V

It appears that during the 1820's and 1830's the Colonial Office in London's Downing Street was much disgruntled, seeing that England (so pleased when her restless sons took themselves off to the horizons) invariably discovered them turning round and making an Empire of her. There was that infernal East India Company, complained the Colonial Office, trying to entangle us; and Stamford Raffles imploring us to hold on to Singapore—a worthless mud-flat; and Australia clamouring for protection and her own way. Now the mail was full of letters from this pestilential New Zealand, too cannibalistic for convicts and too far off for a summer resort. So the sensible thing was to pigeon-hole the letters—until one came forwarded through her Gracious Majesty.

Busby was responsible for that letter. It had seemed to him a good idea to get a handful of Christian chiefs to explain matters to Queen Victoria, thereby startling the poor young thing into the understanding that if she didn't want a holocaust she had better hustle. So she hustled until the Colonial Office grew hot under the collar, saying: “Let the blighters have it, then. We'll cook their goose. We'll send out a few Regulars to clean the place up and then ship them our convicts, since Australian prisons seem to be getting rather crowded.”

They had sent Hobson to put the Islands under the jurisdiction of New South Wales, so that they could begin properly with penal law; told him to make himself Governor or anything he liked, and hoped to forget him until he should write that he was ready for convicts. But Hobson, even before that uneasy night following the page 34 signing of the Waitangi Treaty, had begun to suspect that he would not be writing very soon.

As for the Beach, slowly beginning to take in what had happened in the marquee, where only Waka Nene and his giant brother Patuone had stopped a bloody stampede and coaxed the chiefs into signing, there was not enough rum in all the casks to comfort them. Never before had there been such a colonization, such an unbelievable outrageous Treaty. New Zealand was given to the Maoris. All her “fair lands, forests and fisheries” were for Maoris for ever and ever, and proud unprincipled Englishmen were merely tenants.

“Defy the Treaty! Defy it!” bellowed Major Henry who had found the lack of laws and taxes amazingly pleasant. “Let us rise against injustice,” he shouted, bursting out of his orange silk waistcoat and waving his arms from a stool, which presently spilt him into the trampling crowd in Nick Flower's store.

“It must be a mistake,” pleaded John to the most blasphemous. “England would never let us down like this. I assure you, gentlemen….”

Jermyn, cross-legged on a pile of potato-sacks, was drawing faces (dangerous bewildered drunken faces) in the light of a hurricane-lamp, while old Captain Mackerrow on the counter was being loudly profane in his red beard. “Goddam them all. We didn't come here … taking our lives in our hands … to be jockeyed like this….”

From his task of serving out rum Nick Flower looked round now and then, grimly amused. Especially he looked at the Lovels and more especially at Peregrine Lovel, now so surprisingly standing on the counter waiting for Mackerrow to stop. A self-made autocrat, that; so spruce and spare in his wine-colour coat and buff waistcoat (Beach clothes were not good enough for him); so damned sure of himself, with his long fighting chin and narrow eyes; page 35 so loftily unconscious that he was own brother to Nick Flower the trader on the wrong side of the blanket….

Contemptuous of favours or insults, Nick Flower would never tell him nor the other Lovels—who were no more than Peregrine's tools anyway. But between himself and Peregrine their similar hot conquering blood was bad already, though Peregrine meant to conquer with a high hand and accompanying drums and trumpets, and Flower was content to use any method at all.

It was, Flower conceded, inevitable that he should hate Peregrine; partly for his arrogant success, but chiefly (since such small things may move a man deepest) for his right to wear that signet-ring with the Lovel crest. As a little boy Flower had played with Sir Roderick's ancient heirloom, not knowing that it could never be his. Now it was Sir John's, but Peregrine wore it, as he wore the high Lovel manner the bunch of seals at his fob. There, gleaming on the long well-kept hand, was the gage which Nick Flower couldn't take up and so could never forget.

Mackerrow ran down with a last oath, buried his red beard in a foaming mug, and Peregrine moved forward. “Gentlemen,” he said, smiling his thin smile, conscious of all that courteous voice could do. Jermyn stayed his pencil. Peregrine, always mistaking rhetoric for argument, amazingly bamboozled folk, but it would be hard to bamboozle a way out of this impasse. Peregrine had no doubts. England would certainly get round the Treaty. Even he was learning to get round things, and she had had much more practice.

The land (he reminded these gaping ruffians) always was the Maoris' and we had always had to buy from them, hadn't we? Men, having forgotten that, looked at each other, and Jermyn saw the bamboozlement beginning. Now, said Peregrine, looming like some great eagle up in the shadows, by the simple device of ceremonially giving the Maoris what was already theirs we had opened the page 36 way to negotiation; we had ensured that all future deals should go through the Governor….

“Each of us is aware how chiefs are apt to look the other way when a troublesome Maori chooses to upset a deal, and how we have no redress. Chiefs will not dare play that game with the Governor. We shall have all the land we wish for now, and England has acted with a subtlety and skill of which we may well be proud.”

“She ain't subtle,” shouted John, his blue eyes fire in his ruddy face. “I'll swear she's actin' honestly and….”

“And with her usual acumen. I think all gentlemen present have sufficient statesmanship to recognize how brilliantly clever her handling of the situation has been.”

Jermyn laughed while John choked with anger and distress. Dang it, Peregrine must be hinting at double-dealing if he talked of statesmanship.

“England for ever,” John shouted, banging his huge fist on a tub.

Gentlemen endeavouring to be conscious of their statesmanship looked anxiously for further guidance, and Peregrine was not loath to give it. All power was now in the hands of the Governor, who would certainly see that we did not come off second-best….

“Oh, my God! He's swearin' away England's honour now,” groaned John, mopping a hot and distracted face. But no one heeded him, they were listening to Peregrine. “In a few well-chosen words,” murmured Jermyn, who had already brought out occasional broadsheets on the Mission hand-press, “Mr Peregrine Lovel convinced bewildered citizens that all was for the best, and received loud acclaims of approval.”

“Come home, boy. I've drunk enough,” said Major Henry, who had a habit of becoming sober and pensive after three bottles.

But citizens (growing ever more bewildered) wouldn't go home; toasting Peregrine, toasting England—who had been so much smarter than they guessed; toasting their page 37 own powers of statesmanship, until the greater number lay with the tramped earth and dregs of liquor on the floor, muttering amicable good-nights.

With the gentlemen gone, Nick Flower looked down upon the disordered remainder. He liked to see men with their masks off, giving themselves away, as he never did, as Peregrine Lovel never did. Lord, Lord, these strange beast-men, child-men born of women … what an ugly joke this game of Life could be.

“Lie there, hogs,” he said pleasantly, blowing out the hurricane-lamp.