Kiwi Wars (6 page)

And this sergeant seemed unimpressed by them and thus Ta Moko was also disappointed, because he had already decided he liked Farrier King more than any of the others in this group of pakeha.

The patrol continued through lush rainforest in the foothills of the mountain, past forests of rimu and kamahi trees. Above them were dwarf forests, with trees of stunted growth, their trunks and branches gnarled and hanging with moss and parasitical plants. If Ta Moko had asked Jack what he thought of the scenery around him, Jack would have regaled the Maori with an enthusiastic and resounding approval. Jack was beginning to fall in love with New Zealand. Probably, if he searched his heart, he would have discovered that what he liked about it most was the lack of people. Solitude was attractive to his soul. There were other places he had been – the jungles of India, the hills of the Crimea – which had been isolated and empty. But they had seemed lonely; here he was not affected by the loneliness, only the quiet beauty.

The packhorses carried supplies for the map-makers, but Ta Moko had brought his own food, which he ate separately from the others. Jack asked Ta Moko to join them, but for reasons he did not divulge the Maori preferred to eat alone. Once the tents were up, Jack was able to take in his surroundings. This was a rocky area, with some trees, but mostly shrub.

The bird life was many and varied. The only type he recognized was the kingfisher, because of that electric flash of blue when it zipped over the water, but he did not know the specific name of this kingfisher, nor was he greatly interested in labels. It was enough to have the evening come in with these familiar winged creatures around him, reminding him of England and Scotland.

Wynter and Gwilliams spent the twilight cleaning the party’s weapons. They were wrapped in blankets as they worked. During the day it had been around 55 degrees Fahrenheit, but now that the sun had gone down the temperature had dropped dramatically. It was no longer chilly; it was cold. Clouds had gathered in the twilight, and it started to rain about mid-evening and the group dispersed to their tents. That night it rained heavily, and the next day, and the day after that. It was April and winter was closing in on the land. When the sun finally came out and allowed them to emerge, the ground was like a bog, covered in casual water, and any movement stirred mud.

Nevertheless, King got to work that day, getting Wynter and Gwilliams to lay out his chains to form the base line for the triangulation. Jack watched and waited to be given a task. He was finally given a pole to hold which King called a ‘calibrated stave’ while King used a levelling instrument to measure the rise and fall of the ground ahead employing a method known as ‘horizontal sightings’. It was all gobbledegook to Jack, and though King tried to fire his interest, Jack would have been much happier taking the theodolite to bits and putting it back together again. He had a clockmaker’s mentality.

Ta Moko watched with concern. He had seen maps before, of course, and knew they threatened the way he earned his living. It occurred to him that if the British managed to produce enough maps they would no longer need Maoris like him. When he said as much to Jack though, the officer shook his head.

‘It’ll be a long time before we have this country mapped, be assured of that, Ta Moko. And even when we do, we will always need guides like you. Maps won’t tell us which rivers are likely to be swollen when the rains come or the snow melts, and the alternative path to take when they are. Or the quickest track through the bush. Maps won’t tell us which plants to eat when we run out of food and where to hunt edible birds. Don’t worry, even when we’re all dead and gone, white men will be clamouring for guides in the bush.’

‘You are not just saying this to make me help you with the maps?’ asked the Maori.

‘I never just say things. I try to tell the truth.’

‘Good. Though many men try to tell the truth and cannot.’

Jack said, ‘You have to ask yourself whether my words make sense.’

Ta Moko nodded. ‘I will think about them.’

The mapping continued, with King scribbling down figures and words in his notebook, running from one instrument to the other to check levels and heights, and the others dragging their feet when he wanted them to run alongside him. As Jack had guessed it would, from past experience, the mood in the camp deteriorated. Sergeant King was the only one who knew what he was doing. Others simply did his bidding and were uninterested in learning anything further. It upset King that other men were so indifferent to his chosen profession. He did not expect them to be as violently enthusiastic as he was himself, but he did expect a degree of interest which was not there. With that apathy came mistakes, because his helpers did not pay close attention to his instructions.

‘Wynter! That heliotrope is a very valuable instrument. Will you please not swing it around in that fashion?’ yelled King.

‘Keep your hat on,’ grumbled the private under his breath. ‘Can’t do much harm to wave it about a bit. Air an’t like a solid wall, is it?’

King switched his grievances to the corporal next.

‘And, Gwilliams, you have left that measuring rod out in the sun. Do you not see that there is a thin brass wire running along its groove? Did you not know metal expands when it is hot? These measurements need to be accurate to a hair’s breadth. Must I have to lecture all the time? It is most aggravating – most aggravating. What must I do to make you people realize the importance of accuracy in these measurements? Lord, give me men about me who know the difference between a coffer and a truss . . .’

Gwilliams’ answer was to look away and spit a huge gobbet of tobacco juice in the direction of the distant adulterous mountain.

By noon on the eighth day Jack could stand it no longer. He had reached the point where he had a mind to strangle his sergeant while he slept. So he saddled his horse, took Wynter’s Enfield, and told Sergeant King he was going out to shoot game.

‘What? Oh, sir, you are needed here.’

Gwilliams and Wynter looked at the officer enviously, jealous of the privilege of rank that allowed him to escape this purgatory.

Sergeant King knew why Jack wanted to get away and was upset with himself for being so tetchy. He tried to entice his officer back into the camp with long overdue praise. He took hold of the horse’s bridle. ‘Sir, I have to thank you for yesterday’s work. It was most satisfactory. Really. Most satisfactory. Over the first 700 feet the remeasurements have shown a difference only of 0.013 of an inch. Isn’t that superb?’

‘Sergeant,’ said Jack, coldly, ‘I have to confess to you that I have absolutely no idea what that means.’

‘It means, sir, that if we were to measure from the top of India to the very bottom tip, we would be accurate to within six feet!’ the sergeant cried, trying to instil some of his enthusiasm in the officer.

‘Amazing,’ replied Jack, unable to keep the irony out of his tone. ‘Now if you please, Sergeant, I wish to ride out.’

‘Oh, sir.’

The plea fell on deaf ears. Jack could stand it no longer. He urged his mount forward and cantered off into the bush. Once out of the camp he relaxed a little. The atmosphere he had left behind had not been pleasant. There was only one happy man in that camp. Even Ta Moko, who had been given tasks, was no longer fascinated by the brass and glass instruments and the coloured pens of the map-maker.

Now Jack could let his thoughts dwell on the countryside around him, which King had robbed of all interest by reducing to feet and inches. It was a wide expanse of wonderful wilderness, to be enjoyed not measured, and he was going to make the most of his brief freedom. When he came to a wild river, which tumbled and danced in high fashion over its rocky bed, he simply sat on the bank and gazed. An hour later, when the sun was almost vertically overhead, he shot a bird he could not name but which looked plump enough for the pot. It was a duck of some kind, but of a blueish hue and not like any in Britain. Before long he had half-a-dozen of the same bird and had tied five of them by their legs to hang them from his saddle. The sixth he plucked.

With the horse idly grazing nearby, Jack made a fire, let it burn down to cinders, and then roasted his bird on a spit over the glowing charcoal which remained. It smelt delicious and tasted like heaven. He realized of course that lighting a fire in enemy territory was dangerous, but he had seen neither hide nor hair of Maoris since they had begun their mapping and was inclined to think that they were all in their
pas,
or villages, and not out roaming the bush. Why would they be? There was little out here and the land was at war. All respectable Maori warriors would be gathering around their clan chiefs, awaiting attacks by the pakehas, or making preparations for the next battle.

It was perhaps the roaring of the river that hid the sound of their approach, but before he knew it he was being shot at from only a few yards away. Looking up he saw about a dozen Maori running at him, only one with a rifle, but the rest carrying hacking weapons the shape of small canoe paddles. Jack dropped the bones of the duck, which he had been lingering over, and leapt for his horse. With only one hand it was never an easy thing to mount a strange beast. Jack was not a natural horseman like Gwilliams or King, and the creatures knew it. This one shied away on being grabbed. Jack actually managed to get into the saddle, but, snatching at the reins with his good hand, he missed them, and thus the animal bolted, sending Jack tumbling to the ground.

He fell badly on his left foot and knew instantly that he had damaged his ankle in some way. There was some thought in his mind to draw his revolver from the inside pocket of his coat, but before he could do this a coarse-skinned brown foot pinned his wrist to the earth. Looking up he could see a grinning face staring down at him. Jack waited for that paddle-thing to split his skull in two. But the man’s right arm simply hung by his side and there was no attempt to brain him. Through the open legs of his attacker Jack could see the other Maoris going through his kit, taking his kettle, the leather belt he had removed while eating, and of course the Enfield rifle propped on a log.

‘What else in your pockets?’ said the Maori above him, releasing his arm. ‘Empty them.’

Jack took out some money, a handkerchief, the key to his quarters, and a letter from Jane. He wondered if he could reach his Tranter revolver, knowing however that it only held five shots. He counted thirteen Maoris milling around his fire, including the one who stood above him. He decided against lunging for it, hoping it might remain undiscovered and he could use it later. Something in his demeanour though, must have given him away. In the next moment the Maori had reached down and found the firearm, taking it from him.

‘Ah, you would kill me?’ cried his captor, and turned and said something in his own language to his companions.

There was laughter from them.

‘So,’ Jack said, sitting up in the dust, ‘better get it over with then.’

‘Get what over with?’

‘Whatever it is you’re going to do with me.’

They all crowded round him now, huge muscled fellows, their brown eyes devoid of pity. He waited for the blows to come, hoping one would be kind enough to hit him on the head and kill him instantly. Finally one of them raised a club and struck him on the temple and blackness entered his brain.

Four

W
hen he woke, Jack was in a different place. It was not, as he expected, either the kingdom of heaven or even the bleak caverns of hell. He was still on earth and much the same earth as he had left. The river was gone though, and he was in some trees by a pool. It was a little while before his splitting headache would allow him to deduce that he had been either dragged or carried some way from where he had been attacked. Here they had dumped him, still alive. His head hurt. He touched the wound and felt encrusted blood. But worse was his ankle, which throbbed with live pain. Thirsty and unable to walk, he crawled to the pool and drank from its fly-dusted waters.

‘What now?’ he asked himself, sitting up and rubbing his ankle. It was swollen to three times its natural size. ‘Make myself a splint?’

But he soon realized that would do him no good. A splint is fine on a broken ankle of normal size, but the pain of strapping wood to such a tender spot made him nearly pass out twice. He knew he would have to wait until the swelling went down, if it ever did. Instead, he put his foot in the cool water of the pool, to obtain some relief from the agony.

He sat there until nightfall, annoyed to find all his pockets completely empty. He had deliberately left his small brass compass in one of those pockets, when told to turn them out. Without a compass he was going to have to wait until daybreak to go anywhere. The sky was opaque and no stars could be seen. Jack needed the sun to be able to tell in which general direction New Plymouth lay. He had absolutely no chance of finding the camp. It was while he was bemoaning his lot that the skies opened and the rain came down in torrents. His misery was just about complete as he found himself wallowing in mud. For the next four or five hours there was no respite from the flood. It rained, it then rained harder, then still harder. Lightning cracked across the heavens, filling the world with evanescent light, then longer periods of darkness. Sleep was impossible, even when he crawled to the base of a giant tree, and tried to shelter in the hollow of its buttress roots.

In the morning it continued to rain. Jack dragged himself out of the wood and tried to get his bearings, but from a sitting position this was hopeless. Even when he found a branch and got himself into an upright pose, he could not see through the dense downpour. He slid back down to the ground and sat there shivering, hoping for a miracle.