“There’s a sweet little cherub who sits up aloft
And looks after the life of poor Jack.”
Dibdin.
By miraculous escapes I mean those escapes from death that have been entirely engineered by the Power above, who has preserved the life of human beings when they were utterly helpless, and who, for some inscrutable reason, saves one life and allows others to be destroyed.
The yarns I am now going to spin will illustrate, I think, what I have written above.
About midnight on 6th September 1868 a New Zealand Field Force, under the command of Colonel McDonnell, consisting of 200 white men and 70 friendly natives, left camp, crossed the deep, rapid and icy-cold River Waingongora, and started to attack Tetokowaru in his stronghold Te-ngutu-o-te-manu.
I am not going to inflict on you the miserable yarn of the unfortunate fight, as I have written it elsewhere; suffice it to say that the great majority of the 200 white men were untrained new chums, and that over 40 of them bolted at the first volley. The remainder stood their ground, although they refused to extend; so we lost one-third of our number, killed and wounded, in less than a quarter of an hour, and had to retreat, leaving our dead and many wounded men behind us.
So that you can understand the position of affairs, I may tell you that Colonel McDonnell, retaining the command of 100 of the white men, had sent the remaining 100 under Major Von Tempsky, to act on the right of his own party, and, as soon as he saw that nothing but a retreat could save the remainder of his force, he sent Captain McDonnell, his brother, to Von Tempsky with orders for the Major to retreat at once, and join up with his own party.
This order was delivered, but a few seconds later the Major was shot dead. Captain McDonnell then gave the order to Captain Buck, who promised to carry it out. Captain McDonnell returned to his brother, and the retreat began. Instead of immediately obeying the order, Captain Buck endeavoured to recover the Major’s body, and was at once shot dead, without having passed the order on to anyone else. The next senior officer, Captain Roberts, took command of the party; but, as he was ignorant of the order to retreat, he still continued to hold his ground, until he was informed by some of his men that the Colonel had retreated. Joined by a few friendly natives, he retired by another route, and led the remains of his shattered and worn-out party into camp next morning.
Having given you a rough idea how things stood with our men on the afternoon of the 7th (please remember the date), I will now start the yarn.
It was late in the afternoon when Captain Roberts began his retreat, pursued by a party of Hau Haus. His men, nearly all new chums, behaved badly; but with a few good men, and the friendly natives who had joined him, he kept the enemy at bay till nightfall, when they drew off.
Now among his party he had a man named Dore, one of the Wellington Rangers, and a new chum.
This poor fellow had his arm, just below the shoulder, smashed to pieces by a bullet, fell, fainted from loss of blood, and was abandoned.
When he came to, he found himself stripped of everything, with the exception of his tattered and blood-stained shirt.
He must have been discovered by the pursuing Hau Haus, who had evidently thought him dead, but who, although they stripped him, forbore to tomahawk him or mutilate his body. This in itself was a marvel, and shows that that sweet little cherub must have taken his case in hand, as, with one other exception, the Hau Haus were never known to omit tomahawking and mutilating a dead body.
The poor chap hid in a hollow rata-tree, and when it was quite dark attempted to find his way back to camp. He, however, was a new chum, knew nothing of bush work, and consequently lost his way, wandering in a circle, and always returning to the vicinity of the blood-stained pah and ferocious Hau Haus. This he continued to do for three days; but on the evening of the 10th he managed to get out of the bush into the open country, and made for the camp. All this time he had been without a bite of food, with a severe raw wound, with only the fragment of a shirt to protect him against the icy-cold sleet and frost, and although all that time in the close vicinity of the Hau Hau pah, he miraculously escaped being spotted.
As I said before, on the evening of the 10th he found himself in the open country, and struck out for the drift across the flooded Waingongora River. He remembered reaching it, then lost recollection. How he crossed that drift, a very bad one even for a strong and healthy man to tackle alone, is more than a miracle; but he always asserted he was fired on while doing so, and fainted on reaching the bank.
Here he was only two miles from the camp; but his mind became a blank, for he wandered about till the evening of the 12th, when he was discovered by a patrol, coming out of a clump of bush, and he was brought into camp.
Now, just consider for a moment what this man Dore went through, and what awful dangers he escaped. Badly wounded and found by the most savage fanatics on the earth, yet, against their custom, they neither tomahawk nor mutilate him. Then he wanders for over five days, through bitter frost and cold, with an open and untended wound; he escapes the notice of the enemy, crosses, while weak from the loss of blood, starvation and pain, a most dangerous river, and yet, when brought into camp, his wound heals long before those of men who are not nearly so badly hurt, and who have not been through his awful experiences. You may call it luck. I maintain it was the work of that sweet little cherub, who, for his own reasons, “bossed up the whole show!”
In many of my yarns I have mentioned the massacre at Poverty Bay that was engineered by that arch-devil, Te Kooti, and his gang of fiends, called Hau Haus. On 10th July 1868 Te Kooti and some 200 Hau Haus landed at Whare-onga-onga, having escaped from the Chatham Islands. They had overpowered the guard there, seized the schooner Rifleman, forced the crew to sail them to Poverty Bay, and had landed some fifteen miles south of the white settlements. Owing to the criminal negligence of the Government, who, because they wished for peace, persuaded themselves they had got it, the defence force had been disbanded, and even the arms and ammunition removed from the adjacent districts, so that the settlers were almost helpless, while Te Kooti was soon joined by all the restless fanatics in the country.
Major Biggs, who was in charge of the Poverty Bay district, made head against Te Kooti, with whatever men and arms he could scrape together, but with small success. He was also guilty of an unpardonable piece of folly, as he allowed the settlers to remain on their scattered homesteads, and delayed collecting them together for mutual support, although warned to do so by friendly natives, who offered to assist in building defensive works. For this delay he paid dearly, as he and the whole of his family were surprised and, with the exception of one boy, brutally murdered. It was on the night of 9th November that Te Kooti made his raid on Poverty Bay. On that night Captain Wilson, second in command, was sitting in his house writing, when a party of Hau Haus, under a fiend called Nama, knocked at the door and informed him they had a letter for him from Hirini-Te-Kani, the head chief of the district. The Captain, however, had his suspicions, and told them to pass the letter under the door, at the same time arming himself and calling his servant Moran to come to his assistance. Moran slept in an outhouse; but he succeeded in breaking through the enemy, and joined his master. The Hau Haus, seeing they could not deceive the Captain, tried to force the door open with the trunk of a tree. The Captain at once opened fire on them, and forced them to drop it; so they then set fire to the house.
The white men fought on until the house was in full flare, when Captain Wilson accepted the Hau Hau offer of life for himself and family, provided he surrendered. It was a choice of that, or being all burned alive; and as there was a slight possibility of the Hau Haus keeping their promise, Captain Wilson surrendered.
Carrying a little boy in his arms, and followed by his wife and Moran, with the other children, three in number, if I remember rightly, they were surrounded by the Hau Haus, who led them towards the river. En route he asked one of the natives where they were being taken to, and was at once shot, from behind, through the back.
Staggering to a bit of manuka scrub, the Captain threw the child into it, telling him to run, and in the confusion the youngster was not noticed and hid in the scrub. At the same moment Moran was tomahawked, and Mrs Wilson and the children were savagely treated, bayoneted and left for dead. The children were dead, but Mrs Wilson still lived.
Te Kooti and his gang remained in the settlement till the morning of the 14th—mark the date—plundering and murdering all the women and children who had escaped the night of the 9th, and whom his men found in hiding. On the afternoon of the 16th a small patrol from Tauranganui visited the blood-stained settlement and found little James Wilson hidden with a dog in his arms. The boy told them how he was trying to get to Tauranganui to bring help for his mother, who was lying wounded in an outhouse at their late home, but he had lost his way. As well as he could, poor child, he also described his miraculous escape.
He had hid in the scrub, but next day came back to the spot where his family had been murdered. Here he found the bodies of his father, his brothers, his sister and Moran, but not that of his mother.
He had then wandered back to his old home, hiding whenever he saw anyone, and there, in an outhouse, had found his mother lying dreadfully wounded.
The patrol went on to the house and found the poor lady in a dreadful state, but quite conscious. She told them that after the murder of her husband and children she had been most brutally ill-treated and then left for dead. When she came to herself she struggled back to what had been her home, and had taken refuge in an outhouse, where she had been found by her little son, who had kept her alive by scouting for hens’ eggs or anything else he could find.
Now I call the escape of that child miraculous. For a helpless youngster to get away in the first place is wonderful; but that he should have been successful in evading the Maori search, of five days, for stragglers, and after finding his mother, to have been able to feed himself and her for seven days, with the food he scouted for, is a bit more than miraculous, and I put it down entirely to that sweet little cherub who sits up aloft.
Mrs Wilson and her son were removed to Tauranganui and afterwards to Napier. For nine days after she had been found it was hoped she might recover, but her injuries were too great, and she died shortly after she reached the latter place.
The above short and very incomplete yarn may give you some idea of the reason why we, members of the Lost Legion, so cheerfully underwent the great hardships we did to revenge the Poverty Bay massacre of November 1868.
Folly, Pluck and Endurance
It is wonderful what a great number of good scouts and men have jeopardised and even lost their lives and the valuable information they have obtained, by a small act of folly, or by refusing to endure hardships for a few hours longer, when by doing so they might have won through safely and have brought to their O.C. the information he so badly wanted.
I have known men who, despite years of experience, have rushed out of their camp to tackle a lion with only the one cartridge that was in their rifle; and there are plenty of men who go prospecting or even big-game hunting and have their rifle and ammunition carried for them by a Kafir boy. Trouble comes, the boy bolts, and they are in a mess. Again, I have known men throw away ammunition and rations, rather than endure the fatigue of carrying them on the line of march, and how often has not a night’s march or a premeditated attack on an enemy’s position been spoilt by some man lighting his pipe or letting off his rifle that he has been told to carry unloaded?
The yarn I am going to spin you now will perhaps bear out what I have just written, and though the man who committed the folly extricated himself by a deed of heroism never surpassed and seldom equalled, yet the act of folly he and his mate perpetrated might have led to the loss of three lives, their own included.
It was in November 1865. The Hau Haus (fanatical and rebel Maoris) had received a severe defeat at the hands of the Colonial forces and friendly natives at Waerenga-a-Hika, which so broke them up that they were unable to face the music in that district (Poverty Bay) for a few years.
Over 400 of them had surrendered. Of these some 200 had been transported to the Chatham Islands, the remainder settling down peacefully for a long time. There were, however, still a large number of the most fanatical and bloodthirsty of the savages who, although unable to make a stand, yet roved about the country in small bands, seeking opportunity to destroy any white man or friendly native whom they might come across.
Now among the Defence Force, scattered at posts built for the protection of the settlers, was a big, raw-boned Irish sergeant named Walsh, who had heard very many extraordinary yarns about some petroleum springs at a place called Pakake-a-Whirikoka, situated some thirty miles from the post he was in charge of. I do not know what his reasons were; perhaps it was only curiosity, or perchance he had ideas of becoming an oil king. But as things looked quiet and peaceful, he determined to visit them, and persuaded an old settler and his son, named Espic, to guide him to the locality.
Well, they started early in the morning, the time being summer and the weather very hot, and after a long ride of nearly thirty miles reached the steep hill leading to the springs. Here they dismounted, and, because they had seen no signs of the enemy, decided to leave their horses in charge of the boy, while they went up the hill, on foot, to examine the springs.
This in itself was an act of folly; but they went one worse, for, the weather being hot, and meaning only to be absent a very short time, they left their carbines, coats and all their ammunition at the foot of the hill, rather than endure the slight trouble of carrying them, and started the ascent with only their revolvers.
Now they had been spotted by one of these bands of Hau Haus, who, as soon as they saw the two white men go up the hill, crawled up to the horses and captured them, with the arms and ammunition. The boy, however, although fired at, escaped and got away. The Hau Haus, thinking they had their prey secure, tied up the horses to a tree, and went up the hill after the white men, who, having heard the shots, were returning.
As soon as they met, the natives fired a volley, which broke Espic’s arm and wounded Walsh on the forehead and hand. The white men returned the fire, and in the skirmish that followed Walsh was again wounded and, the white men’s revolvers being now empty, the Hau Haus, nine in number, rushed them with the tomahawk, to finish them off.
In the hand-to-hand scrap that ensued Walsh was again twice wounded; but he still fought on, and a Hau Hau, determining to finish him, put his cut-down gun to Walsh’s chest and fired.
Fortunately the bullet must have fallen out of the gun, as Walsh only sustained a bad burn on the chest. Springing in, he felled his assailant with a tremendous blow from the butt-end of his revolver. This was too much for Maori superstition. That a man whom they had badly wounded five times should be able to continue to put up a fight was bad enough; but that he should be able to floor their best man just after that best man had shot him through the chest was more than any decent Hau Hau could understand. Leaving the horses and the stricken man behind them, away they fled, only too anxious to put as great a distance as they could between themselves and the awful tohunga (magician), who refused to be killed. So much for folly and pluck. Now I will go on to endurance.
No sooner had the astonished and affrighted Hau Haus bolted than Walsh and his mate kicked their prisoner into convalescence and proceeded down the hill, where they found their horses tied to a tree, but the carbines, ammunition, and even saddles, taken away. Both men were badly wounded, Walsh in five places; but he would neither kill his prisoner nor let him go. Passing a rope round his neck, they made shift to mount their horses, bare-backed, and, forcing him to accompany them, they led him that long, hot ride of thirty miles, back to Tauranganui, where they arrived that night. Yes, faint though they were with the loss of blood, racked with the pain of untended wounds, without a round of ammunition, and hampered by an evil brute of a Hau Hau, who did everything in his power to retard their progress. Yet they would neither kill him nor let him go.
That I think is a yarn that illustrates folly, pluck and endurance.
If you look at the map of the middle island of New Zealand you will see the north coast of it, washed by Cook’s Straits, is deeply indented by fiords running inland, and that Tory Channel and Queen Charlotte’s Sound are two of the principal ones.
These run in separately for some miles, and then join together and form one sound, which continues for a considerable distance, having on one side, some miles farther south, the important seaport of Picton.
The island, surrounded by the water of the aforementioned fiords, is known as Alapawa or Arapawa Island, and in the year 1872 was divided into two sheep runs and occupied by two firms of squatters who had already acquired a large number of sheep.
The scenery up these fiords is magnificent, the densely bushed mountains coming down to the water, which is deep to the very shore, so much so that the largest ship can sail close in and, if her skipper wants to, can make fast to the big trees growing down to the water’s edge. The tide runs up and down these fiords at a tremendous rate, and this must be remembered when you read the yarn I am now going to spin you.
Arapawa Island is a range of high mountains, and on the side facing Queen Charlotte’s Sound I was staying at one of the sheep stations for the purpose of recuperating my health after a rather long spell in hospital.
The year before I had foolishly got in the way of a small piece of lead that, being in a hurry, was travelling very fast. I had stopped it, and had been punished for my imprudence by having to lay up while doctors sunk shafts and drove drives in my corpus and generally prospected me for a lead mine.
True, they had not struck the reef; but then they had not succeeded in killing me, and when I got out of their hands I called it a drawn game, and started to get well in my own way.
The shafts and the drives had filled up, and I had finished the cure by staying two months in the glorious climate of the sounds, first knocking about in a sailing-boat in the management of which I was a dab, and then assisting my friends by running over the hills after sheep. This exercise, with plenty of good mutton and damper, turning-in just after dark, and turning-out just before sunrise, had perfected my cure, and I was as strong as ever, and in good training. At that time I neither used spirits nor tobacco; I was as hard as iron and as tough as whipcord, and had, moreover, practised swimming, boxing, fencing and other gymnastics from early childhood. The awful hardships of the past wars had done me no harm, but rather good, as they had squeezed the last soft drop out of me, and I was fit for anything.
I should have rejoined my troop on the frontier of the North Island a fortnight before, but waited to help my friends through with their yearly mustering and sheep-shearing. Hands were scarce, and I had never before seen a muster or sheep-shearing, so, my traps having been sent on to Picton, I waited for it. Well, the shearing was over and the men temporarily taken on for it were paid off.
In those days, on the last night before the extra hands were dismissed it was considered the right thing to do for everyone to go on a big burst, and men who had worked hard for weeks, and not touched a drop of spirits, would get blind drunk. So it was at this station, with the exception of myself, who did not touch grog; all hands, masters and men, had a tremendous burst, drinking up every drop of strong rum laid in for the occasion.
The following morning at daylight I started for Picton in a boat, accompanied by one of the partners and four of the extra hands, all of whom were what is known as suffering a recovery, which means they were very ill from the effects of the previous night’s debauch. I had roused them up, got the boat out, and we started on as lovely a morning as I ever saw in my life. My crew, very ill and sulky, lay down in the bottom of the boat, a roomy craft of about twenty-three feet in length, and tried to sleep.
Well, we made our offing, the sun rose very hot and the wind died away. It was by this time slack water, and, as the men refused to pull an oar, we lay motionless. Suddenly I noticed the day darken and the mountains of Arapawa Island covered with a dense black cloud that was rolling rapidly down them, and knew in a moment we were in for a southerly buster.
The air grew rapidly colder, and I shouted to the men to get up and shorten sail; but they would not move. I saw what resembled a dense cloud of dust raised off a very dry road in summer-time coming at us. In a moment it was on us; it was a spray torn from the sea by the force of the squall, and it stung and blinded me. As the squall struck us broadside on, it simply sunk us, turning us over at the same time.
I stuck to the tiller until the boat turned turtle, when I was, of course, thrown out, and was swimming at her stern as the keel rose from the water. The boat had a very deep false keel, and I saw that everyone had got hold of it. Just as the squall was thinning the boat rolled over and righted herself, and in the lull I shouted to the men to leave go their hold on the gunwale and join me, so that we could try and swing the stern to the wind, when perhaps one man could get in and bail her out. But they would not listen. They all tried to scramble into her at once, and over she went again. This happened twice, and I could not get the men to obey me, or try to do anything to save themselves. They all seemed to be mad with fright; one even kicked savagely at me as I tried to get him to leave go his hold on the keel. I saw the only chance to save my own and their lives was to try to swim ashore, and get help and another boat from the station.
I had at least two miles to swim; and that in the teeth of a southerly buster, which I could see was now coming on in full force. I was dressed only in a thin flannel shirt and trousers; the latter I easily tore off, but I determined to keep on my canvas shoes, as I would have a long run round the beach to get to the house—that is to say, if I ever got on shore. This was very problematical, as not only had I the gale to contend against, but I knew the bay and sound swarmed with sharks; and the evening before I had sat on a rock and shot at the brutes as they were tearing to pieces the bodies of a lot of old and worthless sheep that had been killed and thrown into the sea.
Well, the sharks would have their chance at me now, and turn and turn about is only fair play. In tearing my trousers off I sank a bit, and on coming up I shouted to the men I would try to bring them help, and started. Just then down came the true gale. The wind rushing through the tops of the mountains struck the water as if forced through a funnel, and tore it into foam and spray, which not only blinded me, but simply drove me under the water, and I quickly saw I must dodge the fierce blasts by diving. I was a very powerful swimmer and had the lungs and wind of an ostrich, so that, whenever I saw a cloud of water dust coming at me, down I went and swam under water for all I was worth. Then, when I had to come up for air, if there was a lull in between the squalls, I would strike out with a good long side-stroke, and make all the way I could.
This sort of thing went on for a long time, and I thought of and used every dodge I had ever learned or heard of to save my strength and use it to the very best advantage. My long experience in scouting and despatch-riding had trained me to think quickly and to act decisively. I was as cool as a cucumber and as hopeful as a boy setting out to rob an orchard. The water was warm. I was in splendid fettle, and I had a wild feeling of elation, as I dodged the squalls, that was simply grand, although my eyes ached and smarted with the spray. If it had not been for the danger of my helpless mates I should have simply revelled in my struggle against the elements. As I rose for air, during a lull, I took a good look at the land, and was surprised at the very rapid progress I was making.
For a minute I could not understand it. I was certainly drawing more under the lee of the land, and the squalls were not so fierce as at the first start, but still I was quite a mile off, and they were bad enough; but all at once I understood what was befriending me; it was the tide.
It had been slack water when the accident had happened, and the tide had turned and was simply helping me all it knew; now I felt certain of getting ashore, bar accidents. Yet, bar accidents, I was all right; but there were other things also, as I quickly discovered, for when I determined it was no longer necessary for me to dodge the squalls, and had settled down to a long, steady side-stroke, I glanced to my right, and there, not thirty feet from me, was a long, triangular fin sticking out of the water, which I knew belonged to a shark of the largest size. Instinctively I turned to the left. There was another one; and as I raised myself in the water and looked astern of me, there was a third.
To say I was in a funk is not to tell the truth; funk does not fully describe my feelings. I knew what funk was; I had been in a funk before, plenty of times. I had been in many a tight and hot corner before. I had often looked at what might be certain death, but then I had weapons in my hand and the prospect of a good fight before I went under; but now I was helpless. There was to be no fight, there could be no fight. I had not even a knife, and had I possessed one I was outnumbered and outclassed.
As I trod water for a few moments I knew what real fear was. I had never felt it before, and, thank heaven! I have never felt it since. I can’t describe my feelings, and I would not if I could. Certainly it was not the fear of death that caused these sensations; but it seemed so hard that I, who had almost overcome my danger, should be turned into long pig for a beastly shark.
But my cowardice did not last long. I was still at least three-quarters of a mile from shore; the good tide was still sweeping me in, and my wild Irish blood all at once boiled up in me. My duty to myself and mates required me to get on shore, and get on shore I would. If a shark took me, well and good, kismet. Stick to my work I would, shark or no shark; so I fell into my stroke, and swam as if there had not been a shark within a degree of latitude of me, escorted by a guard of honour I never want again.
Yes, I got ashore, those d—d sharks keeping company all the way; and when my foot hit bottom and I stumbled through the shallow water and fell on the sand there they still were, cruising about, not a stone’s-throw away, as if they were the most harmless beasts in the ocean. Why did they not go for me? I don’t know; certainly my time had not yet come, kismet. As soon as I had taken a few breaths I looked for the boat, but could not see her for the dense spray which the gale, now at its worst, was kicking up; so I started to run the four miles round the bay to the station. The rough beach and rocks soon cut my soaked shoes to pieces and, as the soles became detached, I had to run with bare feet, and suffered awfully. Fain would I have halted and rested, but my mates’ danger spurred me on, and I ran as if a Maori, with his tomahawk, were after me.
I came to the head of the bay and suddenly remembered that between me and the house there was another very deep indent of the sea. At the mouth it was not more than 250 yards across, but it ran very far inland, and with my feet in the state they were it would take me hours to get round. No, I must swim it; and I was just plunging in, notwithstanding the squalls, which were tearing the surface of the water into dust, when I was struck with the horrid thought of sharks, and for a moment I paused like a coward on the brink.
It was only for a moment. Curse the sharks! my mates were on the boat; and in I went and crossed after a hard swim. To get to the house, rouse up the other partner and the one remaining man, and to get out a small whale-boat did not take many minutes. We manned the boat, peaked the oars and ran before the gale. We came up to the derelict in mid-sound, rolling over and over, but not a sign of a man was on her, nor was a single body ever found. We ran across the sound, beached the boat, and, when the gale subsided, pulled back.
This is, I think, the nearest call I have ever had, and if there is any moral in my yarn it is to leave drink alone, keep in training, do your duty by yourself and mates, and trust to your luck while doing so. Since then I have always hated sharks. The curse of Cromwell be on them.
(Told by the Old Identity)
It took place in the early seventies. I was in Australia, and was temporarily in command of a body of Mounted Police, doing duty as gold escort—a very necessary precaution in those days. On one occasion I was travelling up-country, accompanied by four troopers, when a big squatter, a friend of mine, asked leave to ride with my small party, as he was carrying a quantity of gold up-country with him to his station. Of course I was delighted to have his company, and we set out.
All along the road there were plenty of shaves (rumours) of bushrangers, but for three days we never saw one. At noon on the fourth day we halted at a bush shanty to feed, water and rest our horses.
The bush shanties, in those days, were as a rule vile poison shops, the owners and their employees being usually hand in glove with every scoundrel, cattle thief and bushranger in the country, giving them information as to the movements of the police, and in many cases sharing with them their plunder.
However, with a party like ours there was nothing to fear, at least so I thought; so when we dismounted and handed over our horses to the troopers to lead to the stockyards, some little distance from the house, myself and my friend entered. It was a long, one-roomed building, with a bar running the whole length of it, and the only door at one end.
There was no one inside but the bar-tender, as hang-dog-looking a ruffian as I have ever set eyes on. Foolishly, as it proved, as I entered I unbuckled my belt with sword and revolver attached and threw them on a bench by the door. Then we strolled together to the far end of the bar and, hot and thirsty with our long ride in the burning sun, called for drinks.
Glasses in hand, we stood with our backs to the door, and were just about to sample our poison when we heard the ominous words: “Bail up!” Turning round, I saw a wicked-looking devil standing in the doorway.
He had me covered with the heavy revolver he carried in his right hand, while its mate, ready for action, was gripped in his left by his side.
He was a well-made, tough-looking chap, very muscular and strong, without carrying an ounce of superfluous flesh, and dressed in the ordinary up-country dress. His face, clean-shaven, was covered by a black mask, but I noticed a well-cut mouth, a determined chin, and his eyes gleamed through the holes of his visor with a glint there was no mistaking, while the hand that held the gun was as steady as a rock.
Then I realised that he was between me and my weapons, which lay on the bench by the door.
A man who has passed years in bush-fighting, scouting and despatch-riding thinks quickly and acts decisively. Had there been the slightest tremor in wrist or lips I should have slung my glass at him, and risked a rush; but there was not a sign of a tremble, and I knew that the slightest hostile movement on my part would not only lead to my certain death, but would be quite useless.
My friend and the villainous bar-tender, the latter with a broad grin on his ugly mug, had at once bailed up, and as there was no chance of help from my troopers, who by that time must have off-saddled and be attending to the horses at the stock-yard, some way off, I knew we were cornered and beaten.
“Captain,” said the bounder, “I guess I’ve got you. Bail up.”
“I’ll see you d——d first,” I replied.
“I’ve got you,” he retorted, “and I’m on the shoot. Sling your money on the counter, and”—this to my friend—“sling that bag down too.”
The squatter was standing with his hands above his head, so evidently could not do so, and the bushranger said to me: “Captain, sling that bag over here.”
“Rot!” was my discourteous reply; so he turned to the blackguard behind the bar, who was probably in league with him, and said, “Joe, you do it.” And the bag was promptly thrown to him.
Then he said to me, and I noticed he changed his voice, dropping the Yankee slang and idiom he had previously used, and speaking with a well-modulated and refined accent: “Captain, I don’t want anything from you.” (This was just as well, as I had nothing.) “But,” he continued, “how long start will you give me?”
I said: “Five minutes.”
“Word of honour?”
“Yes.”
“So long.” And with that he backed out, and in a moment I heard the beat of a horse’s hoofs starting at a gallop. My friend was raving mad, and wanted me at once to alarm my troopers, but I said: “No; you’d got your gun with you just now, why did you not use it?” When five minutes had passed I gave the order to saddle up; but of course the man had got clear away. I never knew who he was, but a man shot shortly afterwards by one of my troopers was believed to be he, and most probably was.
(Told by the old Kai Tongata)
It was in June 1869 that Te Kooti, chief of the rebel Hau Haus, caught a party of mounted volunteers on the hop, at a place called Opepe, on the high plateau near Lake Taupo. The men, worn out by a long march, and soaked through by the cold winter rain and sleet, had taken shelter on some old whares (huts) and were trying to dry themselves when a few Maoris came up, and, declaring themselves to be friendlies, joined them at their fires.
More and more of them gradually arrived, until the volunteers were outnumbered, and then, on a signal being given, the natives sprang on their unsuspecting victims, and the tomahawk did the rest. The victors did not stay long at the blood-stained spot. They knew that Colonel McDonnell, Colonel St John and, worse than anyone, Major Ropata Te Wahawaha, with his friendly Ngatiporou, were not far away, and that it behoved them to hump themselves and travel before the avengers could reach them. Some of the volunteers had escaped, and two of them joined up with Colonel St John’s column, with which I was serving, the same evening as the massacre took place.
It was at once boot and saddle, and before nightfall we had marched to Opepe.
Colonel St John had reached the spot before us, in fact the men cut up belonged to his column, and he had only left them the morning of the massacre to rest themselves and horses, while he went on to visit a Maori chief about ten miles away.
Next morning we were on the spoor, and followed it through rough pumice-stone gullies for some miles, in pouring rain and sleet, then lost all trace of them in a dense scrub of manuka bush, so we returned to Opepe for the night.
The following day it was determined to send scouts out to find where the enemy had retreated to.
We had followed Te Kooti since July 1868, when he had escaped with 160 fighting men from Chatham Islands, had landed at Whare-onga-onga, close to Poverty Bay, and had gathered all the disaffected Maoris in the country to him. He had sacked Poverty Bay, murdering about ninety helpless settlers. He had fought us twice at Makaretu and innumerable other places, had captured a convoy of ammunition, had fortified himself at Ngatapa, where he had repulsed, with heavy loss, two assaults and had only evacuated the pah when starved out for want of food and water. And although we had, in the pursuit, captured and killed 136 of his men, yet he himself escaped and reached the fastnesses of the Uriwera country.
In April 1869 he had swooped down on the Mohaka settlement and had murdered in cold blood seventy whites and friendly natives, and then retreated to Taupo country with us at his heels.
In fact he had kept us lively for a year, and was going to prevent us getting rusty for two more, until, having lost nearly all his men, he retired into the King country, where we could not follow him; and he lived there quietly for twenty years, and at last died in the odour of sanctity, highly respected by all who knew him. For nearly four years we were on his track: his escapes were numerous and miraculous, we destroyed band after band of the desperate savages who joined him, but although he was wounded twice we never got him.
Bad luck to it, I’m off the spoor. To get back.
It was determined to send out scouts to locate Te Kooti, and I was chosen with two men to do the job. It was a big contract to handle. One glance at the map will show you Lake Taupo. We were at the north-east corner, about ten miles from the semi-friendly pah at Tapuacharuru (Sounding Footsteps), our base was at Opotiki, eighty miles away, on the Bay of Plenty coast. There were at that time no roads, no bridle-tracks, no paths; no game existed in New Zealand, and there was no food to be procured for man, and but little for horses.
No white man, with the exception, perhaps, of a stray missionary, had ever penetrated to that part of the country, which was composed of dense bush, mountains and broken ground covered with manuka scrub, or long fern, which grew from six to ten feet high, and it was in the depth of winter, bitterly cold and wet. The enemy had retreated in the direction of the great volcanoes Ruapehu and Tongeriro, at the south-east end of the lake, about thirty-five miles from where we were camped, and in an awful country, quite unknown and hostile to us. This country had to be searched, Te Kooti found and attacked before he established himself in another stronghold and recruited his murderous band of bloodthirsty savages. The columns could not advance and look for him; they had no food to feed man or horse during the time it would take to find him. No, they must fall back nearer the base, and the scouts must find him, and then the troops and horses, well fed, could make a rush for him and perhaps put an end to his career. My orders were that I was to find Te Kooti and return to Opepe, the Colonel promising he and the column would meet me there on the sixteenth day, when I was to guide him up to the quarry.
How I was to find the bounder, and how we were to live while we were looking for him, was left to me. It was certain that Te Kooti would be looking out for anyone who might be impudent enough to look for him, and if he caught us our fate was certain, though, of course, we could only guess at the nature of the torture to which we should be subjected. Even if we were lucky enough to be able to blow our own brains out before we were captured, the Colonel would lose the information he required, and more men would have to be sent; so that it behoved us to keep ourselves and our tracks hidden, and to see without being seen.
How we were to live I left to Providence; it was beyond me. We were all hardened bushfighters, and we must take our chance.
My two companions were queer characters; both of them had been sailors: one of them, Pierre De Feugeron, a Frenchman, the other a Kantuarius Greek. They had been mates for years, were both splendid scouts, expert bushmen, good shots, and utterly fearless. Well, no sooner had I got my orders than we started. Our field kit consisted of smasher hats, dark blue serge jumpers that reached to the knee, but during the day were drawn up and fastened round the waist; we wore no trousers, but had shawls round us like kilts. I wore shooting boots and socks; the others went barefooted with sandals. Our arms consisted of carbines and revolvers, and we each wore in our belts a tomahawk and sheath knife. On our backs we carried a blanket rolled up, in which was some very bad bacon and worse biscuit, four pounds of each; and with this we were to penetrate thirty-five miles or more into an unknown country, as rough as any in the world, find a wily enemy and, above all, get back with our information.
It may not seem much to the man who has never been out of Britain, but a Colonial will appreciate the job at its true value.
We left the camp from the north side, and made a wide detour to the north-east, before we struck to the south-west, to touch the lake. The enemy had retreated almost due south, through a number of rough pumice-stone gullies, and it was more than likely that a sly old bird like Te Kooti would leave an ambush on his spoor to cut off any scouts that might be sent after him, or, in case a strong party followed him, to give him news of their movements. I did not want to fall into that ambush. I had been in a few before, and did not like them; and so went round to try and cut his spoor a good way south of where we had abandoned it on the previous day.
All that day we tramped across deep gullies and through manuka scrub, very often having to head off our road to examine the ground on either side of us, and to take bearings to our rear as well as to our front.
A good scout should always do this, as he may have to return a sight faster than he went; and he must remember which way he came; he has no time to think much when a war party is after him.
Well, as night fell we came to a range of mountains covered with bush, and I reckoned that, with our detour, we had made quite ten miles to the south of Opepe, and were well on our way. It had rained all day, except when it sleeted, and of course we were wet through, yet we dare not light a fire. For all we knew we might have been spotted and followed; so we entered the bush, and as soon as it was quite dark moved carefully a mile away and, eating a small handful of biscuits, wrapped ourselves in our shawls and blankets and slept as well as we could.
It froze hard that night and the cold was intense; in the morning we were up as soon as a glimmer of day came, and started to cross the range of mountains. The bush was a regular New Zealand one, composed of trees of gigantic size, and with a dense undergrowth that nothing but a pig or an elephant could get through. We therefore had to take to the bed of a creek and follow it up to the ridge. The water was icy cold, and the cold drip from the trees and bushes wet us through, although it did not rain. With nothing but a few bits of flint-like biscuit to chew, up we went, and came to the top of the range, and there we rested and got a view of the country.
To our west was the lake, and to the south was the cone of Tongeriro and the three peaks of Ruapehu; between us and them was range after range of hills, below us lay a deep valley, and, tough as we were, I almost feared the job was too tough for us. To despond is one of the last things a scout should do; so after more biscuit off we went again, and, striking another creek, we descended the bed of it till we came to the river that ran through the valley and entered the lake at the foot of it. I determined to descend the bed of this river, as I thought I might cut Te Kooti’s spoor on the beach of the lake, which I determined to examine next morning. I feared to do so that evening, as they might have ambushed the drift, and there was also the dread of the ambuscade he most likely had left behind to watch our camp.
This party, after they had watched the column move away, would most likely, provided they had not seen us, be on the march to catch up Te Kooti.
We therefore hid on a fern ridge with the drift in view of us, and fortunate it was for us we did so.
We had not been there long when we saw coming from the north, along the beach, a party of twelve natives; and I felt much relieved, for I knew at once that they had not seen us, or they would have been after us, and that I had been quite right to make the detour I had done.
They marched quite carelessly, evidently thinking no white man was nearer them than the retreating column, and when they had crossed the drift lit a big fire, cooked food and warmed themselves; then, leaving the fire burning, started at a rapid pace for the south.
We watched them round a far cape of the lake, then down we went to their fire and warmed ourselves and cooked a bit of bacon. Thankful we were for the warmth and food; but we dare not stay long.
I wanted to get the benefit of the open beach, and also to spot their camp fire that night; so, as soon as our frozen limbs were thawed and our food swallowed, we were off, hiding our spoor as well as we could.
That night we saw their camp, and envied them as we lay hid in the fern shivering with cold; for again we had a hard frost, and our clothes were far from dry; but a scout must put up with cold, heat, hunger, thirst, and be ready to face, smiling, anything that falls to his lot.
The earlier in life he hardens himself to do without rotten sweetstuff the better, and always remember that cigarettes are the invention of the evil one.
Well, day after day this sort of life went on. If I were to try to describe our adventures day by day they would fill a book; let it suffice that for ten days we lurked through tangled and dripping bush, waded up the bed of mountain torrents, crossed snowclad ranges, and struggled through matted fern, soaked with rain and sleet during the day, and frozen stiff during the bitter nights. Our miserable rations were gone. Sometimes we found a rotten matti-tree, and from it extracted the white grubs, which we ate thankfully. Once we found some potatoes.
At last we discovered Te Kooti, and where he was building his new pah.
For one night I prowled round it, and long before morning we were on our way back. For the first two days the same care had to be taken to hide our spoor; it would never do to be caught or killed after all our troubles and sufferings.
On the third day I moved down to the lake.
We were starving: not just hungry, but absolutely starving. As the evening was coming on, in a small bay I saw the smoke of a fire; that meant Maoris camping. They had food of some sort, and we decided to have it.
The bay was an inlet, into which a small creek emptied itself, between two low ridges of fern. A short detour led us to the bed of the creek, down which we descended as quietly as otters, while the noise of the stream drowned any slight noise we might make in wading down it. The creek ran into a small clump of tree ferns, and we crept on till we came to where the party was encamped at the mouth of the creek.
There were four fine-looking big Maoris. Their canoe was drawn up on the bank of the creek with the paddles leaning against it. Had there been more than four paddles it would have meant that some of the party were absent; but now we knew we had only the four in front to tackle. We dare not use our fire-arms on account of the report. No, the job must be done with tomahawk and knife. We were within twenty feet of them.
A glance at my companions and we laid down our carbines, slipped off our blankets and drew our tomahawks and knives.
One more look. The four Maoris were sitting by their fire, unconscious of our presence. A nod to my mates and we sprang at them. Whiz, whiz went my men’s knives—they were both past masters at the art of knife-throwing—and over went two Maoris with the knives buried up to the hafts in their bodies.
I rushed my man, but, surprised as he was, he was a splendid, tough old warrior, and jumped at me, his tomahawk swinging loosely in the air above his head.
I had practised hard with the tomahawk for the last two years, but I knew I was no match for the old man. I therefore determined to rush in on him, guard his first blow and use my left fist. (I was very strong in those days, and a good boxer.) Throwing up my tomahawk, I guarded a smashing cut at the left of my neck, and although I felt the keen edge of the blade cut my flesh on the left shoulder, the impetus of my charge carried me in, and lashing out with my left I struck him full on the throat. Down he went, astonished by this novel mode of attack, and in another moment the head of my tomahawk was buried up to the eye in his brains.
When I looked round the fight was over, the only unwounded Maori falling an easy prey to the combined attack of my two desperadoes.
Pierre, a splendid cook, was already looking into the pot that was on the fire, and, declaring the contents to be good pork, not long pig, we were soon enjoying it. To get rid of the bodies did not take long. The marks of the struggle were obliterated, and we were off. Two days more and we reached Opepe; and, true to his word, my colonel met us with a strong patrol. We were thin, footsore, our legs torn, our kit in rags; but what mattered that? We had done our duty and had got back with valuable information, and as we swallowed some hot tea we did not care for the past—it was past. My wound was nothing—Pierre had stitched it up—and as I once more donned my breeches and boots, a clean shirt, and threw my leg over my dear old horse, I was as happy as the day was wet.
(Told by the old Kai Tongata)
During the east coast war the division in which I was serving landed on the beach to seize a “pah,” or native stronghold, two days’ march inland. As usual we carried four days’ rations, including rum. We were led by a fine old colonel, a distinguished Crimean officer, who was much liked by the men. He was one of the old “two-bottle men”—or, rather, he was contented with two bottles when he could not get three.
At that time I had not acquired a liking for ration rum—raw, fiery stuff—but by the end of the second day’s march the colonel had consumed his own allowance and mine too. At daylight on the third day, when we had fallen in beside a creek, and were preparing to attack, he said to me: “Give me a tot” (calling me by a nickname I acquired early and retained throughout my active career).
“I haven’t any rum, sir; you finished mine last night.”
He bubbled like a furious turkey-cock, and swore I’d drunk more than my share. As I had not tasted a drop, I thought this unfair, but wisely said nothing. It is bad policy to argue with a liverish colonel, when he is two days’ march from the nearest drink.
Then he said: “I must have a tot. I wonder whether the men have any left.” I was just promising to inquire when he exclaimed excitedly: “Look there!” And lo and behold, a man stepped out of the ranks, then standing easy, and took from his haversack a bottle containing something that looked like rum. He poured some into a pannikin, poured in some water and drank it off. “By heavens,” said the old colonel, “I’ve struck oil.” Just then I called the men to “attention,” and as we went down the ranks inspecting the colonel kept saying: “Deuced bad pain in my stomach.”
As we got opposite the man with the bottle—he was, by the way, the most temperate man in the corps—the colonel’s groans became heart-rending. The man thereupon brought out the bottle from his haversack, and said to him: “Do you think this would do you any good, sir?”
The colonel’s face was wreathed in smiles.
“Aha, my man, just what I wanted,” he exclaimed. “Give me your pannikin.” And he proceeded to pour out for himself a strong “tot.”
“Be careful, sir,” said the man, “it’s very strong.”
“Ah!” said the colonel, “when you’re as old a soldier as I am you’ll be able to take your ‘tot’ neat.” And with that he tossed it down.
The change that came over his face was marvellous! The smiles were replaced by a look of agonised surprise. He coughed and spluttered, and ejaculated: “Shoot the blackguard; he’s poisoned me!” Then he rushed to the creek and drank more water in ten minutes than he had drunk in the ten previous years. “What have you given the colonel?” I asked the man.
“Perry & Davis’s Pain-killer,” he replied. “Will you try some, sir?”
I put my tongue to the mouth of the bottle and then said, “No, I’m blowed if I do.” For the stuff was like liquid fire, and was hot enough to burn the entrails out of a brass monkey, and if applied externally would have blistered the halo from a plaster saint. It also claimed to cure everything. In that it lied, for it did not cure the colonel’s propensity for ration rum, although I must admit it made him very careful for some time to sample his tot before he swallowed it.
In spinning this yarn I wish to warn all new chums that, no matter how clever you may fancy yourself to be, you must, when you enter a bush, keep all your senses on deck, or you will run the chance of finding yourself bushed just as easily as the greenest tenderfoot ever exported. True, an old hand will, as a rule, pull through, while the greenhorn will go under; but yet the number of old bushmen who have been lost and who have died is very great, and no one, no matter how experienced he is, or what his training has been, has a right to enter the bush without taking every precaution. This was driven into me very early in my frontier education, and I have saved myself frequently if not from death, yet from many hardships, by always ascertaining I had sufficient of the indispensable articles about me, without which no man should enter the forest or wilderness.
Perhaps, right here, I may enumerate them. In a dry country a man should always carry a water-bag or bottle, and see that it is in good order and full; he should never stir without plenty of matches, carried in a damp-proof box or well-corked bottle, a flint and steel, a burning-glass, or some means of making a fire. A tomahawk and sheath knife are indispensable; and of course, in Africa and countries where there are lions, etc., see that you have plenty of ammunition with you—remember you may want to signal with your rifle—and if possible shove a couple of ship biscuits into your haversack: you may want them, and they do not weigh much.
Now for the yarn. In 1874 I was located at a place called Wai-Tangi (Murmuring Water), a native kainga, on Lake Tarawera, and one day determined to go pigeon and kaka (New Zealand parrot) shooting in the densely bushed ranges on the east side of the lake. The lake is a very beautiful one, of large size, surrounded by mountains, among which is the volcano Mount Tarawera, and at the south-west corner is the creek that leads up to Rotomahana and the wonderful terraces.
At the date I write about Mount Tarawera was quiet, and everyone thought it had retired from the volcano business; but some years afterwards, 1886, it took a fit, broke out, blew the terraces galley west, destroyed a great deal of property and killed a good few people, among others my quondam hosts at Wai-Tangi. Now the New Zealand kaka and pigeon are, in the fall of the year, very toothsome birds indeed; they get very fat on the berries of the gigantic trees, and the Maoris have a very good way of preserving them. I mention these last facts, as, previous to my departure from the kainga, I had told my host, the chief of the place, that I was going to try to kill a great many birds, had requested him to order a woman to make a couple of large bark buckets to preserve them in, and had also intimated I might camp out or stay for a night or two at one or other village on the lake.
This was unfortunate, as, subsequently, the Maoris took no notice of my prolonged absence and did not come to look for me, as they concluded I was staying somewhere else; and it was only on the day of my return the old chief, having become anxious, started a party of young warriors to paddle round the lake to find out if I were all right.
Well, I started off in a canoe, taking with me my gun, fifty No. 4 shot cartridges, some tea and sugar, a couple of blankets and half-a-dozen ship biscuits. I should also have taken a young warrior, but as all the natives were engaged on their plantations, I went alone. It was a lovely day, the lake as calm as a millpond and the splendid scenery most entrancing. I paddled slowly out of the little bay at the head of which the kainga stood, and after a few minutes’ contemplation of the glorious bushed mountains, whose beauties were reflected as in a mirror on the glass-like water, I struck out across the north-east corner of the lake and made for the east shore, where I meant to beach my canoe in some small bay at the mouth of one of the numerous creeks that ran into the lake, then ascend the bed of the creek, get on the top of the high ranges, where there is comparatively little undergrowth, and shoot my game. After a few miles steady paddling I reached the shore, where there was rather a deep inlet, grounded my canoe on the beach at the head of it, where a fair-sized creek entered the lake, and landed.
Now I mentioned before that I had made the best use of my frontier education; so at once I dragged my canoe out of the water as far as I could and made fast the painter to a stout tree, then overhauled my belongings. I was dressed in proper bush outfit: a serge jumper, flannel shirt, smasher hat, good strong shooting boots and a shawl round my waist instead of trousers. In my belt I wore a tomahawk and sheath knife, and slung on to the back of it was a strong tin pannikin. I also carried on my belt a leather pouch containing a metal damp-proof box full of matches, a burning-glass, a plug of tobacco and my pipe. My cartridges I wore in a bandoleer over one shoulder, and over the other I wore one of the old-fashioned game bags. I was very strong in those days and did not mind a little extra weight; so after I had lunched on a biscuit and a lump of cold pork I put the remaining biscuits, a tin containing tea and sugar mixed, and a small one holding salt and pepper mixed, into my bag, hid my blankets and paddle, and after a glance to see that my canoe was all right, I entered the creek and started up the range.
For some distance the brushwood and undergrowth were too thick for me to be able to see a bird on the tree-tops, but as I got higher up the range the bush thinned out, so that I could occasionally get a shot, and I found when I came to the summit I had bagged three brace of birds. These I hung up on a rata-tree and I out tomahawk and blazed it well, so as to let me know, on my return, it was the point at which I was to descend to the lake. The country I found myself in was very broken, and what had appeared from the lake to be a straight range of mountains running from north to south I found to be a regular jumble of broken ridges, cliffs and spurs that seemed to be mixed into several ranges that took no definite direction at all. This sort of country is very dangerous to explore and, knowing the fact, I ought to have taken precautions and exercised the greatest care. I did neither; for I wandered on after the birds and presently began thinking about some important letters I had lately received from home, and other matters, without even noting any of the salient landmarks, or the turnings and twistings of the broken ridges and spurs I was walking among. Nor did I turn round and spot landmarks to guide my return journey. This was an act of folly unpardonable for a scout who knew his work and who was quite aware of the danger he was running. Yet the very best and most experienced bushmen sometimes commit an act of folly, and, not being infallible, I had in my turn committed a very grave one. For when the approaching dusk warned me it was time to regain my canoe I turned round, and in a moment knew I was lost. You may ask how it was I knew at once I was lost. I will tell you.
Every scout worth his salt should carry in his head a map of the road he has been traversing that day, and when he is about to return on the back track he should at once be able to see that road with his mind’s eye, its salient points, its landmarks, its difficulties, and everything worthy of note along it. Well, when I turned I naturally cast my mind’s eye on to my map and found a blank. I had noted nothing from the time I had hung up the birds and blazed the first tree; and I cussed myself for my folly. It was now I felt bush fear; for a desperate longing came over me to run and try to find my way; but this I combated with all my will-power, and after a minute’s struggle forced myself to sit down under a tree and think if I could not remember anything that might recall the road to mind; but in vain. The only thing to guide me was that I had shot a pigeon which had fallen into a fork of a tree and stuck there; that incident could be of but little use to me, yet I treasured it. Again the desire, stronger than ever, came over me to run and look for the tree I had blazed; and again I had to fight it away.
Was I, fool as I had been, to lose my head and run mad through the bush like an untrained new chum? Not by a jugful. I would camp where I was, and next morning, with a clear head, would try to unravel the puzzle. Work was the thing for me, and I turned to. It did not take me long to collect plenty of firewood and make down a good fern bed. Water I could hear close by, and when I had filled my pannikin I lit my fire, for night falls quickly in the New Zealand bush, and overhauled my stores. I had my gun and over thirty cartridges left, and, besides what food I had brought with me, I had ten fat birds; so there was no fear of starvation for a long time. I had also no fear of thirst, as there is always plenty of water to be found in a New Zealand bush; so I was well off, though I could not disguise the danger. Anyhow I would have supper and think matters out, over a pipe, afterwards. In next door to no time I had two birds plucked, cleaned, and spitted on a splinter of wood, with a biscuit on a clean piece of bark under them. My pannikin, full of water, on some embers, soon boiled; to this was added some tea and sugar mixed, and I had a feast for the gods. True, I only had my sheath knife and fingers to eat with, but what of that? I was an old campaigner and could dispense with luxuries. Then, my meal over, I lit my pipe and thought out my position. I was in a hole, that I knew, and I should require all my bushcraft to get out of it. It was not as if I was in a forest on a plain, but I was in a regular jumble of broken ridges, valleys and spurs, all of them heavily bushed. The only thing I had to look for was a blazed tree with some birds hanging on to it, and I did not know if I were north, south or east of it; nor could I judge my distance from it; for although I knew I had walked about four hours and a half, and that I had turned south when I left the tree, yet, for all I knew, I might have worked round in a circle and at the present moment be due north of it, or have turned farther to the east.
My pipe finished, I determined to sleep if I could, so as to be fresh in the morning, and also to try to get rid of the feeling of solitude that now attacked and surprised me. I had frequently had to pass the night alone, aye, many a time, without fire or food, not daring to light the one and having none of the other; yet I had never felt so lonely or deserted before; for although I well knew there was nothing in the New Zealand bush that could hurt me, still I kept on looking over my shoulder, or glancing to right and left into the darkness, and I could now realise the feelings that men who had been lost and found had tried to describe to me. They had been tenderfoots. Faugh! I was an old hand; I had never funked the Hau Haus when they had been on the warpath after me. Why now should I let these childish qualms assail me and funk shadows? Yet they were there; and I confess them to you so that you may know how absolutely necessary it is for you, in case you should ever be in the same fix, no matter how experienced you are, to keep a tight hold over yourself, and not let your nerves get away with you. Rolling myself up in my shawl, I lay down on my fern bed (a very comfortable bed it is too, if you know how to make it properly) and, thinking over my plans for the morrow, went to sleep.
I awoke at daybreak refreshed and fit. A cold bath in the creek. A good breakfast. Then selecting a huge tree, I climbed it by shinning up one of the big pendent vines, and had a good look round. I had hoped to be able to see the lake, but could see nothing of it; nor could I recognise any of the loftier mountains; but I knew the lake must be to the westward of me, and as there seemed to be a higher range in that direction I determined to make for it, though I could see no spur running in a direct line towards it. I therefore descended and, carefully blazing the big tree under which I had camped, started, taking care to blaze all the trees on my line. My reason for doing so (and bear it in mind) was, I had reached the spot where I found myself lost, without going down into any of the deep valleys that surrounded me. Had I done so, I must have remembered the fact, as all the valleys were full of dense undergrowth, and I should have had to cut a road through it.
I had not used my tomahawk on the previous day, except to blaze the first tree, therefore there must be some way of getting back without using it—if I could only find that way. I was making for the west. Suppose after a time I should be certain I was going wrong, I could return with ease along the blazed track back to my camp, and start a new line, which I should also blaze, using a new tomahawk cut on the trees, and if that line failed, return and try again, always using the tree under which I had camped as a starting-point. I might fail half-a-dozen times or more, yet, with patience, I had a good chance to come out right in the end. Again, although I did not reckon on it in my case, as I had no hopes of a search party coming to look for me, if you should ever be bushed, and you think it possible for a search to be sent to find you, it is a very good thing to carry out the above plan, and always return to your first camp, as most probably it will be the nearest spot to help; and if you pass your time in blazing lines (being careful to keep your lines distinct) the party looking for you will most likely strike one of your tracks and easily follow it to your assistance.
Knowing all this, I started, taking a course due west. I had no compass, but as a trained bushman I wanted none, and with all my senses on deck I began blazing trees on my line, taking care to spot every noticeable thing en route, and frequently looking back to see my track ran straight. Sometimes I fancied I was going right and I felt the impulse to run; but this feeling I at once suppressed, and determined I would play the game to the end. Past midday I knew I was wrong, as I came to a steep cliff descending perpendicularly into a deep valley, so I knew I could not have crossed it before. I was disappointed but by no means disheartened; so after a good look around I turned in my tracks and easily regained my camp, where I cooked more birds, had a good supper and slept without any bogeys coming to trouble me.