On the morning of the third day I started again and blazed a new line, in a north-west direction; but again I met with disappointment and returned to my base.
You may ask how it was that, as a trained scout, I did not try to follow my own spoor back to my starting-point. I will tell you at once. I was far too old at the game to waste my time by doing so. Of course I was always on the look-out for any trace I had left; but there is very little soft ground on the top of New Zealand ranges, and although I was in a daydream on the first afternoon, yet I knew that, instinctively, I should have avoided any soft or damp ground, also the gloom in a bush is not a good light to track by. An Australian black fellow might have been able to follow my spoor, but no one else, so I did not try to.
On the morning of the fourth day I started on what I thought to be a hopeless line nearly due north, as I expected to be shut off quickly by a deep valley I had noticed on the previous day; still it was the right game to play and I played it. Strange as it may appear, I was not shut off as I had expected, but continued on till I came to a couple of large trees growing so close together that they seemed to spring from the same root. These attracted my attention, and although they were out of my line I went to them. I seemed to remember them in a dim sort of way, and I examined the ground carefully, going on my hands and knees to do so. I also took a good steady look at the country I had just passed over, to see if any glimmer of remembrance would dawn on me; and it did, but so faint that I feared the wish was father to the thought. But yet, those trees! A certainty came to me that I had seen them before, and I crawled round to the other side of them, scanning every foot of ground, and found what might be the spoor of one of my boots.
At once I began to feel elated, and again the mad impulse to run came on; but I crushed it back, marked the spoor and forced myself to sit down and smoke a pipe. When I was quite cool I again examined the spoor, determined to restart my line from there and use the trees as a base.
I started a new line and had not gone very far when under a tree I saw a lot of pigeon feathers. I at once went on my hands and knees and after a few minutes’ search found undoubted spoor; so I knew I was on the right track; and again the desire to run came on, but I squashed it and, blazing the tree well, had a good look round, but could get no certainty as to my route, so went on with my line and during the afternoon found myself blocked, and had to turn back. That evening I shot three birds, and camped at the tree where I had found the feathers.
Next morning I was off, after a good breakfast, taking a new line west of north, thinking it would only be a short one; but yet I got on farther than I expected, and with my eyes glancing everywhere, all of a sudden I spotted something in the stunted fern, and going up to it found a dead pigeon. Looking up, I noticed a fork in the tree close by and recognised it, as the one in which my bird had lodged. I at once tore the feathers off the bird. Yes, there could be no doubt, it had been killed by No. 4 shot; and now I was certain I was more than half-way out of the fix. Again the crazy desire to run, this time crushed with more difficulty and requiring a pipe. Then more blazing, until I began to think I must again be wrong and found myself unduly hastening my steps, and had to use the curb of my will to rein in. I had reached a place where I was thinking seriously of turning back, as I was convinced I had gone wrong, and had in fact halted when I noticed something waving in the wind about 150 yards away to the south. I could only now and then catch a glimmer of it through the trees, but I went towards it. I lost sight of it in the bush, then saw it again, and in a few minutes was standing in front of a blazed rata-tree with six pigeons hanging on it.
Here was my starting-point; but I was so convinced I had gone wrong that for a minute or two I could not believe my eyesight, and fancied I had gone mad, in fact was so surprised that I had to argue with myself that someone had not moved the tree and the birds. This folly did not last long, and I was quickly in the bed of the creek, descending to the lake. I had just reached the foot of the hill when my foot slipped on a boulder and I came an awful cropper. In a moment I realised I had sprained my left ankle badly and had hurt my left side and shoulder. Groaning and cursing with pain, I managed to crawl the remaining way to my canoe, untied the painter, crawled to the place where I had hidden my paddle and blankets, and with much agony got my right shoulder to the bow of the canoe and launched her. It made me shudder with pain to use the paddle—for a Maori paddle requires both hands—but it had to be done, and I slowly worked out of the inlet, when to my horror I found I had a strong head wind to contend against.
I could never do it, and was painfully turning my canoe to get back to the beach when I heard a deep-chested Maori shout come pealing over the water, and looking in the direction from whence it came, I saw a large canoe with a dozen sturdy paddlers bearing down on me. In a few minutes I was in it, lying down on a heap of fern; and I must have fainted, but soon came to, to find the canoe tearing through the water, while fourteen stalwart warriors howled a canoe song to bring me back to life and give time to the paddles. We soon reached Wai-Tangi, and I was carried up to my hut, all the Maoris holding a big tangi (weeping match) over my accident and blaming themselves for the misadventure that had happened to their guest.
“Te Parione” (my Maori name) quoth the chief, “your mana (luck) is very great. If you had fallen three days ago where would you have been now?”
It was not a nice conundrum to puzzle over, so I went to sleep instead.
Years ago on the Taupo line (the road running from Napier to Lake Taupo) everything used by the men garrisoning the forts on the line had to be carried on pack-horses from the town of Napier up to the headquarters (Opepe), and this necessitated hard work and required hard language on the part of the troopers escorting the pack train, which consisted of some sixty horses and mules.
Of course the men were held responsible for the goods or valuables entrusted to them, and they regarded this trust as a point of honour that must be guarded even with life.
Now why a pack-mule or a transport ox won’t go without the strongest language I don’t know; but they won’t; and in making this assertion I am only stating a well-known and proven fact. No matter how good a man may be with a stock-whip, or a waggon-whip, he will not get a journey or trek out of his beasts unless he beguiles them with the most powerful and sultry talk.
I have never known a man to love a pack-mule, nor to caress one, and although you will find a trooper fond of and kind to most animals, yet somehow he draws the line at a mule. For his horse he will do anything—beg for it, lie for it, steal for it, halve his last bit of bread with it, and willingly risk his life for it—but not for a pack-mule. No, a pack-mule has few friends, and though men do their duty by them they don’t give up their only blanket to them on a bitter cold night; and I have known many a trooper do that for his horse. However, I am getting off the right spoor, so must try back for the yarn.
On the Taupo line, at the time I mention, about 1872—-the exact date I forget, and is of no consequence—-the forces were rationed by a firm of contractors who had the right to run a canteen at each of the forts.
The rations were good, but the liquor was bad; and when an old campaigner calls liquor bad, it must be very bad indeed. There were plenty of rows about it, and changes were promised, but somehow it never improved. This being so, it was the usual thing, when the pack train went down-country, for two or three of us who could not face the filth supplied by the contractors to send down a private horse and get up a couple of cases of spirits fit to drink.
I was quartered at the time at an outlying station that the pack train did not pass, and one day received a note telling me to come to Fort Tarawera and get my share of two cases of brandy that had reached there.
This I did, and rode over next day, accompanied by a very smart trooper named Steve—at least that name will do for him, as he left the Lost Legion and has been for years a parson in the Church of England. Good luck to him!
Now the road, or rather the bridle-track, was a sinful one, partly through bush and partly along the bank of the Waipunga River. At one place the path had been scraped out of a very steep hill of loose shale sloping down to the river, which ran about eighty to one hundred feet below it, and it was so narrow that, once on it, you could not turn your horse, nor even dismount.
The length of this very bad bit was not more than two hundred yards, but there was a nasty turn half-way, so that it was necessary for you before you entered on it to give a loud shout in case anyone was approaching from the other end; and altogether it was not the sort of road to entice a nervous old gentleman to ride a restive horse along for a constitutional.
We reached Fort Tarawera in safety, and I put in a very pleasant afternoon, hearing the news and yarning with my pals there. Towards evening we left with my share of the plunder, which consisted of four bottles of brandy, to ride back the fourteen miles to my station. These bottles we carried in our wallets in front of our saddles, and after a parting drink and cheery good-night we rode gaily away.
It was quite dark when we reached the worst part of the road; but in those days neither of us cared for anything, so that after a loud coo-ee we filed on to the bad track, myself leading.
Previous to our quitting the firm ground, I had said to my companion, in a joking manner: “Take care you don’t tumble over, Steve; remember you are carrying precious brandy.”
He answered: “All right, I’ll look after it.” And we started the crossing.
Just as we got to the very worst part of the road I heard a scuffle, an oath, a rattling crash, and knew in a moment that Steve with his horse had gone over the cliff, and rolled down the slope into the river.
I was close to the end of the bad part; so, pressing my horse on to the firm ground, dismounted, and led him back to the place of the catastrophe. Peering over, I could see nothing, so shouted: “Steve, are you much hurt?”
The answer came back and there was an exultant ring in the voice: “The brandy is quite safe.”
“D—- the brandy! Are you much hurt?”
A mournful reply came back: “Poor Darkie [his horse] is dead.”
“But yourself?”
“Oh, I’ve only broken my leg,” was the answer, given in a tone of the most utter indifference; “I’m all right.”
“Is your head well above water, and can you hang on till I get help from the fort?”
“Oh yes; I’m all right.”
So I told him to open one of the bottles and have a nip when he felt he required it, then led my horse to the firm ground, mounted and rode back to Tarawera at a gallop.
On my return with a party of troopers, ropes and torches, it took us a long time to extricate the poor fellow from his dangerous position, and he must have suffered great agony in being hauled up the steep bank of shifting shale; but at last we managed it, and got him back to the fort, where he soon become convalescent, his only regret, which was very deep—viz. the loss of his horse—being tempered by the fact that he had saved the brandy which had been entrusted to him. As for his own severe and painful injury, he cared nothing: it was certainly a nuisance; but it came in the day’s march, and, as there was no fighting going on at the time, was not to be grumbled at.
Well, as I said before, good luck to him. If he is half as good in the pulpit as he was in the pigskin, the Church gained what the Legion lost, by his exchange of regiments.
(Told by the old Kai Tongata)
There was nothing of a picnic about the wars in New Zealand.
The cold-blooded massacres at Poverty Bay, Mohaka, and scores of other places, as well as the vile tortures practised on any of our men who were unfortunate enough to fall alive into their hands, made us treat the Hau Haus with very scant mercy; and this savagery was not diminished by the brutal hardships, hunger, cold and toil we underwent while in pursuit of Te Kooti and his bands of bloodthirsty and fanatical followers.
Among these was a half-caste, the son of a very prominent white official. As a boy he had been sent to school by his father, and had been highly educated. He had then been entered for the law, but, committing a forgery, had fled to the bush and joined his mother’s tribe, then in rebellion.
To show and prove his Maori blood, on joining them he had murdered, with his own hand, in cold blood, a number of helpless white women and children who had been taken prisoners; and this horrible crime, together with his ferocious courage in action, and further murders, perpetrated whenever he had the chance, caused him to be held in high repute by the Hau Haus and in bitter detestation by us.
To such an evil notoriety had this fiend attained that his father, then high in the Government, sent the unnecessary and quite superfluous order, that if his son were captured he was to receive no mercy. This order I carried myself to the officer commanding one of the flying columns that was then operating against rebels who by that time were getting considerably knocked about.
It was most dangerous work, despatch-riding in New Zealand. You had to travel through a rough and hostile country to find a moving column, or perchance a place the position of which was not known, and even the direction to it most uncertain. The Hau Haus, always on the look-out to catch the unfortunates employed on this job, would lay ambuscades in the long fern, alongside the footpaths, in such places as it was impossible to avoid passing, or at a ford you were obliged to cross.
Their dart was to kill your horse and take you alive, if possible, and then God help you if you were unable to blow your brains out—your death would be a very, very hard one.
We lost numbers of men this way; and although no officer or man was ever known to shrink the duty, yet we hated it. On the arrival of this most unnecessary order to the column with which I was serving, being first for duty, it was my fate to have to carry it on to another column and then, provided I lived, to rejoin my colonel at the earliest possible moment.
Now I was aware of the contents of the despatch, and it did not make me more pleased with the job, as I knew I was running the most desperate risks to carry an order absolutely superfluous.
Long before the despatch had even been penned, had either of the three white columns been lucky enough to catch the bounder whose name was mentioned in it, he would have been shot on the spot; while if Rapata and his friendly natives had rounded him up his end would have been quite as certain, though probably more complicated; and any orders on the subject were quite superfluous.
Well, I was warned to go, and went. I started at daylight, and after a long day’s ride, during which I had a few squeaks for my bacon, I fortunately, just as evening was coming on, fell in with the column I was in search of, and delivered my despatches to the O.C.
This column was composed of friendly natives, of course on foot, so I dismounted and joined the O.C., who was making for a camping-ground on which to pass the night.
We had nearly reached the desired spot when a body of the enemy who, unaware of our presence, were making for the same place opened fire on us.
The O.C. and myself were some short distance ahead of the majority of his men, who, after the usual way of native contingents, straggled a good deal when marching into camp.
We, however, at once charged, and the enemy gave ground until we came to a long natural opening in the manuka scrub, through which we were moving, and which was about twenty yards across. Here we halted and took cover, as we heard the Hau Hau leader shout to his men to turn and come back quickly, as there were only two white men by themselves and they, the Hau Haus, could kill them before the others came up. We stood our ground, as we knew our men were close up, and we both carried carbines.
All at once I saw a man on the other side of the opening aiming at my companion, and I at once fired and knocked him over; at the same moment my companion fired and hit a man I could not see, but who was aiming at me. Our men just then rushed up, and we continued the charge; but the enemy had bolted, and as night was falling fast we did not pursue them, but went up to the two men we had put out of mess. My man was quite dead, and was quickly recognised as a man of no great consequence, though of some reputation as a fighting man. The other one, however, was only wounded, but refused to tell us who he was, and to our questions replied by using the greatest insult in the Maori language—i.e. called us boiled heads. Having a suspicion as to his identity, the O.C. tore the breast of his shirt open, and there across his breast was tattooed the much-cursed name. Well, if he had lived like a beast, he met the death of a beast without flinching.
Two years later, after the wars were over, I was again crossing that part of the country and rode a little out of my way to the scene of the fight, to see if there were any traces of the men we had killed. Sure enough the skeleton of the half-caste was at the very spot on which he had fallen. Dismounting, I picked up a leg-bone, slipped it under my wallet straps and rode away. Later, I had it made up into a Maori flute by an old native—they used to make all sorts of useful and ornamental instruments out of human bones—and hung it on the wall of my quarters among other trophies and curios.
Some time after I was visited by the very official who had been father to this half-caste. He examined my collection of curiosities with some interest, and catching sight of the flute, said: “Oh, I used to tootle a bit on a Maori flute in my young days.” Then taking it down he tootled a “wyetta” (a Maori song). Little did he think he was playing a tune on the leg-bone of his own son; and I was not such a bally fool as to tell him.
Let sleeping dogs lie is an old and true aphorism, and I did not wish to stir up bitter family recollections by reminding him of a dead one; besides, he was a very big pot indeed, and the head of my department, so that a discreet silence as to who had been the original owner of that flute was sound policy.
Years ago in New Zealand there was a chain of forts stretching from the sea to the centre of the island. These forts were intended to keep open the road that had been constructed at great trouble and expense, on which a coach ran every week, conveying the mails and passengers to and from the wonderlands of Taupo and Rotomahana.
The headquarters of the district was at a place called Opepe, and consisted of a strong stockaded fort on the top of a pumice-stone hill, or, rather, I should say on a flat piece of ground surrounded by steep-sided gullies, which made it into a hill, and contained sufficient area for the fort and a parade ground.
Through the gully in front ran the road, and on the other side of the road were the troopers’ stables and a hotel for coach passengers, which also held the troopers’ canteen. The fort was approached by a zigzag path cut out of the hill, which was here perpendicular, and on the top of the path was posted a sentry.
Now among the officers stationed at headquarters was a doctor who had medical charge of the district. As far as his profession went, he had scarcely anything to do. The men were all picked men, most of them young; and in that splendid climate, with plenty of good, healthy work to do, sickness was almost unknown. This was very fortunately the case, as the doctor, having, perhaps, too much spare time on his hands, and caring nothing for sport, devoted that time to the worship of Bacchus and, at the time I write about, had become scarcely fit to attend to a crocodile, much less a human being.
Had he not given the regimental sergeant-major a dose for a cold that made that ancient warrior tie himself into complicated knots, then dance and squirm for a week, and even curse him for a year afterwards with a fervency that made the atmosphere tingle and the blue sky grow cloudy? Yes, it was fortunate the men were a healthy lot, and the doctor’s medicine was not in demand. The medico’s appearance was also decidedly against him. He wore his hair and whiskers, which were white, very long. His face was very red, and his nose, bulbous in shape, was purple in colour. He was, moreover, very slovenly in dress and dirty in his habits. It was strange he, being an Irishman by birth, should be morose and ill-tempered when sober (I beg his pardon. I don’t think I ever saw him really sober), and far from amusing when drunk. So, taking him in the large, he was neither popular nor respected by his brother-officers nor by the men. He had never been on active service, was very nervous of being sent on it, and had a holy dread of fire-arms of all sorts.
Well, this beauty made it his habit to go down to the hotel every night and booze there by himself. The men’s canteen was closed at 9.30 p.m., and lights-out was blown at ten. The doctor would leave the hotel at 10.30 and proceed up the hill to his quarters; and as by this time he was quite full up, he would climb the steep zigzag path on his hands and knees, and refuse to answer the challenge of the sentry. This caused trouble; he was reported over and over again and the O.C. reprimanded him once or twice, till at last, determining to give him a fright, he ordered the sentry to be served out with some blank ammunition, and that if the doctor again refused to answer the challenge, he was to let rip at him with a blank charge.
The following night the doctor began his crab-like ascent. “Halt, who goes there?” rang out the challenge. No answer. Twice again the challenge was repeated. Still no answer. Bang went the carbine. A loud yell from the medico, and he rolled over and over to the foot of the hill. Promptly the guard turned out. Down the hill they ran and found the doctor much shaken by his roll, and sobered by his fright.
They brought him up, and next morning at office he complained to the O.C., and charged the sentry with trying to murder him, swore that he had heard the bullet whiz just past his ear, and that it was dangerous to trust a sentry with such a thing as a carbine.
The O.C. listened to him and told him he could not punish the sentry for firing at him, as he was performing his duty by doing so, but he would severely reprimand him for making such a bad shot, and the next sentry who missed him would be severely punished.
This put the fear of the Lord into the doctor; but the force of habit was too strong for him, and the following night he was down at his usual haunt, filled up, and started at 10.30, his usual time, to return in his usual manner; but he took unusual precautions. No sooner had he crept across the road than he started howling at the top of his voice: “Friend, friend, friend”; and so on up the hill, past the laughing sentry and guard, across the parade ground and crawled into his quarters, still yelping his protecting cry.
This went on for a few nights, until one day he had to visit an out-station. He stayed there that day, got full up and started to return home that night. He must have fallen off his old pony and slept in the fern, for he did not turn up till 6 a.m. next morning. Then, having handed over his nag to the stable orderly, he immediately made for the hotel, and began to freshen his nip with more liquor. That day there was a commanding officer’s parade, and at 10 o’clock all the officers and men fell in. By 10.30 the inspection was over and the men standing at ease, previous to the drill commencing, when the howl of “Friend, friend!” was heard coming nearer and nearer. It seems that the doctor, true to the clock, had filled up, and at his usual time, but, oblivious to the fact that it was 10.30 a.m., and not 10.30 p.m., was making the best of his way to his lair and, by way of protection against the possible murderous attack of the sentry, was singing his usual ditty of “Friend, friend!”
Presently he appeared over the crest of the hill on his hands and knees, crawling across the parade ground towards the quarters, still uttering his doleful howl, when, glancing up, he saw the long line of men looking at him. He staggered to his feet and gazed at them for a full minute, with horror and consternation depicted on his face, then yelled out, “O blessed St Bridget, they mean to kill me this night. Sure, they’ve mounted one hundred bally sentries, and they can’t all miss me.” With that he reeled away, looking over his shoulder and, still yelling his shibboleth of “Friend, friend!” ran to earth in the welcome portal of his stronghold. This spectacle was too much for the risibility of the parade; officers and men went into a roar of laughter, which could not be checked for some time.
Next morning the doctor was informed he must resign or stand a court-martial. He did the former, and we got rid of him, while he retired to some place where he could indulge in his favourite pastime without running into danger from a murderous sentry or of the unkind remarks of a censorious commanding officer.
New Zealand is, of course, famous for its natural beauties and wonders, among them the hot lakes and the terraces of pink and gleaming white stone. The latter, unfortunately, were destroyed by volcanic eruption in the eighties, but, I believe, are forming again.
On one occasion when I was located in the hot lake district several prominent Colonial officials, with their wives, came up, and I had to show them round. On Lake Rotorua we had two large whale-boats, and it was arranged that the party should be taken along the lake in these, to the island Mokoia, the scene of the romantic story of O Hinemoa and Tutanekai (the Maori Hero and Leander). The Maori yarn differs from the Greek, as it was the young lady who did the swimming part of the business, and the hussy was not drowned.
Mokoia has also been the scene of ruddy war, for it was on this island the Arawa tribe took refuge from a dreadful raid of the Ngapuhi tribe, under that bloodthirsty monster Hongi, who, from the year 1818-1838, raged through the North Island of New Zealand like a plague, and destroyed over one-fourth of its inhabitants.
He was one of the first Maoris who visited England, having been brought there by Kendal to help Professor Lee with his Maori grammar and dictionary. While in England he was much lionised, and received many valuable gifts.
He was presented to George IV., who made him presents of a suit of armour and other valuable articles.
On his return to Sidney he sold all his presents, with the exception of the suit of armour, and bought 300 muskets with ammunition. While in Sidney a grim story is told of him. At Kendal’s dinner-table he met another Maori chief belonging to a tribe hostile to the Ngapuhi. Quoth he to his fellow-guest: “Go home, make ready for war, and prepare to be killed and eaten.” Landing in New Zealand, he swept the country bare, killing thousands and eating all he could. At last came the turn of the Arawa.
Sweeping down the east coast, he landed at Maketu and twice defeated the Arawa, who retired inland and took refuge in their stronghold, the island of Mokoia. He followed them and camped on the edge of the lake. Every morning the Arawa, confident in their fancied security, used to paddle past his camp and cheek him. I do not know if they used to place their thumbs to their noses and stretch their fingers out at him, but they poked fun at him and asked him rude questions, such as: How did he expect to come to Makoia? Was he growing wings like a duck, or, perchance, fins like a fish? etc., etc.
Naught would reply the grim old warrior, as he sat, surrounded by his cannibal chiefs, on the high bank of the lake, to his enemy’s ribaldry; but he took the opportunity to tapu the splendid canoes as they dashed past him, the jeering crews showing them off to the best advantage.
“My skull is the bailing pot of that canoe,” said Hongi, pointing to the largest and best one. This was a most awful assertion, but it rendered that canoe sacred to Hongi, as who, at the division of spoil, could claim a canoe the bailing pot of which was Hongi’s skull, the most tapu part of his body.
This went on day after day, while Hongi was having his big war canoes transported from the sea, up creeks, across land, over a range of bushed hills, and through lakes to the scene of action.
First of all up a creek, then he had a road cut through a forest, covering a range of hills, until he launched them on Lake Roto Ehu. Again, he cut a road through a forest, and launched them on Lake Roto Iti and then up a rapid creek till they emerged on Lake Roto Rua. Now, poor Arawa, you will find out to your cost how Hongi is coming to Mokoia!
One morning, as the Arawa were preparing for their usual daily amusement, they saw, to their horror and consternation, the advancing fleet of their bloodthirsty enemies. The time for jeering and laughter had passed, some tried to escape and a few succeeded, the others stood and fought the hopeless fight of spears and stones versus muskets. The canoes drew near the island and Hongi opening fire on the hapless defenders, shot them down in heaps, then, landing, killed or enslaved all that remained of the Arawa tribe. The ovens, surrounded with the crumbling bones of the victims, remain still to mark the spot where scores of the unfortunate Arawa were cooked and eaten; and these, with Ohinemoa’s natural hot bath, are the two show places on the beautiful green hill that sits like a gem on the bosom of the dark blue lake.
After we had visited Mokoia we were to descend the rapid creek up which Hongi had brought his canoes and inspect Roto Iti. The boats were manned by young Maoris of splendid physique, whom I dressed for the occasion very prettily, in shirts and trousers of white cotton, with black silk neckerchiefs. They were very proud of themselves in these smart, unaccustomed clothes.
When we came to the shallow water, at the head of the creek, it would be necessary for these fellows to jump out of the boat to lighten her, and drag her over into deep water; and I warned them that as English ladies did not like to see men without clothes on they must jump overboard in their smart suits. The three officials went into one of the boats by themselves, with a crew that knew no English, as they wanted to discuss important business, and I escorted the ladies in the other boat. We landed at Mokoia, and I showed them the bath and the gruesome ovens, and told them the tales of love and war, and then we re-embarked to visit Roto Iti. All went well till we reached the shallows at the head of the creek; here the boat grounded and I ordered the crew overboard to push her along.
All obeyed and plunged in with their clothes on, as instructed, with one exception. This was the stroke oar, a fine young Maori named Kiwi, who spoke broken English and was the son of a principal chief. He was very proud of his smart new clothes, and when the other fellows sprang into the water he sat tight. His mates called to him for help, and seeing he did not move I ordered him overboard. But he meant to preserve that suit. With a deep sigh he took off the black silk neckerchief, next he stripped off that immaculate white shirt. He looked at the water, and then at his lovely white trousers.
Then, with sudden inspiration, he touched the principal lady on the shoulder and said in a deep whisper of despair: “You no like to see me: you look that way.” And in another moment he had whipped off his last thread of clothing and joined his comrades in the water.
THE LOST DINNER
Some time after the New Zealand wars ended Pierre de Feugeron settled down at a Maori village called Wairoa, situated at the head of Lake Tarawera, and there built himself a two-roomed shanty, which he called the Maison de Repos, and offered to entertain any tourists visiting the wonders of Rotomahana.
Now Pierre was a miraculous cook. He could make a good dinner out of anything, and there is no doubt he would have done well but for his great failing, Drink—in his case spelt with a very, very big D. For no sooner had he been remunerated by one lot of tourists than he would at once make off to Ohinimutu, where there was a drink shanty, and blow the lot.
He was indeed a queer character. In appearance, he was big enough, and looked ferocious enough, for a stage brigand, wearing his hair long and a huge beard. In reality he was as kind-hearted and simple as a child, and, notwithstanding his past life of bloodshed and adventure, he was just as harmless as one.
Pierre was also great on politics, in more ways than one, for his special brand would depend on the number of tots he had absorbed.
When sober he was a Legitimist, after he had had a drink or two an Imperialist, a few more made a Republican of him, and as he got full up he became a Communist, an Anarchist and a ruddy Red. At this stage he would become an awe-inspiring object indeed. Armed with a tomahawk in one hand and a huge knife in the other, he would dance a war-dance of the most blood-curdling description, and with rolling r’s emit horrible wild yells, in French, broken English and Maori, sufficient, unless you had known him, to daunt the courage of Bayard himself. Yet when the non-com. on duty considered that Pierre had ranged himself enough, he only had to send a Maori kid to him, with the intimation that the guardroom required him, and Pierre, dropping the Bombastes Furioso business, would immediately make a bee-line for that hospitable abode and fall asleep, sobbing over the sorrows of La Belle France.
Well, it was my duty to escort round the hot lakes any big pot the Government chose to send up to me, and the Governor, once a year, used to come round, with a large party, and visit the wonders of the district, which, of course, included the marvellous terraces.
A noble marquis was at this time proconsul in New Zealand, and when I received warning of his advent I also received the straight tip that his Excellency, a bon-vivant, dearly loved a good dinner, so I determined he should have nothing to complain of while under my care.
Now it was customary for the Governor to camp a night at Wairoa en route to the terraces, and also to stay another night there on the return journey, so I determined, albeit with grave doubts, to engage Pierre to take charge of the culinary department for the two nights we should be there.
For the first night I had no anxieties, as I had kept Pierre closely confined to the guardroom for the preceding fortnight; but I was very nervous about the day that I should be at the terraces with the party, when Pierre, perchance getting hold of some of the liquor, might raise Cain and wreck the dinner. However, I put my trust in Providence, and also in the discretion and vigilance of the reliable old non-com. who would be left in charge of the camp during my absence, and to whom I gave instructions to keep a very sharp eye on Pierre and his movements; so, hoping for the best, I received his Excellency with equanimity.
The first night all went well. Pierre served up such a recherché dinner that the Governor sent for him to be congratulated, and in his enthusiasm offered the old chap a drink. Alas! I dare not interfere, though well I knew this meant trouble; for the first tot to Pierre was like the first taste of blood to a tiger.
Pierre picked up a bottle of brandy, and pouring out a bosu’n’s nip, drank it off to the health of ze Governor, ze Great Queen Victoria, and ze Great Napoleon, and then took himself off, but, horrible dictu, he also took the bottle with him.
Unfortunately, just at that moment my whole attention was drawn from him by a lady questioning me about his adventures, so he escaped with his plunder without my observing the act.
I left the table as soon as possible, and sought out Pierre, whom I found walking about on his tiptoes, looking scornfully at the troopers, while he informed them that he himself was Pierre de Feugeron, ze grand scout. He also demanded their attention, that he himself, and no other man, was Pierre de Feugeron, ze grand cordon-bleu, who had cooked dinners for the Emperor, and that the great Reine Victoria had sent for him to cook ze dinner for herself. Le Bon Dieu save ze Queen, ip ip——
He had just reached this stage when I reached for him, and ze grand cordon-bleu retired at the double to his hut; but, alas! I knew nothing about that plundered bottle, which he had planted before my advent.
The next morning, after an early breakfast, and after I had reiterated my cautions to the non-com., and my warnings and threats to Pierre, we started in canoes for Rotomahana, where the Governor and his party enjoyed themselves thoroughly, returning in the evening to Wairoa.
Now I must confess that although I placed great faith in both Providence and the non-com., yet Black Care sat on my soul like a wet blanket; and this would have been considerably enhanced had I but known that a sudden stampede of the horses had forced away the non-com. and his men, leaving Pierre alone in camp to work his wicked will. All the way back in the canoes the conversation turned on gastronomy, and his Excellency, well pleased with the day and having a forty-dollar appetite, looked forward to his dinner, and hoped it would be as good as the one on the previous night. I hoped so too; but coming events cast their shadows before them, and I had my doubts.
At last we landed and climbed the steep hill that led to the flat on which the camp was pitched. Alas! while still afar off I heard the wild war-whoops and blood-curdling yells I knew so well, and was assured that my very worst apprehensions were more than justified.
I at once pushed on, the Governor accompanying me, and on our reaching the camp there was our cordon-bleu, armed as per usual, dancing a war-dance that would have excited the envious admiration of a crazy Hau Hau.
The Governor paused for a moment, and stood aghast in astonishment at the horrible-looking object before us, then full of pluck, for of course he did not know how utterly harmless the old fellow was, rushed up to him and said soothingly: “Pierre, how goes the dinner?”
Pierre briefly answered that the dinner had gone to a place where it must have been overcooked and spoilt long ago.
But quoth his Excellency: “I am so hungry.”
“And a ruddy good job too,” howled Pierre. “It is good for kings and governors to be hungry. I myself am Pierre de Feugeron, the great Communist. I myself am Pierre de Feugeron, the noble anarchist, and I scorn to cook the dinners of kings and governors.”
Then seeing the rest of the party, who by this time had arrived and were regarding him with awe and astonishment, he at once consigned the Governor and the rest of us to the same place as he had committed the dinner, and was proceeding with his pas seul when some Maoris, acting on my instructions, took a hand in the game. Exit the noble anarchist, to be tied to a tree for the night, to regain his loyalty, while I had to bustle about to knock up an impromptu dinner for my sorrowing and shocked guests.
“So we found no copper island, nor rapid fortunes made,
But by strictly honest trading a dividend we paid.
And Maori Browne converted, with an ancient flint-lock gun,
A mob of ruddy pagans, beneath the southern sun.”
I was in Auckland with a lot of spare time on my hands. I had come down-country intending to go over to Australia, but, having been stuck up by a flooded river for two days, I had missed my boat, and consequently was planted there, as boats at that time were neither so numerous nor ran so often as they do now.
On the morning after my arrival I was strolling down Queen’s Street, wondering what I was to do with myself, when I was hailed from the other side of the road, and, looking in the direction from which the coo-ee came, I at once recognised the long red nose and brilliant scarlet hair of a man who had been our regimental surgeon during the past wars. His had been a hard case. Out and out the best medical man we had in our service, as far as professional knowledge and skill went, he was still a born fighting man, and was always more anxious, while under fire, to damage the enemy than to repair friends. This inclination was somewhat held in check and restrained by the Roman Catholic chaplain, a great pal of his who was always in the firing line doing the best he could for any wounded man, be he papist or heretic.
Well, one day while on a patrol along the east coast, we had a scrap with a few Maoris, and the doctor, who happened to be with us, to his huge delight, killed one. Now I do not for a moment want to assert that this was the first man the doctor had ever killed. He had, doubtless, during the practice of his profession, killed very many, but it was the first Hau Hau who had ever fallen to his carbine; for, although a brilliant medico, he was a vile shot, and the dear doctor was greatly elated, so much so that he determined to have a trophy in commemoration of the event. Now the Maori was a fine big fellow of some rank, and had the skin on his thighs magnificently tattooed, so the doctor, wanting a spolia opima, faute de mieux flayed off and preserved the tattooed portions of the bounder’s epidermis, which he cured and subsequently had made into a tobacco pouch. He was very proud of this pouch, and was fond of exhibiting it and making people to whom he showed it guess from what material it was manufactured.
He did so once too often; for one night after dining well, though not wisely, he exhibited it in the smoking-room of the club at Wellington. The same official was present whose son’s leg-bone was afterwards annexed and turned into a flute. He was at that time posing as a goody-goody minister; and, pretending to be shocked, brought such pressure to bear that he forced the medico to resign; and so we lost the services of our best doctor, and the company of a thundering good fellow. All this had happened some time before, and I had not seen him for over a year. We had been great friends, and I was under great obligations to him, as he had on several occasions mended me after I had been broken, and had even saved me my left leg when two other sawbones wanted to amputate it. So you can easily understand I was delighted to meet him, and we at once adjourned to Perkins’s saloon and proceeded to wet this auspicious meeting.
Well, no sooner had we lowered our first cocktail than the doctor demanded what I was doing in Auckland, and on my telling him I had lost my boat he expressed unfeeling delight and thanked Providence for sending and detaining me, as I was the very man he wanted, and I must take charge of a party he had raised to search the South Seas for a copper island.
Now I had not lost a copper island, and should not have known what to do with it if I found one, yet the very mention of the South Seas allured me like a honey-pot to a wasp.
Then as he went on to open out his plans, and tell me the names of the men who had joined him in his scheme, most of whom I knew well, I saw at once, copper island or no copper island, there was every chance of a rollicking good time. So when the men dropped in by twos and threes, Perkins’s saloon being their rendezvous, and all of them joining the doctor in persuading me, I quite gave way and consented to join with them and take command.
A case of champagne was quickly ordered and consumed, drinking luck to the venture, and I found myself chief of forty as reckless, devil-may-care filibusters as ever banded themselves together. Do not think, dear reader, we were going to hoist Jolly Roger, or anything of that sort. No, we were going to search through some of the least-frequented groups of islands to find one of pure copper, and we were all to return fabulously rich.
If we could not find the copper island, we might yet find something else of value, and even failing that we would trade with the islanders, gentle or otherwise, for bêche-de-mer, whales’ teeth, or anything else we thought could be disposed of to our advantage. Trade, I say, not take; we signed articles as Gentlemen Adventurers with every liberty but no licence.
We were, moreover, all of us highly respectable, very moral and well-brought-up young men. Every one of us had served and seen years of active service, so all knew the value of discipline. Most of us were public school boys, and although we might have found ourselves de trop at an Exeter Hall spring meeting tea-party, yet we were quite fit to take our places and shine in the beau-monde that at that period graced the South Seas.
Our party for the above purpose had chartered a very large and powerful American schooner, with a skipper, a Yankee who knew the South Seas well, and who turned out to be a rattling good fellow, two mates, a brace of cooks, a few China boys as flunkeys, and we worked her ourselves. Strict discipline was to be maintained. Every one of us had put a considerable sum of money into the venture; we all knew one another well, and two days after I had met the doctor we went to sea well armed, well found, and as good a crowd as ever set sail, without a single rotter amongst us.
Well, one lovely morning we got our anchor and glided out of the splendid harbour before a fine, fair wind, made our offing, then, setting every inch of muslin, started on our quest.
The schooner proved herself to be very fast, and also, a few days afterwards, in a bit of a blow, showed herself, although a trifle wet, yet on the whole to be a really good sea boat. The skipper and mates not only proved themselves good seamen, but good fellows; so we were all well contented and looked forward to great profit and more fun.
Those were the days when a man yearning for excitement could have his fill in the South Seas. Everyone there did what he liked, unless a stronger man prevented him.
Those were the days when Bully Hayes, in his lovely brigantine, Leonora, swept the seas and established a funk in everyone not too strong or too poor to fear him.
Bully Bragg was still to the fore. The infamous brig, Karl, and the psalm-singing Scotch scoundrel who owned her had not yet been found out, and there were plenty more black bird-catchers, sandalwood traders and others always ready to grab and take anything, provided they were strong enough to do so.
We had, however, nothing to fear from savage or picaroon: we were a strong party, with plenty of arms, and all of us well able to use them. We wished to interfere with no one, and whoever interfered with us must take the consequence. So we sailed on, enjoying the day and careless of the morrow.
If I were to write half of what happened to us on that glorious trip it would fill books.
We met Bully Hayes and hobnobbed with him, finding him the most obliging and courteous of men. But then we carried two twelve-pounders and fifty good rifles, so we deserved fair treatment, and received it. We landed on very many of the islands, and saw a good deal of the natives. Their conduct was mixed. So was ours. We paid well for everything we required in the way of wood, water and fresh provisions, when they were civil to us, and when they were the other thing we still took our requirements, and they took the other thing. So we sailed on, strong in the knowledge of our rectitude and integrity, and confident in our ability to take care of ourselves.
Well, we had a rollicking good time of it. But we did not find that copper island, nor anything else we wanted of any great value. We therefore turned our attention to trading, in which peaceful pursuit we were very successful.
Our strength in numbers, our discipline, and our skill with our weapons, overawing most of the savage islanders, enabled us to put in with impunity to places where smaller parties dared not have ventured, and also ensured us fair treatment, a good market and prompt payment. So we prospered as gentlemen adventurers of a highly moral tone deserve to.
One day we put in to an island where half the people, under the guidance of an old American missionary, had turned into what they called Christians, the remaining half still retaining their ancient superstitions.
The missionary was a dear, good old chap, as simple and confiding as a child, and it was very difficult to understand how such a cute nation as America could have produced such a man. I do not know to what brand of fancy religion he belonged, but he was not Church of England or Roman Catholic. Anyhow, he was a good man, and we respected him accordingly.
Now in a bit of a blow we had had a few days before we had been somewhat damaged, and seeing that the lagoon in which we were anchored was a very safe one, and the natives fairly civil, our skipper determined to remain a few days to complete the necessary repairs. So we landed a lot of stores, and started trading for bêche-de-mer, which animal the natives caught in large quantities.
During our trading I made the acquaintance of the head devil dodger of the pagan crowd, and found him to be not half a bad old fellow. He was, naturally, rather bitter at the desertion of the half of his parishioners, and gave me to understand that his tithes had so decreased that he could barely make a living, and that the island was not, in his opinion, large enough to support two rival churches. So, judging I was a knowledgeable man, he asked my advice on this point. He also requested my active assistance to aid him in his endeavours to regain his rightful emoluments and status.
His first proposal was that he should kill his rival sky-pilot; but that I forbade, and impressed on him the fact that if he hurt the missionary a ship of war would quickly come and blow him and his island galley west. He next proposed that I, to show my friendship, should oblige him so far as to kill the missionary for him. This proposition was, of course, decidedly negatived. Then he suggested that I should at least shoot the boss convert, the next cause of my old friend’s trouble. Again I had to refuse, and explained to him that the quarrel was not mine, and that the white man’s God only allowed us to kill one another in pukka (war).
Then he requested the loan of my rifle to do the deed with himself; but I opened the breech and let him look down the barrel, explaining to him that only a Christian could use that weapon, as a heathen, not possessing the spirit of the true faith, might receive damage from the breech. He shook his head and intimated that it was a weary, weary world and full of disappointments. But an old flint-lock musket among the trade goods catching his eye, he begged to examine it, and seeing it had no opening at the breech he at once said that it was the very weapon he had dreamed of with which to right his wrongs. Would I give it him?
I am not a business man, but yet I suggested that I should like payment for it in bêche-de-mer or whales’ teeth. Alas! he was a poor man, he had none; but would I not lend him the gun, just to shoot one Christian with? I pointed out the dangers he ran in attempting to do such a thing. The mana (spirit) of the Christian God was far stronger than the mana of his pagan ancestors, and most likely if I lent him the musket it would only bring trouble on himself, and he would be sorry for it. He, however, refused to grasp my reasoning, sound as it was; so knowing quite well what would happen, I lent him the old flint-lock. He was delighted, and promptly borrowed two handfuls of coarse black powder to feed it with. These he carefully poured down it, then rammed home various chunks of coral, pebbles, etc., topping up with a fid of rag.
At my earnest request he moved a short distance from my camp, to a spot where he dug a shallow hole in the sand, in which he lay dogo, and waited with great patience for his Christian friend to come along. Towards evening come along he did. I knew the bounder by sight and I did not admire him. Christianity, as a rule, does not improve the manners of the gentle savage, and it certainly had not added to this Johnny’s stock of humility, for he swaggered along with as much side as a new-made Lance Jack, bumptious cheek being written all over him, in fact he looked the very quintessence of insolence and cheap pride.
Presently he arrived within a few yards of the spot where Nemesis awaited him, and where he was to receive a shock that was to fill him with the fear of the Lord for a considerable period of time.
Yes, indeed he was just within a yard or two of the little heap of sand that masked the old devil dodger’s ambush when that ancient worthy rose up and, holding the old gun out at the full stretch of both arms, shut his eyes, pulled the trigger and let go. For a moment the powder fizzled in the touch hole, then off it went with the report and recoil of a 32-pounder. Where the charge went the Lord only knows, but the report, flame and smoke were quite enough for the Christian. He turned and fled, and went round the bay, at a pace that would have won him any Marathon race record in the world; and the last thing I saw of him was a black dot on the white beach, disappearing round a far cape and still travelling as if the devil had kicked him edgeways.
If the report had upset the equanimity of the convert, the recoil had been equally deadly to the equilibrium of the pagan. Struck full in the face by the heel-plate of the old gun, he turned at least three back somersaults; and when he came to the conviction that he was still on this planet he rose up, and after straightening out and arranging his scattered features, he went and looked at the old musket, and solemnly cursed it for at least ten minutes. Then seeing it was now in a state of quietude, he gingerly picked it up and, holding it at arm’s-length, brought it to me and handed it back, remarking sadly, with a shake of his head: “This gun is no good.”
Here I joined issue with him, and declared it to be a very good gun indeed. Had it not knocked him over and over again, and that with the peaceful end of it? Had it not made him see more stars in a few minutes than he had ever before seen in his whole life? And if that was the case to himself, had not even the talk of it caused his enemy to run faster and farther than any mortal man had ever been known to run before? Well, then, how much more damage would it not have done, with its business end, had it only been directed by a man who possessed proper mana in proportion to the strength of the gun? No, the gun was a good gun, and the fault clearly lay with himself.
Again I not pointed him out the dangers he ran in attacking a Christian? Had I not assured him that the mana of the white man’s God was far stronger than the mana of his pagan deities? Had he believed me and taken my advice? No. Then who was to blame? Why, undoubtedly himself; and consequently he had suffered for it.
This he was forced to allow, but then the same question cropped up again. What was to be done? Could I not give him some sound advice? Why, certainly. The best course he could pursue would be for himself and people to at once turn Christians, and then, if they obeyed the missionary implicitly, they would soon make up the leeway of mana that the others had acquired, and he would be on the same plane as the other josser.
To this he agreed, and swore he and his people would be converted right away, and started off hot-toe to summon them.
I had just finished telling my comrades about my first attempt at converting the heathen when who should appear but his Reverence himself, in a terrible state of fluster.
Approaching me, he said sorrowfully: “Surely I am misinformed: surely you did not lend a musket to one of these heathens with which to kill one of my dear Christian converts.”
I pleaded guilty. “Is it not written,” I said, “‘He that lendeth to the poor giveth to the Lord’? This poor chap hadn’t a musket of his own so I lent him one.”
The dear old fellow was very much shocked, but I convinced him that I was fully aware no harm would come from my perhaps injudicious kindness; and finally, on the appearance of my old friend, the knight of the rueful countenance, with his leading people, who one and all declared that they were convinced of the power of the Christian God, and that they were all both anxious and willing to join his flock, his sorrow turned to gladness, and he declared that Providence worked in wondrous ways, and that now he was convinced that our visit had been a great blessing to his community, although he had had at first grave doubts upon the subject. He also returned thanks for the sudden and wonderful conversion of the heathen, and declared that now the whole island would become the home of one happy family, living together in peace and harmony. I had my doubts; but he was such a good old fellow that we all turned to and built him a swagger church, and endowed it with a spare ship’s bell we had on board.
So that when we left the dear old innocent took a tearful farewell of us and gave us his blessing; and a really good man’s blessing, like a tinker’s cuss, does no one any harm. He also prophesied we should all meet again in heaven; but there again I have grave doubts, as I fancy most of our crew were making for a more tropical latitude.
Well, I have never heard of that island since the day we left it, and I have even forgotten its name; but I have always felt uncertain about the happy-family part of the business, and fear his Reverence was premature in the thanks he gave concerning it. For on the day we left, on my presenting the exdevil dodger with an American axe, as a parting gift, he gravely informed me that he felt the mana of the Christians rising so strongly within him that as soon as he had acquired a few more hymns and prayers he should feel strong enough to have another go at his enemy, and he thought, this time, he would fetch him, especially as my beautiful present would provide him with a beau-ideal weapon that would do its work quietly and not kick back and destroy its innocent proprietor. I may therefore be forgiven for my doubts on the brotherhood, peace and harmony of that happy family.
I have never tried to convert any heathens since, but I sincerely hope that my one attempt proved, in the long run, as profitable as our trip to the South Seas did for us. But may I again remark, I hae ma doots.