Kiwi Wars (5 page)

Abe stepped away from his younger brother and brushed non-existent dust from the shoulders of his fine coat with a pale hand.

‘Now, now, Harry boy, we’ve never been
that
close.’

Harry’s expression revealed his bewilderment at this remark.

‘What I mean to say is,’ said Abe, gently, ‘we ‘aven’t been near each other in twenty-odd years. I wouldn’t want to claim you as one of my own at this late date, old chum.’

Harry stared with uncomprehending wide round eyes. ‘But – but we’re brothers, Abe.’

‘Well, yes – but, in actual real-life fact, do we properly know that? Half-brothers, maybe? Yes, that’s most likely. You know what a strumpet our mother was. Who knows if we had the same father, Harry? An’ fathers is what’s important, in the family line. The paternal is what it’s all about, Harry, not mothers. Mothers is just coincidental.’

Harry Wynter spat on the ground in contempt as his anger rapidly passed the white-heat stage and into bitter disbelief. Had he a rifle in his hands before that moment had gone, he might have shot Abraham Wynter where he stood. It was lucky for both of them that his weapon was in the hands of Corporal Gwilliams. Abe would have had a hole between his eyes and a fratricidal Harry would be heading for the noose.

Harry spoke evenly and carefully, despite the terrible emotions that swirled inside his heaving breast.

‘You are my proper brother, Abraham Edward Arthur Wynter, and you God-damn well know it.’ He came down like a blacksmith with a hammer on the words ‘God-damn’. There were hot tears in his eyes. ‘We was the youngest of eleven babes, you an’ me, me bein’ the total youngest, all the rest girls. By the time our mam got to us she was wore out and as wrinkled as a dry prune. No other man would’ve looked at her except Pappy, who loved her dear. I’ll give you three God-damn days to come to your sensibilities. If you don’t, I’ll write to our mam and tell her what you said about her bein’ a trollop. An’ the rest on the family – our sisters. It’s a blamed good job for you our beloved pappy, God rest his gin-soaked soul, an’t alive to hear your blaspheming. But I’ll tell all our sisters what you said and how you’re treatin’ a
real
properly conservated brother of yourn. You’ll never be able to show your face in England again.’

Abe laughed out loud. ‘And I care? Me the richest man in New Zealand? I an’t never goin’ home, Harry. Not in a million years. You just keep on armying. That’s what you’re cut for.’ His face changed to a savage expression. ‘My money’s my own. I don’t owe nobody nothin’, not even kin. What did you ever do for me, boy? Not a blamed thing. So that’s what I’m goin’ to do for you, not a blamed thing. I need every penny I got. I an’t goin’ to be poor again, that’s certain. You just keep bleatin’ – that’s all you’re good for, boy. You was born bleatin’ and you’ll die bleatin’. You’re a bloody billy goat, Harry Wynter.’

With that the wealthy gentleman turned on his heel and strode off towards the town.

Harry Wynter looked as if he had been struck by lightning. He stumbled back to the table where the others were still sitting, having witnessed this terrible humiliation of one of their own kind. Gwilliams was inclined to side with Harry Wynter. He could not imagine any of his family – he had two sisters but no brothers –brushing him off in the same way as Abe had brushed off Harry. Jack, though he privately agreed with the ‘bleating’ accusation, thought that Abraham Wynter must be a callous and unfeeling kind of man. Sergeant King was stunned by this show of meanness on the part of Abe Wynter, but did not entirely disagree with the older brother. King did not believe that individuals should inherit wealth as a matter of course. He felt every man should earn his own living and receiving unearned riches only turned someone’s head for the worse. In his opinion it ruined the sons of rich men, whose wealth came too easily to those who followed after.

‘Can you credit such a hard man?’ snarled Harry. ‘Can you believe it could happen? What would a thousand or even a couple of hundred pounds be to a man what discovered that much gold? He didn’t give me a penny. Not even a blamed farthin’. I got to live in this man’s army till I die now, which most likely will be sooner than later seein’ as how my bodily condition an’t healthy at all.’

The others released sounds of sympathy.

After briefing his men Jack had a meeting with Colonel Gold in his office, a shack attached to the local Quaker Meeting House. The colonel was uncomfortable with this close proximity with pacifists, but building space was limited in the town. He liked the plain speaking of Quakers, but privately was horrified by the lack of a hierarchical structure. The Quakers, or Friends, had no ministers, leaders or layers of important officials. Decisions were reached, not by vote, not by a chairman or president, not even by consensus, but by a clerk gauging the ‘feeling of the meeting’.

The colonel tried to imagine the army working in the same way and shuddered.

‘We’re like two exact opposites,’ the colonel explained to Jack as the captain sat down in the proffered chair. ‘On one side the warriors with written rules, regulations and where everyone knows his place – and on the other side of that wall they are pacifists who have nothing written down and whose organization is a total mystery, even to its members. Yet we manage to live together tolerably well. I tell you one thing, they don’t make a great deal of noise. They’re peaceful neighbours all right.’ The colonel let out a raucous laugh, as if he had just made a great joke.

Jack stared at the colonel, unable to join in the laughter.

The colonel sighed. ‘Their meetings for worship consist of an hour of silence,’ explained the colonel.

‘Oh,’ replied Jack. ‘No hymns or sermons?’

‘The occasional quietly spoken piece of advice or query, so I’m given to understand, never interrupting the silence for more than a few minutes at a time.’

‘And how do they settle disputes, sir?’

‘Through conciliation and negotiation, apparently. They call it “conflict resolution”. Not our sort of people at all, Captain, but each to his own, eh? Now, to business. I need you out in the field. I want you to produce some good maps of the Waitara district, to the south of New Plymouth. How are you fixed? Got all your equipment ready?’

‘My sergeant deals with the logistics. Yes, we seem to be there.’

‘Then leave as soon as possible. I’m giving you a Maori scout. His name is Ta Moko. You can trust him. Ta Moko is from a tribe to the far north, near the Bay of Islands, but he knows the country hereabouts. Shall I call him in?’

‘Just one moment, sir. Could I enquire about something?’

The colonel looked surprised. ‘Of course.’

‘Do you know a man by the name of Abraham Wynter?’

‘Know of him. He’s in thick with some of the governor’s men. A common sort of fellow, but he struck it rich in the Australian goldfields. Why? Had a run in with him?’

‘No, nothing like that. One of my men is his brother. There was a confrontation between the two just before I came to see you. Basically my private thought his brother would purchase his release from the army, and the brother refused. Point blank. Abraham Wynter seems reluctant to part with any of his new-found wealth, even for family.’

‘That sounds like him.’ The colonel tapped a pencil on the table in front of him, before adding, ‘Some of the more dubious land deals have been made in his name. Wynter has purchased land from Maori who have afterwards been proved not to own it. Yet his claims to legitimate contracts have been upheld by the government. He has someone in his pocket, that’s certain. I don’t like the man. I’m no snob, Captain, but there’s the stink of bribery and corruption about him.’

‘Thank you, sir. Now your Maori scout. May I meet him?’

The colonel shouted the name and a man in European trousers and shirt, but barefoot, stepped through the doorway. His broad face was a maze of tattoos and his hair was as black as a raven’s wing. Jack had never seen such wide shoulders on any man before. They were huge and muscled, as were the rest of the visible parts of his body. He looked immensely strong. He stepped forward and Jack felt his good hand being gripped by powerful fingers. Brown eyes stared into his. They were bright, warm eyes, with amusement not far away.

‘How do you do, sir? My name is Ta Moko.’

‘So I understand. And mine is Crossman – Captain Jack Crossman.’

‘Good. A cross and a man. I am also a Christian. Are you a Christian, sir, may I ask?’

‘Yes, though I have to admit, I have not been a practising one of late – but I was born so.’

‘You may borrow my Bible, if you need it. We Maori always carry a Bible, since it is new to us. We don’t know it by heart yet.’

Jack did not say there were very few British soldiers who would know the Bible by heart, if any at all. Once outside the hearing of the colonel, Jack was able to talk to Ta Moko more freely. Not that he had anything to say that was contentious, but the presence of a senior officer always inhibited the captain. There were still those around who were suspicious of the kind of work he did. It was not so long ago that senior officers in the army despised spies of any kind, even their own, and considered them to be less than gentlemen.

‘Ta Moko,’ he said, as they walked along, side by side, ‘has that any special meaning?’

‘My full name is Tohunga Ta Moko. My grandfather was the maker of tattoos. That is what Ta Moko means.’

‘Ah, but you no longer follow your grandfather’s art?’

‘No, I am a warrior, and also pathfinder for the pakeha.’

Jack hesitated before asking the next question, but he felt he needed to know.

‘Can I ask why you scout for us? The pakeha?’

Ta Moko shrugged. ‘Why not? You have come here. We have accepted you. In the beginning there was no trouble – only in the last few years has trouble come. I have been to London and to Vienna. I have seen what power you people have in your machines. And there are so many of you. If it had not been the British, it would have been the French, or the Dutch, or the Portuguese. One or other of you. I myself own no land. I have nothing to sell. So I earn a living by what I can do.’ He paused. ‘I used to be a fisherman, but when my father died I lost my love for fishing. We would do it together. Now it is not the same.’

Jack took Ta Moko to his men and introduced him. GWilliams, once a scout himself, gave Ta Moko a friendly nod. King shook the Maori’s hand. Wynter typically stared at the newcomer sourly, but wisely kept his peace. Ta Moko was left in no doubt where he stood with each of the men he was to take out into the bush. He knew which one he would leave behind, if it became a necessary thing to do. Ta Moko knew also that there were men he came to regard and men he came to despise in all walks of life. Wynter did not bother him. He was aware he could crush the private like a flea if there was any problem with him.

Once the packhorses were loaded, the group set off southwards to skirt the edge of Mount Taranaki. As they left the camp Jack was aware that more soldiers were arriving from the ships. He recognized the colours of 40th Regiment, and the 13th, who were due in New Zealand. There were more Royal Artillery too. The military were building their numbers in New Plymouth.

When Sergeant King looked up at Mount Taranaki, he saw a dramatic volcanic cone with a white snowy peak. It was a huge powerful presence dominating – no, domineering – the landscape. King could not help but be affected in a spiritual way by this beautiful physical force. Dozens of streams, which later became rivers, ran down the sides of the volcano, watering a vast array of wild flowers, shrubs and trees. An awe-inspiring sight.

Ta Moko saw by King’s face that he was affected by the scene.

He rode up alongside Sergeant King. ‘Do you want to know more about this mountain?’

‘Yes, I do,’ replied King, expecting and of course hoping to be told something of a geographical nature. He was after all a map-maker, whose principal interests were in the formation of the landscape and in the nature of earth movements.

‘Well,’ said Ta Moko, ‘this volcano once lived with three other volcanoes – Ruapehu, Tongariro and Ngauruhoe – but Taranaki fell in love with Tongariro’s lovely wife, a beautiful small volcano named Pihanga. He was caught with her and paid the price of stealing dark love. His penalty was to be cast out from the tribe and Taranaki went west, towards the setting sun. As he travelled his feet cut a groove in the land, which we now call the River Whanganui.’

A disappointed King said, ‘Thank you for that story. I am most obliged to you, Ta Moko.’

‘You do not believe it?’ Ta Moko asked.

‘Oh, it’s not whether I believe it or not – I thought I was about to hear something different.’

Ta Moko shrugged, wondering why his tale was not fascinating to this man. Other Englishmen, especially the members of the clergy, would write his stories down when he told them, eager to listen. Even the bishop himself was keen to hear tales, especially about Maui, the wonderful demigod who delighted all Maori children. Ta Moko sighed. The old gods were worshipped no longer: at least not openly. Some Maoris clung to them, of course, but most had become Christians. Being a Christian was probably special, but it could be quite boring. Did Jesus ever change heads with his wife and walk through a village to terrify the inhabitants? Maui did. Were there any giants in the Bible like Flaming Teeth, who would replace a charred stump in his mouth with a newly cut-down tree? Not that Ta Moko knew. And Little Wave and Big Wave, and the Eel-man, and tree goblins, and . . . oh, so many gods and creatures. The Bible had stories too, of course, but none quite as exciting as the Polynesian tales told to Ta Moko by his grandpa.