Kiwi Wars (25 page)

Jack and his men bivouacked nearby. Ta Moko was not with them on this occasion, but Jack knew his Maori guide could have told the general that there would be escapees during the night. Indeed, when morning came, such was the case. A large number of the enemy had slipped through the cordon. Those who had been left behind wasted no time in surrendering. The toll on the Maoris was 50, but the British had suffered a similar number of casualties. It was one of those times when Jack could not help wondering if they had come to some sort of agreement, a compromise, there would be over a hundred men still walking around, breathing air, and living a life. There appeared to have been no real gain for either side. So the British had won? But was their win merely in name only? Some battle honours to go on the colours? Or was it a significant psychological victory, which was a telling blow to the Maori cause?

Over 180 prisoners were rounded up. The British troops showed these men great respect for their gallantry and General Cameron said they should be treated well. Then, with the way open south, Jack and his men were sent up to Auckland, where Sergeant King was to present some of his maps to senior officers billeted in the city. For King, it was the highlight of several years of work. He solemnly displayed the products of his endeavours before bored colonels as if they were the works of Michelangelo.

‘What your man doesn’t seem to understand,’ a major said to Jack on the side, ‘is that it’s
fun
getting lost in the bush. How else are we to test our mettle if not from having to find our way out of a fix every so often? How dull it would be, chum, if we knew exactly where we were going and how long it would take to get there,
all the time.
There’s no sense of achievement in treading in the footprints of a sergeant-clerk.’

In his heart of hearts, Jack was inclined to agree with the major, but of course he said nothing to King, who was like a boy presenting his handmade model to his tutors at school. This was
his
work. The fruits of his profession. Nothing could destroy King’s feeling of euphoria.

Later, Jack learned that the name of the Maori who tried to save Captain Mercer was a chief named Te Oriori. Unfortunately Mercer’s wound was mortal, and the chief’s attempts were in vain. Nevertheless, Jack’s admiration of Maoris as a warrior race had again increased with that selfless act.

Fifteen

C
aptain Abraham Wynter, of the Honourable Artillery Company, was in the dressing room of his grand house on Main Street, New Plymouth. There were a total of seventeen bedrooms in the huge white clapboard residence, only a half-dozen of which were ever occupied at the same time. On the occasions that Captain Wynter had held drinking and card game evenings, most guests were unable to return home afterwards (in actual fact, many were incapable of making it to the front door) and were permitted to doss in the first unoccupied bedroom they had the good fortune to stagger into, so long as it was not one of the two master bedrooms used by the host. Captain Wynter himself was a light sleeper. His troubled mind often kept him awake in the early hours of the day as he brooded on various issues which circled his brain. It took but a creak of a stair, or the wind in the eves, to have him sitting bolt upright in bed, his heart racing ahead and his fear not far behind. On such occasions Captain Wynter would take himself to his second bedroom, in an attempt to find a change of atmosphere, and blessed sleep.

Today though, in his dressing room, with his maid and sometime bed companion assisting him, Captain Wynter was reverently unpacking and laying out the uniform which had arrived by the latest ship. Since 1830, when King William IV had taken notice of the HAC, its uniform had been based on that of the Grenadier Guards, an aspect of his newly found regiment that pleased Abe Wynter immensely. The Grenadiers were a highly respected, superior force.

‘It wouldn’t hurt, Sadie,’ said Abe, using his pet name for his Maori maid, ‘to be mistook for one o’ them Grenadiers.’

He began by putting on the scarlet coat with its splendid golden epaulettes and buttons gleaming in the sunlight that speared the window. There were several uniforms in the pine wooden box, but the only one he was really interested in was the dress uniform, with its various sashes and its wonderful sword and scabbard. In a separate box was the bearskin hat, which almost stopped Abe Wynter’s heart with its magnificent aspect. He put this on and was immediately over seven feet tall. Once he was fully dressed, with Sadie fussing around his shoulders with a little dusting brush, he stood in front of a full-length mirror.

‘My God, Sadie,’ he said, genuinely astonished at his own splendour. ‘No wonder them officers look so regal-like. It an’t hard to be a gentleman in togs like these. Why, I look like I was a high-born warrior from a top-class family, don’t I?’

‘You look like a king, master.’

He turned this way and that, admiring himself.

‘Don’t I just. I
feel
like a bloody king. Look at this bleedin’ titfer! Like an Aussie wombat squattin’ on me napper. You can’t do better’n this for style, Sadie. Here . . .’

He suddenly drew the sword from its sheath and, whirling on her, brandished the blade underneath her chin. He flicked the steel back and forth as if fending off an enemy. Once or twice the razor-edged blade passed but a notepaper’s thickness from her glistening skin. Then curiously, he suddenly held it still. Light from the blade gleamed on the upper part of Sadie’s throat. She stepped back, pale with fear. She knew her master’s unpredictable moods. Abe grinned, knowing he had frightened her. It was the sort of joke he enjoyed.

‘You like silver, eh?’ he said to her.

She looked puzzled and he explained. ‘When we was kids we used to hold buttercups under a girl’s chin – if it showed yeller we said she was fond o’ butter. But you like silver coins, eh, Sadie?’

Sadie nodded violently. Abe then tipped the sword point down and hooked her woollen skirt with it. He lifted the hem to reveal her legs all the way up to the smooth brown thighs. He grinned again.

Sadie tilted her chin, almost in defiance. This puzzled Abe for a minute. Then he grinned and let her skirt fall. ‘With legs like them, you an’t got no worries about getting your gold and silver, Sadie.’

Later that morning Captain Wynter stepped from the porch of his house into the Main Street. He was wearing his full dress uniform, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He imagined he heard one or two gasps of admiration from passers-by in the street, which gratified Captain Wynter immensely.

‘I am on my way to war, madam,’ he told a woman who was gaping at him. ‘I aim to teach them Maori rebels a lesson, if you please! Oh – Captain Wynter, at your service, ma’am.’ He clicked his heels together in the manner of a Prussian officer and saluted. Then he called over his shoulder, ‘Catch up, you two. Chop-chop.’

Close behind him were two of his Maoris, carrying a crate. Inside the crate was Mr Perkins’ Extraordinary Steam Gun, the very one which fired one thousand shots per minute, using 900psi steam. The crate was long, since the barrel itself was six feet in length. It could even, with an attachment, fire around corners. The captain was going hunting in the bush this morning. He had been granted a column of thirty soldiers, a loan so to speak, by one of the regimental commanders, a colonel who wished at some time to purchase some land. Wynter had promised the colonel the men would be used with discretion.

Abe Wynter enjoyed the walk to the garrison in his magnificent bearskin, where his temporary loan was waiting on the parade ground. A colour sergeant called them to attention as Abe approached. The clash of arms in his honour greatly excited the ex-sailor, who recalled how proud the captains of ships had looked when marines had performed the same duty for them. He too felt proud. He was now a soldier – yet not
just
a soldier, a commissioned
officer.
And not even just a lowly lieutenant, but a full-fledged captain in a top-class regiment. That was something to be proud of, by damn, coming as he did from such humble origins. Probably half his cousins and brothers had been admitted, often under violent protest, to the sordid cells and passageways of Newgate prison in London. Some of them had never come out. One or two had been forced to leave by exiting through a small trapdoor on the floor of the gallows.

Yet here was he, Abe Wynter, inspecting a troop of Her Majesty’s soldiers.

‘At ease, Sergeant. That is, at ease once I’ve inspected ’em, and I’m satisfied as to the smartness and such.’

The colour sergeant rolled his eyes.

Captain Wynter gravely walked up and down between the ranks of the soldiers, nodding, frowning, pointing the sergeant towards a grease mark or blemish. Once the tour had finished he told the sergeant they should be on their way. ‘If you follow my tracker, Kunu, he’ll lead us to where these damn rebels are, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, sir,’ muttered the Scottish sergeant, clearly not pleased with the arrangement his colonel had made. ‘Follow the tracker.’

The small column left the garrison and headed out into open country in the wake of a keen-eyed Maori with his hair tied in a black ribbon. Captain Wynter wanted no horses or pack animals of any kind with the main party. He was of the opinion that such creatures slowed a march down. Also, they had a habit of whinnying, or braying, just as you came within earshot of the enemy, and you would arrive at their hideout to find it abandoned. It was important on this mission to catch the rebels at home. Abe wanted no mistakes. There was money attached to this venture. However, thousands of musket balls weighed heavily and could not be carried by men on foot. He needed this ammunition for the Perkins gun. This meant that pack animals would have to follow on in the expedition’s wake. Abe’s sixth Maori was left to haul the reserve ammunition, while the main party carried only a thousand balls.

The tracker and the soldiers went ahead, with Abe and the sergeant taking up the rear. There were four Maori taking turns to carrying the machine gun. This engine of war also followed after the rifle-bearing soldiers, as they trudged through the bush.

‘So, Sergeant,’ said Abe, ‘what do you think of the old uniform, eh? Pretty smart, wouldn’t you say?’

The grizzled sergeant, a veteran from a Burmese campaign, looked him up and down, and nodded curtly.

‘Aye, it’s no bad – sir.’

‘Not bad? It’s bloody good, Sergeant.’ Abe stroked his scarlet breast with his palms. ‘This is good stuff, not like that itchy blue serge you’re wearin’. I don’t even put on under-pants made out of stuff that coarse. I’ll let you into a secret – it only takes money. If you make it rich, then it’s all open to you, see? I was just an ordinary seaman once. Now look at me? Captain in the Honourable Artillery Company – which, by the by, I been meanin’ to ask one o’ you army types. I thought artillery was big guns, but some o’ the HAC, me included, an’t gunners.’

The Scottish sergeant was better informed than most about such things and had the answer for the captain.

‘You want to know, sir, how that comes about?’

‘Yes, that’s why I’m askin’, man.’

‘Fact is, sir, the word
artillery
was used first to mean bows and arrows – when muskets came along, they were called “great artillery”. Yon HAC was probably formed early on, when it meant archers and such, ye ken?’

‘Oh, so that’s ’ow it worked, eh?’

‘I should think so, sir.’

‘Makes sense.’

The march through the bush was slow and cautious. They had at least one night in the open to look forward to, where they would not be permitted to light fires or do anything which might give warning to the rebels. When evening came round they camped by a small brook in a narrow valley. Since they were travelling light, the soldiers simply placed a blanket on the ground to sleep on. It was midwinter now and the nights were cold and damp. Captain Wynter had brought with him several sheepskins, some to lie on, some to cover him. He used his precious bearskin as a pillow. He hated sleeping in his bright new uniform, but there was nothing else for it. His Maori aides slept in a circle round him, their shotguns to hand, just in case. This helped to keep him warmer than he would otherwise have been.

Strangely – the mind is a complex machine – Abe slept more soundly out there in the mud than he ever did at home. Perhaps it was because of the exercise and fresh air, but more likely it was because his brain was freed from reminders of past misdeeds. Back at the house there were all those trappings of a rich gentleman which threw his mind back to the time when those riches came to him. Striker probably had the same dreams, the same nightmares. Abe wondered if it was one of the reasons why Striker had gambled his money away. Perhaps the load was too heavy to carry and he had jettisoned it willingly?

Abe woke as the dawn light was clawing its way up the sky. A murky mist was flowing over the damp ground. His bones ached and his temper was on the edge of nasty. Coffee. He would at that moment have given a bag full of gold for a cup of coffee. But he knew that lighting a fire would have been foolish. Why come out at all if the bird was given warning to fly the roost? He settled for a cup of clear stream water, hoping sheep had not shit in the headwaters. Around him the soldiery was waking, exchanging greetings, while the sergeant prowled amongst them telling them softly to ‘keep the noise down’.

The five Maori that Abe had brought with him were washing in the brook. They were big quiet men who asked no questions and only gave answers when asked for them. Looking at them, at their marvellous physique, Abe did not wonder they made such a ferocious enemy. They were warriors through and through. It was as if God, or Nature, had designed them for that role. They were muscled fighters in the mould of Ancient Greek heroes. Achilles himself would have changed bodies with any of these dark-skinned combatants. The British soldiers – some skinny, some fat, some heavily built, some short – paled by physical comparison and were entirely reliant on organization and discipline, and numbers of course, for their position as a great force in the world.