War to the Knife 49

War to the Knife 49

"But the war, unhappily, had commenced, and still raged. Unwise white

men, proud and haughty chiefs, had been impatient, and forced on the

war. Had the Maoris respected the lessons they had been taught, and

been patient, even when suffering injustice, all would have been well.

The Waitara block would have been given up. It has been given up _now_.

They had many friends in the pakeha runanga; even in Sydney the Kawana

Dennitoni had sent a letter in their favour, warning the council of

the pakehas not to take Waitara. But there were unwise men on both

sides. Blood was shed. And the state of war took place. And now you

will say, 'This is all very well, but we knew much of this before. The

state of war is accomplished. What are we to do? What is best for the

Maori people?'

 

"I will tell you. This is my saying. I have prayed to God that it

may be right and wise, according to His will, and for your benefit,

who are my children in the Lord. We have always taught you to desire

peace--peace and good will towards all men. Cherish no more hard

feelings against the pakeha. You will have to live in the land with

him. His race is the stronger, the more numerous; he has ships,

soldiers, and guns, more than you can number; they are like the sands

of the seashore.

 

"The war must soon be over. I, who speak to you now, say so. Heed not

those foolish men of your race who tell you to go on fighting. It is of

no use. When the last battle is fought, and my words come true, yield

yourself to the Kawana, Hori Grey, saying, 'We are conquered. Show us

mercy. We desire peace for the future.' He has always been a friend

of the Maori people. He is a friend now. You will find that you will

receive mercy, that a portion of your lands will be restored to you.

Not all. Part will be taken for _utu_, as by Maori custom. After that

I say, heed my words and those of the good Mikonaree who have always

tried to do you good--who will do you more good in the future. 'Love

your enemies; do good to those who despitefully use you. If thine enemy

hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink,' as did Henare Taratoa,

whom I taught when he was young. You can read your Bible, many of you.

Do what you are there commanded, and it will be well with you.

 

"And now it may be that you will see my face no more. I have been

called back to the land whence I came, so many years ago, to do you

good, to help, to teach every man, woman, and child in this land of

Maui; such I may have done, though the seed of the Word has sometimes

perished by the wayside. But other seed, I will believe, has taken

root, and will bring forth, in due time, some twenty, some fifty, some

an hundred fold.

 

"And when the day comes, as come it will, when peace overspreads the

land, when the churches are again crowded, when the schools are full of

your children, when the harvests are bounteous, and the Maori people

are as well clothed, as well fed, and as well taught as the pakehas,

you will hear that your pihopa, the man who loved you and prayed with

you, is no more. In that hour remember that I told you all this would

come to pass, and honour his _mana_ by obeying the words of his mouth,

and the commandment of the most high God."

 

As the sermon neared this conclusion, the hearts of the people were

more deeply and strongly affected. Tears streamed down the faces of the

younger members of the congregation. Sobs and groans were frequent. And

as he turned to leave the little chapel, a simultaneous rush was made

to the door, so as to be enabled to say a last farewell. All doubt and

hesitation as to his actions since the war were swept away by the magic

of his vibrating voice, the magnetic force of his earnest tones. They

now commenced to realize that they were losing a friend in need, a

judge in Israel, a champion in the day of their oppression.

 

As he left the church with his host and hostess, the women and children

clustered around him, with cries of grief and genuine sorrow. They

knelt before him, they struggled for the right to kiss his hand, they

implored him to come again; they vowed that they would always be his

children, and would obey his commands till their death.

 

It was to Hypatia a scene indescribably affecting. The tears came to

her own eyes as she stood there, sympathetic, emotional, wondering no

more at the contagious power of the united forces of faith, enthusiasm,

and oratory combined to sway a multitude and lead a people to heroic

deeds. The men stood aloof while the women were making their moan, and

then came forward respectfully, each to receive a handshake and a word

of greeting, advice, or friendly warning. Last of all, the few elders

who had attended as it were under protest, made known their recantation

of doubt or distrust. An aged chief, whose scarred countenance and

limbs told a tale of ancient wars, hobbled forward, leaning upon

his _hano_. With an air of mingled dignity and despondency he thus

delivered himself--

 

"This is my saying, the saying of Tupa-roa the aged. I have listened

to the words of the pihopa rangatira; they are good words. The great

Atua of the pakehas has spoken in them. If we had hearkened to them

before, if we had said at Waitara, 'This thing is unjust, but we will

not fight; we will leave it to a Court; we will send a letter to the

Kawini across the sea; we will ask for justice till the winds cease to

blow, till the fire-mountain in White Island stops breathing flame;'

then our wisdom would have been great. What the pakeha says is true. We

had many friends, just men, in the pakeha runanga. After all, Waitara

was given back. Why? Were the pakehas afraid? No! See what has come of

it. My son is dead, and his"--pointing to another elder who stood near

him--"and Takerei and Puoho, all dead--all gone past the reinga, where

I also shall soon follow. But we were as children, who see not into

the future. Those unwise ones, who should be silent in council, were

allowed to lead the nation; and now we are a broken people, our pahs

are burned with fire. Our lands are taken, our sons are dead, also our

high chiefs. If we had listened to the pihopa, to the Mikonaree, to

Kawana, Hori Grey, these things would not have come to pass. My saying

to you, O people, is to show honour to the pihopa and his _mana_,

and so will it be well with you, with all of us, and our children's

children."

 

Here he advanced, and motioning to one of the seniors who carried his

greenstone _mere_, an emblem always of honour and authority, he made

a gesture of humility and handed it to the bishop, who, receiving it,

shook hands warmly with the old warrior and his aged companions. At

this moment Mr. Summers gave out the Hundredth Psalm, which the whole

congregation took up and sang with wonderful fervour and correctness,

many of the voices being rich and expressive. At the close, the

bishop, raising his hand, solemnly pronounced the benediction, and the

congregation slowly departed.

 

"What a wonderful scene!" said Hypatia to Mrs. Summers, as she and the

two children walked slowly after the bishop and her husband. "I feel

certain that they will not believe it in England, when I write and tell

them what interest these people showed in the service. There was none

of the yawning or irreverence that one often sees in a village church

there. How they hung upon the bishop's words! I could understand a

good deal, but not all. It is a fine language, too, and by no means

difficult to learn."

 

"Didn't old Tupa-roa talk well, mother?" said the eldest girl, a

fair-haired Saxon-looking child, the rose bloom of whose cheeks did

justice to the temperate climate. "He looked very fierce, too, when he

spoke about the war, his sons, and the chiefs, all _maté, maté, maté._"

 

"I thought it inexpressibly mournful," said Hypatia. "The aged veteran,

a war-chief, I suppose, in his time, grieving over his broken tribe and

ruined land. Owning, too, that if wise councils had prevailed all might

have been avoided."

 

"He was a great chief once," said the little girl. "Old Tapaia told me

that he used to kill people, and eat them too. Wasn't that horrid? But

he has been good for a long time, hasn't he?"

 

"You mustn't believe all that Tapaia tells you," said Mrs. Summers;

"and you know I don't like you to talk to the old women, only to

Hiraka, who is sure to tell you nothing foolish. You monkeys can

chatter Maori as well as any child in the kainga. I think I must forbid

you going there at all."

 

"Oh, mother, I will be good, and never talk to the old women, if you

will let me go sometimes. The children are so funny, and they play such

nice games. One is just like our cat's cradle."

 

"You can go, my dear child, when I am with you, or Miss Tollemache,

but not by yourself. And now it must be nearly tea-time, so let us get

home. The bishop will leave us at sunrise, I know."

 

That evening, with its homely meal, was long remembered by Hypatia. The

quiet converse continued far into the night with Mr. and Mrs. Summers.

Even, moreover, a short private conversation which the good bishop

found time to arrange with her sank deeply into her heart.

 

Having questioned her kindly but closely as to her motives for leaving

her friends, and taking up the hard, unlovely, possibly dangerous,

vocation she had adopted, he warned her against mistaking a transient

preference--the novelty of a mission to the heathen--for the Divine

summons.

 

"I do you full justice, my dear child," said he; "you are devoting

yourself to the noblest earthly duty, but I feel it right to warn you

that, though the war must be nearing its close, there may be even

greater dangers in store for isolated households such as this. Even

after the collapse of the hostile tribes, there may be desperate

bands roaming the country, seeking by plunder and outrage to avenge

the downfall of their race. I have warned Cyril, and have counselled

him, on the first rumour of such horrors, to remove his household to

Auckland, and, even as I would do in the case of my own daughter, I

have urged him to send you to the protection of any friends you may

have in New Zealand 'until this tyranny be overpast.' Weigh my words

well, and may God give you power to choose aright."

 

"I cannot fully express my deep gratitude, my lord, for the honour you

have done me, and the interest you have taken in my welfare. That I

did not devote myself to mission work without earnest and prayerful

thought, your lordship may rest assured. I counted the cost beforehand,

and now I cannot dream of deserting my colours, so to speak. You will

not think that I am quite destitute of prudence. I shall accept the

decision of my dear friend and her husband. If they think it imperative

to retreat in the face of too evident danger, I shall accompany them.

But as long as they remain, whatever may be the disquieting rumours, I

shall be found at their side. '_Ake, ake, ake_,' as the men at Orakau

said. We must not let the Maoris have all the glory on their side."