Kiwi Wars (26 page)

The march continued from early morning. When they came close to the enemy, they fanned out, approaching cautiously. The attack, thanks to the Maori guide, was a great success. They surprised the Maoris at their fire outside a cave. One of the enemy went down under fire straight away. The others, a dozen or so, had no option but to retreat into the shallow cave, which was not much more than a rock hang. A fight ensued, with those in the cave firing out at the troops in the bush, and the soldiers firing back. It was a sporadic battle, sometimes with periods of silence broken in the end by a single
crack
or a shouted jeer from one side or the other. Stalemate, in fact, though the defenders knew they were not going to escape. They had water and food in the cave, but these supplies would eventually run out. Abe Wynter’s sergeant was of the opinion that it would take about a week before the spirit of those in the cave was broken.

‘I can’t afford a week,’ grumbled Abe Wynter. ‘We’ll ’ave to finish them off before then. Can we smoke ’em out? Where’s that damn ammunition for the Perkins? Shouldn’t it be here by now?’

They tried fires, but the wind was in the wrong direction and they only succeeded in burning a huge area of bush, endangering themselves in the process. In the early evening the pack animals with the ammunition for the Perkins arrived. Abe Wynter had already carried out the erection and mounting of the steam gun, but had been reluctant to use the first thousand rounds of ammunition in case those in the cave immediately surrendered. Abe wanted no surrender. He intended to kill all the defenders before they had a chance to show a white flag.

By the time they had unpacked the ammunition, the sun was low on the horizon, a big orange ball. It was growing cold with the onset of the gloaming. Abe Wynter knew that once darkness fell it would be difficult to prevent the defenders from escaping. He and his men might catch one or two, but others would slip away for sure. He consulted his sergeant on the matter and the sergeant confirmed his fears.

‘Right,’ said Abe, his heartbeat quickening, ‘time to use Mr Perkins.’

A charcoal fire was lit to boil the water in the generator of the engine, which would be released under pressure into the chamber of the gun. The hoppers were filled with musket balls from which the balls would drop one by one into the chamber of the gun. Finally the gun was moved on the swivel joint and aimed at the entrance to the cave.

Abe Wynter was managing the whole of this procedure himself, since no one else present had any idea what a Perkins steam gun was or how to operate it. The sergeant had not been present at the first demonstration of the weapon, there being only officers in attendance at that time. The NCO had no notion of what was to follow. All he was aware of was that the so-called captain had a newfangled weapon, which looked a rather dubious piece of equipment to the sergeant, being made up of pipes and funnels, and needing a coal fire to make it work. Indeed, it looked more like a contraption that should have been part of a steam boiler in a Chinese laundry rather than out on a battlefield.

He soon changed his mind.

Lying behind the Perkins, Abe Wynter began to fire. The soldiers around him were both astonished and horrified as the machine gun rattled a thousand shots into the mouth of the cave. Inside the cave they could hear the screams, as musket balls that did not hit any direct target, ricocheted off the inner walls of rock.
Zing, zing, zing, zing.
The noise from a thousand balls striking stone was astounding from outside the cave; it must have been terrifying within. One minute after releasing the trigger, the hoppers were empty. Abe, sweating profusely, screamed at one of the soldiers, ‘Quick! Fill the hoppers again – now!’

There were cries of agony coming from the cave. A man came running out. Abe Wynter drew a revolver and shot the man before he managed to get ten yards. The soldier on the ammunition yelled that the hoppers were again full of musket balls. Abe went down behind his weapon again, his sweat soiling the collar of his precious scarlet coat. He knew what he was doing and he wanted it done.

‘Sir!’ cried the sergeant. ‘Can’t you give ’em time to surrender? Let me talk to ’em. They might—’

‘Shut your mouth, Sergeant. I’m in charge here,’ screeched Abe – and then he released the trigger again, pouring another thousand balls into the cave. When he had finished, there were only groans coming from the defenders’ position. Still he was not satisfied, despite the sergeant’s obvious agitation.

‘Again!’ cried Abe. ‘Fill ’em again.’

Out of the corner of his eye Abe saw his own half-dozen Maoris walk off into the bush. They did not want to witness this slaughter of their own kind. They had chosen sides – for money or revenge over ancient enemies – and they knew there was no going back. But they did not need to watch this feverish butchering of men with the same ancestors as themselves. They would come back when it was all over and the screams and pleading from the cave had ceased.

Five thousand rounds went into that cave mouth. The sound of rapid fire, which had so shocked the soldiers witnessing this massacre, had left the wildlife of the evening as silent as the dead. Those in the cave had not stood a chance. Indeed, when the soldiers went to look the next morning, they were sickened by the carnage. Gory body parts lay everywhere, limbs having been ripped from sockets, heads pulped, and torsos mangled. The sergeant had seen a great deal of action, in various parts of the world, but this was one he wished he had not been part of. It had been ugly, horrifying, dishonourable, and for the most part unnecessary.

‘Shall we bury the bodies now, sir?’ he asked.

‘Nah – leave ’em to rot,’ growled the captain. ‘They don’t deserve a decent burial.’

The sergeant’s voice was quiet but determined. ‘Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, sir – all men deserve a decent burial. These here Maoris are Christians. They fought us fair and square. I’ll no deny a Christian soul his last resting place.’

‘Oh, do what you like, Sergeant. I couldn’t give a tinker’s damn what you do with ’em. But we’ve got to get going, back to New Plymouth. Who knows, there might be other war parties out here? Hey, you! Soldier! Be careful with that weapon. That’s an expensive bit of metal, that is. That there gun will change the face of war.’

‘I hope to God I never see the like,’ muttered the sergeant. ‘When that thing comes into service, I aim to take off my uniform for good and aye.’

Once the Maoris were in shallow graves with markers, the soldiers packed up and began the march back to the garrison. One of them happened to mention something about ‘the woman’. Abe Wynter overheard.

‘What woman?’ he asked.

‘One of them dead Maoris, sir,’ answered the soldier. ‘She weren’t a man – she were a woman.’

Abe felt uncomfortable with this news. He did not know why, because women had been killed on the battlefield before. Chiefs’ daughters and wives had been caught in crossfire, or had been part of a Maori defence, and had died as a result. This was an unfortunate turn of events which had not been in his reckoning. He had a good idea who the female Maori was, though he did not know her name, and decided that this need not go any further than the raiding party.

He asked the sergeant to call a halt.

‘Listen up, you lot,’ he cried. ‘This ’as been a secret raid, as you might say, and is to stay confidential. It’s me what’ll put in the report to the colonel and I’ll tell him what he has to know, understood? Any man caught discussin’ these events, including you, Sergeant, will find himself up on a court martial for disclosin’ secret information. This ’ere Perkins gun is a secret weapon, see, what we must keep from the enemy’s knowledge. Any man here that jabbers in a tavern about what happened yesterday will regret his mouth, understand? I’ll personally see him stripped and flogged.’

‘I think we ken the message, sir,’ growled the Scottish sergeant. ‘Yer need have no fear of my men talking.’

‘Good. I’ll hold you to that, Sergeant. Any one of these men talks and you lose them stripes. That’s a fact.’

‘Yes, sir. I understand.’

The sergeant understood, but knew there was not a hope in hell of stopping the troops talking about this action. It would be all over the place before a day was out. Especially concerning the woman. Women had been killed in this war before now, but never in such a terrible slaughter as the one these soldiers had witnessed.

Abe, though, was satisfied he had put the fear of God, or at least fear of army discipline, into the troops. He was convinced they would not speak of this incident again. The column continued on its way back to New Plymouth. Again they spent the night out in the open and again did not make fires for fear of reprisals from other Maori tribes. The Maori were notoriously quick at discovering such deeds. Abe would not feel comfortable until he was back in New Plymouth, within the protection of several thousand British troops.

They arrived back the following evening. After bathing and stowing his precious gun, Abe Wynter dressed in civilian clothes and went out in search of Captain Jack Crossman. He was told the captain was at that moment in time in Auckland or thereabouts so he would have to wait to complete his business. He was glad to have something to offer the officer, whom he had kept dangling a long time. In the meantime he paid for the services of a clerk to write his dictated report to the colonel.

Abe Wynter made no mention of the dead Maori woman in his report. He knew who she was; the woman who had led him to the Maori rebels in the first place. The woman he had once discussed with his brother Harry; an indiscretion Abe wished he could now retract. However, the damage was done and, all in all, what did it matter? She was only a Maori and Crossman could get another if he wished.

Sixteen

J
ack was still convinced that Private Harry Wynter had stolen part of the gold shipment that he and his men had recovered, the value of which he knew to be close to a thousand sovereigns. To a private soldier, whose pay after stoppages was around three or four pence a day, that was an absolute fortune. But how would Harry Wynter convert raw gold into money he could spend? The answer to that was obvious. He would do it through his brother, Abraham Wynter. Abe was shrewd enough to know he could skim a good profit from handling his brother’s ill-gotten gains, even after declaring that he would take a percentage. Harry Wynter had no real idea of the price of gold on the market, would not know how to go about discovering it, and would be happy with what he got.

What was more, Abe was clever. He would know that money in Harry’s hands would be spilt like water on drink, women and gambling. It was doubtful if the whole thousand sovereigns, given all at once, would last a week. Abe would therefore be careful to dole out the cash to Harry in small amounts. Harry would grumble but would be in no position to make a great fuss. After all he was a thief who faced dreadful punishment for his crime if he were found out. So Harry would reluctantly accept his brother’s plan and make the best of a rather pleasant situation. Now, though, the private had slipped up a little and Jack pressed forward with his enquiry.

Coming before him, in the room Jack was using as a temporary office, Harry Wynter looked as if he had crawled out of ditch. His uniform was filthy, his skin looked unwashed, and his boots were covered in mud. When he saluted, he swayed violently to one side. Sergeant King had to nudge him up straight with his shoulder to keep him from falling over altogether.

‘Sergeant,’ snapped Jack, seated behind the shipping crate he used as a desk, ‘is this man drunk?’

‘Tired, your honour,’ murmured Wynter, his eyes half-closed. ‘Not drunk. Leastways, I
was
a bit tipsy yesterday, but that were yesterday. Today I an’t drunk, sir. I din’t get me much sleep last night, bein’ as I’m havin’ certain dreams.’

Jack ignored the bait about dreams, which would have led to all the injustices Wynter felt he had undergone in the army.

‘Sergeant, where has this man been to get in such a state?’

‘He won’t be able to tell you that,’ replied Harry lazily, ‘’cos I an’t told him. Oh, he asked all right, but I still din’t tell him nothin’.’

‘Sergeant, why is this man speaking to me directly?’

‘Sir,’ said King, ‘I can’t stop him, short of gagging him. Shall I gag him, Captain?’

Jack removed the prosthetic metal hand that he wore when he was in his dress uniform, laid it on the shipping crate before him, and scratched the sore stump which was his wrist. Wearily, he replied, ‘No, no. No gagging, Sergeant.’

Thus Jack swiftly abandoned the procedure he had hoped to adopt; he had hoped to use Sergeant King as a buffer between him and Private Wynter. He had known in his heart beforehand that he would not be able to keep it up, but had thought it worth a try. He now spoke directly to the private.

‘Suppose you tell me, Wynter? Why do you appear before your commanding officer in state of filth?’

‘Sir, I was as smart as you look when I started out this mornin’, but was set upon by the navy on me way here.’

‘The navy?’

Wynter’s hideous milky eye rolled in his scarred face as he gave Jack a twisted smile.

‘Not the
whole
navy, o’ course. Just ’alf a dozen.’

Now it was Wynter’s turn to scratch at something: the black furrow in his forehead left by a handgun he had used in an abortive attempt at suicide. Wynter had blamed this attempt at taking his own life on the ‘abuse’ he had received from Sergeant King and the then Lieutenant Crossman. He claimed to have been callously abandoned in an Indian thorn bush, which blinded his eye and tore wounds in his body, only later to be thrashed by King for insulting the Asian host who had nursed him back to health.