A PIG-HUNT.
It is a beautiful morning in March, when an unusually large party
assembles at "our shanty." The sun is just rising, and is not yet
visible above the sheltering ranges which hem in the central flat that
forms the farm. The sky is cloudless, the air still and fragrant with
the odours of the awakening woods.
Day-dawn is always the most beautiful time in New Zealand. It is
especially so on this occasion, for a few showers had refreshed the
thirsty earth on the previous day; and to us, as we emerge from our
blankets eager with expectation, all Nature seems to wear a fresher and
more blooming aspect.
Half a mile below the shanty rolls the river, broad and blue, while the
wooded shore opposite seems scarcely a stone's throw distant. The smoke
curls lazily up from the fire within the shanty, where men are
breakfasting and girding themselves for the fray.
Outside on the clearings the hum of the crickets is as yet scarcely
perceptible, but a party of turkeys can be seen advancing across the
grass in line of battle, commencing their day's onslaught on the insect
tribes. Cattle and sheep, pigs and poultry, have withdrawn from the
immediate neighbourhood of the shanty, and are assembled in groups at a
respectful distance, wondering and frightened at the unusual gathering
of the human species.
For with the sun come settlers and Maoris from all sides, some brought
by boats and canoes upon the river, some galloping on horseback along
the beach, others on foot struggling through the woods and across the
ranges on either hand, all converging upon the shanty with shouting
salutations, that are responded to with loudly demonstrated welcome.
A rough and wild-looking assemblage we are, I make no doubt, yet fitting
well into the foreground of the scene, with its rude and incipient
civilization insulting the dominant wildness of Nature all around. Long
before the sun has had time to climb above the ranges our muster is
complete, and a larger party assembled than a stranger would imagine it
possible to gather from so sparsely populated a district. Some thirty,
settlers and their workmen, are there, together with about twice as many
natives.
All are equipped for the hunt in the lightest possible marching
order--shirt, trousers and belt, boots and leggings, with an apology for
a hat to crown the whole--such is the costume; a sheath-knife and
tomahawk the weapons; with a store of food, tobacco and matches, to
provide against all emergencies--such is the provision. Our native
allies are attired in much the same guise, only slightly more ragged and
dirty--if that be possible--and, generally speaking, barefooted. They
are in a state of suppressed excitement, shown by their gleaming eyes
and teeth, and in their wild exclamations and gestures.
And I must not forget the most important members of the hunting
party--the dogs. Some two dozen have been collected for the occasion,
most of them belonging to Maoris; of no particular breed, but all large
and heavy, strong-jawed and supple-limbed animals, wolfish-looking
fierce creatures, but all more or less trained to the work before them.
Good pig-dogs are not easily met with, and in the bush they are esteemed
a prize. Our lot are a scratch pack, made up of any that can be induced
to seize a pig, and have weight sufficient to hold on to him; a few are
thought to be more experienced and capable.
The men, on assembling, mostly go into the shanty to get some
breakfast, in the shape of tea, bread, smoked fish and pork, and then
straggle about the place, smoking, chatting, and waiting for the order
to start. Picture the rough grassy slopes, covered with the standing
stumps among the new grass, the rude shanty in the middle of the lower
ground, as I have described it, the background of bush-covered heights,
with the sun just coming up from behind them into the brilliant sky; and
people this scene with the groups of men--Maori and Pakeha, uncouth in
appearance as the shaggy cattle that are looking on from a corner of the
clearing, or as the clumsy-looking but savage dogs that roam about, or
are held in leash by their owners. Such is a "meet" in the bush.
"Rather a different affair from the last meet of the Pytchley that you
and I rode to," remarks one brawny, blue-shirted and ankle-jacked giant
to another, as they squat on a log, comfortably enjoying an early whiff
of "Venus" from their short, black clays.
"What would they say at home, if they could see us now?" replies his
friend, pushing back the battered relic of a "topee" from his unkempt
hair and somewhat dirty face. Truly, the pair would scarcely appear to
advantage in an English huntingfield, in their present trim.
And now, while the last preparations are being made for the start, let
us see what it is we are about to attack. The New Zealand wild pig of
the present day is the descendant of animals introduced by Captain Cook
and other of the early voyagers from the old countries. These people
gave pigs to the natives with whom they opened intercourse, and the
Maoris, not being used to live stock, lost a good many of their new
acquisitions, which ran away into the bush and easily eluded pursuit in
its dense coverts. Here they bred and multiplied to such a degree that
immense droves of them are now to be found in all parts of the islands.
In the fern-root and other roots of the bush they find an endless supply
of food, which, if it does not tend to make their meat of good quality,
at any rate seems to favour an increase in their numbers.
Whatever may have been the original breed of these animals, the present
representatives of the race are neither particularly good-looking or
useful. They are lank and lean, with large heads and high shoulders,
narrow, spiny backs sloping downwards to the short hind legs; hams they
have none. They are thickly covered with bristles, and are mostly black,
brown, and grizzled in colour. The mass of them are not large, but the
patriarchal boars attain a great size, some of them standing over three
feet in height. These fellows have enormous tusks curling on each side
of their massive jaws, sharp as razors and strong as crowbars.
Wild pigs are usually shy, and keep well out of the way of human
invaders of their solitudes; but boars have occasionally been known to
"tree" some incautious wayfarer, while, when hunted, they become
exceedingly ferocious. One of our stockmen, out riding on open ground,
was attacked by a boar that suddenly rushed upon him from a thicket; his
horse was ripped up in a moment, and he only escaped by nimbly climbing
into a tree that was fortunately near.
In hunting the pigs it is necessary to go afoot, on account of the
density of the bush, and accidents sometimes occur. Some dogs are sure
to be killed; while now and then a too rash hunter may get the calf of
his leg torn off, and might be otherwise injured, even fatally, though I
never knew of any case of so grave a nature.
Settlers regard wild pigs as vermin, only made to be exterminated; and
they have, I think, considerable reason for their hatred. The pigs are
capable of doing a great deal of damage. Fences must be strongly and
closely put up to keep them out, and they must be continually examined
and carefully repaired when necessary; for one rotten stake in a fence
has often been the cause of a loss of great magnitude. In a single
night the wild pigs may devastate many acres, if they once gain
admittance, and destroy tons of potatoes, maize, or any sort of crop.
But there is also another way in which they are prejudicial to the
farmer, and peculiarly so to the newer settler. I have said that they
are excessively lean and ill-shaped beasts, and I may add that their
flesh is not only very tough, but it also has a strong smell, and a
peculiarly nauseous flavour. The old pigs, both male and female, are
absolutely uneatable in any part, though very young sows are appreciated
by the Maoris--when they cannot get domestic-bred pork--and are eaten on
a pinch by settlers and bushmen, whose vigorous appetites overcome all
fastidiousness.
Pork--fresh and salted, bacon and ham--is the natural and invariable
food of the settler. Beef and mutton are too valuable as marketable
steers, dairy cattle, and wool-growers, and are not so conveniently
prepared into keeping forms; hence the pigs he breeds on his clearings
are looked upon by the bush-farmer as the regular source whence to draw
his household provision in the meat way. Now, if the wild boars out of
the bush get among the brood sows upon the clearings, the result is
deplorably manifest in the next generation, which will display more or
less of the evil characteristics of the wild race. Thus, both the older
farmer and the newest settler are nearly touched, and both unite in a
common warfare with the enemy.
It is often possible to stalk down and to shoot individual wild pigs on
open ground, but that is looked upon merely as a cheerful interlude of
sport; it has no deterrent or scaring effect upon the bulk of the
droves, and is a waste of time, so far as regards the clearance of a
district. A grand and well-organized drive, such as that we are about to
see, will often result in not a single wild pig being visible in the
district for six months and more afterwards. It is good sport, too; very
arduous, since the hunter has to run and scramble through miles of
forest. It has in it a good spice of danger, such as Britons love, and
is, on the whole, pretty popular. Pig-hunting may be described as a sort
of national sport in New Zealand.
But here is Old Colonial issuing from the shanty, and a start seems
imminent. The plan of campaign has been arranged between him and Mihake
Tekerahi, the Maori, and another settler from a neighbouring river. The
straggling groups of men and dogs are divided into three bodies, two of
which will proceed to right and left respectively, and the third will go
directly "back" from the farm. All the parties will become subdivided
into smaller gangs, in the course of the day, but all will converge upon
a given point in the bush, which will be the limit of the hunt.
The block of land on which we are lies between three large rivers, and,
owing to the conformation of the country and the winding of the rivers,
its fourth side is a narrow neck of land not more than a mile and a half
wide. Here there is a very lofty and rugged range, and it is the spot
agreed on as our final rendezvous, being some fifteen miles distant from
our shanty.
Besides the men who have met at the farm, there are several parties who
will start from more distant places, and who will also make for the
range as their terminal point. We hope, by this concentrated drive, to
kill as many pigs as possible, and to cause the rest of them to retire
beyond the narrow space between the rivers; then the whole of our block
will be free from them for some time to come. We have thought of running
a fence across from river to river, but the rough nature of the ground,
and the absence of suitable material quite close to the required spot,
would make this rather too arduous--and therefore too expensive--a work
for us to perform just yet, in our incipient stage of settlement. So we
content ourselves with an annual hunt on a grand and conjoint scale,
and with such minor forays as it pleases individuals to make from time
to time.
Our way at first--I speak of the band which regards Old Colonial as its
chief director--lies up the clearings, through the bush above, and so to
the elevated ground behind the shanty. Here a halt is called, and our
band is again subdivided into two divisions, which are to take along the
two ranges that commence from this point, hunting the gullies on both
sides of them as they go. Then there is a loud fire of coo-ees, to
ascertain the position of the brigades that started under Mihake and the
other man. Their answering coo-ees come faintly but clearly out of the
distant bush on both sides of us, denoting that they have severally
reached their appointed starting places.
And now the work begins in earnest. There is a tightening of belts, a
putting out of pipes, and a general air of alertness on every face. For
a time we go plunging on among the trees and brushwood, encouraging the
dogs that are hunting the gullies below with frequent shouts of "Hi,
there, Rimu! Go in, Shark!" and so forth. We have not yet started any
pigs, though here and there we pass tracts of ground ploughed up by
them.
But, soon, there is a sudden burst of barking from the right, and some
of us rush frantically off in that direction. But the loud voice of Old
Colonial is heard calling in the dogs and shouting--
"Ware cattle! Ware cattle! Keep back there, it's Red Spot's mob!"
And presently, with flying tails and tossing horns, a score of great
beasts go lumbering and crashing by, pursued by that ill-conditioned
Shark, who never will remember his duty, and persists in chasing pigs
when his business is to be after cattle, and so, to-day, is earnestly
and conscientiously driving cattle when he ought to give his mind only
to pigs.
All the roaring and swearing that goes ringing through the trees only
serves to convince Shark that he is in the right; and he is only stopped
in his wild career by the fortunate fact that the Saint, who has lagged
far in the rear, steps in the way, cajoles Shark into listening to his
advice, and, with a big stick and a few of the most gorgeous expletives
of which he is eminently the master, persuades the errant hound of his
mistake. Deep and dire are the maledictions heaved at the unhappy Shark,
and in which his companions, Rimu and Toto, Wolf and Katipo, have
unjustly to share. For the row occasioned by the episode has been enough
to scare away all the pigs in the district; or, as a Maori near me
mysteriously phrases it, "Make te tam poaka runny kanui far hihi!"--a
sentence that I put on record, as a specimen of the verbal excesses to
which education may lead the once untutored savage.
However, the most knowing may sometimes be mistaken, and so it luckily
proves in the present instance, for scarcely have we recovered from our
disgust at Shark's misconduct, and resumed our hunting operations, than
again the canine music breaks merrily out, followed by shouts in a dozen
voices of--
"Pig! pig! Lay up there, dogs! Good dogs! Lay up there, Rimu, Rimu,
Toto! At 'em, boys! At 'em! Lay up! Pig! pig!"
And then the hot excitement seizes upon us all, and, as we hear the
unmistakable grunting, squealing, and hough-houghing of pigs, we plunge
madly down to the scene of action. It is no time for considering one's
steps; we go straight for the point where the noise leads us, crashing
against trees, stumbling over logs, regardless of every obstacle. We
pitch headlong into holes hidden by treacherous banks of ferns; we swing
over little precipices by the help of supple-jacks and lianes; we press
through thorny bush-lawyers, heedless of the rags and skin we leave
behind us; we splash through mud and water up to our waists; hot and
breathless, torn and bleeding, bruised and muddy, we come tumbling,
crashing, plunging, bounding down the sides of the gully, mad with the
fierce excitement of the moment.
A number of pigs are rushing wildly about among the flax and fern-trees,
not knowing which way to escape. The dogs are at them gallantly, seizing
them by the ears, laying up against them flank to flank, and holding on
like grim death. The din is terrific, every one is shouting
encouragement to the dogs, or to himself; the pigs are squealing and
crying as only pigs can.
Half a dozen dogs have fastened on to as many pigs, growling and
worrying, but holding fast in spite of the twisting and shaking of their
prey, in spite of the clashing of tusks and the savage snorting of one
or two boars among the drove, in spite of being dragged and scraped
through brushwood and timber, keeping always flank to flank with the
pigs they hold, like good dogs as they are.
I see Old Colonial bounding on before me, after a huge pig that is
dragging the great dog on his ear as a bull-dog would drag a rat in a
similar position. The pig heads up the bank, but Old Colonial is upon
him; he grabs at a hind leg and seizes it with both hands.
He is down, and is also dragged on his face for a moment; but he still
keeps his grip in spite of kicking and struggling; keeps a firm, hard
hold, regardless of the bruises and scratches he is getting; never
leaves go till he gets his opportunity, till he can put foot to the
ground; and then, with one mighty heave, over goes the pig on his back.
Then triumphantly does Old Colonial put his knee on the boar's belly,
calmly he presses back the snout with one hand, while, in the other, his
knife glitters for a moment in the sunshine, and is then driven well
home.
In another minute, with Old Colonial's whoop of victory ringing in my
ears, I, too, am engaged. A great, heavy sow passes close before me,
with Katipo tearing at her ear. Simultaneously a couple of Maoris and
myself charge after her. One of them stops behind to tomahawk such of
her litter as he can catch; the other man and I hurl ourselves down upon
the animal, after chasing her a hundred yards or so among the scrub.
I seize at a leg and am thrown violently to the ground, getting a kick
in the face that sets my nose bleeding. The Maori comes to my aid and
gets a hold, and together we are rolled over on the ground.
Alas! we have not between us Old Colonial's knack and activity, nor are
we endowed with muscles of such steely fibre. We keep our clutch
determinedly, desperately, and we are flung and bumped among the
tree-roots and brushwood. The pig is screaming like a hundred railway
engines; kicking, plunging, stamping, tearing, twisting from side to
side in a vain endeavour to rid herself of us, or to get at us with
those formidable jaws; shaking Katipo--a big mastiff-like cur--about, as
a cat would shake a mouse. But still we two men hold on to that hind leg
of hers, careless of our hurts, prone on our faces, but straining every
muscle to keep the grip. Presently we get a chance; together we get our
knees upon a log, together we put our backs into the effort, and heave.
Over she goes.
Hurrah! On to her at once! Sit on her belly and keep her down! Never
mind the kicking legs in the air! Get a hand between the struggling
forelegs, gently, along the neck! Now then, out with the ready
sheath-knife, and dig it in! There! Right to the heart, till the blood
spurts out over us! Hurrah! Good! There's another mother of a family the
less!
And now we may take breath for a minute or two, praise old Katipo, and
cut off the pig's ears as a trophy. Only for the shortest possible
minute, though, for the hunt is going on with headlong haste and hurry.
We must be up and off after more pigs, and must rejoin the rest of the
scattered party, whose shouts may be heard in various directions; there
must be no loitering when pigs are near, for _they_ will not wait, we
may be sure.
As we run and scramble on through the scrub, making way upwards along
the gully, we pass several dead pigs at intervals, which show that the
rest of the boys have been well employed. Presently we come upon the
Saint, in the midst of a gloomy thicket of birch, sitting astride of a
great dead boar, and employed with his tomahawk in endeavouring to chop
out the tusks.
Then Katipo discovers a small family of pigs comfortably stowed away
among the dense vegetation of a little marshy hollow. These give the
three of us some diversion; we manage to kill two of them, and drive out
the remainder upwards through the bush. Following them up hotly for
about a mile, Katipo lays hold of one after another, which we turn over
and stick as we can, killing two or three more in this way.
But the work is very arduous, and the day is wearing towards noon, and
is consequently very hot--March being here equivalent to an English
September, but much warmer and drier. We are dripping with sweat, our
shirts torn and muddied, blood all over us--both pigs' and our own--and
we feel well-nigh exhausted for the time being by the tremendous and
violent exertions we have been making.
After the next pig is finally, and with desperate fighting, slaughtered,
there seems to be a general tacit advance towards taking a rest. Katipo
and another dog that we have picked up have taken to lapping at the
creek in the gully, and laying themselves down near the stream, seem
inclined for a brief snooze. The two Maoris are hacking at some nikaus,
and extracting the pith therefrom; and the Saint and I think it well to
do likewise.
After munching away at the refreshing stuff for a considerable while, we
guiltily put on our pipes; guiltily, for we know that our earnest
leader, Old Colonial, will persevere with unflagging zeal and untiring
energy, and will continue the chase without a moment's cessation. Many
of the settlers will do the same, though probably but few of the
natives, for they have not a fine power of endurance, and it pleases
them usually to do things by spurts.
However, we are all the better for the temporary relaxation, and pursue
our course with renewed vigour. We have now reached the recesses of the
heavy forest, after passing through various gradations of lighter bush.
Here and there, on our way, we have come across stretches of open
fern-land; but in this district bush is the most prevalent
characteristic of the vegetation.
Now and then we come upon some gully or flat that has been fired at some
previous period, either by Maoris or settlers. These old burns are now
covered with a dense and uniform jungle of ti-tree second-growth,
through which it is often not easy to pass. The cane-like stems of the
young ti-tree grow close together, like a field of corn, bearing a
feathery green foliage and a white flower, and having a pleasant
balsamic odour. High above the soft green surface of the second-growth
are lifted the bleached trunks and skeleton arms of dead trees, standing
gaunt and grim at intervals among the younger growths below.
These ti-tree coverts afford very close harbourage for pigs. In them
pigs may hide so well that the hunter might touch them before he saw
them; nay, cattle even may hide as closely. Through the ti-tree there
frequently run narrow paths, or irregular tracks, worn by pigs and
cattle; and, as the wayfarer passes along any one of these tracks, he
has the pleasant excitement of knowing that at any moment he may come
face to face with a boar, in a position where the boar naturally has all
the advantage, if he chooses to avail himself of it.
In the course of the day our little party makes way onward through the
bush, in the direction of the general rendezvous. Occasionally we start
up pigs, sometimes losing them, and sometimes getting one or two; but
the details of the capture and sticking of those we manage to catch do
not differ very much from the account already given, except that we have
not killed any pigs of particularly large size.
About noon, or somewhat after, we make a decided halt for the purpose of
getting our dinners, of which we begin to feel very much in need.
Unhappily, no one has brought a tin pannikin along with him, so we
cannot make ourselves any tea; but we light a fire at the bottom of a
shady gully, beside some running water, and commence to cook our repast.
Each man has got his little parcel of bread or biscuit and meat, tied up
firmly in flax, and fastened to his belt; but besides this, the bush is
affording us other kinds of tucker. Katipo killed a kiwi in the course
of our morning's hunt, and this bird is now being skinned, cut up, and
roasted on sticks. We wish it had been a weka, or bush-hen, as that is
more succulent eating; but we have hearty appetites, and will do justice
to the kiwi, anyhow.
Then the Maoris have cut out the livers of a couple of young pigs, and
these are toasted in strips, and are not such bad eating after all. By
way of desert we have some berries from the trees around, that prove
very nice.
After our appetites are satisfied, and the digestive pipe duly smoked,
we resume our hunting operations. But luck is no longer with us, and
when, after walking and scrambling for two or three miles, and feeling
that the time is fast slipping by, we do come upon pigs, we get
separated in the chase that ensues, and I find myself very shortly after
that completely alone.
I keep walking on, however, in the direction I judge will bring me out
upon the place of assembly; and, after an hour or two, I begin to hear
sounds of life. I am on somewhat high ground, which gradually slopes
downward in the direction I am taking. It is all heavy bush in this
part; huge trees, covered with ferns and creepers, soar upwards on all
sides. The sunlight falls in patches here and there, through the canopy
of branches far overhead, and occasionally there occur little glades and
dells and openings, quite open to the light.
Below the great trees are many smaller ones, among which I notice
nikau-palms, cabbage-palms, fern-trees, and tingahere, attracting the
eye with their stranger forms. Below these, again, is a thick jungle of
shrubs of many species, masses of creeping-plants matting the bushes
together, or depending from the trees and ferns in infinite profusion
and luxuriance.
The late afternoon sun is slanting from behind me, so that when its rays
shoot through the branches they light up the scenes in front, and thus
the picture I presently witness comes before me with proper artistic
effect. I hear sounds of life coming through the trees in advance of
me--the sounds of men shouting and yelling in excitement; the noise of
dogs barking and yelping; and through it and above it all, clearer and
clearer heard as I run hastily forward, the horrid hoarse
"hough-hough"--that sound so hollow and booming as heard in the "echoing
woods,"--with the sharper metallic clashing of savage jaws, that I know
can only proceed from some patriarchal boar.
A minute later and I come out upon the scene of action. It is a
comparatively open glade, surrounded on all sides by the dense forest,
and having, near the opposite extremity, a small, abruptly-rising knoll,
that is crowned by a single gigantic rata-tree. The little glade is full
of unwonted life; nigh a score of the hunting party, and eight or ten
dogs, are making things pretty lively within it.
The cause of all the uproar and excitement is seen among the spreading
and massive roots of the rata; it is a boar, one of the largest any of
us ever saw, and he is now "bailed up" below the great tree.
To say that he seems as big as a donkey but feebly expresses the
apparent size of the beast. His stern is set back against the tree; but
the mighty and ferocious head is turned full upon his foes. Every
bristle on his crest stands erect with rage. The small but fierce eyes
take in every movement, and survey dogs and men with desperate and
fiend-like animosity. The long snout is pointed straight forward,
showing the gleaming teeth below it, while the great tusks, curving up
from the jaws, shine like scimitars.
Nor is the huge brute one moment still; his fore-feet are pawing and
tearing at the ground; his head is turned first in one direction and
then in another; his whole body is quivering and shaking; foam flies
from his grinding jaws; while his continued snorting, with its roaring,
bellowing, and shrieking intonations, is horrible to hear.
Yet as this savage king of the forest stands there at bay, there is a
something grand and majestic about him, something of barbaric and
unconquerable pride and courage, despite his demoniac and ogre-like
ugliness; but, I am afraid, no one sees anything but a big fierce pig,
who must be slaughtered as speedily and cleverly as possible.
Most of the men keep at a respectful distance, not caring to get too
close to those formidable tusks; but they are actively employed in
shouting and brandishing knives and tomahawks. Close in front of the
pig, amid a whirling circle of barking dogs, Old Colonial, O'Gaygun, and
one or two Maoris appear to be performing an exciting kind of war-dance.
They are endeavouring to urge in the dogs, and are trying to draw the
pig out from among the tree-roots; while, at the same time, they are
springing actively about in order to avoid each fancied and expected
rush of the boar.
But the boar is not to be drawn out from among the high branching roots
that protect his flanks and stern. At every near approach of dog or man
he feints to charge, lowering and tossing his head, uttering yet fiercer
notes of wrath, or tearing up the ground, and sending splinters flying
from the tree with blows from his tusks; such threatening movements on
his part effectually deterring his foes in their advance. Sticks and
stones, large and weighty, are hurled at him from all sides. What does
he care for such puny projectiles? Even a well-aimed tomahawk, that
strikes him full and fairly, fails to hurt or penetrate his armour of
bristles and tough hide. Like Achilles, his weak place is in his
heels--his rear, and that is well protected behind him.
But another foeman to the swinish champion now appears upon the scene. A
man, whom I have come close to in the hurry-skurry, suddenly calls to
me--
"Look at old Tama up there behind the tree!" Then he shouts in
stentorian delight--
"Te toa rere, te toa mahuta! Go it, Tama, old boy! Hopu te poaka! Jump
in and kill him!"
Looking up at the great trunk of the rata, with its extensive pedestal
of gnarled and twisting roots, that for six or eight feet from the
ground branch down all round its base, I see peering round the stem, and
from above the roots, a face that I know well; it is that of
Tama-te-Whiti. He has made a circuit, got behind the tree, and is now
climbing over and among the extended roots, cautiously and silently
stealing upon the pig, with intent to drive it out of the cover of the
tree.
Old Tama's grey hair hangs loosely over his brows; his elaborate
tattooing looks unusually conspicuous; his arms are bare to the
shoulder; and, as he gradually draws himself into our view, we see his
body is almost bare, except a few fluttering rags of shirt that still
remain about him. The other day I saw Tama at the township, elaborately
attired in black broadcloth and white linen and all the rest of it,
looking a perfect picture of smug respectability and aged innocence.
Now here he is, grasping a tomahawk in his sinewy hand, with a knife
held between his teeth, and--albeit 'tis only a boar he is
attacking--with a fire dancing in his eyes like that which shone there
in his hot youth, when, here in these self-same woods, he and the young
braves of his tribe met in deadly conflict with the invading Ngapuhi.
The boar is unconscious of Tama's approach; he is occupied with his
adversaries in front, who are redoubling their efforts to attract his
attention. And at this moment another of the hunters is seized with an
heroic impulse.
It has at last come home to the mind of that impetuous and much
objurgated dog, Shark, that his destiny in life is to be a boar-hound.
Hitherto, his experience of the manners and customs of pigs has not been
great; but the conviction has come to him that he knows all about the
business; and, too, he is probably anxious to retrieve his disgraceful
conduct of the morning. Shark is a fresh arrival on the scene, having
just come in with one of the straggling parties. He is not contented to
join his canine companions, who are warily waiting their opportunity to
dash in on the boar's flanks and rear; but, like all high-couraged and
impetuous youth, Shark dashes, barking, to the front, and blindly,
quixotically, and madly, he charges on the boar.
Alas! poor dog! great as was his bravery, his size, his strength, what
could they avail in such foolhardy strife? One jerk of the black snout,
one flash of the white tusks, and, with a last yelping scream, the body
of poor Shark goes whirling up into the air, and falls a bleeding,
bisected, lifeless lump. Poor Shark! with all his faults, I think we
loved him well!
But even in his death he is avenged. The boar darted a few feet forward
in his onslaught upon Shark, and the opportunity has been seized upon.
The war-cry of the Ngatewhatua goes echoing through the forest, as old
Tama springs down in rear of the boar; his swinging tomahawk inflicts a
gaping wound, and he seizes a hind leg of the pig before that animal can
back itself among the roots.
Other Maoris, Old Colonial, and more of the party rush to his aid. Dogs
seize on the boar's bleeding ears. For a minute there is a scene of
direful confusion, an indescribable struggle in which men, dogs, and pig
are mingled in a twisting, shouting, panting, wrestling heap. Another
dog gets his flank slit up, a man has his legging and trouser torn off
his leg, and then the giant brute is conquered. Overturned and
shrieking, kicking, biting, struggling desperately to the last, till
half a dozen knives are buried in his heart.
With the slaughter of the monster boar the day's hunt comes to an end.
The spot is close to the rendezvous, and most of the parties have
arrived, or are not far off. There is an interchange of gossip over the
doings of the day among the various groups; and, by-and-by, a count up
of the number of pigs killed. Ears and tails are produced as vouchers,
and about three hundred and fifty pigs, big and little, are thus
accounted for, while half a dozen pair of tusks, of more than ordinary
size, denote the killing of as many large boars. The tusks from the last
slain monster become the property of Old Colonial, and, gaily mounted in
silver, they may now be found among the ornaments of an English
drawing-room.
But now evening is upon us, and many of the party are tramping homewards
in divers directions through the bush. Others make their way to a point
on one of the rivers, a mile or so from the rendezvous, where boats have
been brought up, and whence they will have a long row to their various
places. But by far the greater number are too much fagged out with the
exertions of the day to move from their present resting-places.
So a camp is formed in a suitable spot, and one or two of the least
tired set about getting some supper ready, and gather fern for
bedding. And when night deepens overhead, and the shadows of the forest
fold round us, recumbent forms are stretched around the roaring
camp-fire; supper, rude and rough, but hearty, has been eaten, pipes are
lighted, and while some are snoring, others are lazily recounting their
doughty deeds, and enjoying to the full the well-earned rest that fitly
terminates a pig-hunt in the bush.
END OF VOL. I.