War to the Knife 42

War to the Knife 42

"Poor dear Mary! Nearly _quite_ happy indeed! Just like her to think

of every one but herself. 'If she were only a little stronger!' No

servant, too; and here am I, Hypatia Tollemache, as strong as ever I

was, now that I have got over that horrid fever; safe, protected, in

luxury even, only disturbed by the thought of where I shall betake

myself with my gifts and endowments (such as they are), and all

uncertain of what good I shall do when I get there. From 'India to the

Pole' seems prophetic. I was nearly going to India; now shall I go to

the 'Pole'? Yes, I am resolved. Writing to and condoling with poor dear

Mary will be saying in effect, 'Be ye warmed and fed'--the lowest

hypocrisy of all, it always seemed to me. I am determined--that is to

say, I have fully made up my mind. I will go out and help poor Mary,

the Reverend Cyril, and the dear children, besides taking my turn with

the heathen, unless they bring their tomahawks to church. It will be a

charity worthy of the name. There can be no mortal doubt about that. As

for the danger, do they not share it? So can I. _That_ never put me off

anything, I can safely say. I shall write to Mary _when_ I have taken

my passage--not before."

 

So fixed in the resolve to offer up herself on the altar of friendship,

duty, and danger delightfully combined was this latter-day damsel,

that she went off to London, and, having no parents or near relatives

to control her--only a couple of trustees, who, provided she did not

spend more than her income, permitted her to do pretty well as she

pleased--took her passage to New Zealand by the very next boat, the

_Arawatta_. The said trustees raised their eyebrows when informed

of her intention, but consoled themselves, being men of sense and

experience, remarking that if young women of independent means and

ideas did not do one foolish thing they would be sure to do another,

even perhaps less desirable. So, the decisive step being taken, she

had only to tell a few friends--Mrs. Merivale, _née_ Branksome, being

one--and get ready a suitable outfit for the voyage to this Ultima

Thule of Maoriland.

 

Up to this time, though hard knocks, hard fare, and hard marches had

convinced Massinger that volunteer soldiering in Northern New Zealand

was no child's play, yet, on the whole, the experience had been less

depressing than exciting. The health of the triumvirate was unimpaired.

The youth and uniformly good spirits of Massinger had served him

well. Mr. Slyde's pessimistic philosophy had much the same effect,

apparently, leading him to assert that "nothing mattered one way or

another in this infernal country; that all things being as bad as they

could be, any change would probably be for the better; that if they

were killed in action, as seemed highly probable, it would be perhaps

the best and quickest way out of the hopeless muddle into which the

Governor, the ministers, the settlers, and the soldiers had got the

cursed country. The alternative was, of course, to desert, which, for

absurdly conventional reasons, could not be thought of. His advice to

Massinger was to marry Erena Mannering and join the Ngapuhi tribe,

which, under Waka Nene's sagacious policy, was bound to come out on

top. That would be, at any rate, a decided policy, such as no party

in the island had sufficient intellect to grasp. He might then give

all his support to the King movement, and possibly in course of time

be elected Sovereign of Waikato and surrounding states, do the Rajah

Brooke business, and found an Anglo-Maori dynasty."

 

These and similar suggestions, delivered with an air of earnestness,

and the slow persuasive tones which marked his ordinary conversation,

never failed to produce a chorus of merriment, in effective contrast to

the unrelaxing gravity of his __EXPRESSION__.

 

As for Warwick, the war-demon which had possessed his Maori ancestors

had temporarily taken up its abode with him, for, as the campaign

progressed, he seemed day by day to be more resolute and unflinching,

in action or out of it.

 

"Seems to me," said Mr. Slyde, as they commenced their march in the

discouraging dawn of a dismally damp day, "we're in for a deucedly

hot picnic. Colonel been blocked two or three times in his advance;

made up his mind to go for this Orakau pah, spite of all odds. Hope he

won't start before he's ready. Pluck and obstinacy fine things in their

place, but the waiting business pays best with Tangata Maori. Devilish

cool hand at the game himself."

 

"How about our artillery?" asked his friend.

 

"Not weight enough, fellows say. Guns always beastly bother to

transport. See when we get there."

 

* * * * *

 

Another scout had just come in with the news that Paterangi had been

abandoned, and that Brigadier-General Carey was in force at Awamutu.

The Ngati Maniapoto had crossed the Puniu river, and at Orakau one of

the chiefs had shouted out, "This is my father's land; here will I

fight." Rifle-pits were formed, and a determined stand was resolved

upon. Before the position, however, could be strongly fortified, three

hundred men of the 40th Regiment had been sent to occupy the rear. At

three o'clock next morning a force of seven hundred men, artillery and

engineers, the 40th and 60th Regiments, marched past the Kihi-kihi

redoubt, picking up a hundred and fifty men from it on the way. The

Waikato, the 65th and 3rd Militia, with a hundred men, moved up from

Rangi-ohia to the east side. At day-dawn thirteen hundred rank and

file had converged upon Orakau, strengthened by a contingent of the

Forest Rangers, among whom were Messrs. Massinger, Slyde, and Warwick,

expectant of glory, and by no means uncertain as to taking part in

one of the most stubborn engagements they had as yet encountered. The

defenders of Orakau numbered under four hundred, inclusive of women and

children.

 

"There goes the big gun from the south-west ridge," said Slyde. "It

ought to make the splinters fly. A breach is only a matter of time."

 

"Yes, but what time?" asked Warwick. "I don't know Rewi, if he hasn't

blinded the outer lines with fern-bundles tied with flax. It's

wonderful how they will stop a cannon-ball. Yes, I thought so. No

making for a breach just yet."

 

"They can't have any food or water to speak of," said Slyde. "Have to

give in if we wait."

 

"True enough; they're short of water, and have only potatoes and

gourds, I hear," said Warwick. "But Maoris can live upon little, and

fight upon nothing at all."

 

"There goes Captain King and the advanced guard," said Slyde.

 

"Too soon--too soon!" said Warwick. "There's a devilish deep ditch,

besides earthworks and timber. Ha! there the Maori speaks. The troops

have made a rush; they're driven back. The reinforcement comes up.

Another assault. My God! Captain King's down--badly wounded, I know.

See, Captain Baker has dismounted, and calls for volunteers. Rangers to

the front! Hurrah!"

 

And like one man, the little band joined the 18th. But though the

assault was made with desperate courage, the close fire again forced

them to retire with a heavy loss. No breach had as yet been made,

while the fire from behind the earthworks was incessant and accurate.

 

Seeing that it was not a case for a cheer and a bayonet rush, the

general decided to take the place by sap.

 

"Might have thought of that before," growled Mr. Slyde, "and saved my

hat." Here he pointed to a bullet-hole in his headpiece with so rueful

a face that his smoke-begrimed comrades burst out laughing. "Are _you_

hit, Warwick?"

 

"Only a graze," replied he, feeling his right arm, from which the blood

had stained his sleeve. "I was afraid the bone was touched. It's all

right."

 

"Here come those Maunga-tautari fellows," said Warwick, pointing to a

compact body of natives now appearing on the scene. "Ha! you may fire

a volley and dance the war-dance, my fine fellows; you're out of this

game. There goes a shell among them. How they scatter! Too late for

this play."

 

So it proved. Within the next twenty-four hours a British

reinforcement, four hundred strong, appeared. The sap had been carried

on; none could escape. Another day, another night, passed. At length,

about noon, an Armstrong gun was carried into the sap, a breach was

made, and the siege was virtually over.

 

On the score of humanity, women and children being in the pah, the

garrison was called upon to surrender, with a promise that their lives

should be spared.

 

Now was heard the immortal rejoinder: "Ka whai-whai,

tonu--ake--ake--ake!" ("We will fight on to the end--for ever--for

ever--for ever!")

 

The interpreter pleaded for the women and children. "Why not send them

out?"

 

The answer came back: "Our women will fight also."

 

But they commenced to find the rifle-pits untenable. The hand-grenades

made terrific slaughter. The rifle-pits had been too hastily formed for

safety; but still they fought stubbornly on.

 

When the assault was made, half of the first troops that entered fell;

nor was the second assault more fortunate. Then the enemy's ammunition

failed. It was pathetic to note them in their deep despair. Standing

amid their dead and dying, the blood-stained warriors sang a mission

hymn of old days, and raised their voices--which were plainly heard--in

passionate supplication to the Christian's God.

 

"But there was no voice, nor any that answered." Still pressed nearer,

with hail of shot and shell, the resistless pakeha. Once again their

mood changed, and they turned to the heathen gods of the children of

Maui. Chanting an ancient _karakia_, or imprecation, they marched forth

in a solid column. The women and children, with the high chiefs, were

placed in the centre.

 

An opening had been made in the ranks to enable the heavy gun to

open fire. Through this, in the full light of the afternoon sun, the

unconquered garrison marched out steadily, as if going to church in the

peaceful days of missionary rule. Rewi ordered that no shot should be

fired. The scanty ammunition would be all needed for the marsh passage,

on the route to the Puniu river.

 

Like the Moorish monarch giving his last sigh to the glories of the

Alhambra and the snow-crowned Sierras, did Rewi cast a lingering look