, smart-looking crowd, but, to my mind, far too big and too heavy for this sort of game. They had two of their number badly wounded, but had wounded and captured three bushrangers, so that, with the one I had put out of mess, Ginger could now have only three men with him. The officer, therefore, determined to follow their spoor with our party and four of his own men. Messengers were despatched to other patrols and to the nearest station to obtain a conveyance for the wounded men, and we started under the guidance of Jampot, our remaining black.
“Do you think he will be able to track them?” I asked Blake.
“My word,” he replied, “Jampot has now a blood feud against Ginger, and will follow him to the death. Ginger may turn and twist how he likes, but unless he can grow wings, or kill Jampot, Jampot will kill him.”
I had seen plenty of tracking in my time—I even had the cheek to fancy myself a bit at it—and had seen good work done both by white men and Maoris. I had even seen a tame black fellow after stray cattle; but I was now to see a real warrior black, with a blood feud, at the game. I expected a great deal, and I was not disappointed—in fact I saw more than I had ever imagined to be possible. Well, we were ready to start.
Jampot had made use of the time in transmogrifying himself into a fiend, and he certainly looked a hideous nightmare in his war paint. Jumping on his horse, he rode to the end of the bush, circled once or twice to take note of the different spoors, then broke into a canter and rode nearly due south.
Mile after mile he kept on, over all sorts of ground, through bush and over hard land, never pausing for an instant.
“Do you mean to tell me that that black fellow can see spoor going at this pace and over such ground as we are now on?” said I to Blake.
He only nodded his head and muttered: “My word!” This is a great Australian expression, and will signify almost anything.
We came to a creek, and Jampot was off his horse in a second and was examining the rocks round the water-holes. All at once he held up his hand; Blake and myself went carefully to him.
Blake and he talked gibberish for a minute, then, turning to me, the former said: “Jampot tells me one of them is badly hit and can’t go far.”
“How on earth does he know that?”
“He has seen blood on the trail and can tell by the tracks on these rocks.”
“Tracks?” I said. “Where are they?”
He spoke to Jampot, who immediately put his finger on several places on the rocks.
I examined the spots closely, but could see nothing, not even when I used a prospecting-glass I had in my pocket. Yet this marvellous savage could distinguish spoor with his naked eye, and had spotted blood-marks on the trail while going at a smart canter in blazing sunshine, where I could only now and then just barely see hoof-marks. Jampot was now very keen to go on, so after we had given our horses a blow and a few go-downs of water it was a case of mount and canter.
Away we went, Jampot leading; but now he went slower, and occasionally swerved from his line, bending down and regarding the ground intently. We had only gone a couple of miles or so when he turned in his saddle and, with a grin on his face a fiend would have envied, pointed at a small clump of bushes to his right front, and made directly for them.
Drawing our revolvers, we followed, to find him dismounted, bending over the body of a dead man.
He was a fine-looking, clean-built young fellow, and seemed far too good for the game he had been playing. But there was no time for moralising; so, preventing Jampot from mutilating the remains, we again mounted, broke into a canter, and went on.
The weight they carried had now begun to tell on the troopers’ horses, and they showed signs of having had enough of it: and presently we came to a dead horse. He had been wantonly shot, and it made my blood boil to see the poor brute lie there.
We were now approaching a long bare line of hills, and suddenly Jampot let a yell out of him and pointed at them. I unslung my field-glasses, and could see three men, dismounted, leading their horses, nearly at the top of the range, and about three miles in front of us.
We at once gave our horses the spur and went for them.
They reached the summit, paused for a minute or two to give their horses a blow, mounted and disappeared over the sky-line. We reached the hill, jumped off, and hurried up it, leading our horses; but the gallop had finished the troopers’ nags, and when we got to the top the officer found, with the exception of my party, he was alone. His horse was done, and even the hard-fed, splendid mounts of myself and mates had begun to show symptoms of distress. Quickly unscrewing the top of my flask, I emptied the spirits into my water-bag, and forced my horse to drink the contents. My comrades immediately followed my example and the noble beasts soon bucked up.
In the meantime the sergeant had reached the top, and with the officer and Blake held a consultation as to where we were, Jampot being called on to assist.
He spoke to Blake, who turned round and ejaculated: “My word, those hounds are making for Edwards’ Station. It’s only six miles off. The men are away; there are women and children there, and fresh horses.”
The officer at once said to me: “You and your party are the best mounted and the lightest weights. Jampot may be able to take you a short cut. Ride like fury. You may be just in time, and if it comes to fighting you know all about that; but on no account leave there till I come.” He said something more about not letting the bushrangers get fresh horses; but his words of wisdom were left behind us, for we were off, and I had the wildest ride I ever had in my life. The slope of the hill was steep and rough, but we tore down it at full pace.
Our horses, maddened with the spur, almost seemed to fly, clearing rocks and fallen timber as if they were simply straws, while we, rendered desperate by the thought of the danger of the women and children, urged them on with voice and spur, though we wisely gave them their heads and let their mouths alone.
They were all bush-bred horses, knew their work and did it without a fault or fall, which would have been certain death to both man and beast.
Well, we came to the foot of the hill and each man, taking his own line, although Jampot still led, galloped through the bush, every man riding all he knew.
Soon we came to the open and saw the house; yes, and we saw something else, for in front of it stood three knocked-up horses with hanging heads. A paddock with a heavy post-and-rail fence lay between us, so, catching hold of our horses’ heads, we sent them at it. Over we went, in line, and charged for the house, a woman’s scream causing us, if possible, to put on pace. Just then we saw a man coming from the stable leading three horses, and he saw us at the same time. Our appearance, from an unexpected direction, must have rattled him a bit. The horses he led, excited by the sound of our galloping hoofs, became restive and started plunging, so he let them go as Blake rode for him. I heard the pistol shots, but could pay no attention, as out from the French windows rushed two men. They made for the horses, then, seeing they had no chance, turned and opened fire on us.
The man nearest me had a big red beard, and I knew he must be Ginger, so I rode at him. Jampot rode at him too, firing as fast as he could; and this most likely upset Ginger’s aim as, although I heard bullets whistle past me as I lay on my horse’s neck, I was unwounded. When I was within twenty yards of him I fired twice and circled left, so as not to crash into the house. Both shots took effect. He fell, and was still trying to cover me when Jampot, jumping off his horse, rushed up to him and shot him through the head. Blake now joined us, slightly wounded, having accounted for his man, and we found our other mate on the ground badly hurt; he had succeeded in also dropping his man, who, preferring to be hung instead of shot, surrendered.
I entered the house and found the ladies unhurt but badly frightened. They, however, with the self-control and handiness of colonial women, at once set to work to tend the wounded.
Jampot was still amusing himself with the remains of Ginger, but, as it is against my principles to allow heathen ceremonies to be performed on a white man, no matter how big a blackguard he has been, I made him desist and help me to look after the horses, the real heroes of the play.
The China boy-cook came out of his hiding-place and started to cook huge supplies of food for ourselves and the troopers, who turned up soon afterwards.
A swim in a water-hole, a good dinner, a long sleep, and on the following morning myself, Blake and Jampot returned home.
(Told by the Kia Tangata)
Scouting, like every other sort of business, has its ups and downs, and a scout may often fail to obtain the information he has gone out to gain, through no fault of his own. He may even lose the number of his mess, be captured, or have to ride or run for his life, notwithstanding the fact that he has played the right game from the start, until something happens, and he fails, frequently through bad luck, or because the vigilance of the enemy renders it impossible to achieve success. It has been my lot, as it has been the lot of many a better man, to fail frequently while scouting, and on more than one occasion I have been spotted by the enemy and have had to ride or run hard to save my bacon, without completing the duty on which I had been despatched. A yarn about one of these occasions may amuse you, although there is but little information as regards scouting in it.
It was in the year 1869 that we were after Te Kooti and the rebel Hau Haus in the Taupo district, and were building a chain of forts from Napier to Lake Taupo, so as to cut off the Uriwera and east-coast Hau Haus from the King Country and Taupo rebels.
Lake Taupo is a huge expanse of water on the high plateau in the centre of the North Island of New Zealand, and is fed by many rivers, creeks and boiling springs; but there is only one outlet to drain off its superfluous water, and this is called the River Waikato, which debouches out of the north-east corner of the lake in a deep and very rapid stream, running east, then bends north and north-west, forming a big bow; then turning to the north it eventually makes a sharp turn to the west, and flows into the Pacific Ocean south of Manakau Harbour.
This river, fed as it is from the big lake and also by innumerable tributaries, is, although not very broad, a most dangerous one to cross, especially while it is descending from the high plateau, as it either rushes through high banks or tumbles in foaming cataracts among large rocks until at last, as if tired with its exertions, it becomes a well-behaved, navigable river, and forms what was in early times one of the only roads into the interior of New Zealand; but during its whole course from the lake to the ocean it is a dangerous one to play with.
On the precipitous south bank of this river, some 200 yards from the lake, we were, in 1869, building a redoubt called Tapuaeharuru (the Place of Sounding Footsteps), and it was from this fort that I was ordered to ride to Te-Niho-te-Kiori (the Rat’s Tooth), an enormous pinnacle of rock that springs from the ground just where the river starts on its long flow to the north. I was therefore, as it were, to ride along the string of a bent bow and, if successful in reaching this rock, to try and open communications with another column supposed to be in its vicinity.
It was not what some people might call a safe journey: road there was none, and the route I had to take was through country that, although it could not be called mountainous nor thickly bushed, was covered with manuka scrub and wire grass, with here and there a clump of heavy timber, while an occasional column of snowwhite steam, rising into the air, denoted a boiling spring. These columns were of different magnitude, and as I knew which side of the river the principal geysers were on, and their situation, as seen from the river and fort, they proved most useful landmarks to me later on in the day.
At daybreak one lovely morning I plumped my saddle into a canoe and was ferried across the stream, my horse swimming astern, and on gaining the bank, after drying his back, I carefully saddled-up, lit my pipe and, with a cheery “So long” to the men who had paddled me over, mounted and rode away.
As soon as I was out of rifle-range of the camp I was in No Man’s Land, and every native I met would be an enemy. I had twenty-five miles to ride to get to the Rat’s Tooth, and had to depend entirely on my own wit and the good qualities of my horse to save my hair, in case I fell across any parties of wandering Hau Haus. My orders also directed me to look out for any signs of the enemy, and in case I cut a spoor I was to prospect it and try to ascertain if it were the track of a Taua (war party) or not.
The horse I rode was indeed a noble brute. Standing fifteen hands, he possessed every quality that a scout’s horse should. Not only was he very well bred, fast and strong, but he combined the manners of a lady with the courage of the lion, could scramble like a cat and swim like a fish; and all these qualities he was destined to display before that day was over. As, if possible, I was to return the same day, I rode light, carrying nothing on my saddle except half-a-feed for my horse and a couple of biscuits for myself. I wore neither tunic nor sword, but carried a carbine, with the usual revolver and knife, while my dress consisted only of a smasher hat, shirt, breeches and boots, with very short-necked spurs.
“There is nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,” sings the poet, but I’ll gamble that a smart canter on a high-bred, free-going horse beats dreaming all to fits, and is much better for you. Anyhow I thoroughly enjoyed the first part of that ride through the sharp, clear air, notwithstanding that I had to keep every sense on deck, and my thoughts, concentrated by looking out for an enemy or for hostile spoor, were occupied with far sterner matters than love or dalliance. For the first six miles or so I made good progress, the ground being fairly open and the obstacles quite insignificant; but then I reached a part where a chain of heavily bushed hills ran on my left hand for some miles, the river being six miles to my right. The pumice-stone flat over which I was riding was here much cut up by gullies running from the hills to the river; some of them containing creeks, the remainder being dry, but all of them with nearly perpendicular sides, which, except in places, were not to be negotiated by horse or man. As the depth of them varied so did the direction, some of them running into one another, while the others ran direct to the river. These I had to cross, and it was very nasty, dangerous work, in more ways than one.
First of all I had to look for a place where my horse could descend into the bed of the gully, at the same time looking out for a place on the other side up which we could scramble. This took time, as occasionally I had to ride a considerable distance up or down the edge before I could find a place suitable either to descend or to get out again; and it would have been an act of madness for me to have gone down into one of these ravines without having spotted a way of getting out again. Yet, at the same time, cross them I must. Again I had to make mental notes of every crossing, and take bearings, so that I should remember each gully and how to get back. I never forgot for a moment I was in an enemy’s country and that perhaps my return journey might be expedited by a taua; besides, I had to keep my eyes open for an ambush, as it was quite possible I had already been spotted from the hills, among which many Hau Haus might be lurking, as the Maoris always make their plantations in the bush.
I had crossed some ten of these gullies when I came to a very big one, about forty feet deep and perhaps fifty yards broad. With trouble I could get down into this, but could not see, although I rode a considerable distance along its edge, any way of getting out on the other side. There was, however, another gully running into it that apparently took a northerly direction—the way I wanted to go—and if I entered this one and followed it I might be able to regain the level of the plain farther on.
It was a very grave risk to run, but it was a case of Hobson’s choice, that or none; so, after a long look at the hills, to see if I could spot any signs of danger from them, I hardened my heart, descended with a nasty scramble and made for the entrance of the gully I had seen from the plain. I had no sooner reached the mouth of it than I reined up sharply, for there, clearly defined, and not twenty-four hours old, were the tracks of at least twenty, perhaps thirty, horses that, coming from the north, had turned to the right on reaching the big gully and proceeded towards the hills. As there was no spoor returning, it was evident that a number of the enemy must be located in their bushed recesses, and, in case they should have spotted me, they would most certainly do their best to cut me off. Yet, as their horses had used the gully, there must be a way out of it, and if I made a push for it I could take advantage of it to regain the level of the plain; anyhow it was no use staying where I was. I must go back, or go on.
Naturally, I was keen to complete my duty; so as soon as I had taken a good look at my carbine and revolver I entered the gully and rode forward at a steady pace. For nearly a mile it ran with a few bends due north, the bottom of it being smooth and the sides perpendicular. Then the bed began to rise with a gentle slope, until it eventually rose to the level of the plain. Its width was in no place more than ten yards across, and it had been formed by some convulsion of nature that had caused the surface to sink, and it looked as if it had been gouged out of the earth. There are plenty of these freaks of nature on the Taupo and Kaingaroa plains, sometimes like the one I was in, accessible at the ends, and others with precipitous sides all round.
Well, I had just got to where the gradual slope began when I heard a row behind me and, looking round, saw over twenty natives riding as hard as they could in pursuit. They were still some 300 yards away, and as soon as they saw I had spotted them they started yelling like over-tortured fiends. It was certainly time for me to hump myself, and I increased my pace so as to put a greater distance between us, while I rapidly thought out the best plan to shake off this undesirable company. Had I been on open ground I should have regarded the contretemps with placidity, and perhaps have enjoyed picking off a few of these howling sinners, but, mixed up as I was among the network of vile gullies, it was no joke, and the sun was on their side of the hedge.
The only feasible plan I could think of, was to follow the enemy’s own tracks, as where they had travelled with horses so could I, until I was clear of these confounded gullies. You must remember I was quite ignorant of this part of the country, never having crossed the river before, and only knowing that if I kept due north I should cut the river; and on its banks was the Rat’s Tooth I had to find. The Hau Haus, on the other hand, would know the country, and all the spots where they could cross the gullies thoroughly, and would, of course, try to cut me off. With these fiends in pursuit I should have no time to look for crossing-places whenever I came across a ravine, and I was sure these existed as far as the range of hills, which still extended for some miles on my left, ran. Therefore I must follow the natives’ spoor, so as to strike their crossing-places, and make use of them. Of course I might fall in with a fresh gang of Hau Haus, but I had to risk that; needs must when the devil drives; and although I had not Old Nick behind me in propriâ personâ, yet those who were, so remarkably resembled him as to quite make up by quantity any deficiency they lacked in quality.
I had not the least fear, bar accidents, of their being able to catch me by riding me down, as my hard-fed, splendid-conditioned horse for pace and staying powers was far and away superior to their half-starved, grass-fed nags; and even if they had a good animal or two, looted from settlers, among them, yet these would have so deteriorated in their brutal hands as to be quite unfit to cope with my gallant mount; besides, in a long chase, like this might be, riding and handling would count a lot, and even if one or two did press me I could back my carbine against their guns, as a Maori is a vile shot. All these thoughts passed through my brain during the few minutes I was galloping along the gully and gradually ascending to the level of the plain. But Bobby Burns speaks the truth when he remarks that the schemes of both mice and men are liable to go crooked; for my hastily and maybe well-thought-out plan was all blown to blue blazes the moment I emerged from the gully, as it was all I could do to swing my horse to the right to prevent riding slap-bang into a big gang of Maoris, some of whom were mounted.
This party were making for the entry I had just left, for as I shot out of it the nearest of them was within ten yards of me. They straggled in a diagonal line, about 100 yards long, across to what was evidently the outlet to another gully, as in the hurried glance I took of them I saw a horseman emerging as if from the ground. The presence of these bounders, although not exactly astonishing, was most undesirable, and I sent my horse along, so as to escape nearer acquaintance with them; nor did they seem to be quite pleased with me, as they all started yelling like fiends, and those who carried their fire-locks capped at once fired them off in my direction, while with one accord they all began to chase me.
It was high time for me to get out of that, but my horse’s pace soon carried me clear out of gun-shot danger, and I quickly edged away to my left to try and find, when I reached the gully, which I knew must be close in that direction, a crossing-place, so that I could get round the enemy’s flank and still carry out my duty. One thing I was sure of, the Hau Haus would never give up the pursuit so long as there was the ghost of a chance of catching me.
As I expected, I soon came to a ravine running east, towards the river, and at the first glance saw that it was a teaser. Over twenty feet in depth, its sides, composed of hard pumice-stone, were quite perpendicular and unnegotiable, even by a monkey. I therefore had to continue along the brink, while a loud, jeering yell made me understand that the natives well knew there was no possibility of my being able to cross it. I was annoyed, more than annoyed, and I determined to solace myself by picking off one of the hilarious bounders, but decided first of all to try the other flank. Letting my horse go, I again crossed, diagonally, the enemy’s front, only to find myself, after a gallop of not more than 400 yards, brought up by a similar gully. Again the jeering yell broke out, and I knew I was cornered between these infernal ravines and the Waikato River.
I halted and turned so as to take a good look at the pursuing Hau Haus, and determined to make it hot for the leading man, but was sold again, as I found they had extended in line between the two ravines. They were over a hundred in number, including at least forty mounted men, these latter being scattered among the footmen, with the exception of some eight or ten, who rode together about a hundred yards in rear of the line, with the evident intention of strengthening any part of it, should I charge and try to break through. This for a moment I thought of doing, but on looking towards the spots where the only two outlets I knew of were situated, I saw clumps of men stationed at them, so I was convinced it was no use charging, at least not at this period of the game.
The deliberate way the Hau Haus were advancing showed me that they knew it was impossible for me to break away to either flank, and that they were systematically going to pen me up against the river and try to capture me alive. This I determined they should not do; somehow I was convinced that my day had not yet come, and I had such an inner conviction I was going to wriggle out of my scrape that I felt quite easy about myself and only anxious about my horse.
The moment I halted the enemy began to poke fun at me. One shouted: “Get fins, like a fish, for yourself and horse, then swim the river.” Another wag roared out: “Grow wings like a pigeon and fly back to your home.” This was advice which, although not solicited, could scarcely be called rude. But another ribald ruffian was not only rude but grossly personal, for, running out in front of the line, he howled out, with the most insulting gestures: “Render yourself up to us; the women are making ready the ovens, and I hunger for your flesh.”
I shouted back, and my voice carried far in those days: “You whose head is fit to be boiled” (the most awful insult in the Maori tongue), “thou at least shalt not partake of the feast; go feed on the spirits of your fathers.” The old sneider carbine, though laughed at nowadays, was true up to 300 yards, and the Maori was not more than 200 yards from me. He had just begun to make some nasty, uncalled-for remarks when I proved the correctness of my prophecy to him, by dropping him in his tracks, thereby cutting short what might have been a most eloquent oration.
A wild yell with a wilder volley answered my shot, and the line made a kokiri (short charge) in my direction. I only lingered long enough to shout in Maori, “I have caught the first man” (a most important and lucky omen in Maori warfare), then turned and cantered away out of rifle-range, as it would never do to have my horse wounded.
It was high time I should put on my considering cap and think out the situation and my future movements. It would have been far more to my advantage had they followed me in a straggling mob, as then I could have picked off the leaders, and it would have denoted anxiety, on their part, lest I should find some possible crossing by which I could escape; but the quiet, methodical way they were going about their business showed me that they considered my chance of getting away was nil, and that they had made up their minds to risk nothing, that the gullies could not be crossed, so that their intention was to drive me before them to the river’s bank, and hive me there at their own convenience, the river being uncrossable.
But halt! Was the river uncrossable? I knew it to be a very dangerous one, even for such swimmers as my horse and self, who together had crossed many a bad river before; but I was also aware that the natives’ great dread of it was caused by superstitious nervousness, just as much as it was caused by its actual dangers. Of course there were very many parts of it quite impossible, but perhaps I might find a place where a determined attempt would have a chance of success. Anyhow I would go and have a look at it.
The river was not more than three miles from me and I cantered steadily towards it, so as not to tire my horse, but still give me time to examine the banks and select the best places to enter, and get out of it, provided I should make up my mind to risk the crossing.
It did not take me long to reach the bank, and I rode along it from one gully to the other. Both of these ran down to the water’s edge, and the bank of the river near both of them was fully twenty feet high, and perpendicular; but half-way between them was a natural depression in the plain, that ran at a gentle slope down to the bank, where it was only four or five feet above the water, which was very deep right up to the bank. This depression slanted upstream, a point in my favour, and this was evidently the place I must take-off from.
The river was indeed a noble one, quite 200 yards broad, and evidently of great depth. Its enormous volume of water, forcing itself along, confined by the high banks, reminded me of a big fat boy buttoned up tight in a suit of clothes far too small for him, wriggling and writhing about, trying to make them more comfortable.
I next turned my attention to the other side, to see if I could spot a place up which we could scramble. The far bank, though lower than the one I was on, was still very steep, and I knew there must be a great depth of water under it; but some 200 yards downstream the land ran out to a point, and there was just the possibility of my horse finding footing there. The current also seemed to set from my side of the river towards this point, and if so it would help me enormously. I tested this by tearing off a branch from a bush and throwing it in, when I saw it rapidly swept towards the spot I hoped to make. The rate at which it was carried also gave me some idea of the tremendous rush of water, the surface of which seemed to writhe and winkle as if in mortal anguish, while the numerous whirlpools informed me what a furious undertow there must be.
Great was the risk we should run in attempting to cross, yet under the circumstances I determined to run it. I felt certain I was not going under that day, and anyhow a clean death in the sweet, cool water of the river was far preferable to being turned into long pig by my brutal pursuers. Then again they might kill my horse and catch me with sufficient life remaining in me to make it worth their trouble to torture it out of me. No fear, I wanted none of that; the river was my dart, especially as my old nurse had always assured me of quite another kind of death than drowning, and, sure, she was known in my part of the world as a knowledgable woman.
The few minutes I had sat and watched the stream at the taking-off place, I had talked to and explained matters to my glorious horse. What’s that you say? a horse can’t understand you? Rot! you taxi-cab, motor-busing new chum. A horse you have treated as a pal, and not as a slave, will understand any simple matter you explain to him, far better than the ordinary Englishman can understand the beauties of tariff reform. Bear that in mind, you mud-splashing, dust-creating greenhorn, if you ever want to become worth your salt on the frontier. Anyhow, my horse understood me, and I rode up to the plain again.
The Hau Haus were not far off, and when they saw me regain the level they evidently thought I had funked the river and was going to try to escape on terra firma, for they saluted me with loud laughter and jeers. Unbuckling my wallet straps, for I had them on my saddle, although I had left the wallets themselves behind me, I carefully fastened my carbine across the pommel of the saddle and also crossed the stirrups. Then, as a farewell to my pursuers, I shouted: “O ye slaves and dogs, I go to bathe in the Waikato; come with me, if ye be not afraid.” I turned my horse and, gripping my saddle, with thighs and legs like a vice, I started at a canter down the slope, increasing my pace and urging him on with my voice, until at last we charged the river at full gallop. The noble animal knew well what I expected from him, for as soon as I gave him his head he pointed his ears and, gathering himself together at every bound, without a swerve, the slightest balk, or the least hesitation, measured his take-off to a nicety, and leaped far out into the air. I was quite prepared for the plunge. I had twisted my hand well into his mane, and had taken a deep breath as we made the spring. I felt the rush through the air, and saw the shining water below us, that seemed to rise and meet us, but I felt no shock; for although we must have raised the deuce of a splash, and must have sunk somewhat, yet we seemed to come to the surface immediately, and the first sensation I noticed was the current tugging at me, as if trying to pull me out of my saddle.
We had taken the water exactly as I hoped we should do—that is, with the horse’s head turned well upstream—so that the tremendous force of the current, although it swept us rapidly downstream, yet carried us diagonally across it. My horse was swimming deep but magnificently, and was not a bit flurried or nervous, and although the current kept tugging at me I had small trouble in retaining my seat, while I eased him in every way I could, talking to him and encouraging him the whole passage. The crossing seemed to take but a very short time, and I saw we should reach the bank above the point. I was very glad of this, as the current ran round the point like a mill sluice, and I did not know how it set on the other side, or what sort of a bank there was round it. We neared the shore, and I turned the good nag’s head towards it, for him to make his effort, but feared the water would be too deep, as although the bank sloped, yet from the water it looked very, very steep. Just as we reached it I felt the noble animal give a tremendous heave, with a mighty rearing plunge; his hind feet must have touched bottom, for he landed with both fore feet on the bank. Like a flash I was over his withers, taking the reins with me, and scrambled to my feet on the slope. It was with difficulty I could keep my footing, but I managed somehow, and, tugging at the reins, I shouted his name and encouraged him all I knew. Gathering himself together, he made another tremendous spring and, with me scrambling in front of him, in a few bounds he reached the top, where I lavished much praise and many endearments on him, these being cut short by the song of an Enfield bullet as it whistled over us; so I led him under cover, loosed his girths, unbuckled my carbine and returned at once to the bank. We had crossed, they might try, and as I had had more of their company than I desired, I intended my carbine to dissuade them; I examined its breech and found that, notwithstanding its bath, it was in good working order, so that was all right. My appearance was greeted with yells, a straggling volley and a frantic war-dance. I never lack in politeness, so, to return their compliments, I danced a step or two myself, shouting, “Come to me, come to me”; then, dropping to a prone position, I took careful aim at a Johnny who was executing a pas seul. My shot spoiled his performance, for he sat down suddenly and was quickly removed by his friends.
I have heard that actors retire gracefully from the stage when the gods express their disapproval by heaving defunct cats and doubtful eggs at them, but I should think they would greatly expedite their movements if a man opened out with a carbine. Yes, they would quickly leave a clear stage; at least it was so in this case, as the company I disapproved of, cutting their dances short, dispersed in a moment, taking their wounded man with them, and hastened in their exits by two more bullets, both of which, I fancy, touched meat.
The Hau Haus having retired, I returned to my horse, removed the saddle and gave him a good rub-down with a handful of fern; then we lunched together. His oats were none the worse for their ducking, while my biscuits, if pulpy, were palatable, and we enjoyed them. The sun quickly dried me and we made for home. There was no chance of reaching the Rat’s Tooth from the side I was on; besides, I considered it my duty to inform my colonel of the presence of the Maoris. Another thing, what were they doing there? I suspected they had large plantations of potatoes in that bush, and that when they blundered up against me they were on their way to dig them up and had brought their horses to carry them away on. If my conjectures were right, I now knew where to find them.
After a hard, scrambling journey over fern ridges we reached the fort, and I reported to the colonel, who babbled a bit at my failure to complete my duty, but was quite pacified when I told him my conjectures about the potatoes. He was not an Irishman, true, but he dearly loved a spud, and if my ideas about them turned out correct, the capture of these potatoes would be of enormous value to us, as the Government were at their wits’ end how to keep us and our horses supplied with rations, while the loss of them, to the enemy, would be very severe.
That night a strong force, on foot, under my guidance, crossed the river and made for the big gully where I had first seen the spoor. We made a smart night’s march, hoping to surprise the enemy and catch them on the hop. In that we failed, their outposts being well on the alert; but in the ensuing skirmish we killed a few of them, captured all their horses and an immense quantity of potatoes, large numbers of these having been already dug up and packed ready for transport, so that my friends the Hau Haus had worked hard for nothing, except our benefit, and I felt very pleased. Was I spiteful? I wonder.
But somehow, now I have spun the yarn out, something seems to have gone wrong with it; for when I come to look at the heading it distinctly states that the tale is to be a yarn about the Scout that Failed. And now I come to think it over, I was really not scouting at all, but only trying to open communications with another column, though to do that is certainly the work of a scout, and I moreover was a scout, but yet I was not scouting. Then as to Failure. Sure if I did fail to find the Rat’s Tooth, faith! I found the spuds.
Therefore the title is a misnomer or I’ve put the wrong yarn to the right title, or the wrong title to the right yarn, but anyhow, failure or not, you’ve the yarn, so digest it and make the best of it, as we did the potatoes; and I assure you there was no failure about them. And as now this finale has bothered me as much as those confounded gullies did, I must confess that after partaking of perhaps too many of those spuds, and very good they were, I broke out into poetry in honour of my glorious horse. I will only give you one verse, so don’t run away:
“A man may love a bow-wow, or a man may love a girl,
He may prate on points of pedigree, or rave about a curl,
But a trooper can love both of these, in a tiny way of course,
For most of his affections are lavished on his horse.
Oh, some men love a steamer yacht, and some love jaunting cars,
And I hear that in a big balloon men soon will visit Mars;
But here’s a toast you all must drink, refuse it if you can,
A health to the noble warhorse, God’s greatest gift to man.”
Don’t throw pannikins at me, but blame potatoes and ration rum taken on an empty stomach. Good-night.