Kiwi Wars (29 page)

He went back to bed but could not sleep. Instead, he took up a book Jane had sent him. It was a French novel in the original by an author called Victor Hugo.
Les Misérables
was not the sort of book Jack would have chosen himself; he preferred factual books on factual subjects. He soon put the worthy, and wordy, Frenchman down in favour of a pamphlet:
The Most Interesting History of Numeration, Including Irrational and Transcendental Numbers
,
Leading to the Complex Numbers Discovered by the Italian Mathematician, Raphael Bombelli (1526–1573).
This was much more Jack’s style and he happily lost himself in prime numbers and rational coefficients. It astonished him to learn that the ‘zero’ had come along in the fourth century BC, with the Babylonians.

‘One would have thought,’ he murmured drowsily to himself, ‘that the Romans, coming so much later, would have had the sense . . .’

But he had fallen asleep before he could finish the sentence.

The following morning when Jack was imbibing his morning coffee at the mess, he received a visit from the overweight newspaperman, Andrew Strawn.

‘Captain?’ Strawn sat at the small round table without waiting for an invitation. ‘I was wondering if you had anything for me on the battle for the Gate Pa. You were there, weren’t you?’ He let out a sort of tinkling laugh that had other officers looking across and frowning. Seven in the morning was no time to indulge in tinkling laughter. ‘I understand it was quite a fight. Some are saying it’s the turning point of the war, though a sort of shallow Pyrrhic victory, considering the number of casualties.’

‘Why me?’ asked Jack. ‘There were others there – officers commanding regiments – who are in a better position to assess whether it was a great victory or not.’

Strawn leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Well, between you and me, Captain – you’re one of the more articulate officers in this war. Intelligence is not a commodity which overflows amongst our aristocratic officer class. You’re one of those rare ones who seem to know what they’re doing.’

‘You know what Lord Raglan said about officers who know what they’re doing – he thought the army would be much better off without them.’

Strawn lifted a finger at a passing waiter. ‘Coffee!’ he said, then turning back to Jack, continued. ‘You must have some opinion on the battle. I won’t use your name, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

Jack said, ‘I think the important thing is we won. Yes, there was a cost. There’s always a cost, but I hope you don’t expect me to criticize our senior staff, because – forgive me – I don’t trust you not to use my name.’

‘A source present on the battlefield.
That’s how I refer to my informants.’

‘And I suppose you’re invisible to all these other officers in here?’

‘Ah, you mean they’ll put two-and-two together. Well, I always talk to a number of them. Not just one. Believe me, Captain, I can’t even remember your name. What is it? Wellington or something?’ He let out another one of those horrible laughs. ‘Please, let’s just go over the battle with an eye to detail.’

Jack sighed and leaned back in his wicker chair.

‘I don’t think I’m capable of that this morning. I had a bad night and my sergeant is shot to pieces and lying on a hospital bed. I intend visiting him in a few minutes.’

Strawn scribbled something on a pad, murmuring, ‘Interesting . . .’

‘What the deuce is interesting about
that
?’ asked Jack.

Strawn looked up, a frown on his broad brow. ‘Why, an officer with the rank of captain bothering to visit an NCO in hospital.’

Jack realized this was probably unusual. ‘You don’t seem to understand. My unit is very small. Though I’m in the 88th, the Connaught Rangers, I haven’t served with my regiment in years. I’m on special duties and my command is tiny – one soldier, one corporal, one sergeant. You get quite close when there’s just four of you out in the bush, dependent on each other for survival.’

‘Some officers wouldn’t.’

‘Well, I’m not some officers. The life of my sergeant is important to me.’

‘You get on well together, then?’

‘Not particularly. Like I say, we depend on each other. It would take me months, perhaps years, to train another sergeant to the standard of this one.’

Strawn’s steaming coffee arrived and he nodded his thanks to the Maori waiter. ‘What is it exactly that you do, Captain? You and your
unit
?’

‘We – we’re map-makers.’

‘Ah – I remember now. The same sergeant of yours was lost in the bush the last time we spoke. You seemed very concerned about him then, too. Obviously, he was eventually found, but now still giving you cause for grief. He seems like a son to you . . .’

Jack found the thought revolting, but did not say so.

‘So,’ continued Strawn, ‘map-making? Important stuff, map-making. My grandfather knew William Lambton, the India map-maker. And also Colonel Everest.’

‘Heroes of my sergeant.’

‘But not of yours?’

‘My heroes are men of science.’

‘And you don’t consider map-making a science? No, I suppose not. It’s more of an art form, isn’t it? I do love the fact that when one starts to look into things like map-making a whole new language emerges. Words. I love words, don’t you? Perhaps not. Now, what are those lines called, that show the steepness of heights on relief maps? Not contours, but another word . . .’

Jack realized he was being tested. Strawn was delving to see if he really
was
a map-maker. Perhaps the newspaperman had a whiff of Jack’s prime purpose in New Zealand: the setting up of intelligence networks.

‘You mean hachures?’

Strawn smiled. ‘Ah, yes – that’s the word,
hachures.
The thicker they’re drawn, the steeper the slope, eh?’

‘Would you like to join the team?’

Strawn shrieked with laughter, causing a major buried in a newspaper to look up and mutter, ‘I say there, keep a lid on it, fellah.’

Strawn snorted in the direction of the major, and then turned back to Jack. ‘Well, sir. What about this battle? The Gate Pa. A milestone in the Maori wars? I understand many officers were killed in the assault. General Cameron is blaming Governor Grey for that. Apparently before the battle Grey ordered the Tauranga commanding officer not to move from his redoubt, which allowed the Maori to build that formidable
pa
and hold it against a vastly superior force.’

Jack now realized that blame was being apportioned. He really wanted nothing to do with the politics of war. However, he knew he would have to give an opinion or Strawn, like all crafty reporters, would make something up. ‘It was certainly a key battle. Men fought bravely on both sides. I could not say whether the building of the
pa
made any real difference – you’d have to ask an engineer for an opinion on that. There was chivalry from the Maori. I saw one Maori woman face rifle fire in order to get water for a wounded British officer. There were other such gestures. It’s true that at one point our men panicked, but things like that happen in war. In the heat of the battle, with all the smoke and noise, and the screams of the dying, one becomes disorientated. It’s easy to become confused in those winding trenches the Maori dig. It’s like trying to find one’s way through a maze.’ He paused. ‘Let me give you some advice, if I may. Try not to apportion blame for any perceived mistakes. Leave that to history. We – you and I, and the rest of New Zealand – are too much on top of things at the moment. Let a bit of time pass in order to reflect.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ replied Strawn, scribbling. ‘Thanks, Captain.’ Strawn rose to leave. ‘Hope that sergeant of yours recovers without too many problems. Oh, and, by the by, that land dealer of which we spoke last time I saw you – Wynter? Abraham Wynter. He just led a successful engagement in the south, against a pocket of rebels. Wiped out a whole lot of them. There’s talk of a medal.’

Jack was surprised. Abe Wynter had said nothing when handing Jack the deeds to his land. And the Wynters were not renowned for their modesty.

‘Thanks for that information.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Jack put Abe Wynter out of his mind. He had other matters far more important than concerning himself about medal winners. He left the mess and made his way to the military hospital. Nearing it, he could smell those smells which turned his stomach. Jack, like many people, hated hospitals. They were supposed to be places where men recovered from illnesses and wounds, but more often they were halls of pain. The surgeons did their best, of course, but they were considered butchers by the men, since most of their work consisted of hacking off limbs. Some surgeons used chemicals to render a man unconscious before cutting, but others considered this unethical and would only amputate while a patient’s eyes were open and comprehending. One or two military surgeons were often more concerned with whether soldiers were malingerers or not, even as they were chopping through gristle and bone.

There was the smell of urine and faeces mixed with blood as Jack walked along a narrow passageway to the long room where the wounded from the Gate Pa had been taken. Indeed, this was one good reason to hate hospitals, if there were no others. At first he could not recognize his NCO amongst the lines of patients, since he was looking for that signature shock of wild hair. Then he remembered; King had been struck on the head and would no doubt be wearing a white turban of bandages. Indeed, it was so, though the turban was soiled. When he finally saw him, in a row of wounded and injured soldiers, Jack thought he was dead. King had his eyes closed and his mouth open. But on a quick enquiry with a nurse, Jack discovered that King was simply asleep. His mouth was open because he needed to breathe, his nose having become clogged with dried blood which the doctor saw no necessity to remove at this time. Jack went to his sergeant’s bedside and it was almost as if King knew he was being observed; his eyes opened very slowly.

‘Sir?’ he croaked.

‘I’m sorry, King. Does it hurt you to talk?’

‘No – doesn’t hurt. Just feels strange. Surgeon said my air pipe was holed, but it’s closed up now, I think.’

‘Ah. Good.’

Jack had no idea how to converse now that he was here. He had always had trouble making small talk and he considered hospital visits the worst in the world for this kind of thing. Even if it were his own brother in that cot, he would have had trouble thinking of something to say.

‘You did well – in the battle.’

King shook his head, grimly.

‘No, sir. I didn’t kill any Maori.’

‘Well, that’s not always a good measure of how one has done, to count bodies. Sometimes it’s the saving of lives which brings credit to a man.’

‘Didn’t save anyone, either.’

This was hard work. Fine, Jack thought, if he does not want praise then I will give him none. Let him stew in the belief that his wound has been for nothing. This was what he disliked about Sergeant King, the man always ran counter to what Jack required. Would it have hurt King to accept the praise gratefully and thank the man who offered it? A little bit of politeness and a few manners went a long way. But, no, King had to reject any comforting talk. The sergeant was as blunt as a Maori club. He met everything head on with the absolute truth, when truth was not necessarily what was required. Sometimes what was needed was a few white lies, just to ease the situation and make people feel better. Jack’s feelings hardened and he met truth with truth.

‘Well, then, you got your wounds for nothing. How about the head? Any pain there?’

‘No – no pain. Just a buzzing in the ears.’

King tapped the side of the turban.

Jack was slightly annoyed. He still suffered headaches occasionally from the blow he had received from Potaka’s club. Perhaps this sergeant’s skull was that much thicker than his own? For a few moments, in his irritation, he allowed himself to be mollified by the idea that this was the difference between an aristocrat’s skull and the skull of a peasant. It only lasted seconds, before he became ashamed of such thoughts. As a man who believed in science, he knew that this was a myth, just as royal or noble blood was a myth. The queen’s blood was no different from the blood of a scullery maid. A sergeant’s skull was no thicker than that of a baronet.

‘You’re lucky,’ he told King. ‘Mine still hurts.’

‘More brains,’ croaked the sergeant, trying to smile. ‘More brains to damage.’

‘That’s unlikely. I’m no academic. You’re the man with the mind, Sergeant, the map-maker. I’m just a soldier.’

‘Modesty, sir, you think around corners – I can’t do that.’

‘Well, let’s not argue about it,’ Jack replied, pleased by this praise. He looked around the ward at the various cots bearing inert soldiers. There were some hideous wounds. Skull clefts open, limbs missing, horrible holes in various places. Men looked back at him with vacant eyes, those who were not totally blind. Several pairs were Maori eyes. One or two were groaning quietly. Some, he did not know how many, were no doubt dying. A hospital was of course a place where a man could be nursed back to health, but it was also a place in which a man’s spirit could dive straight down to hell. A soldier could come in here with a very treatable wound, but spend time looking at what might possibly happen to him in the future. It was enough to depress the most stalwart of souls. A mildly eccentric fellow thrown into Bedlam might end up completely mad in the company of the insane. A youth with a wounded hand, left amongst the legless, armless and blind, was not likely to imagine he had lost his sight or limbs, but he was likely to witness such suffering that he fell into a state of dejection from which he might not recover.