Kiwi Wars (11 page)

‘Who told you? About my cousin?’

‘A Lieutenant Williams – you spoke with him about your cousin in the mess the other evening. You seemed to know a great deal about the HAC. What can you tell me? When it was formed?’

Jack’s English cousin, Sebastian Whenteworth-Carter, was indeed a subaltern in the HAC, and had talked with Jack extensively regarding his good fortune on becoming a member of that unique military establishment.

‘What can I tell you?’ mused Jack, settling back down on his bed. ‘Well, the company was given its Royal Charter by Henry the Eighth, somewhere in the mid 1500s. I forget the exact date. It began life under the name of the Guild of St George – better known as the Gentlemen of the Artillery Garden – and its members were supposed to be adept with the long-bow, cross-bow and hand-gun. The HAC has always had a strong connection with the City of London, but so far as I know has no battle honours. I understand it had the unique role of fighting on both sides in the Civil War. The company hasn’t seen active service abroad yet and seems to operate more like a private club than a regiment.’

‘Really?’ said Strawn. ‘Do go on.’

‘The head of the company is known as the “Captain-General” who at the moment is Prince Albert, but it’s actually run by a body called the Court of Assistants. It sits more or less monthly and conducts the company’s business and civil affairs, but there are nine committees which sit under the Court.’

‘It even has its own church, so I’m given to understand?’

‘Ah, yes, strange title. Can’t remember exactly.’

Strawn flipped back a couple of pages in his notebook.

‘I have it here, from Wynter himself. It’s a chapel, actually – St Botolphs-without-Bishopsgate. He did know that much, which is strange for a man who hates the clergy here for their stance in the Maori situation and professes to have entered a church only once in his life, when his mother took him to be christened. Wynter seems to like the quirky aspects of the company. There a Vellum Book apparently, which bears all the names of the members of the regiment.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Jack said, ‘but if you are chasing quirky, my cousin has always been particularly taken with the regimental toast, called the Regimental Fire. It takes the form of a ninefold shout of the word “Zaye!” accompanied by side-ways movements of the right hand, and ending with an upward movement on the last zaye. Guests, of which I was one before I left London to go to India, are toasted with the Silent Fire – eight silent zayes, followed by a single audible last zaye which comes out with great force.’

‘As you say,’ murmured Strawn, scribbling in his pad, ‘the sort of thing that exclusive clubs employ. Good fun, really. Nine zayes, eh? Wonderful stuff. Where do they get ’em from?’

‘Well, I asked the same question of course, and I was told it’s supposed to stem from the movements and timing required to light the fuse of a grenade, but who knows?’

Strawn, with extravagant gestures, dotted a couple of i’s and crossed one or two t’s, then said, ‘That should be enough. Thank you, Captain. And I’m sorry you’re ill.’ He stared intently at Jack. ‘You do look very pale, you know. I would check on those powders, if I were you. Don’t trust these natives. Some are all right, but others . . . well. I would get the stuff analysed if you can. Do you know any chemists?’

Jack snorted, impatiently. ‘Yes, Mr Strawn, they’re two a penny out in the bush.’

‘Sorry, yes. Silly thing to say.’ He stood up and made ready to go, but then said, ‘Oh, one last thing. What about this sergeant of yours – what’s his name?’

‘King? Sergeant King?’

‘Yes, the farrier chappie. How long has he been lost? I was going to do a short piece on him too, when I knew I was coming to see you.’

Once again, Jack sat up. ‘Lost?’

‘Why, yes, went off into the bush to do some mapping and never came back. He’s been in there two weeks now. Shouldn’t think he’s alive, would you?’

Jack was stunned. Why had no one told him about this? Where was Corporal Gwilliams? This was monstrous!

‘Ah,’ said Strawn, ‘you look shocked – didn’t know about it, eh? Sorry to be the bearer. I’ll leave you now.’

The newspaperman left without another backward glance, having got what he came for.

Jack rose from his bed and dressed, before going on a search for his men. He found Gwilliams in the sickbay, laid low by some fever or other contracted (they thought) through drinking water from a stream where sheep had been wading. Gwilliams was aware enough to tell Jack what had happened. When Jack finally tracked down the last member of the group, Private Wynter, he found him still half-drunk from the night before, sleeping in a ditch. On being roused and doused with cold water, Wynter admitted he knew that Sergeant King was lost.

‘I din’t come an’ tell you, ’cause I knew you was sick and din’t want to make you worse,’ said the private, indignantly.

Jack was blazingly angry.

‘That’s not the reason – me being sick – is it, Wynter? The fact is you hate Sergeant King and you couldn’t give a damn whether he’s found or not? Tell me the truth, that’s it, isn’t it?’

Wynter shrugged, knowing it was useless to deny it.

‘Gwilliams, your NCO, gave you an order, to report the matter to me – you disobeyed that order, Wynter.’

Wynter looked up, sharply, the wake-up water still dripping from his mean-looking face. Disobeying an order was a serious crime. The punishment could be just as serious. Wynter did not want a flogging. He had had several such punishments in his army career, but he was not as strong has he had once been. The venom he had once had in him had provided enough backbone to metaphorically spit in the eye of the man who wielded the lash. Lately though, such vitriolic energy had been drained from him. He was haggard, half-blind, grey-haired and old before his time. Even though only in his thirties he looked fifty.

‘I was tryin’ to save the captain bother. Me bein’ the only rank what wasn’t sick, the decision was up to me, I thought. So I give an order to Ta Moko to go look for the sergeant. He come back this mornin’, sayin’ he couldn’t find the bleeding . . . couldn’t find the sergeant. You was sick, sir. I made me decision an’ I stick by it.’

Jack realized Wynter had a point. Although he was at the end of the command chain, the private had been the only man who was not ill and therefore however bizarre the situation he was nominally in charge of matters to do with the group. Jack was relieved to know that he had sent out the Maori to look for King, but concerned to learn that Ta Moko was back without finding the sergeant.

‘You get cleaned up, Wynter. Be ready to leave for the bush. I’m going to speak to Ta Moko.’

Another hunt and he was rewarded with the Maori, who was just sitting down to a meal of pork and beans in an eatery.

‘Sir, I did not find the sergeant. I think he must have strayed into Waikato country. If I go in there I will be killed. The Waikato tribes are very fierce and they do not like my tribe. I will go in if we take soldiers with us, but you will need to find another guide if you go in alone.’

‘Thank you, Ta Moko. I like a plain-speaking man.’

Jack went in search of a senior officer. He found a major, who told him there were no troops to spare. Everyone was on alert, either guarding the town, out on patrol or fighting.

‘The sergeant’s probably dead by now, Captain. You need more than just a patrol if you’re going up to the Waikato – you need a whole company. And I ain’t got ’em, Captain. I’ve been depleted of men for some time now. If you’re going to do it, you’ll have to hire some civilians from the town. But if I were you, I wouldn’t. Most of them have no idea of the bush. They’re townies, or at best farmers. Take the roof away from their heads and they get frightened by the stars.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Jack said. ‘I like a plain-speaking officer.’

It was only when he was on his way back to his quarters that Jack realized his headache was gone. His brain was as clear as crystal. Whether it was because he needed to be worrying about something or his brain needed to be busy, he did not know. He was just relieved that the pain was gone, even if only temporarily. He felt guilty for doubting the Maori woman, whose powders had finally worked.

He bathed, dressed in bush clothes, armed himself, then went in search of Wynter again. Jack found the soldier ready to go. Wynter had already been to stables to saddle and bridle two horses. He had been given a little trouble by the NCO in charge of the stables, but Wynter had told him his captain had ordered it. The pair then went to the stores and begged provisions for a journey into the bush. Finally, they went down to the alehouse which was frequented by friendly Maoris and Jack asked if any of them knew of a man called Potaka.

At first he was greeted by sullen looks, but after buying a round of drinks, one of the Maori said, ‘You may find him at the old L-shaped
pa –
but do not go there, Captain, or you will be killed.’

Jack thanked the man, gave him a coin, then he and Wynter set out for the L-shaped
pa,
which had been the scene of an earlier battle in this war. Wynter did not complain, which was a miracle in itself. Jack supposed the soldier was anxious to redeem himself, but it was quite unlike Wynter to admit, even by inference, that he was in the wrong. In past times he would rather be burned alive at the stake than give any credit to rules and regulations. Here he was, however, silent and stoic, ready to ride into the halls of death for the sake of his captain.

When Jack and Wynter were three hundred yards from the
pa,
Jack dismounted and called, ‘I wish to speak to a man named Potaka. Is he here?’

Wynter shifted uneasily in his saddle, turning this way and that, wondering from which direction death would come to him. In what form would it be? A rifle shot? A spear? A flung stone axe?

‘Potaka,’ shouted Jack again, as the wind soughed through the fern trees. ‘A man named Potaka.’

The
pa
looked deserted. Jack could discern no movement within. The silence made the wait seem long. A hawk passed by overhead, letting out a wild cry. Wynter ducked an invisible missile.

Suddenly a voice rang out, which made Wynter start in his saddle.

‘Go away!’

Jack had no intention of going away.

‘I must speak with Potaka,’ he insisted at the top of his voice. ‘I have business with Potaka.’

There was another period of silence, then a young Maori woman stepped out from behind a palisade. She was beautiful. Long black hair tumbled over her broad, covered shoulders. As she walked towards Jack and Wynter, Jack could see her wide, brown eyes gleaming in the light which lanced through the trees. She was barefoot, wore a blanket wrapped tightly around her body, and the two men could discern a trim figure beneath its folds. There were some small square-keyed tattoos on her chin and at the back of her head were two tall eagle’s feathers – dark with white tips.

The woman stopped not far from the two men and stared at them.

‘Go away,’ she repeated, ‘or you will be killed.’

Quietly Jack said, ‘I am looking for my friend, Potaka.’

‘Does he know he is your friend?’ asked the woman, tilting her chin.

‘I think so. He kept me alive, at least.’

She smiled, wryly. ‘That does not mean he will not kill you if he sees you again, Captain Crossman.’

‘Ah – you know me. Potaka has told you about me. You have me at a disadvantage. May I know your name?’

‘Amiri.’

‘Thank you. Has it any meaning?’

‘It means the East Wind, but knowing my name will not save you from being chopped in two by your enemies. The ugly skinny one there –’ she nodded towards Wynter – ‘they will use him for firewood.’

‘’Ere!’ cried Wynter.

Jack said, ‘Please, Amiri, will you take me to Potaka? I need his help. I have lost one of my men and if I don’t find him, he’ll die.’

She shrugged. ‘What is that to us? You have killed many of our men.’

‘Some of our men have died too in this smouldering unhappy war – but this is an unnecessary death. I can honestly say that if Potaka came to me, and asked for my help for a similar problem, I would certainly give it to him without a second thought.’

She stared at Jack again, with those fathomless brown eyes.

‘All right,’ she said, at last, ‘follow me. But do not blame me if he shoots you. It will not be my fault.’

She led the way through the bush. Jack made Wynter dismount and they too went on foot, since Jack would have felt uncomfortable riding while a woman walked. The trail went through a bouldery valley and eventually led to a cave on a hillside. A lookout had seen them coming and six armed men were waiting at the cave’s entrance. One of them, Jack noticed, was Potaka himself. The woman Amiri strode ahead and called to the Maoris, ‘I told him you would kill him on sight. Are you going to make me out to be a liar?’

One of the Maoris – not Potaka – raised his shotgun. But the moment he did this, Amiri stepped in front of Jack, shielding him with her body. Jack thought: why are women always so complex? First she virtually orders my death, then steps in and saves me from it.

‘What?’ said Amiri to the man with the shotgun. ‘Would you shoot a man under a flag of truce?’

‘What flag?’ asked the shotgun man, lowering his weapon. ‘I see no flag.’