Kiwi Wars (15 page)

‘Is it
their
welfare which concerns you, Captain, or your own?’

Jack stiffened. He said slowly and deliberately, ‘Major, I have fought innumerable battles, in the Crimea, in India, and here. The last man who questioned my courage is now buried near Gwailor. Have a care with your accusations, sir.’

The major’s eyes widened a fraction. He gazed into Jack’s own for a full minute. It seemed that what he saw there prevented him from upbraiding the captain for his insolence. Finally, under Jack’s fixed stare, he turned his head away and seemed to hear a call from the general’s direction, because he strode off without another word.

‘That’s the way to tell ’em, sir,’ muttered Gwilliams. ‘I heard tell of that one. He don’t know his arse from his head.’

This was praise indeed from his corporal, though Jack knew he should not comment further on the matter.

When the attack came, the Maoris did indeed stand their ground, even when the bayonet charge came. Pratt’s soldiers charged up the hill to the
pa
and overran what entrenchments remained. The Maori muskets, once discharged, were thrown aside. Hand axes and spears came into play. But such weapons were no match for the rifles and bayonets of Pratt’s soldiers. Colonel Mould’s forces then arrived and attacked the flank of the enemy. Rifles blazed from two directions and the Maori at last vacated their ruined fort. The air was full of battle smoke and stank of burnt powder. Bodies remained draped over the rotten wood of the fort’s palisade. A wounded Maori staggered along a ridge, finally falling over on the far side. An eager, excited militia volunteer chased after him only to reappear a minute later with blood pouring from the side of his head. Jack saw the pakeha’s legs go from under him, and he pitched forward into the mud with half his scalp missing.

The Maori warriors scattered and ran for a river in the rear, flinging themselves into the water, swimming and wading across to the far bank under fire. Jack saw one big fellow flee, the water around him pockmarked by balls striking the surface. Then finally one shot hit him in the back of the head, just below the cranium, and he went down into the current. The body floated away downstream past a group of parrots who screeched as it bumped their overhanging tree. Their audacious chieftain Wetini Taiporotu, was one of those who remained on the hillside along with nearly forty of his comrades-in-arms when the British troops overran it. A dozen more were killed in or over the river and tens were wounded in the retreat to Puketakauere. One old man, later identified as a chief called Mokau, was about to cross a swamp when he saw an old friend dying in the mud. He bent down to rub noses in a gesture of farewell, but because of the delay he was then mortally wounded himself by a bullet straight through the heart.

Nine

F
or every Maori at war with the pakeha, there were two others happy to farm the land and provide the newcomers with food. Wheat was being grown by the ton and even exported to Australia. The sweet potato had been pushed aside to make way for the pakeha potato. Cattle, sheep and pigs were moving into the millions. Every tribe had its own flour mill now, sometimes more than one, and maize crops were abundant. Less than a century before Jack arrived in New Zealand, Captain Cook had introduced pigs to the islands, which were now both domesticated and feral, running through woodlands and pastureland. It did seem to Jack that the war was but a few wrong stitches in a tapestry that would eventually show a landscape at peace, Maori with pakeha.

‘I am ready to settle down,’ he told Sergeant King, who was now out of hospital, ‘and become a farmer.’

King was astonished. ‘But you’re a soldier,’ he said. ‘How can you suddenly turn dirt farmer, sir? You don’t know anything about farming, do you?’

They were sitting outside one of the usual soldier haunts: a tavern on a green that could have been in Surrey. Behind them, rolling meadows rose and fell like the soft green breasts of a giant maiden. Nearby, ducks and geese were milling around a pond while a young child was feeding them with breadcrumbs. It was an idyllic scene that might have turned Attila the Hun into a pastoral poet. King was not above being influenced himself, by the spiritual nature of the weather and the landscape, but to give up soldiering? Why that would have meant giving up map-making, for no other profession was interested in charting the topography of these new British possessions abroad.

‘I could learn,’ replied the captain, with some stiffness. ‘I’m not a complete idiot, you know.’

‘Yes, but, sir, I’ve been trying to teach you map-drawing since I’ve known you, and it don’t seem to work. You don’t like to learn new skills, do you?’

‘Well, maps are one thing, farming another.’

The officer seemed to be implying that map-making was of lesser importance than ploughing a field. King could not take this view seriously. He began his standard lecture, even though he saw that Captain Crossman’s expression had turned from dreamy to despairing.

‘Maps,’ said King, ‘are just as important to farmers, as they are to generals. Look, don’t sigh, sir – it’s true. Every man who owns a bit of land wants to know what it looks like – its shape, its length and girth, its ups and downs, its borders. Think how delighted the first king was, who saw an accurate picture of his country on paper! What would he have known before that? What image was in his head? He would have had none, for there was no way to imagine the shape and position of his kingdom on the face of the planet. The king of the Eastern Angles, for example, would only know that his state extended from the North Sea to his neighbours in the west, to the Wash in the north, to the Thames River in the south – but he would have had no idea of its shape.’ King took a sip of his beer, before continuing. ‘You will need to know the contours of your farmlands, sir, and only a map-maker can do that for you.’

‘I admit it helps to have a map to settle land disputes with neighbours.’

‘Good.’ King’s face brightened. ‘You admit it then.’

‘I’ve been soldiering since I was eighteen, Sergeant. I’ve seen enough blood-and-thunder to last me the rest of my life. Colonel Lovelace, he’s the sort of man you need to expend your argument on. He’s a life soldier. This country is what I’ve been looking for. I’ve found it and I mean to stay.’

‘You’ll sell out?’ King made it sound like a distasteful business.

‘I don’t need to. I didn’t purchase my commission, I earned it.’

‘Well, same thing. You’re going to leave the army.’

‘I think so. I’ve had enough of slaughter – and settling disputes with maniacal cavalry officers . . .’

‘Ah, you’re talking of that blaze you had with Captain Deighnton in India. He was a madman, sir.’

‘Him and one or two others. I swear they don’t get enough of killing on the battlefield, so they have to look for brother officers to shoot down between times. My own blood lust has long been satisfied. I need a rest, Sergeant. You’ll be all right. You’ll get some officer who’s keen on your maps and you’ll be in seventh heaven. Ah, here’s the man who’s going to get me my farm . . .’

King looked up to see Abraham Wynter, black-coated and high-hatted, striding in front of his personal army of six Maori. He saw Jack and waved to him, calling, ‘We’re gettin’ there, Cap’n. Just give me a couple more weeks. Good piece of land goin’ to the south. Just need a bit more time to persuade the current owner to part with it.’

This announcement was somewhat slurred in its delivery.

‘No underhand stuff,’ Jack called back, seriously. ‘I want it purchased fair and square and willingly parted with.’

‘O’ course, o’ course.’

Abe Wynter winked broadly, which did not settle Jack’s fears in the least. The businessman looked quite drunk to Jack. Today was Saturday and no doubt Abe Wynter had been down to the marketplace making deals and sealing each one with a drink or two. It was quite difficult not to over-imbibe on such occasions, for the Maori expected such rituals, and the settlers were also in the habit of quaffing a jar on a sale or purchase.

‘I mean it, Mister Wynter. No land-grabbing.’

‘’Gainst the law, Cap’n.’ Abe Wynter nodded slowly and solemnly to show how serious he took this warning. Then his face changed again, to that sly, greasy expression which made Jack doubt the wisdom of dealing with such a man. Abe continued, ‘I’m now off with my Maori for a bit of roasted pork to settle the gin in me belly.’ He nodded back at his half-dozen minders, all dressed in shirts and trousers, but shoeless. They leaned on their rifles and grinned when they were referred to by their master. ‘We often share a bit o’ pork,’ he added, then rather more enigmatically, ‘In the past, there’s bin another kind of roasted pig we’ve indulged in, but not together, oh, no – them here, me somewhere else. But it sort of makes me like a brother to ’em, if you know what I mean.’ He slung an arm around the neck of one of his followers, who grinned even more broadly. ‘Me an’ them ’ave got this thing in common, see. We’re brothers under the skin.’

Jack tried to look under the words for Abe Wynter’s true meaning, and thought he found something quite unpalatable. Did Abe really mean what he was implying, or was it show? Probably the latter. If he were to demand loyalty from his Maoris, Abe would need a connection with them. Perhaps he had invented one and made use of it. In any case, Abe’s private habits were of no consequence to Jack. There were probably many unsavoury aspects to his character, but since Jack was not a friend he need not concern himself with them. Abe Wynter was merely someone to do a brief spell of business with, and then Jack need have nothing further to do with the man.

‘What was all that about?’ asked King. ‘All that stuff about pork?’

‘He’s three sheets to the wind, Sergeant. I don’t think he even knows himself what he’s about.’

King said, ‘I don’t like that man.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘Yet you deal with him, sir?’

‘I don’t have to like a shopkeeper to buy an ounce of tobacco from him,’ said Jack, puffing on his chibouk to emphasize his point. ‘I might even despise the man I sell my horse to.’

‘Still an’ all, sir.’

‘I know what you mean, Sergeant, but he’s the only man around here who can get me my farm. I could try myself, but I’m not a good negotiator and I’m sure I’d be swindled. I would deserve to be, given I’m a flat when it comes to such things. I’m not happy about that, but it is a fact and therefore I’m having to swallow my dislike of the man. Personally, I think he’s going to get shot by someone soon and we’ll all go to his funeral and sing hymns, think him a fine fellow – or at least, we’ll think he was not as bad as he was painted.’

‘Not me, sir. I could see him dead tomorrow and shrug it off.’

‘Sergeant King, you’re becoming as hard-metalled as our own Colonel Lovelace.’

King smiled. ‘You could be right, sir.’

At that moment Corporal Gwilliams was seen coming up the dusty road, with Harry Wynter and Ta Moko in tow. The trio had been out with a scouting party. They arrived at the tavern looking tired and dishevelled. Jack asked them how they had done.

‘Pretty well, sir,’ answered Gwilliams, throwing himself down on to the bench with a thump. ‘We found what we was sent for.’

‘This one,’ Ta Moko added, slapping the back of Wynter’s head, not too hard but enough to jolt it forward, ‘was dragging his feet.’

‘Hey!’ cried the private, rubbing his neck. ‘You didn’t ought to do that, blackie. I’m a soldier of the queen, I am. I want respect.’

‘You call me
blackie
again and I’ll throw you into the pond, Harry Wynter, soldier of the queen.’

Wynter squinted at the Maori, whose broad face with its tattoos and wide nose was fearsome enough. He knew Ta Moko could pick him up and snap him like a twig if he decided to, but Harry Wynter had never been put off by the threat of pain. His battered body, white hair and sightless eye attested to that. Harry Wynter could soak up punishment like a sponge soaks up water. He had done it all his life. It was the pattern of his world and he knew it would never change. Even now an insult was on the tip of his tongue.

Ta Moko remarked, ‘Don’t say it, Wynter. Better not.’

‘It’s said in my mind,’ muttered Harry, ‘an’ that’s as good as said out loud.’

‘We’ve just had the pleasure of your brother’s company,’ King told Harry. ‘He sends his love.’

‘You’re teasin’ me, Sergeant. He an’t got no love for me, that brother o’ mine; otherwise he’d look after me like he should. I hope he rots in hell, damn his eyes and liver. One o’ these days he’s goin’ to regret what he did to me an’ what he din’t do
for
me. It’s not the money, that he’s rich an’ I an’t got a sou, it’s what one brother should do for another is what’s important. I’ll see him out yet, you wait.’

Harry Wynter was not finished on the subject. He continued for the next half-hour until the others were heartily sick of hearing about Abraham Wynter and his foibles. Soon after that King and Gwilliams drifted away, heading back to their quarters. Private Wynter followed on a short time afterwards. Jack and Ta Moko only were left to appreciate the gloaming, as evening twilight came in across the hills. The pair were silent for a long time, just enjoying the tranquillity.

It was Ta Moko who spoke first.

‘The woman wishes to see you – tonight.’ The big Maori did not turn his head when he said this, but there was no indication that he disapproved in any way. ‘Shall I tell her yes?’