The Silent Frontier (19 page)

‘Good, sir,’ Forster replied.

‘But, for the moment,’ Lightfoot continued, ‘we have this unresolved matter of Corporal MacDonald. The man is like a burr under my saddle.’

‘I have not forgotten, sir,’ Forster said. ‘I do have a plan.’

Lightfoot looked surprised. ‘Well, spit it out,’ he said.

Forster shifted his balance and gave a small cough, clearing his throat. ‘We are deep in enemy territory and any man who should stray too far from camp could be slain very easily by some of them roving heathens. Need I say any more?’

‘Not really, Sergeant Forster,’ Lightfoot said. ‘You have my permission to free yourself of any duties that may impair your ability to resolve our mutual problem.’

‘Thank you, sir. Be assured that with the plan I have put together – and some help – MacDonald will not see the sun rise tomorrow. I promise you that.’

Lightfoot dismissed his fellow conspirator and watched him march away. Whatever Forster had in mind, he did not want to know the details.

SEVENTEEN

S
ergeant Samuel Forster had plotted his elimination of Lachlan MacDonald well. The bottle of good Jamaican rum had cost him ten shillings, but as a bribe it had paid off. Later, he would request reimbursement from the captain, along with his fee for removing the young Scot from their lives.

Shivering, he squatted in the dense bush, while drizzling rain ran down the back of his jacket. The temporary discomfort would be worth it, as soon as MacDonald came alone along the track towards the militia headquarters of his old unit. The time and place had been carefully selected. Forster knew a sergeant in the Rangers who was fond of rum and had given the bottle to him on the condition that he let MacDonald know there was mail waiting for him over at Lightfoot’s company.

Accepting the gift with a shrug, the Rangers sergeant had
gone in search of the newly appointed corporal. There’d been some mix-up in the mail deliveries, Lachlan was told. He should sort it out with his old unit. Lachlan picked up his carbine and went in search of his missing mail.

Forster waited alongside the track that connected the Ranger company with its adjoining militia unit. For over a couple of hundred yards it was an isolated stretch through dense undergrowth and tall trees. As picquets had been posted further out to protect the regiment’s perimeters, the track was considered relatively safe to negotiate. Even so, Lachlan moved warily, aware that the Maori warriors were only miles away and would be scouting their enemy’s positions, attempting to ascertain strengths and weaknesses, as well as weapons and numbers of troops.

Forster waited in the dank semi-gloom of the forest. In the distance he could hear the faint sounds from the military camp – muted voices, the clanging of a blacksmith’s anvil as a horseshoe was belted out, and a sad song being sung by some soldier, bemoaning the loss of a love.

In his hands, Forster cradled the deadly shotgun he had retrieved from the huge Maori. It was a beautifully crafted weapon that had obviously been purchased from a European source. Both barrels were loaded and the spreading shot was bound to hit a target at close range.

From his concealed position in the undergrowth, Forster expected to be able to fire both barrels at MacDonald from a distance of five paces. Needless to say, the massive wound would prove fatal — and the corporal’s death could easily be attributed to a roving Maori warrior.

The squelch of wet grass underfoot alerted Forster. Someone was approaching. Carefully he shifted position to peer through the fronds. Lachlan was walking towards him, trailing his rifle. From his demeanour, it was clear his target
had no suspicion that he had been lured into an ambush. Lachlan was still twenty paces away and Forster readied himself. He would let him pass, then step out behind him to deliver the discharge into the corporal’s back. Forster’s only decision now was whether he would warn the young man so that he would see the smile on the sergeant’s face before he sent him to hell.

Forster held his breath, fading into the foliage as Lachlan walked past him. He was so close that Forster wondered if he should not fire now. Then Lachlan was past him and walking down the track.

Forster stepped out from his hiding place, raised the shotgun to his shoulder to ensure that his aim was accurate, and applied pressure on the triggers. He would simply kill MacDonald without seeing his face. It was so easy.

Preoccupied with the annoyance of his mail being sent to his old unit, Lachlan was completely unaware of the sergeant’s ambush. Suddenly, every nerve in his body seemed to scream out a warning. Hearing a dull thud and the long, low moan of a man only paces behind him, Lachlan swung around in a semi-crouch, expecting death to be staring him in the face. His carbine was pointed at a huge Maori standing over the body of a soldier. A great war club was swinging at the warrior’s side and he looked directly into Lachlan’s eyes with the slightest of smiles on his broad, dark face. Lachlan knew that he was in a bad position. How many of the enemy would surround him if he shot down the warrior who had just felled a fellow soldier? But to Lachlan’s surprise, the warrior dropped his club.

‘You know me,’ the Maori said in good English. ‘You saved my life from the man I have just killed.’

In the gloom of the dying day Lachlan peered at the man, vaguely recalling his face from the fight in the settlement.

‘My name is Matthew Te Paea and I have been to your country many years ago.’ The Maori bent down and rolled the body of the soldier onto his back. Now Lachlan could see it was Forster. ‘He had my gun and I wanted it back. It cost me a lot of money,’ Matthew explained, retrieving the weapon. ‘I think he was going to kill you.’

Lachlan lowered his carbine. It was a strange situation – two enemies talking to each other on the track when they should be fighting each other.

‘I think that you are right,’ Lachlan said, stepping forward to see more clearly the massive wound to the sergeant’s head. ‘You said that you have been to Australia,’ Lachlan continued. ‘I was on the Ballarat fields as a boy. Were you there when the British came to massacre us?’

Matthew shook his head. ‘That was your fight, not mine,’ he replied, going through the pockets of the dead sergeant and finding a pocket-knife and a wad of English money. ‘I left with my cousin before the British came and returned to my own land to fight the British who are stealing our sacred earth from us.’

‘I remember seeing Maori on the goldfields,’ Lachlan said. ‘Maybe I first saw you then.’

‘Perhaps,’ the Maori warrior said, standing up to tower over Lachlan. ‘But you saved my life and I’ve remembered your face from then. You are with Von Tempsky’s Rangers and have our respect for your fighting tactics. You are not unlike us in that way.’

‘I guess you are here to spy on our camp,’ Lachlan said.

‘As you spy on us,’ Matthew retorted. ‘That is the way of war.’

‘Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?’ Lachlan asked.

‘It would have been too easy – and besides, you did save
my life. Now we are even, so when I next meet you on the battlefield I will kill you then.’

‘When I last saw you, you were a prisoner. How is it that you are now here a free man?’

‘It was not hard to escape,’ Matthew replied with a soft laugh. ‘No British will ever lock up Matthew Te Paea. This is my land – it does not belong to the Pakeha who have come to rob us.’

Lachlan did not reply. He had come to see the Maori point of view. Many of his comrades had grumbled that all they were really fighting for was the interests of the rich civilians and their greed for the fertile farming lands.

‘What do we do now?’ Lachlan asked, knowing that they could not remain on the track in conversation much longer lest another soldier ventured along.

‘I will go. And you will tell your people that Matthew Te Paea killed the sergeant,’ the Maori warrior said, cradling the shotgun in his arms. ‘I have finished now and tomorrow we may meet again on the battlefield.’

Lachlan nodded. How ironic that he had plotted so long to kill the man now lying dead between them, and that the deed had been done not only in his presence but by one who was his enemy. Lachlan was at a loss for words.

‘Maybe when the war is over, you and I go back to Australia to look for gold,’ Matthew grinned. ‘Then we buy England off the English.’

Lachlan thrust out his hand. ‘Maybe we do that. I only hope that we both live to see that day.’

Matthew nodded and, letting go of Lachlan’s hand, disappeared into the dark forest, leaving Lachlan with Sergeant Forster’s body at his feet. Lachlan knew that he would have to hurry back to his own unit and report the matter. However, he would not divulge how he had engaged in
friendly conversation with a Maori who had infiltrated their lines. The meeting had affected Lachlan more than he dared admit to himself. In the past he had thought of the Maori warriors only as savage fighters, bent on killing him. Now he had met a man who not only had once walked the same earth as he in Australia but also had saved his life. Somehow the cause he was fighting for had lost its meaning. All he wanted to do now was get out of the army, go back to Australia with Amanda and finally meet his brother. Together, they would go in search of their sister. But this was a dream – as Lachlan well knew. From the rumours circulating all in Cameron’s force knew that they were facing a big battle and it was expected many would be killed. All he had to do for now was survive.

Captain Charles Lightfoot was in a rage, listening to his adjutant relate how Sergeant Samuel Forster’s death at the hands of Maori had been reported by the Forest Ranger Corporal Lachlan MacDonald.

‘Forster was murdered,’ Lightfoot spat.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I do not understand,’ the confused young captain replied. ‘It seems from what the Ranger corporal reported to his unit that Sergeant Forster died from a massive blow to the back of his head from what appears to be a heathen war club. I suspect that the Maori have been able to infiltrate our lines. Ensign Mair was able to get in close enough and listen in to the heathens’ conversations.’

‘Mair is a Maori lover,’ Lightfoot grunted. ‘He was born in this country and is not the most trustworthy man to send on such a mission. I have heard that he speaks their language fluently and has a great respect for their pagan ways. Such a man cannot be trusted to gain unbiased information.’

The adjutant did not agree. He knew William Mair and admired him. They had spoken of the incident where Mair had risked his life by creeping in under cover of darkness to the pa, where he covered himself in a blanket under a dray. Bullets had flown overheard throughout the night, killing some of the cattle around him. Mair had been so close that he had been able to hear the Maori sentries warning each other to hold fast and be cautious. The adjutant also knew of the hatred between the Ranger corporal and militia sergeant that had grown out of the flogging the corporal had received when he was a private in the militia. Despite this, he doubted that MacDonald would have risked his own life murdering Forster.

‘I want you to report the matter to the Provost Marshal,’ Lightfoot ordered. ‘You can add to the report that I suspect Sergeant Forster was murdered by Corporal MacDonald out of revenge. Let MacDonald answer to the military police for his actions.’

The first stages of the skirmishing around Orakau had commenced before the arrival of General Cameron’s forces. Days earlier, two surveyors had spotted the construction of Maori fortifications and reported their findings to Brigadier General Carey’s headquarters.

The British officer immediately put together a force of around 1100 men. They would make an assault in what he perceived as a chance to defeat the Maori before they could finish their fortifications. A subordinate, Captain Ring, carrying out an assault on the Maori workers, did take them by surprise. But, under excellent leadership, the warriors fired disciplined volleys into the advancing British troops, causing them to reel back in defeat. Two more assaults were
launched, but each time, Carey’s men met with the same controlled volleys of fire, falling back with the taunting cries from the victorious defenders ringing in their ears. ‘Come on, Jack, come on!’

Defeated, and leaving their dead and wounded on the slopes, the attacking troops soon realised that their Maori enemy was more than a match for their European tactics of warfare. Carey decided that he would need reinforcements if he were to finally bring the Maori rebels to heel.

Morale was high amongst the Maori warriors, but some of their leaders knew that the location of the pa had a fatal weakness. It had been situated too far from a supply of water. Carey also knew this and moved his troops as close as he safely could to the fortified embankments.

Now the British dug trenches, firing from them and in return being fired upon. A sap was begun, aimed at the heart of the pa and covered by a bombardment of artillery fire from three six-pounder Armstrongs. However, little damage was done, on account of the skills of the pa’s builders. The Maori had layered fern between the mounds of earth to help cushion the effect of artillery shells when they exploded. At one stage, a small force of Maori warriors attempted to join their comrades in the pa, but they were denied access by the ring of British troops encircling the Maori fortifications. Understanding the grim position that their brothers had found themselves in, the Maori sat on a neighbouring rise of land and wept the death song in farewell to the defenders, who were being driven back hard by artillery fire.

The British continued their siege of the pa over a period of three days but Lachlan and his comrades had not been committed to the battle as yet. During the first night – when the
Rangers had reached Orakau – they had spent an anxious time. During the night Lachlan would lie on his back, his rifle beside him and listen in awe to the thunderous pounding of the warriors’ bare feet as they roared out their battle songs. The ferocious chants chilled each and every soldier’s heart. They knew that they would eventually have to confront these men in hand-to-hand combat.

By the morning of the third day, the British had been unable to break either the spirit or the formidable defences of the Maori defenders. Once again, Cameron called on the skills of his young ensign William Mair to make contact with the warriors holding the pa.

Corporal MacDonald was sent forward with his section to observe Mair’s success or failure at convincing the Maoris to surrender. Lachlan crouched with his rifle cradled in his arms at the end of a trench that had been dug to give the advancing troops cover. Mair passed him by and gave orders for the officer in charge of the sapping party to cease fire. Then he called out in the Maori language to the defenders.

‘What’s he saying?’ Lachlan asked one of his soldiers who had lived amongst Maori and was fluent in the language.

‘He’s telling them that General Cameron has large reinforcements,’ the Pakeha Maori replied. ‘And that he wishes to save the Maori from being killed.’

A native voice replied and Lachlan’s interpreter grinned. ‘The Maori has asked who will be killed? Cheeky bugger. Mr Mair has told them that they will be killed by the cannons, so they had better hoist a white flag.’