War to the Knife 56

War to the Knife 56

"Dog of the Hau-Haus!" said the indignant maiden, with all the

scorn and wrath of a line of chiefs shining from her storm-litten

eyes. "Speak you to a war-chief's daughter of the Ngapuhi as to a

slave-woman? What false tohunga have ye, that thy doom and that

of thy herd of swine is concealed from thee? See thy future fate,

as in that darkening cloud, coming nearer and yet nearer!" As she

spoke, she pointed to a thunder-cloud which, after the mists of the

morning, had gathered size and volume, and was now moving with the

course of the dawn-wind towards them. Such was the majesty of her

mien, such the tragic earnestness of her tones, as she stood, like a

priestess of old, denouncing wrong and oppression, that the crowd,

deeply superstitious as is the race, turned instinctively towards the

approaching phenomenon; and when the thunder rolled, and the jagged

fire-stream issued from the ebon, a shuddering sound was audible, which

showed how deeply fear of the supernatural was rooted in the native

mind. "Behold!" said the fearless, inspired maiden, as she raised her

hand and pointed to the sky, "the Atua of the Storm has spoken! Beware

how you touch a hair of our heads. Shed the blood of these pakehas, who

have never done your nation aught but good, who are now helpless in

your hands--torture this sick soldier--and not a man here will be alive

when the moon is dark!"

 

As Erena uttered the words of doom, she paused for a moment, while the

audience gazed around, as if waiting for some physical manifestation

in answer to her words. Kereopa preserved his __EXPRESSION__ of malicious

unbelief, as though willing to torment his captives with all the

dreadful uncertainty which might comport with a treacherous delay.

Glancing at him for a moment with unutterable scorn, she left her

position, and, moving to the side of the litter, gazed into the face of

the sick man with anxious tenderness.

 

But it was evident that the natives generally had attached more meaning

to her words than could have been expected. She had stirred their blood

and aroused their superstitious fears. This killing of pakehas, except

in fair fight, had always been regarded as unlucky. Terrible penalties

had been exacted, even when the offence in war-time had seemed to them

trifling and unimportant. Then, this Erena Mannering was the daughter

of a man more fierce and implacable even than their own warriors--a

war-chief of the Ngapuhi, and as such likely to exact a memorable

revenge. The Pai Marire was only of recent date. There were even now

rival seers and prophets, as in the case of Parata, who withstood

Kereopa, and had bitterly reproached him for the barbarous murder of

the missionary Volkner. There was a movement of doubt and opposition

afoot, which was evidently strengthened, as an aged warrior came

forward and addressed the natives.

 

"Men of the Pai Marire," he said, "let us beware of going too far in

this matter, lest we offend a more powerful Atua than those of the

Hau-Haus, whom we knew of but a short while since. If we kill the

soldiers of the pakehas, who have killed our sons and brothers"--here

the old man's features worked convulsively--"taken our lands, and

burned our kaingas, that is just, that is _utu_. But to kill the

Mikonaree, who fights not with guns or swords, who teaches the children

the pukapuka, who heals the sick and feeds the hungry, that is not

_tika_. The Atua of the Storm has spoken." Here another volley of

heaven's artillery shook the air, as the lightning played in menacing

proximity to the disturbed and upturned faces of his hearers. "Beware

lest worse things than the slaughter of chiefs at Te Ranga happen to

us."

 

A strong feeling of indecision was now apparent in the excited crowd,

who but an hour since were eager for blood and flames, the death of

the men, the leading into captivity of the women and children. It is

possible that the mass vote of the Hau-Haus would have gone against

Kereopa, who was not an hereditary chief of importance, only an obscure

individual, lifted by superior cunning and energy to power in disturbed

times. But at that moment the malignant face of Ngarara was seen to

emerge from among the last arrivals, and his voice was heard.

 

"Men of the Pai Marire, listen not to the words of age and fear! He

speaks the words of the pakehas and their lying priests. The prophets

of the Pai Marire have foretold that the Hau-Haus are to rule the

land, to drive the pakeha into the sea, whence in an evil hour they

came, to inhabit their towns, and to take their wives and daughters as

slaves. Even now, the Ngatitoa are marching to Omata, whence they will

capture Taranaki with all the pakeha's treasure. It has been foretold

that the Pai Marire shall increase as the sands of the sea, that all

the tribes shall join from the Hokianga to Korararika. I have left the

Ngapuhi to follow the Pai Marire, and I know that the tribe, except a

few old men, have resolved to abandon Waka Nene and his pakeha friends,

and to give the young chiefs authority to lead. You have but to join

the march to Waikato, and the land of Maui is yours again."

 

"You have well spoken," shouted Kereopa, whose fierce visage was now

aflame with wrath, and the half-insane gleam of whose eyes told of

that fanatical ecstasy which is akin to demoniacal possession. "The

land will be ours, the pakeha's treasures shall be ours; his women

shall work in our fields and carry burdens, even as the women of the

South were wont to do after our raids. Place the head on the _niu_, and

let the war-dance begin. The angel has again spoken to me, and I am

commanded to cause the sword of the Lord and Gideon to be reddened with

the blood of the Amorites."

 

Then commenced a scene of savage triumph, appalling, revolting, almost

beyond the power of words to describe. The fury of the excited natives

appeared to have transformed them into the brutish presentments of

the herd of animals which surrounded the fabled enchantress. The head

of the unfortunate Captain Boyd, raised on a pole planted in the

ground, was surrounded by a yelling mass dancing around it, with

fiendish gestures of rage and derision. All likeness of manhood seemed

obliterated, and the ancient world would seem to have been reproduced,

with a company of anthropoids devoid of human speech, and capable only

of the purely animal __EXPRESSION__ of the baser passions.

 

What the feelings of the forlorn captives were, thus delivered into

the hands of the most remorseless foes of their race, can scarcely

be imagined or described. They deemed themselves at that moment to

be abandoned by man, forgotten of God. A dreadful death, horrors

unspeakable, degradation irrevocable, awaited them. Like a fated crew

awaiting their doom upon a sinking ship, all sensation was perhaps

deadened, absorbed in despairing expectation of the last agony

immediately preceding death.

 

The Christians summoned from their cells to the arena in the reign of

Nero must have had like experiences. Alike the agony of despair, the

doubt of Eternal Justice, the shrinking of the frail flesh about to

be delivered to the hungry beasts of prey, the torturing flame, the

gloating regard of the pitiless populace. All these were apparently to

be their portion in this so-called civilized century, this boasted age

of light, of freedom, of art, and intellectual environment.

 

Similar thoughts may have passed through the mind of Hypatia

Tollemache, as she recalled her classical studies, and saw the

blood-soaked arena of the Roman amphitheatre before her, of which the

essential features were now in rude and grotesque presentment.

 

And had it all come to this? Was all the labour, the self-denial, the

toilsome day, the weary night, the exile, the home-sickness, but to

end thus? Not for herself did she mourn, perhaps, so much; not for

the warrior maid, whose high courage and inherited traditions enabled

her to defy insult and brave death. They had courted the danger and

must now pay the price. With Massinger, too, his chief regret would

be that he could not stand in the ranks as at Rangariri and Orakau,

dealing death around, and fighting breast to breast with the ruthless

foe. And though death by tortures, dreadful and protracted, such as all

had heard of in old Maori wars (and it was whispered around camp-fires

was not wholly obsolete), was gruesome and unnatural, still it was,

in a rude sense, the payment lawfully exacted by the victors. But

for these mild and gentle teachers of the Word, who had, for nearly

a decade, wearied every faculty of mind and body in the service of

their heathen destroyers, it was indeed a hard and cruel fate. She

saw, in imagination, Cyril Summers dragged to the fatal tree, with the

rope around his neck, as was that steadfast servant of the Lord, Carl

Volkner. She saw the ashen face and stricken limbs of Mary Summers, as,

all-expectant of her own and her children's fate, she would witness

the death and mutilation of her beloved partner. What was the mercy,

the justice, of that Supreme Being to whom they had bowed the knee

in prayer since infancy, where was an overruling Providence, if this

tragedy was permitted to be played out to the last dreadful scene?

Where, alas! could one turn for aid or consolation?

 

Such thoughts went coursing through her brain, mingled with such

curious and even trifling observation, unconsciously made, as during

the fast-fleeting moments of life have often been noted to occupy the

mind. She looked mechanically at the war-dance still being performed

by the exulting savages, varied by the devilish rites, if such they

could be called, performed around the dead officer's head, which with

awful eyes appeared to stare down upon the unholy crew. Cyril Summers

and his wife were kneeling in prayer; the children, having exhausted

themselves in weeping, were examining the _débris_ of their household

gods. Hypatia herself, with her masses of bright hair thrown back from

her face, and carelessly tied in a knot behind her head, was leaning

against the doorsill, in position not unlike the Christian maiden

in a great picture, where each martyr is bound to a pillar in the

amphitheatre, when she saw Erena move more closely to Massinger's couch

and whisper in his ear. The Maori guard was temporarily occupied, as

an expert, in noting the evolutions of the war-dance, and had relaxed

his watch. The sick man lay motionless, but the languid eyes opened;

a gleam of hope--or was it the fire of despair?--was visible, with a

slight change of __EXPRESSION__.

 

"She knows something; she has told him," thought Hypatia, as she moved

cautiously but slowly, and very warily, within hearing.

 

At this time the supreme saltatory __EXPRESSION__ of triumph was being

enacted. The noise was deafening, so that the clear tones of Erena's

rich voice were audible.

 

"This is nearly the end of the war-dance; then the murders and the

torture will commence. The torture will last all night; they will take

out Roland and tie him to a stake, cutting pieces of flesh from his

body. Poor fellow! there is not much on his bones. As for us, we shall

be carried away to the Uriwera country."

 

"You want to frighten me to death," said Hypatia. "What dreadful

things even to speak of! Can we not kill ourselves? I never thought I