Kiwi Wars (33 page)

Jack and Ta Moko made good progress over two days. Sure enough, any hostile Maori they encountered proved an initial problem but these were quickly solved by Ta Moko.

‘This officer is seeking another for
mano-o-mano
,’ he told the rebels. ‘There is to be a fight to the death. The other killed the woman of this man by foul and underhand means.’

Magically, they were given free passage. No Maori would stand in the way of single combat between two rivals fighting over such a terrible transgression. It was a miracle they did not all trail behind the manhunters in order to watch the spectacle. They slapped Jack’s shoulder as he passed and wished him luck.

‘God be with you. May you cleave his head!’

For more than two weeks they scoured the hinterland seeking the runaway captain. At night they lit no fires so had to eat their meat fresh off the bone; a difficult task for Jack’s inexperienced teeth. Ta Moko found them wild root vegetables to eat and water in plenty to drink. Jack’s beard grew shaggy and uncomfortable, but he took no time to shave. One thing was good: he slept well out in the open, dropping off exhausted with the end of each old day and waking fresh with the following new dawn. His spirit began to flag however, when there was nothing to show after the passing of two whole weeks. Then they came across a lone elderly Maori, an eremite who tried to go by them without a word. Although the old man would not stop, Ta Moko would have none of it and questioned him by walking backwards and talking into the old man’s face. Jack’s guide learned that a white man and three or four Maoris – the old man was not good at counting, he told them – had settled at an abandoned hut not one day’s travelling from where he stood.

With the elderly Maori’s description of the area in his head, Ta Moko set out with Jack to find their quarry. They took fifteen hours to reach the place and arrived at dusk. Voices could be heard from a clearing amongst a grove of flame trees. Creeping on their bellies, Jack and Ta Moko observed the hideout from the forest pale. A fire had been lit in front of the hut. The roof of which had collapsed in one corner. Abe Wynter was sitting in a makeshift chair staring moodily into the flames of the fire, while his three Maori were squatting nearby, talking to each other in low voices.

Jack and Ta Moko retired and found a place to sleep.

At the first light of dawn Jack scraped the fuzz off his face, using a hunting knife and cold water. It was not the best of shaves, but it would have to do. Then he tidied himself as well as he could, brushing the mud from his uniform and boots with a clutch of twigs. Finally he nodded to Ta Moko, and they made their way back to the hut in the clearing.

The one thing Jack did not want was to step out and get shot to death before even opening his mouth. So he and Ta Moko positioned themselves in the trees and Ta Moko yelled at the Maoris sleeping around the fire. Abe Wynter was nowhere to be seen, but Jack assumed he was in the hut still asleep.

At the first yell, the Maori were on their feet, guns pointing at the forest, yelling back. Ta Moko told them in their own language not to fire. He said he and his pakeha could have killed them while they slept, but were only after their boss. ‘This has nothing to do with you,’ he said. ‘This is a fight between two pakeha. Whatever gold you have been paid, you will be allowed to keep. You will be permitted to go free after the fight is over, whoever wins the battle. This is single combat between two white men and we are here simply to watch the outcome . . .’

Jack observed the Maori men nodding.

During the exchange, Jack was watching the doorway of the hut, waiting for the tall pale figure of Abe Wynter to emerge. No one came out of the dwelling, even after a lot of conversation between Ta Moko and Wynter’s Maoris. Jack was beginning to wonder if there was a rear exit and his quarry had slipped away, when he saw Wynter ambling up a path from a stream far below dressed in shirt, boots and breeches.

Abe Wynter had heard the Maori shouting and was returning from his ablutions, wondering what the noise was all about. As far as he knew it was an argument only between his Maoris, which was not an infrequent occurrence.

‘What the bloody hell’s goin’ on?’ he grumbled, peering at his men. Then he appeared to notice for the first time that they had armed themselves. ‘What’s this then, eh?’

Jack stepped out of the woods and faced Abraham Wynter.

‘Arm yourself,’ said Jack, coldly. ‘We are to fight, you and I.’

Wynter had a pistol stuck in his waistband and he snarled and whipped it out, pointing it at his adversary.

‘All right, officer – I’m armed. Now what?’

‘Have you a sword?’

Wynter waved the muzzle of the pistol.

‘I don’t need no sword, I’ve got this!’

Ta Moko stepped from the trees and stood behind Abraham Wynter, his Enfield aimed at Wynter’s back.

‘Put down the pistol,’ said the Maori, ‘or I will kill you.’

Wynter’s face screwed into a mass of wrinkles. He glanced towards his own Maori. They were leaning on their own weapons, making no attempt to cover Ta Moko. The expression on their-faces told the tale. They were not going to interfere.

‘Oh – that’s how it’s goin’ to be, is it?’ shouted Wynter. He lowered his firearm and stalked towards the hut. ‘Yes, I got me a sword all right, Captain Fancy Jack Crossman. If it’s a fight you want, I’ll give it you. You sure you can duel with a lowlife like me, out of the gutter? I thought you lot only blazed with gentlemen of rank? I might wear a captain’s uniform, but I’m still what you lot call trash, mister.’

‘I’m prepared to make an exception.’

Jack drew his sword with a ring, the blade flashing in the early morning sun as it slid metallically from its scabbard.

Abe Wynter vanished into the darkness of the hut. Ta Moko kept the doorway covered in case the malefactor came rushing out firing. He did come flying out, but with a different weapon in his fist. He had a broad-bladed cutlass in his hand and instantly hacked at Jack with several savage strokes, battering at the defensive blocks Jack was forced to adopt. Jack was immediately put on his back foot, off-balance and caught out by the wildness, the suddenness of the attack. Wynter’s face was twisted into a grimace of fierce determination. He yelled as his heavy cutlass smashed down on the lighter sword of his opponent, while Jack desperately sought to ward off the blows which chopped down at him.

‘Thought I’d be an easy mark, eh?’ cried Wynter, triumphantly. ‘Don’t you underrate a sailor, toff. I’ve boarded more vessels than you’ve got shiny buttons on your coat. Think you could take
me
, what’s bin in a score of frays from here to the shores of Barbary? Ha, you make me sick, you fucking toffs. I been killin’ xebec pirates my whole life.’

All the while he spoke Wynter was crashing heavy blows down on Jack’s guard. The broad blade bit hard. Under this onslaught Jack continually failed to regain his balance. Finally Wynter’s attack forced Jack over. He fell backwards with an outstretched left arm. There was no hand to prevent him falling flat. Only the stump of his wrist. Pain shot up Jack’s arm and caused him to wince. Abe Wynter called out in elation, thinking he had now got the army officer in an unrecoverable position.

Still Jack’s skilful defensive overhead blocks saved him from a cloven skull. This way, that way, Wynter could not break his guard. First, Jack managed to get to his knees. Then he got to his feet again. Wynter’s fury began to abate. Jack continued to parry, parry, parry, but with no chance to thrust. Wynter’s aggravation started to show as he grew tired. He could not find a way past Jack’s guard no matter what. And they both knew the reason. Ferocious his attack might be, it was of limited scope. Nearly all the blows were downward strikes at the head. Once or twice Wynter tried a swipe at Jack’s left side, but the murderer knew this was dangerous since it left him wide open too long.

Exasperated, Wynter now took his cutlass in both hands. He hacked with all his strength at the sword edge which was frustrating his efforts.

‘You will not break this blade,’ said Jack, ‘it was forged in Toledo by a brilliant craftsman.’

‘I – will – break – you,’ gasped Wynter, the lightning scar on his face livid now. ‘I – will . . .’

This time he took his cutlass right back over his head, hoping to deliver a tremendously powerful blow and thus break the guard.

Too far.

Wide open.

At last!

Jack swiftly thrust his own blade deep into Wynter’s chest, twisting it, searching for the heart.

Wynter had had the upper edge for so long he had forgotten his opponent was able to attack as well as defend. His cutlass remained over his head. He glanced down in surprise at the glinting steel that was buried in his breast. Then he looked up into Jack’s grim face.

‘You bloody bastard!’ Wynter croaked. ‘You’ve . . .’

He slid from the sword blade and fell flat on his back without another word. For a few moments he stared up at the sky, his puzzled eyes seemingly watching the clouds drift overhead. There was no terror there. Only, at the last, annoyance, though with himself or others it was impossible to know. Abraham Wynter’s throat rattled for a minute or more, and then gave a horrible gargle before he passed into another world.

Jack stood there, swaying, gasping for breath. He was spent. That last, that only thrust, was all he had left in him. Had it failed he must surely have died in Wynter’s place. Ta Moko came to him and put his forehead against that of Jack’s. For a while the Maori just stared into Jack’s eyes from less than an inch away, fiercely triumphant. Then he took his head away and gripped Jack’s shoulders with firm hands.

‘You win,’ he murmured to Jack, then, nudging the body with his toe, ‘you lose.’

Twenty

M
ajor Nielson did not look at Captain Crossman, as the latter placed his report on that man’s desk.

‘Thank you, Captain. That will be all.’

‘You don’t want me to tell you what happened?’

‘I’m sure it’s all in your report, Captain. I think the less spoken about this business the better. Good morning.’

‘I think it has to be said, sir, that it was not an assassination. I intended to kill him, but not dishonourably, not in any underhand way. No shot in the back, no stabbing in the dark. It was all open and witnessed. He made the first move – his Maoris will attest to that – and we fought with swords. I’m lucky to be standing here. Wynter was no slouch with a cutlass. I’m sure I wouldn’t have been the first man he dispatched with it had he succeeded in his wishes.’

Nielson now looked up. There was a cold embarrassment in his eyes.

‘Still, a killing is a killing, Captain. No doubt it was not cold-blooded, but it was not on the battlefield. We do not take pride in such things. They are not battle honours, after all.’

‘My report says that Wynter refused to be captured. I’m not sure that’s wholly correct. I did not give him the chance to surrender himself. True, he did not offer, but no such request was made. He knew I had come for his life.’

‘Captain Crossman, did you have personal reasons for wanting this man dead?’

Jack was taken aback. Someone had been talking.

‘That’s neither here nor there, sir. I was following your orders.’

Nielson put his elbows on his desk, knitted his fingers, and said very clearly and precisely, ‘What orders, Captain?’

Jack nodded. ‘Ah, yes – like that, is it?’

‘On the other hand, I accept whatever you have to say in this.’ The major patted the report. ‘There will be no enquiry. No recriminations. Your word is accepted without question. The matter is closed. There will be no more discussions. Am I understood?’

‘Perfectly, sir.’

Jack left the office with an anger lingering in him. They had wanted Abraham Wynter dead, but once the deed was done, it became unsavoury. Well, that was the army for you. You did your job, you carried out your mission, but there would be no praise for work well done. Had Lovelace been here, he would have approved. Lovelace had no scruples about such matters. His assessment of the operation would be that it was an action carried out capably. Colonel Lovelace was more interested in an efficient means of carrying out the army’s aims and goals than legality or protocol.

The first person he ran into was Private Harry Wynter.

Wynter stared hard at Jack. The private was dishevelled; his forage cap was out of shape and askew. His coat was unbuttoned and his breeches hung low at the belt. The boots were unlaced and filthy with mud and horse manure. One good eye in his face looked red-veined bleary. Stinking breath issued from his slack mouth. Harry Wynter had obviously been drinking and there was a belligerent look about him. He placed his legs apart in a fighting stance.

‘So you did for my brother,’ he said. ‘Ran ’im through, I ’ear? Ran ’im through without so much as a by-your-leave. This an’t no officer-cum-private talk we’re ’aving now. This is just you an’ me, mister, man to man. Why’d’ya kill ’im, eh?’

At first Jack was not going to reply, but then decided this man, with whom he had spent the last few years, deserved at least an explanation for his brother’s death.

‘He murdered a man, Wynter. Your brother killed his own shipmate.’

‘Then ’e deserved a trial. ’Ow was he guilty, without no trial, eh? Tell me that, officer.’