THE STORMING OF OTAPAWA
British forces attack the stockade--The bayonet charge--Flight
of the Hauhaus--Through the forest by torchlight--Doctoring the
wounded--The _Tangi_ by the river.
Summer was on the forest. The beautiful midsummer of Maori Land, with
its soft airs and brilliant sunshine, its blaze of crimson blossom
on the grand old _rata_-trees, and its showering of scented, white,
peach-like flowers on the thickets of ribbon-wood. Birds flooded the
outskirts of the bush with song; the early morning chantings and
pipings and chimings of the _tui_ and the _korimako_ made a feast of
melody to which the brown forest men were in no way deaf, for they
delighted as much as any _pakeha_ in the sights and sounds of the
free, wild places, and the call of the creatures of the bush. "_Te
Waha-o-Tané_," literally "The Voice of the Tree-God"--the Song of
Nature--they called these morning concerts of the birds; it was their
poetic expression in the classic tongue of old Polynesia for the sounds
that betokened the daily awakening to light and life of the deep and
solemn forests of Tane-Mahuta. Pigeons, _ku-ku_-ing to each other, with
blue necks and white breasts gleaming in the sun, went sweeping across
the clearing on softly winnowing wings, and flapped from tree to tree
and shrub to shrub in search of the tenderest leaves, for it was not
yet the season of the choicest bush fruits, the big blue _tawa_ berry,
the sweet yellow _koroi_, and the aromatic _miro_.
Life went easily in the _pa_ when the early harvesting was over. There
was little to do but eat and sleep and lie about in the sun, or join
in the daily prayers and the procession round the _Niu_ pole, where
the brightly coloured war-flags hung.[1] There was abundance of food
in the camp--potatoes, maize, potted birds, pork, and dried fish
sent as presents from the coast tribes. Early morning, and again in
the warm, golden evenings, long, straight columns of pale blue smoke
arose from the cooking-ovens of the village, and mingled with the thin
vapours that crept about the tree-tops; then little clouds of steam
curled up as the women, with lively chatter, uncovered the _hangis_
and arranged the well-cooked food in little round flax baskets, which
they presently carried off, women and girls in a double line, keeping
time with a merry old dance-song--the lilt of the "_tuku-kai_" the
"food-bringing"--as they marched on to the green _marae_ and laid the
steaming meal before their lounging lords.
It was all very pleasant and idyllic from the point of view of the
brown bushmen. But "Ringiringi," the _pakeha_-Maori, though he led by
no means a hard life now that the heaviest work of the year was over,
had an uneasy mind. He was--or had been--a civilised man, and he could
not forget; moreover, he often woke from unpleasant dreams. One was
a vision of a British regiment charging him with fixed bayonets and
pinning him against the palisades of his _pa_. Fervently he hoped that
he would not be in the fort when the troops marched to the assault, and
that the Hauhaus would not compel him to level a _tupara_ against his
one-time comrades, the old "Die-Hards."
This peaceful state of things did not endure for long. In a few
days--it was early in the year 1866--the long-expected attack on
Otapawa was delivered. Before the troops came, however, the prophet of
the _pa_ ordered all the old people and most of the women and children
to retire to the forest in rear of the fort, and told "Ringiringi"
to accompany them. News had just been brought in that the scouts out
in the fern country had noticed signs of an impending movement in the
British camp. The white man and the tribal encumbrances pushed back
into the bush for about three miles, and camped in a quiet little nook
by a creek-side, with high, forested hills towering around. The weather
now became cold and bleak, and there was little food to sustain the
refugees, for the principal stores of _kai_ had been left in the _pa_.
Early one morning the sound of cannon was heard in the distance, then
heavy rifle-volleying, followed by desultory firing.
The Queen's soldiers were storming the fort.
Here I may give a more detailed description of the defences of Otapawa
than has appeared in the preceding pages, to enable the reader to
realise the sort of place the white general was attacking. Curving
round under the rear of the _pa_ and partly protecting it on the
flanks, flowed the Tangahoé River. The hill-top where the _pa_ stood
was flat, and the rear dropped precipitously to the Tangahoé. The only
access to the interior of the stockade was through a low and narrow
gateway. Just within, the entrance was blinded by a short fence, so
that an enemy could not charge straight, even if the gate were open,
but would have to turn first to the left for a short distance and then
to the right, exposed to a fire from between the palisades, before
the open _marae_ was reached. The _pa_ was defended by two rows of
palisading, with a ditch between, and another shallow trench inside the
inner stockade. The outer stockade, the _pekerangi_, was about eight
feet high, and was the lighter fence of the two. The principal timbers
were six or eight inches thick, but the stakes between were smaller
and did not quite reach the ground; they were fastened with bush-vines
and supplejack to the sapling rails that ran along the stockade. The
open spaces at the bottom of the fence were for the defenders in the
outer trench to fire through. The inner fence, the _tuwatawata_,
was a stouter structure, of strong, green tree-trunks set solidly
in the ground, and with openings here and there for rifle-fire. And
finally--an important thing in Maori eyes--there was the "luck-stone"
of the fort, the greenstone _whatu_. This was buried under the foot
of a large stockade post, close to the right-hand corner nearest the
river, as one approached from the _pa_ gate.
It was soon after daylight that the _pa_ was attacked. The assailing
British force was assisted by some Colonial troops and a contingent
of "friendly" Maoris, or _Kupapas_, chiefly men from the Wanganui
district, under the afterwards celebrated bush-fighter, Kepa te
Rangihiwinui (Major Kemp). General Chute commanded the operations. An
Armstrong gun was brought to within a short distance of the hill-fort,
and several shells were fired into the stockade. Then the general gave
the order for the assault.
As the storming party of Imperial soldiers, with bayonets fixed,
doubled eagerly up the hill face to the front stockade, the Hauhau
chiefs, Tukino and Tu-ahi-pa, cried to their men, crouching in the
outer trench with levelled guns:
"Sons! Be steady, and wait till they come close up, then let them have
it!"
As the first files of the soldiers dashed up to the stockade,
"_Puhia!_"--"Fire!"--shouted the chiefs, and under the thundering
volley many whites fell. Another volley, and then the soldiers were at
the stockade, firing through the gaps in the obstruction, and slashing
at the ties of the fence. Hand-grenades were carried by some of the
stormers, and one of these bursting in the outer trench wounded fierce
old Tu-ahi-pa, who had just killed a soldier in the act of cutting away
at the _pekerangi_ in an endeavour to force an entrance.
The Maoris did not wait for the bayonet. The wild rush of the maddened
troops was irresistible. Leaving seven of their men killed in the
trenches and about the palisades, the defenders gathered their wounded
and fled. The trenches led to the steep bank overlooking the Tangahoé
River. Down the trenches they ran, and sliding down the bank, they
took to the bush, scrambling up along the river-side as hard as they
could go. Kepa, with his Whanganui friendlies, pursued the flying
Hauhaus and shot two or three.
As Bent had expected, it was his old regiment, the 57th, that stormed
the _pa_. The 57th were led by Lieutenant-Colonels Butler and Haszard,
and were supported by the 14th regiment, who were very jealous of the
famous old "Die-Hards." Eleven whites fell and twenty were wounded. One
of those who received his death-wound was Lieutenant-Colonel Haszard.
It was generally reported afterwards that he was shot by Kimble Bent,
but this was mere camp gossip. Gudgeon's "Reminiscences of the War
in New Zealand," gives currency to the report, but it is strongly
denied, and with every appearance of truth, by Bent. When the _pa_
was attacked he was at least three miles away, on the northern side
of the Mangemange stream. "It is false to say that I killed my old
officer," says he, "or that I ever even fired at him. I never fired a
shot against the whites all the time I was with the Hauhaus." This is
confirmed by the Maoris, who say that Bent was not allowed to handle
a gun in an engagement for fear he might use it against the Hauhaus
themselves.
The refugees in the bush-camp with Bent waited anxiously for news
of the fight. Was it a victory or a defeat? Soon, the first of the
defenders of the _pa_ dropped into camp, blood-stained and angry.
And then, as the afternoon went on, the rest straggled in. Many were
wounded, and seven dead bodies were carried in on hastily made litters
of supplejack vines lashed to poles. Then the full story of the battle
was told.
It was a sad and angry camp, that remote pocket between the hills. Most
of the Hauhaus came in nearly naked, just as they had jumped up when
the first shot was fired in the grey dawn. They were desperately sullen
and grief-stricken over their dead and the loss of their stronghold,
which to them had seemed almost impregnable, for it was the strongest
stockaded position they had yet built. Many a dark look was bent upon
the white man as he sat by one of the fires, not daring to speak a word.
That night the camp was suddenly abandoned by order of the Hauhau
leader, who feared pursuit, not by the Imperial soldiers, who had no
relish for "bush-whacking" at night--or, indeed, at any other time--but
by Kepa's Government warriors, hereditary enemies of the Taranaki men.
Hurriedly packing on their shoulders what few belongings they had
managed to save from the _pa_, they set off in single file through the
thick forest, making for the banks of the Tangahoé River, which they
reached before daylight, and there halted. The wounded who were unable
to walk were carried with difficulty through the tangled bush, where
it was often necessary to cut away at the supplejacks and _aka_ vines,
so intricately interlaced and festooned across their path, before a
passage could be made for the litter-bearers. There was no moon; it was
an intensely dark night, rendered more Cimmerian still by the unbroken
roof of foliage overhead. The Hauhaus made torches of pieces of dry
pinewood, bound together with scraps of flax torn from their scanty
mat garments, and with these they managed to dimly light their way
through the forest--a wild and savage band; the warriors in front and
rear, their cartouche-belts over their naked shoulders, and guns slung
across their backs, or carried in their left hands; in their right they
gripped their tomahawks and slashed away at the twining impediments of
the jungle.
A camp was made near the banks of the Tangahoé,[2] and here, as soon as
it was light, the Hauhaus mustered and reckoned up their losses. There
were about three hundred and fifty of them now in camp--men, women and
children. With wonderful celerity the forest-men cut a little clearing,
and built _wharau_, or rough huts, of saplings, thatched with the long
fronds of the _nikau_ palm and the _mamaku_ tree-fern. Here the wounded
men were attended to as well as the primitive methods of the bush
allowed. Women were sent out to search the river-banks for flax-plants;
the flax-roots were dug up, boiled, and the resultant mucilaginous
juice poured over the gunshot and bayonet wounds. This was the Maoris'
most favoured method of treating injuries of this character, and it
generally bore good results.
"Ringiringi" himself took a hand in the bush-surgery, for he had
watched army surgeons at their work, and the Hauhau wounded, though
most of them preferred their own people's doctoring, were grateful to
the white man for his efforts to ease their sufferings.
A picked band of the fugitives scouted back through the forest and
cautiously reconnoitred their captured fort, which had been set on fire
by the troops, and was now a heap of blackened ruins. The Government
force had by this time passed on to the attack of other _pas_, and the
scouts re-entered their destroyed fortress and searched for their dead.
The scene in the camp by the Tangahoé waters when the war-party
returned from Otapawa was one that "Ringiringi" never forgot. It was
the first great _tangihanga_, or wailing over the dead, that he had
witnessed. The people gathered in the middle of the little clearing,
and for hours the sound of lamentation rang through the forest, often
rising into a wild, heart-breaking shriek as some blanket-draped or
mat-kilted woman, her long hair unbound, and her cheeks streaming with
tears, cried her keening song for her slain. The chiefs _taki_'d up and
down, weapon in hand, and told of the deeds of those who had fallen;
each ended his mournful speech with a chanted dirge. When the song was
a well-known one, the whole tribe would join in and sing the lament
with an intensity of feeling that made their very bodies quiver. It was
the full and unrestrained outpouring of the soul of the savage.