A GRUESOME FLUTE
(_Told by the old Kai Tongata_)
There was nothing of a picnic about the wars in New Zealand.
The cold-blooded massacres at Poverty Bay, Mohaka, and scores of other
places, as well as the vile tortures practised on any of our men who
were unfortunate enough to fall alive into their hands, made us treat
the Hau Haus with very scant mercy; and this savagery was not
diminished by the brutal hardships, hunger, cold and toil we underwent
while in pursuit of Te Kooti and his bands of bloodthirsty and
fanatical followers.
Among these was a half-caste, the son of a very prominent white
official. As a boy he had been sent to school by his father, and had
been highly educated. He had then been entered for the law, but,
committing a forgery, had fled to the bush and joined his mother's
tribe, then in rebellion.
To show and prove his Maori blood, on joining them he had murdered,
with his own hand, in cold blood, a number of helpless white women and
children who had been taken prisoners; and this horrible crime,
together with his ferocious courage in action, and further murders,
perpetrated whenever he had the chance, caused him to be held in high
repute by the Hau Haus and in bitter detestation by us.
To such an evil notoriety had this fiend attained that his father,
then high in the Government, sent the unnecessary and quite
superfluous order, that if his son were captured he was to receive no
mercy. This order I carried myself to the officer commanding one of
the flying columns that was then operating against rebels who by that
time were getting considerably knocked about.
It was most dangerous work, despatch-riding in New Zealand. You had to
travel through a rough and hostile country to find a moving column, or
perchance a place the position of which was not known, and even the
direction to it most uncertain. The Hau Haus, always on the look-out
to catch the unfortunates employed on this job, would lay ambuscades
in the long fern, alongside the footpaths, in such places as it was
impossible to avoid passing, or at a ford you were obliged to cross.
Their dart was to kill your horse and take you alive, if possible, and
then God help you if you were unable to blow your brains out--your
death would be a very, very hard one.
We lost numbers of men this way; and although no officer or man was
ever known to shrink the duty, yet we hated it. On the arrival of this
most unnecessary order to the column with which I was serving, being
first for duty, it was my fate to have to carry it on to another
column and then, provided I lived, to rejoin my colonel at the
earliest possible moment.
Now I was aware of the contents of the despatch, and it did not make
me more pleased with the job, as I knew I was running the most
desperate risks to carry an order absolutely superfluous.
Long before the despatch had even been penned, had either of the three
white columns been lucky enough to catch the bounder whose name was
mentioned in it, he would have been shot on the spot; while if Rapata
and his friendly natives had rounded him up his end would have been
quite as certain, though probably more complicated; and any orders on
the subject were quite superfluous.
Well, I was warned to go, and went. I started at daylight, and after a
long day's ride, during which I had a few squeaks for my bacon, I
fortunately, just as evening was coming on, fell in with the column I
was in search of, and delivered my despatches to the O.C.
This column was composed of friendly natives, of course on foot, so I
dismounted and joined the O.C., who was making for a camping-ground on
which to pass the night.
We had nearly reached the desired spot when a body of the enemy who,
unaware of our presence, were making for the same place opened fire on
us.
The O.C. and myself were some short distance ahead of the majority of
his men, who, after the usual way of native contingents, straggled a
good deal when marching into camp.
We, however, at once charged, and the enemy gave ground until we came
to a long natural opening in the manuka scrub, through which we were
moving, and which was about twenty yards across. Here we halted and
took cover, as we heard the Hau Hau leader shout to his men to turn
and come back quickly, as there were only two white men by themselves
and they, the Hau Haus, could kill them before the others came up. We
stood our ground, as we knew our men were close up, and we both
carried carbines.
All at once I saw a man on the other side of the opening aiming at my
companion, and I at once fired and knocked him over; at the same
moment my companion fired and hit a man I could not see, but who was
aiming at me. Our men just then rushed up, and we continued the
charge; but the enemy had bolted, and as night was falling fast we did
not pursue them, but went up to the two men we had put out of mess. My
man was quite dead, and was quickly recognised as a man of no great
consequence, though of some reputation as a fighting man. The other
one, however, was only wounded, but refused to tell us who he was, and
to our questions replied by using the greatest insult in the Maori
language--_i.e._ called us boiled heads. Having a suspicion as to his
identity, the O.C. tore the breast of his shirt open, and there across
his breast was tattooed the much-cursed name. Well, if he had lived
like a beast, he met the death of a beast without flinching.
Two years later, after the wars were over, I was again crossing that
part of the country and rode a little out of my way to the scene of
the fight, to see if there were any traces of the men we had killed.
Sure enough the skeleton of the half-caste was at the very spot on
which he had fallen. Dismounting, I picked up a leg-bone, slipped it
under my wallet straps and rode away. Later, I had it made up into a
Maori flute by an old native--they used to make all sorts of useful
and ornamental instruments out of human bones--and hung it on the wall
of my quarters among other trophies and curios.
Some time after I was visited by the very official who had been father
to this half-caste. He examined my collection of curiosities with some
interest, and catching sight of the flute, said: "Oh, I used to tootle
a bit on a Maori flute in my young days." Then taking it down he
tootled a "wyetta" (a Maori song). Little did he think he was playing
a tune on the leg-bone of his own son; and I was not such a bally fool
as to tell him.
Let sleeping dogs lie is an old and true aphorism, and I did not wish
to stir up bitter family recollections by reminding him of a dead one;
besides, he was a very big pot indeed, and the head of my department,
so that a discreet silence as to who had been the original owner of
that flute was sound policy.