Kiwi Wars (14 page)

‘Come on!’ cried a drunken lieutenant of foot, waving his whisky glass. ‘Let’s take our ambergris on to the lawns outside, where a friend of mine is about to give a demonstration of an extraordinary weapon. Who amongst you here has heard of Mr Perkins’ amazing steam gun? The Duke of Wellington himself was enamoured of this gun, and so he should have been, for it fires one thousand shots per minute! Think of it, chaps, the enemy will go down in droves, a thousand men at a time.’

Everyone began to troop outside, and Jack followed, as curious as the rest, but he noticed Von Tempsky had a frown on his forehead.

On the lawn near the flagpole stood Abraham Wynter, with two soldiers at his side, and a strange-looking device – a six-foot barrel with all sorts of paraphernalia projecting from one end – attached to what appeared to be a steam generator. This machine looked extremely ungainly and, since it was supposed to be a weapon, very impractical for lugging along mud-strewn ways to battlefields. Steam engines required fire and water to produce their steam. The steam pressure had to be raised to a level where it could exert great force. However, Jack was willing to concede that it could possibly be carried on the back of a cart and probably used from that position. However, though he loved inventions, he was sceptical about fancy ones. He had always distrusted rockets, for example, believing them to have more flash-and-bang about them than destructive power. They were like this Von Tempsky character, lost in their own charismatic performances.

Abe Wynter tipped his hat to the gathering officers, and began his rhetoric.

‘This ’ere gun is bein’ donated by me, on behalf of the Honourable Artillery Company, to any officer ’oo cares to borrow it for the purposes of chopping down Maoris by the dozen.’ His thumbs went behind his coat collars, as he warmed to his theme. ‘This marvellous weapon was invented by Jacob Perkins, in 1824, but thus far an’t received any battle honours –’ there was laughter amongst some of the officers present – ‘which is a cryin’ shame, ’cause it should do.’ Abe picked up a stick from the ground and began to use it as a pointer. ‘Just ’ere, at the back, is the hoppers which hold the balls, an’ feeds ’em down to the chamber of the gun. These hoppers can hold up to a thousand balls, but for purposes of demonstration, we’re keeping that to sixty.’

Jack now remembered reading about the steam gun in
The London Mechanics’ Register,
but could not remember the details.

‘’Ere is what they call the throttle-valve, which means the steam is delivered from the gubbins at the back,’ continued Abe, puffed up with self-importance, ‘an’ this ’ere is the swivel joint, which allows the gun its elevation and lets it be moved in any which way, so’s the enemy can be walloped from whatever direction you choose. All right then, let’s see our boys ’ave a whack at those planks up there!’

The two soldiers, who looked a little nervous, went down on the machine and made ready to fire. Just fifty yards away were some reasonably thick pine planks. Jack watched as the gun was fired with a rat-tat-tat-tat sound, the musket balls shooting from the barrel in an amazingly swift time. The targets exploded in a blizzard of timber chips, splinters spraying everywhere. Jack had to admit it was an impressive performance, and he felt he had cause to wonder at the ingeniousness of men like Perkins, who could produce such devices. However, he still remained unconvinced of the worth of the gun when it came to battle. Demonstrations were one thing, war was another.

There was chatter, and speculation, following the demonstration. Officers wandered up to the planks to inspect the damage and nodded their heads, approvingly. Von Tempsky, however, did not move or speak for a while. He simply stood with his glass of whisky staring down at Perkins’ steam gun with a blank expression on his face. Finally he gave voice, waving his drink and spilling it over the lawn.

‘Sir,’ he yelled at Abe Wynter, ‘this is a foul, monstrous machine which should never soil the hands of a real soldier. Why, it is worse than canister, which I detest above all things. Where is the need for a brave heart? Where is the need for selfless action, brother giving up his life that his brother shall live? Since these are the only real virtues of war, there being no others of any worth, war becomes itself a thing to be despised. I, sir, am a warrior, born and bred. I was made for fighting and fighting is what I do well. But this – this ugly disgusting device –’ he nudged the steam gun with his foot – ‘takes away all that is glorious in war. To kill a thousand men in one minute? Why, a battle would be fought in the time it takes to break for coffee! If one side has it, then the other side will get it too, for that is the way of war. Send five thousand men to fight an equal number, and in five minutes both sides will have annihilated each other. Where’s the glory in that? Where’s the excitement, the courage, the selflessness, the
fun
? I tell you, sir, this is a metal monster and I would throw it out. I would, sir! I would toss it away with the garbage. Good day to you.’

With that, Von Tempsky smashed his whisky glass on the steam gun’s chamber, and strode off towards his horse, tethered on a rail outside the mess. Abe Wynter stuck two fingers up at the major’s back in the contemptuous style of the English longbowmen at the Battle of Agincourt, when showing the French that they still retained the arrow-fingers the French had promised to cut off after winning the fight. Wynter’s face bore a sour expression, which turned sunny when the other officers returned from inspecting the planks. Wonderful, they told him. Excellent work. They would certainly be using the gun the next time they went out to meet the Maori.

Abe Wynter was still staring at Von Tempsky’s back when Jack tapped him on the shoulder.

‘What?’ he snarled, spinning round, then seeing it was Jack his expression changed. ‘Ah – you’ll be wantin’ to know about this land I promised to get you? Well, Cap’n, it’s on its way, that’s all I can tell you at the present. On its way. It’s gettin’ harder to get hold of, but I’ve got a piece in mind and things are movin’, that’s all I can say. Now –’ he gestured after Von Tempsky – ‘there’s a man what don’t appreciate a good invention, eh? But you do, eh, Cap’n?’ He touched the side of his nose. ‘I heard it from my own brother’s mouth. Well, then –’ he took Jack’s arm and led him gently towards a wooden hut near a large house – ‘come and look at this. It came on the same ship as the steam gun and it’s a peach of an invention, I can tell you. Here, ’ave a gander.’

Wynter opened the hut door and presented Jack with a shiny new metal contraption, gleaming with copper and brass.

‘Da-da!’ exclaimed Abe, sweeping off his top hat. ‘You know what that is? That’s Joseph Bramah’s pan closet toilet! Eh? Eh? Cost me a packet, I can tell you, not even countin’ the bill for the passage, which made me eyes water, I can tell you.’ He put an arm around Jack’s shoulders. ‘What I wanted to say is, you can use this anytime. Anytime.’ He gave Jack a wink. ‘So long as I’m not sittin’ on it, consider it yours, Cap’n. I won’t charge you a sou. There, what d’you say to that?’

Jack shrugged the arm away and replied, ‘I would say nothing on earth would tempt me to enter that hut.’

Abraham Wynter stared at Jack for several moments, then gave a guffaw of laughter.

‘You – you’re a card, you are. My brother warned me about you. You said that with face flatter than a clothes-iron. Well, Cap’n, ’ave a good day, and I’ll be gettin’ back to you soon on that other matter.’

With that the rich gentleman walked back to supervise the boxing of his rapid-firing steam gun.

On that count Jack’s feelings were in accord with Von Tempsky’s. He did not like the major, but he agreed with his sentiments. This gun was a monstrous object, and it occurred to Jack that if it had been around since 1824, and was so amazing, why was it not in general use by the British army? Someone, several someones, had since decided it was not all it was cracked up to be. Jack wondered how many of the officers here, praising its capabilities, would actually use it. It would be an interesting study, if one had the time to wallow in study, which Jack had not, for General Pratt was anxious to get to grips with the Maori problem. General Pratt had the idea that the sappers could win the war for him by digging trenches and beating the Maori at their own game. Apparently the 14th Foot were on their way to New Zealand, full of zest and eager to dig as well as fight, but would take some 90 days to get there.

In October, Pratt ordered operations on three
pas
on the Kahihi River, which proved successful. The trenches aimed straight at the hearts of the
pas
were dug out under cover of bulletproof screens. The Maori defenders of the mud-and-timber forts had to watch in consternation as the enemy moved slowly towards them, unable to stop this snail-paced approach. However, the obvious answer for the occupants of a
pa
under such attack was to wait until the last minute, then vacate their fort and run off to build another one. Jack sort of agreed with the settlers that this kind of warfare got lost in itself, with neither side gaining any sort of advantage.

In November, with the promise of summer in the air, Jack took part in an engagement which took place at Mahoetahi, a point around two and a bit miles from Waitara and some few more miles from New Plymouth. A note had been sent from a Maori chief called Taiporotu to the Assistant Native Secretary, which went something like as follows:

Friend, I have heard your word – come and fight me. That is very good.

Come inland and let us meet each other . . . make haste, make haste.

It was signed by Taiporotu, who claimed to be speaking for several tribes in the region, including the Ngatihaua, Ngatiamaniopoto and other Maori peoples who supported Wiremu Kingi. Taunts such as this one were common with Maori chiefs, who had the same sort of sense of humour owned by the British soldiers who fought against them. One chief, having had a reward posted on his head by the Governor of New Zealand, promptly put up his own posters, offering the same amount to anyone who would bring in the governor, dead or alive. Another had sent directions to his
pa,
in order that the British attacking force should not get lost in the wilderness on the way and would easily find his fort.

Before they set out to attack the
pa,
which a settler told Jack gleefully was rotten and falling to pieces, there was the funeral of a local white tradesman who had been murdered when he got drunk and wandered too far off the safe limits of town. He was found with a greenstone
patu
axe still buried in his skull. It took two men to remove the weapon, one of whom kept it as a souvenir. Gwilliams had been on drinking terms with the settler, though not on the night he had been killed, and so asked if they could attend the ceremony. Jack reluctantly allowed his men to do so, going along himself.

It was not the dismal affair Jack expected it to be, mainly because most the mourners were half-intoxicated and not inclined to be miserable on behalf of their friend. There was the general feeling amongst the company that ‘Bill’ would have wanted a merry send-off. Moreover he had been a bachelor, so there was no widow in black or long-faced children to placate with false sentiment, though indeed a spotty-faced nephew of about 15 years was in evidence. A bottle was being passed from hand to hand behind the row of backs, even as the minister intoned the Lord’s Prayer. Finally, as the coffin went down into the clay, a hastily formed band began to play. To Jack’s astonishment a loud guffaw broke out amongst the mourners and broad grins appeared as whispers were exchanged with those who were not laughing.

‘What’s that all about?’ Jack asked of Gwilliams. ‘It seems to me to be in very bad taste, even at a wake.’

‘You recognize the tune, sir?’ replied his corporal, who had to bite his lip to stop sniggering.

Jack said, ‘Well, that tone-deaf mob is murdering it, but I believe it to be Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze”.’

‘On the nail, sir,’ said Gwilliams with a laugh. ‘You see, the man who was killed, he was the local butcher.’

Even Jack had to smile at that.

The following morning at 5 a.m., Jack, Gwilliams and Wynter joined a force led by General Pratt. The column consisted of over 650 regular troops and volunteers. Jack had maps drawn by Sergeant King and he and his two men led the way. Major Mould followed on behind with another 300 soldiers. When they arrived at the
pa
they found it in poor condition with almost no cover for the Maoris. Despite the fact that several tribes had joined together for this battle, Jack realized there were only around 150 of them in the entrenchments ahead. The Maori were vastly outnumbered, facing overwhelming odds, but they stood resolute with their muskets and stone axes, ready to repel the onslaught.

A red sky illuminated the battle area. It was a fine morning; no morning for men to die like cattle.

‘Sir, let me go and speak with them?’ asked Jack of a major on the general’s staff. ‘I may be able to persuade them to lay down their arms.’

‘I think not, Captain. The general is in no mood for conciliation.’

‘But they don’t stand an earthly. It would be slaughter.’

‘Too bad. They should have thought of that before Puketakauere. It’s our turn this time.’

It was true that General Pratt and some of his officers were thirsting for revenge for that earlier failure.

Jack insisted. ‘These are brave men. Their pride will never let them surrender unless we give them an opening.’

The major’s expression was like granite. There was nothing moving in his heart. He simply stared hard at Jack with blue eyes that showed nothing but contempt.