I JOIN THE LOST LEGION
It was on a lovely afternoon that the old tub _St Kilda_, crowded with
men and looking far from safe, steamed slowly out of the harbour and
made for Wanganui. Fortunately the weather was very fine and calm, so
next morning we were off the heads at the mouth of the river, where we
received orders to proceed farther up the coast to the Patea River,
close to the mouth of which the camp at Patea was situated. This was
very fortunate for me, as I now should be landed right at the front,
where General Chute was himself in command, and Colonel McDonnell was
also present. The bar across the mouth of the Patea River is a very bad
one, only to be negotiated by boats or small steamers at high tides,
and during calm weather.
We were, however, lucky, and crossed it in safety, anchoring shortly
afterwards in front of the settlement and camp, where I, as I was still
my own master, at once went on shore, landing in the midst of turmoil
and bustle that made it very difficult to gain any information. It was
evident to me that some expedition on a large scale was contemplated,
as strings of pack horses, soldiers, Rangers and a good few Maoris
jostled, shouted and worked.
At last I managed to get hold of a sergeant of the 57th, who, as he had
evidently been lately wounded in the arm, was willing to converse,
and asked him to direct me to the General’s quarters. He informed me
that the General had gone on to a new camp farther up the coast, with
a strong party of the 14th Regiment, Colonials and friendly Maoris;
that there had been some sharp fighting lately, and that his own O.C.,
Lieutenant-Colonel Butler, was in camp, but leaving with a strong
detachment of his regiment some time during the next twenty-four hours.
As I had a letter of introduction to this officer I determined to
call on him and try to get some definite information, so proceeded
to his camp, where I was fortunate enough to find the gallant
lieutenant-colonel for the moment disengaged. He received me very
kindly, and told me Colonel McDonnell was in camp, having been wounded
by a ball in the foot at Putahi a few days previously, but that, far
from lying up, he insisted on accompanying the field force that was to
operate north of the Patea River. He also informed me that if I wished
to join it, no time was to be lost, as within the next twenty-four
hours the whole of the men to complete the General’s column would
leave the base camp, and he very kindly offered to guide me over to
McDonnell’s lines and introduce me.
This offer was, of course, too good to refuse, and in a few minutes I
found myself face to face with the man who had done perhaps more Maori
fighting than any other in the country, and who was in the future to be
the chief factor in eventually putting a stop to the war.
Colonel McDonnell was a big, powerful man, who sported a heavy
moustache, with large, bushy whiskers and eyebrows; from under the
latter looked out a pair of glaring eyes, while the expression of his
face was that of stern determination, almost pitiless, and you could
see, when in motion, every movement denoted strength and activity. I
had heard many yarns about him during the last few days, and they all
bore witness to his wonderful knowledge of the natives, his courage
and endurance, while he was accredited with having killed, in single
hand-to-hand fights, ten Maoris. He had been wounded a few days before,
but had no intention of going on the sick list, and when we were
announced was engaged in earnest conversation with several Maoris.
Still, on hearing Colonel Butler’s name, he ordered us to be at once
admitted.
In a few words the Colonel stated our business, and I presented
the Defence Minister’s letter, which he hurriedly read, glancing
occasionally at me over the paper. Then he laughed and said something
to the natives in Maori which seemed to amuse them. Then, turning
to me, he remarked: “Well, Mr Burke, you wish to join me and see
some fighting. Very good, you are just in time. We start at two A.M.
to-morrow morning. I will put you in the way of gratifying your
desires. The first thing to be done is for you to sign your attestation
paper, etc. Orderly, go and bring Mr Roach here.”
In a few moments a tall, powerful man, some thirty years old, entered,
who looked as hard as nails.
“Oh, Roach,” said the Colonel, “this is Mr Burke, who has come from
England to see some fighting, and wishes to join us. Be good enough
to attest him and his companion, attach them to your own company and
let them go with us to-morrow. And now, Colonel Butler, I have put your
friend in the way of seeing some fighting, whether he will enjoy the
road that leads to it remains to be proved.”
With a good-natured nod to me, and a “So-long, Colonel,” to my
companion, the interview terminated, and we left the tent. After I
had thanked Colonel Butler for his kindness we also parted, and I
accompanied my new officer-to-be to the office tent of the corps, where
in ten minutes myself and Tim had signed away our liberty for three
months, or six if required, in the Forest Rangers, and had been served
out with carbines, belts and pouches. We drew nothing else from store
as we preferred to use our own revolvers, and, thanks to the advice of
Hutton and West, I had purchased all the other articles necessary, of
better quality, in Wellington.
After a few words of instruction and advice from Mr Roach we were
handed over to the sergeant-major, who took us to the lines, and we
were told off to a tent and mess, when I was glad to find the man in
charge of the former to be Hutton.
I have already described, _en bloc_, the men composing the Rangers,
but I think my tent companions deserve a word or two individually,
especially as you are already acquainted with myself, Egan and Hutton.
Now the most important man in a mess is the cook. Of course in an
irregular corps everyone has to bear a hand and take his turn, the
consequence being that the food you have to eat is neither tempting nor
palatable, but occasionally one man shines out, pre-eminently superior
to the rest, when he is at once handed over the big iron ladle and
enthroned cook. A cook must be born, not made, and when in a mess a man
is discovered who has a knack of making a good meal out of nothing he
is indeed a treasure. Such a one we possessed, for no sooner had myself
and Tim conveyed our scanty belongings from the _St Kilda_ to the tent
than the dinner call went, and I was glad to hear it, albeit doubtful
of being able to procure the wherewithal to satisfy a remarkably sharp
appetite.
“Come on, Burke,” shouted Hutton; “just in time. Squat down on your
blankets and buckle to.” And no sooner had I taken my seat than two men
entered bearing a steaming pot and a bucket full of tea.
In a moment these were placed on the ground, each man dipping his tin
pannikin into the bucket and securing his allowance of sweetened though
milkless black liquid, on the top of which floated innumerable small
sticks, which caused the said liquid to be called, through the forces,
post and rail tea. In the meantime the piece of plank that served as a
lid had been removed from the pot, when at once a goodly odour filled
the tent, and on being handed a deep tin plateful, I found the taste to
more than justify the scent.
But the cook himself! He was a big, raw-boned Frenchman from the
south of France, bearded like a pard, his open and tattered jumper
revealing a huge crucifix tattooed on his chest, while his long hairy
arms and huge hands were also covered with red and blue figures. The
only other garment he wore was a greasy, ragged shawl, worn very
short, and fastened round his waist by a belt in which was thrust a
murderous-looking knife. Head, feet and legs were bare, the former
being covered with a thatch of long, thick black hair, and the latter
with a skin nearly burnt black by exposure to sun and weather.
No sooner had he served out his delicious ragout, with a big iron
ladle, than he squatted down alongside his companion and fed with him
out of the pot, the two combined making a picture that if painted would
have been received in any art gallery as a study of gnomes feeding. For
his mate, the man who had brought in the tea bucket, was, as far as
dress and appearance went, his exact duplicate, though not of the same
nationality, as he was a Levantine Greek who, although a tall, wiry
man, was by no means as big or powerful as his French partner.
These two beauties were presented to me as Pierre De Feugeron and
George Kantuarius, and were as extraordinary a half section as I have
ever tumbled across. Each man, in his youth, had been a sailor, Pierre
having originally started as a French naval man, George probably as
a pirate, to which latter profession, at the time I met them, if
one could judge by appearances, they both seemed fully qualified,
notwithstanding the fact that Pierre, especially after his tongue had
been loosened with a tot or two, always asserted that he had, at one
time, been _chef de cuisine_ to the French Admiral commanding the
Mediterranean Fleet, and had on more than one occasion cooked dinner
for the Emperor himself. Certainly he was the most wonderful cook,
though how he came to abandon that profession was always a mystery he
would never divulge. He and George had been mates for years, having met
in Central America, where they had served together under Walker and
Garibaldi. They had drifted over to New Zealand with a cargo of mules,
had joined the Rangers, and were here. I shall relate more of them
later on.
The man who squatted opposite to me was also a man to be noticed. He
likewise had evidently been a sailor, belonging to that class that is
now extinct, and looking at him as he swallowed his food my thoughts
at once flew back to Drake, Morgan and the Buccaneers, and I easily
pictured to myself my new comrade serving on some old-time ship that
hoisted the Jolly Roger. He was about five feet ten inches in height,
but of enormous breadth of shoulder and chest; the latter, like his
face and immensely long and muscular arms, burnt mahogany colour, were
covered with cicatrices of ancient knife and bullet wounds, while
with an enormous hand grasping an iron spoon, which it almost hid, he
shovelled his food into his capacious jaws with an enjoyment and sound
that reminded me of a half-starved hound gulping at a trough.
Still, when he all of a sudden paused and looked at me I saw he had the
wide-open blue eye, the frank, fearless look, and the determined mien
that stamped him as a chip of the old English block grown in Devon,
that county that has bred so many gallant hearts, gentle and simple,
who have done so much for the honour of our glorious old flag.
Yes, Jack Williams was a Devonshire man who, having been born within
sound of the sea, had taken to it, and followed it all his life, most
of which had been passed on the South Seas. Jack had put in many and
very wicked years among the Islands, upon the Pacific slope, and even
as far north as China. He had been a sandalwood trader, an opium
smuggler, with more than likely a turn of piracy added, a blockade
runner, a blackbird catcher, and had shipped in every desperate and
bloody adventure that had been perpetrated on the coast, and in Central
America, till at last he had drifted over to New Zealand and brought up
in the Forest Rangers.
Of the other two members of the mess, one, named Buck, was a typical
digger, who had followed the gold for years, and was now putting in a
few months with the Rangers on the chance of striking something good in
the hitherto unprospected country over which he might be called on to
scout or fight during his service. He was a quiet, reserved man, but
a good comrade, who seldom went on the bust, and was not rowdy when
he did so. He had been brought up as a gamekeeper in Sussex, and had
emigrated to Australia during the great gold rush to that country in
1856.
The remaining man was one of the many mysteries in that polygenous
corps. He called himself Smith. That he had once occupied a very
different position in life was evident, and must have, at one time,
made a considerable reputation at one of the Varsities. What he had
been we never learned, but he possessed the most varied education, not
only being conversant with ancient literature, but having a marvellous
knowledge of mediæval and modern writers, and I have never met a man
who could spout so readily any ancient or modern prose or poetry. He
also possessed an unquenchable thirst, and would go to any extreme to
obtain liquor, drinking any spirits he could get by the pannikinful
until he became overcome, ranting the whole time passages from
Shakespeare, Racine, Homer or Horace with equal facility. When sober he
was of a saturnine disposition, rarely speaking to anyone, but was the
very devil in action, and could stand any amount of hardship.
Well, this queer crowd sat round the tent devouring Pierre’s excellent
ragout with iron spoons, the said spoons, together with iron
three-pronged forks, our sheath knives and our tin plates, comprising
all our table equipments. Very few remarks were made during the repast,
but when it had concluded and George had cleansed with sand the greasy
utensils, Hutton drew out, from his roll of blankets, a bottle of rum
and a bundle of cheroots, which he placed by the pole of the tent.
“Here you are, boys,” said he. “I brought these up from the canteen so
as to welcome the new chums. You will find both the cheroots and men
all right, so sling round the pannikins, Pierre, and let’s drink them
luck.” This was promptly done, and after the bottle had gone round
conversation became general.
I began by congratulating Pierre on the wonderful dish he had given
us, and told him it reminded me of a _plat_ I had partaken of in
Marseilles.
In a moment he was off. “Oh, the beautiful Marseilles, and does
Monsieur know Marseilles, perhaps Monsieur also speaks French?”
This I allowed was correct, and in a moment he burst out with a
volubility that none but his own countrymen can equal, and was going
ahead nineteen to the dozen when Jack brought him to with a growl like
an enraged lion.
“’Ere stash it, yer darned frog-eater. This ’ere’s an English ship an’
yer don’t jabber yer dago lingos aboard us.”
Pierre answered with the snarl of a wild cat, but the row was
fortunately cut short by a bugle blowing the assembly, which
necessitated us all falling in.
It was not for a long parade, however, we were required, but only to
warn fifty of us, whose names were read out, to hold ourselves in
readiness to parade at one A.M. next morning for field duty, and that
ten men, who were to act as scouts, were to fall in at sunset.
Among the latter I was rather surprised to hear the names of Pierre and
George called, but was delighted, when my own and Tim’s, together with
the rest of our mates, were included in those composing the main body.
No sooner was the parade dismissed than we set about making
preparations for the march, and it may be as well here to give you some
idea of our armament and outfit.
The Rangers were, at this time, armed with a breech-loading carbine of
the most primitive pattern. It was loaded with a cartridge the powder
of which was contained in a thin skin bag at the base of the bullet,
and when loading in a hurry it was quite on the cards you burst the
skin and spilt the powder. Then you had to fit on a cap, and after you
had the weapon loaded you were more likely to miss a church two hundred
yards distant than hit it. Heavy muzzle-loading revolvers, tomahawks
and sheath knives completed our outfit of lethal weapons, and every man
had to carry one hundred carbine cartridges and thirty revolver ones.
Besides this, a man had to hump his swag (carry his pack), the amount
and weight of each swag depending entirely on the strength and ability
of the humper and the country over which it had to be humped. We had no
transport of any kind nor knapsacks, so whatever we carried was wrapped
up in our blankets, which were rolled, drum-shape, and suspended up and
down our backs by straps over the shoulders, but not worn across the
chest, this method giving free play to the arms; but it required a man
to be square-shouldered and not shaped like a soda-water bottle.
It must not be imagined there was any hard-and-fast rule or uniformity
required as to how the Rangers carried their packs, or even if they
carried any at all; in fact the only uniformity required was the blue
jumper and carbine, all the rest was left to the man himself, who could
go as he darned well pleased. Boots were not considered essential, nor
was the pattern of shirt or shawl taken into consideration, very many
men, like Pierre and George, never wearing boots nor carrying blankets
during the summer months.
It will therefore be thoroughly understood that the Rangers were not
for show, and that the gilt and gorgeous panoply of war was as absent
from their ranks as hymn-books.
In accordance with Hutton’s advice we at once started making our
preparations, which were as follows:--Our English clothes were stripped
off, and everything we had that we did not intend to take with us was
packed in a canvas kit-bag and stored. The expedition was to be made
on foot, so discarding our trousers we donned the shawls and were
instructed how to wear them. Flannel shirts, our blue jumpers, smasher
hats, strong laced boots and worsted socks completed our garbs. Then
the blankets were packed. Pierre had drawn four days’ rations for each
man, and proceeded to distribute them; mine consisted of four pounds
of cooked salt pork, four pounds of biscuits, a small tin of tea and
sugar mixed, and a smaller tin of pepper and salt mixed. A spare shirt,
a pair of socks and a few odds and ends completed my outfit. All these,
with the exception of the pork and one day’s biscuit, which went into
the haversack, were rolled up tightly in the blanket, and the pekau
straps (shoulder straps) carefully adjusted; then after we had had some
food and tea we lay down to get what rest we could before the fall-in
went.
It was some time before I dropped off to sleep, but I seemed only to
have slept a moment when I was aroused up by Tim, and it took me a
minute or more to pull myself together. I found the other fellows
sitting up, each with a pannikin of steaming cocoa in his fist, and,
sleepy as I still was, I soon joined them.
Presently bugles began to sound all over the camp, and Hutton growled
out, “There they go. That’s the way the Maoris are informed of our
movements.”
Pierre and George had disappeared, and Hutton informed me they, being
the best scouts in the corps, had left camp at dark, and that by this
time they would be miles away along the road we were to travel.
We soon finished our cocoa, pannikins were slung on the belts, swags
and belts were buckled on, carbines picked up, and we were ready for
the word to fall in.
At two P.M. sharp the word was given, and we fell in without any bugle
blowing or noise of any sort; every man knew his place in the ranks, so
there was no roll-call, numbering off, or proving the company. Mr Roach
silently walked along the line, then at a whispered word of command
we formed fours and moved out of camp as silent as a lot of ghosts.
Heavily loaded as we were, we pushed on fast along the rough trail,
which in places led us through deep sand, very fatiguing to march over,
no conversation or smoking being allowed, and as it was very dark we
stumbled frequently.
Unaccustomed as I was to carrying a pack, I soon began to feel the
discomfort of it, but of course said nothing. I must break myself into
it, and till then must grin and bear it. Another thing that added to
my discomfort was, I had only landed a few days previously from a long
voyage, so was not in good fettle for foot slogging, and I was very
glad when at daybreak a halt was called and we were given a quarter of
an hour’s spell.
The moment we halted Tim was alongside me. “Is it getting on all right
ye are, Mr Dick?” quoth he. “Sure ye’ll be finding the pack and pouches
bothersome at first, but glory be to God ye’ll soon get the hang of
thim, and, Mr Dick, dear, yer feet are not blistered, are they? For
sure it’s the heels of yer socks I rubbed well with fat, I did, and a
quartermaster’s tot of rum I soaked into yer boots, I did, so plase God
your feet will harden widout blistering, they will, and I filled both
the flasks wid the crater, I did, so if it’s a nip you are wanting,
sor, sure it’s convanient at all times, thank the Lord.”
I had barely time to assure the good fellow I was all right when the
word was again given to march, and we started at a slinging pace to
complete the remainder of the journey to the new camp at Kumikumiti,
where the General and the advanced party, destined to make the
expedition, were.
As the daylight increased we were able to get a look at the country
we were marching through. On our left lay the sea, the road running
through sand-hills covered with stunted manuka bushes, fern and rough
wiry grass, and on our right lay a chain of hills covered with bush,
but the eyes only glanced over these, for in a moment they centred
on the glorious mountain in front of us, that, rising in its lonely
grandeur, formed a picture none who have ever seen are likely ever to
forget. Of course I allude to Mount Egmont, the glory of the west
coast, and very beautiful indeed it looked that morning, with the
rising sun shining on its splendid peak, while its densely bushed
slopes fell gracefully away from it, fold on fold in masses of light
and dark green. But mark time, Dick, you can no more do justice to that
lovely spectacle than you can fly.
“Pretty picture, Burke,” said a voice alongside of me, and turning I
saw Mr Roach was marching on my outer flank.
“Yes, sir,” I answered; “a very lovely picture, and what a magnificent
mountain!”
“Yes,” he replied. “We shall know more of that mountain before we have
finished with it, and perhaps many of us will remain on its shoulders
and foot-hills for ever, as they are going to be the battle-ground
for a year or more, and many a weary day and night’s march we’ll have
over them, untrodden as yet by foot of white man. Mr Burke, I want to
give you a tip or two about bush fighting, and if that’s your comrade
alongside of you, it’s as well that he should also listen. Well, the
first thing you have to remember in bush fighting is, that you must
learn to work independently, as every man has more or less to act on
his own initiative, and as it is absolutely imperative to work in
extended order you very often lose sight of the men on either flank
of you and fancy you are left alone. This feeling in men untrained to
this special sort of fighting has often caused a catastrophe, as it is
the nature of Englishmen to close in and fight shoulder to shoulder,
therefore men finding themselves, as they fancy, alone, close in, and
if they do so they are easily surrounded and may be shot down like
sheep in a pen by invisible enemies. I therefore want to impress on you
fellows that, no matter what happens in the bush, remain in extended
order, and wait for the bugle to close. I expect we shall be in action
in a day or so, and we have one or two tough nuts to crack. Sir Trevor
Chute has already shown himself to be far more enterprising than the
late general, and the hostile natives have gathered great strength
through the new religion.”
He remained beside me, chatting in the free-and-easy colonial way, for
some time, during which I gathered much information about the country
and war, and was surprised to discover how utterly ignorant people in
England were of all things colonial. He also told me he had come out
to the country as an infant and had served all through the war. During
that march I took a great fancy to my new officer, and we started a
friendship that has lasted over forty years.
Well, mile after mile, through the ankle-deep sand we toiled on, at
least I did, for the rest of the men, hardened as they were to marching
and accustomed by constant practice to humping their swags, made light
of the road and swung along as if they had nothing on their backs at
all, while I could only grit my teeth and determine I would hang on to
the last, but was very glad when an opening in the manuka bushes showed
us a river on the other side of which stood a large, well-ordered camp.
This river was the Manawapou, which we easily forded, and, pushing on
through the camp, bivouacked in a clump of manuka just in rear of the
outlying picket. Oh, but I was glad, very glad, when the order was
given to form bivouac and I could slip off my pack and belts even for
a minute, for, as soon as we had had a stretch, the latter had to be
replaced and continually worn, day and night, nor were our carbines
ever allowed to be out of reach of our hands.
Mr Roach picked the camp ground and pointed out the places where each
four men were to make down their mi-mis (beds). This was done so that
in case of an alarm a man had only to turn on his face, as each man
slept with his carbine under his blanket, and be ready to repel an
attack. It was wonderful to see the rapidity with which the bivouac was
formed and the mi-mis made down.
“Here, Egan,” quoth Hutton, “take this water-bag and fill it. Jack, you
get the fern. Burke, out tomahawk and help me to clear the ground.” In
a moment we were all at work, Hutton and myself chopping down the tough
manuka bushes and tearing up the roots so as to make a soft lying-down
place.
Tim soon returned with the water and then helped Jack to bring in huge
armfuls of dry fern, which they deposited on the ground we had by this
time cleared, while the fire we had already lighted had burned down to
red embers, in which we quickly placed our pannikins filled with water.
These did not take long to boil, and when they did so, tea and sugar
mixed, according to taste, were added, our haversacks opened and we
piped to dinner.
“Gord,” growled Jack, “I’d give some’ut for a tot this morning, but
s’pose it’s not to be come by.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” I chipped in, handing him my silver flask.
“Here you are, drink hearty.”
He took the flask in his huge discoloured hand, it lay in his palm like
a new half-crown on a fire shovel, although it held a pint, and turned
it over and over as if he had never seen such a thing before, then
handed it back and growled out: “Yer don’t think I’m agoin’ to take yer
last sup, and you a ruddy new chum and a blankity blank soft swell, do
yer? ’Tain’t likely, is it, mates?”
But I pacified the grousing old buccaneer and persuaded him there was
enough to go all round, and as Smith and Buck had completed their mi-mi
next to ours and joined us, we all had a wet, and I had won a corner in
the ancient pirate’s rugged old heart for ever.
Directly the meal was over, which, primitive as it was, I had
thoroughly enjoyed, old Jack fetched more fern and made the mi-mi down
scientifically. Tim brought another bagful of water and then insisted
on taking my boots off, examined my feet carefully, and made me put on
a dry pair of clean socks as a preventive to blisters, then, as the bed
was finished, and, if properly prepared, there is no more comfortable
bed in the world than New Zealand fern, we all lay down, booted and
belted, to get some sleep, for, as old Jack truthfully remarked, it was
as well to rest when we got the chance, as no man in the Rangers ever
knew when the watches on deck might be doubled, and the watch below be
a forgotten luxury.
When I woke up it was evening, and the first thing my eye rested upon
was Pierre squatting in front of the fire, on which was a big pot and
a bucket, while alongside of him squatted his fellow-gnome, sharpening
a knife, the very sight of which was enough to make a man shudder.
Now I was not surprised to see either Pierre or George, but where the
deuce did the pot and bucket come from? The advent of these utensils
puzzled me, so I strolled up to Pierre and wished him good-evening, at
the same time remarking: “You are indeed fortunate to have found such a
beautiful pot.”
“But, Monsieur,” he replied, “I have not found this pot. It is the same
pot and bucket out of which Monsieur has already once dined.”
“But, Pierre,” I said, “I know you and George to be the most intrepid
scouts, how therefore can you manage to carry your pot and bucket
through the bush?”
“Monsieur,” he replied with dignity, “a Cordon bleu should never part
with his _batterie de cuisine_. True my hands are occupied while in the
bush scouting, so I wear this magnificent pot as a helmet; my friend
George likewise wears the bucket, so that, having no use for hats or
caps, we have always the wherewithal to cook the dinner, and it affords
much pleasure to cook dinners for gentlemen of taste such as Monsieur
and Monsieur Hutton. As for the other savages, ah, bah!”
This I found on inquiry to be the truth. These men, hardened by
incessant exposure, during the summer months carried no blankets,
packs nor rations, neither did they wear boots nor hats, but lived
on what they could find, and when they halted just threw themselves
on the ground and slept like animals. This unnatural training had
rendered them capable of covering immense distances, and going for
marvellous long intervals without food, sleep or rest. Yet they were
born marauders, could and did steal everything and anything that came
in their way, and as it was Pierre’s chief idiosyncrasy to cook dinners
our mess lived well when other messes were mumbling tough, bad rations.
That night there was no need to use our homely rations, for Pierre’s
helmet contained a wonderful stew, and I noticed everyone abstained
from asking any questions as to how or where he had obtained the
ingredients. Pierre and his pard were scouts and they had chances which
they never neglected to profit by.
At sunset we fell in for orders and guard mounting, and were told that
we were to march before daylight next morning to attack a very strong
pah, named Otapawa, which had been scouted that afternoon by Ensign
McDonnell, the Colonel’s brother. The scouts had been discovered and
had had to make a running fight of it, but, although heavily fired on,
had escaped scathless. Colonel McDonnell, together with Colonel Butler
and a strong party of the 57th Regiment, had also reached camp, and
Major Von Tempsky with his Forest Rangers was also close by, so it was
pretty certain we should have a warm day. As none of my party were
wanted that night for duty, we overhauled our arms carefully, lay down
and slept the sleep of the just.