War to the Knife 35

War to the Knife 35

"Well, a body of the Nga-ti-mania-poto went back to Taranaki with them

under Epiha, the chief. On the way they met Mr. Parris, the Taranaki

land commissioner, whom the Maoris blamed for the Waitara affair. Te

Rangitake's people wanted to kill him at once, but Epiha drew up his

men, took him under his protection, and escorted him to a place of

safety. Parris began to thank him, but was stopped at once.

 

'Friend,' said the chief, 'do not attribute your deliverance to me, but

to God. I shall meet you as an enemy in the daylight. Now you have seen

that I would not consent to you being murdered.'"

 

"What a fine trait in a man's character!" said Massinger. "And what

discipline his men were in to withstand the other fellows, and save the

man's life who was responsible, they believed, for all the mischief!"

 

"Yes, that's the Maori chief all over. He has the most romantic ideas

on certain points, and acts up to them, which is more than our people

always do. But I hear that the Governor is going to stop the Waitara

business for the present--very sensibly--and give the natives south of

New Plymouth a lesson."

 

"And what about the settlers around Taranaki?"

 

"They have been forced to abandon their farms. The women and children

have taken refuge in the town, while Colonel Gold has destroyed the

mills, crops, and houses of the natives on the Tataraimaka block. So

the war may be regarded as being fairly, or rather unfairly, begun; God

alone knows when it may end."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI.

 

 

The natives alleged that they had taken up arms against manifest wrong

and injustice; but underlying all other motives and actions was the

land question. The more sagacious chiefs entertained fears of the

alienation of their territories. The growing superiority of the white

settlers troubled them. Outnumbered, fighting against superior weapons,

the day seemed near when, as in their songs and recitations, they began

to lament, "The Maori people would be like a flock of birds upon a

rock, with the sea rising fast around them." The time seemed propitious

to unite the tribes against the common foe. The natives were estimated

at sixty thousand, a large number being available fighting men. One

determined assault upon the whites, who were not, as was supposed, more

than eighty thousand, might settle the question.

 

Mr. (afterwards Sir) William Fitzherbert said in the House in 1861 that

"the remark that we were living at the mercy of the natives was _true_,

and reflected the greatest credit upon them. They had that knowledge,

and yet forbore to use their power." Now, however, war was declared

between the two races; the untarnished honour of the British flag must

be maintained.

 

At that time in the distracted colony there lived, strange to say,

a body of men whose interests were primarily concerned neither with

the acquisition of land, the profits of trade, nor the so-called

prestige of the British crown. Voyaging to New Zealand long years

ago, they announced themselves to be the bearers of a Divine message,

the significance of which was nearly two thousand years old. With the

weapons of peace and good will they confronted the savage conquerors

of the day. They lived among them unharmed, though not always able to

prevent the torture of captives, the execution of enemies taken in

fight, or to stay the hand of the fierce tribes thirsting for conquest

or revenge. But they had done much. They had laboured zealously and

unselfishly. They had risked their lives, and those of the devoted

wives who had accompanied them into the habitations of the heathen.

Following the example of their pioneer pastor, the saintly Samuel

Marsden, they had introduced the arts of peace. They had ploughed

and sowed, reaped and garnered. Favoured by the rich soil and moist

climate, the cereals, the plants, the edible roots of older lands had

flourished abundantly.

 

The heathen, though slow to perceive the benefit of such labours,

had come to comprehend and to imitate. They shared in the fruits of

the earth so abundantly provided. Trade had sprung up with adjoining

colonies; and, with the white man's tools, his grain, his horses,

his cattle, and sheep, in all of which the Maori was allowed to

participate, came the revelation of the white man's God, the white

man's faith, the white man's schools; the missionary's example did

the rest. Gradually these agencies commenced to sway the rude and

turbulent tribes. A highly intelligent race, they deduced rules of

conduct from the _mikonaree_, who was so different from any species

of white man they had previously known. He was brave, for did he not

from time to time risk his life, for peace' sake alone, between excited

bands of enemies? He made war on none; he was slow to defend himself;

he trusted for protection in that Great Being who had preserved him,

his wife and little ones, in the midst of dangers by land and sea. From

time to time he took dangerous journeys, he crossed swollen rivers, he

traversed pathless forests, he risked his life in frail barks on stormy

seas, to prevent war, to release captives.

 

After years of toil and trial the reward of these devoted servants

of the Lord appeared to be assured. Many of the older chiefs, men

of weight and authority, were baptized as earnest converts. Others

protected the missionaries, though they refused to quit the faith of

their ancestors. The schools flourished, and, unprecedented among other

races, aged men learned to read and write. The Bible was translated

into the simple yet sonorous Maori tongue. Saw-mills and flour-mills,

owned by natives, arose; vessels even were built for them, in which

their produce was taken to other ports. As far back as the bloodthirsty

raids of Te Waharoa, the ruthless massacres of Hongi and Rauperaha, the

missionary lived amidst the people for whose spiritual welfare he had

dared danger and death, exile and privation.

 

The members of the different Christian Churches had shared emulously

in the good work. Wesleyans and Presbyterians, the Church of England

and the Roman Catholic hierarchy, all had their representatives; all

supported ministers vowed to the service of the heathen. Not always

went they scathless. These soldiers of the Cross had seen their

cottage homes burned, their families driven forth to seek shelter

and protection at a distance. But, even when the worst passions of

contending parties were aroused, there never failed them a chief or a

warrior who took upon himself the charge of the helpless fugitives.

 

The earlier missions were organized by remarkable men. Their

descendants occupy high positions, and inherit the respect which to

their fathers was always accorded. But the most commanding figure in

the little army of Christian soldiers, the most striking personality,

was Selwyn, the first bishop of New Zealand. No ordinary cleric was

the dauntless athlete, the apostolic prelate, the daring herald of

good tidings, reckless of personal danger whether in war or peace.

When the Waikato warriors, three hundred strong, went down the river

from Ngarua-wahia under the young Matutauere, the bishop, travelling

_on foot_, carried a message to friendly chiefs, who undertook to bar

the war-party from passing through their territory. The settler at

whose house the bishop arrived soon after sunrise, dripping with water

from the fording of a creek, told the story. Had his remonstrances,

strengthened by those of the venerable Henry Williams, Chief Justice

Martin, and Sir William Denison, received the consideration to which

they were entitled, "the great war of 1860, with its resultant, the

greater war of 1863," would never have been fought. England's taxpayers

would have been richer by the interest paid on a sum of several

millions, and England's dead, whose bones are resting in distant

cemeteries, or in unknown graves on many a ferny hillside, would have

been saved to family and friends.

 

However, at this stage all developments lay shrouded in the veil of the

future. On whosoever lay the blame, war _had_ commenced in earnest,

and, according to British traditions, must be fought out. It was arming

and hurrying with all classes and all ages in Auckland, A.D. 1860.

Volunteers, militia, regulars, marines, bluejackets, were all under

marching orders; martial law was proclaimed around Taranaki; all the

ingredients of the devil's cauldron were simmering and ready to burst

forth.

 

If Massinger had desired the excitements of danger, of battle, murder,

and sudden death, this was the place and the time, to the very hour.

 

He had found no difficulty in enrolling himself among the force known

as Von Tempsky's Forest Rangers. It was composed of the most resolute,

daring spirits of the colony, many of whom had either been born in

New Zealand or been brought up there from infancy. As a rule, used

to country life, they rode well, and were good marksmen. A large

proportion of them were the sons of farmers, but there were also men

who had held good positions in their day. Having lost their money, or

otherwise drifted out of the ranks of the well-to-do, they cheerfully

enlisted in this arm of the force, which, if irregular in discipline,

had a prestige which the ordinary militia and volunteer regiments

lacked.

 

In such a corps the personal character of the leader is everything;

and in this respect they were exceptionally fortunate. Carl Von

Tempsky, the son of a Prussian officer high in service, was a soldier

of fortune in the best sense of the word. He had served for several

years with credit, if not distinction, until the temptation of a free

adventurous life proved too strong for him. He quitted the ranks of the

3rd Fusiliers for a long ramble in Mexico, during which he held various

military commands.

 

After this foreign service he travelled through Central America, and

knew Bluefields Bay and the Mosquito Shore, finally reaching New

Zealand a year before the troublous time which supplied the warlike

excitement in which his nature revelled. Producing his credentials, he

was at once appointed to the force which, under his leadership, became

so celebrated. His career was assured. Daring to recklessness, he was

yet a thorough disciplinarian. Suave in manner, but unyielding, he

controlled the wilder spirits in his regiment, while his confident and

successful generalship roused his men to a pitch of enthusiasm which

rendered them well-nigh irresistible in the field. As scouts they were

invaluable, often securing information of the movements of the enemy,

which the superstitious natives believed to be derived from witchcraft

or sorcery. Their sudden onslaught upon outlying camps and redoubts

demoralized the foe. While, whenever they had brought anything like an

equal force to bay, they invariably routed them with loss, Von Tempsky,

with his dark flashing eyes and cavalier curls, bearing himself as

though gifted with a charmed life.