Kiwi Wars (17 page)

Jack sighed, looking down at his restless hands.

‘However,’ Nathan continued in a less excitable tone, ‘I could leave you here, if that’s really what you want. You could see these troubles out and then – well, who knows what then? But I’ll have gone on without you by that time. If you can’t get on board now you’ll have to run alongside the track with the others when the time comes.’

There was a long period of silence, then Jack said, ‘Can I think about it?’

Nathan stood up. ‘Of course. I can see you’re in a bit of a spin at the moment. Think about it hard, Jack. I’m here for a week or so, and then I’m on my way back to Sydney on the
Triumphant.
Get word to me. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’re bent on staying. In which case, I still expect you to do good work here. I know you will. Good luck, man.’

The new colonel shook Jack’s hand, strode from the room, and left the mess to Jack and the saucepan-clanking orderly.

Ten

C
aptain Jack Crossman was in a quandary. His army career, which he once considered to be his sole reason for living, was in crisis. He knew he could not have everything. He certainly could not have two women and his removal from New Zealand would solve that decadent problem for him. But Jane was probably on her way out to the antipodes already, and what if she were to arrive and find him gone? What would be the level of her disappointment? Would she forgive him? To find her husband had chosen to leave her yet again for his other mistress – the army – might be the final straw.

Certainly he, Jack, could not even remember her face now, without looking at the miniature she had given him. Did he still love her? He was bound to say he did, even given his wayward behaviour of late. And Jane did not deserve to be humiliated by a husband who deserted her in favour of promotion. No, leaving New Zealand would not solve anything between Jane and himself. Would she understand the lure of women like Amiri on a lonely soldier? Possibly, but it would tarnish him in her eyes and he was devastated by that thought. Better she never knew, if it were possible to keep it from her.

But that was by the by. His immediate problem, which he seemed to have resolved, was whether to stay or join Nathan Lovelace. Nathan was of course destined for greatness; there was no denying that. And Jack could have clung to his coat tails and been there with him when that greatness was achieved. Or he could settle here, in New Zealand, and be satisfied that he had risen from private to captain on his own merits. Should he change his mind later, and wish again to pursue the dizzy heights, why then he could attempt that on his own merits too. He did not need Colonel Lovelace to help him along. The feeling of achievement without favour was much more exhilarating. Why, his own father had been willing to buy him a captaincy at one time, at which starting point he would probably now be a colonel himself!

‘Do it on your own,’ he told himself, ‘if you wish to do it at all. Let Nathan look after Nathan, and Jack see to Jack. I would be forever beholden to the man if I went with him.’

He stared out of his window at the sheep grazing amongst the ancient ferns. His mind was made up. The old iron was re-entering his ferrous veins. Fancy Jack Crossman was in the ascendancy, reliant on his own talents. Nathan would always be a friend, but Nathan’s focus was on one road which led to a single goal. Jack had several paths he wished to explore. Nathan had but one friend as far as Jack knew, and that was himself. Jack had many friends, a brother he loved, a wife he loved, and a father he had once hated. Nathan could not even afford the time to hate someone; sometimes a great motivation for striving for those goals and values one desired. Jack would be better travelling alone.

He wrote a formal note to his colonel.

Sir, I have considered carefully your very generous proposition and while I am fully aware that I am under orders, it is my request that I remain in New Zealand to assist my superiors here in any way I can. If this request cannot be met, due to exigencies of the service, I will of course be at your disposal. However, I would be greatly in your debt if you should see fit to allow me to follow my aspirations.

I remain your most obedient servant
,

Captain J. Crossman.

Within an hour he received the following reply:
Good luck, Jack – Nathan.

Feeling a little more relieved and in command of himself (though consciously aware he had one more enormous problem to solve), Jack sent for his men. Sergeant Farrier King arrived first, followed by Corporal Gwilliams and Private Wynter. Last to arrive was Ta Moko, whose shirts and trousers always seemed too small for him. The Maori came into the room stretching every seam.

Jack had commandeered a storeroom in a school for his office. Next door, children, and indeed army corporals with ambitions set on being quartermasters one day, sat side by side chanting their times tables. This heavy drone was clearly audible through the walls. Jack’s soldiers sat on boxes and awaited their orders. Wynter picked his teeth with a twig and seemed more interested in ‘Six sixes are thirty-six’ than what his captain had to say, for his ear was placed against the wooden partition and his lips were moving silently in unison with those beyond.

‘Sergeant King, you will take Corporal Gwilliams and Private Wynter up the Whanganui River. You will chart that watercourse for as far as you are able. The Maori regard it as an essential waterway to the interior and so we must consider it important also. You will need tents, equipment and stores to sustain you in open country. I will also have assigned to you twenty soldiers of the 68th Foot – the Durham Light Infantry. These are good men, well versed in the war with the rebels, and they will be under your command. Ta Moko will be your guide on this enterprise, and you are to trust to his judgement when it comes to matters regarding pathfinding and retreat from hostiles. And Wynter, seven fives are thirty-five, not thirty-four. I can lip-read, you know.’

‘Sir?’ said Wynter, jolting upright.

‘Pay attention, man, it may save your life.’

‘I’m tryin’ to advance meself, sir.’

‘You will advance into
hell
if you don’t heed my orders.’

‘Yessir.’ Then a very low mutter. ‘Might even like it better there, than in this bloody place.’

Captain Jack Crossman ignored this expected response. ‘Right – any questions?’

Corporal Gwilliams stared at his officer. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but you don’t usually ask for such from the likes of us. It’s usually do-this-or-else, ain’t it?’

‘Well, perhaps I’m becoming a bit of a democrat in my old age, Corporal. I just want to make sure you’re happy with the assignment.’

Happy? That was a new one too. Gwilliams looked at King, who simply shrugged and tapped the side of his skull. The knock on the head their captain had received had obviously bruised his brain. His men wondered how long it was going to take before that injury was completely healed. Clearly any officer who worried about the contentment of his troops was unfit for command. You did as you were told and
that
made you happy, because anything that went wrong was not then your fault, but that of your commander. It would be a bad day when common soldiers had to take their own initiative. Of course, if things did go wrong, you might be dead, but in that event your worries were over anyway. Happiness could be said to belong to a soldier who died saying, ‘It’s not my fault.’

Once he had packed his men off on their mission, Jack then set about his own plans. Nathan had suggested a network of local intelligence agents. Jack thought about Potaka. He might be persuaded to aid them if Jack were clever enough. He had no qualms about turning a man traitor to his own kind. He viewed the long term and knew from experience that although the wars might go on for a while, eventually the pakeha would win. They always did in such situations. The manpower behind the British throne was almost infinite, while native nations like the Maori, small enough by comparison in the beginning, had been depleted by war and disease, especially the latter. The Maori, like the American Indian and Pacific Islanders, had no defence against illnesses that had previously been unknown to them. They had no immunity. They died quickly and easily of smallpox, venereal diseases and even the measles.

The captain knew for certain that the rebel Maori tribes would be vanquished. It was a given fact. Therefore it was his job to see that few soldiers were killed in the meantime. If he could help end the wars sooner rather than later, by using Maori spies, then he would do his utmost to recruit them.

Jack knew the way to Potaka’s hideout now and wearing civilian bush clothes set out to reach it by sundown. When he neared the cave he saw Amiri. She was squatting on the ground with two Maori boys of about nine or ten years. On an exclamation from one of the children, she looked up to see him and her face turned sunny. He knew in that instant that she believed he had come for her, not Potaka. Chagrin was now a constant companion of Jack’s and he bore it with fortitude.

‘Amiri?’

She beamed from her brow to the tattoo on her chin, which resembled two companionable Hs. Despite her bright expression he had no doubt this woman could become a hellion if scorned.

‘Ah, my beloved Jack is here.’

‘It’s nice to see you, my dear – but I’m really after Potaka.’

‘Oh?’ A shade of disappointment crossed her face, but she soon recovered. ‘He is out hunting. He will be back soon.’

‘Can I wait?’ He propped the Enfield he was carrying against a handy rock.

‘But of course, my darling man. How dashing you look! You are more handsome than Major Tempsky, with his silk shirts and tight trousers.’

‘I compare favourably, do I?’

‘Oh, you are superior, Jack.’

He laughed. It was pleasant to be in her company. Why, Jane would love her, if it were not for the fact that Jack had bedded her. But he had, and he knew he would want to kill someone like Nathan, of whom he was presently fond, if that man had seduced his wife. Sauce for the goose.

‘What are you doing?’ Jack asked.

‘With the children? I’m telling them about Moeahu, the dog-headed man, who had a dog’s head and feet . . .’

Jack realized Amiri was relating a Maori myth. The Maori had a vast range of tales in their repertoire; far, far too many for the recall of any ordinary European person, but the Maori had been without written language for much of their existence and their memories were phenomenal. They could recite whole genealogies, going back to great-grandparents in the mists of time. They passed on mental charts of long ocean voyages from one generation to the next. They carried in their brains an encyclopaedia of stories of their old gods, demigods, heroes and ancestors. It was an amazing national talent, shared by other Pacific islanders, which Jack found wonderful and inspiring.

Amiri continued, knowing Jack was listening.

‘Moeahu was always barking like a dog, but he had the brain of a human. He could run like the wind and any tormentor could not escape him. He carried with him in his paws a
patu
club made of whalebone and a
taiaha
, and his home was in Turanga, in a forest.’ Amiri cleared her throat before continuing with the tale. ‘There was a Maori called Te Kowha who stole some fish that had been left on drying racks, so Moeahu felt it just to eat some of Te Kowha’s chickens. Te Kowha was very angry and tried to spear the dog-headed man, but the Maori was clubbed to the ground. Te Kowha’s three brothers saw what was happening and three of them ran to his assistance, but Te Kowha was dead. They attacked the dog-headed monster and set out to chase him from their region. Unhappily for them, they became strung out in the chase, and Moeahu suddenly turned and killed the leading brother. Then he waited for the second brother and killed him also. Finally the last of the brothers, the slowest runner, caught up with his dead family and he too was slain by the monster Moeahu.’

Amiri nodded slowly and the boys murmured in appreciation.

Jack waited in vain for the moral at the end of the tale, but none was forthcoming and he supposed it was up the listener to make up his own mind as to whether justice was done or a wrong had occurred. He himself had no idea. The original theft of the fish was bad, and possibly the eye-for-an-eye stealing of the chickens balanced that crime, but for the end to result in the deaths of four men! He could not decide whether this was a warning against felony, a natural consequence of brotherhood honour, or simply a fatalistic view of life. The Maori mind was alien to him, as his must be to them, and he left it at that.

Jack did not have long to wait, before Potaka and his gang came back from the hunt. They had an enormous feral pig, a roly-poly squashed-faced
kune kune
, slung upside down with its feet tied around a carrying pole. It was still alive and was making a huge fuss, the mad beast struggling and screaming shrilly.

‘
Tena koe, e hoa!
’ cried Potaka, which Jack knew meant ‘You there, O friend!’

Tena koe
was the ordinary greeting used by the Maori, the ‘O friend’ had been added for Jack because a terse ‘You there!’ might sound ungracious to a pakeha.

The four companions of Potaka went off to the charcoal fire pit while Potaka stayed to talk to Jack. He rubbed noses with Jack; a form of male greeting which always made the reserved Englishman squirm in his boots. It was the Maori who opened the conversation.