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IV

It seems, on examination into colonial history, that when an English statesman was made head of the Colonial Department he inquired reluctantly into a condition which proved quite as repulsive as he had feared. Convicts and cannibals. With such unsavoury baubles did the English choose to toy at the ends of the earth; but such, said the Colonial Office firmly, are not on our visiting list. It realized the delicacy of its position. To annoy the solemn conclaves at Westminster with such squibs and crackers as constantly arrived from the Antipodes was not to be thought of, and yet there must be some correspondence to place before committees. Regrettably the Antipodean end of the correspondence was so consistently abusive that the Colonial Office was simply goaded into replies. And if New Zealand called these replies so many monkey-wrenches thrown into the machinery what was to be done with such ungrateful people (who couldn't possibly have a machinery anyway) but persuade Westminster to give them responsible government and let them try to manage themselves.

So New Zealand thanked God publicly and became very lively in her responsible government. Our sins be on our own heads now, they said. So they were, and in the papers too, where every gentleman was encouraged to vilify his neighbour in print and be very bold anonymously. Sir Winston could always be detected, and Peregrine; but Pro Bono Publico remained a puzzle, and it was more than hinted that Lady Calthorpe was Paterfamilias.

Meanwhile the Maoris became exceedingly interested in learning the real character of their tenants—who, the Maoris thought, must have been all hatched from birds'-eggs—and Hemi's grandfather (who was of such royal vintage that his real name must not be mentioned and so he was called Te Patiti, meaning The Hatchet) was pleased when Hemi came down to the Waikato, because page 253 Hemi had the English and could read him all that the papers said.

Tiffany's cruel scorn had goaded Hemi into coming, but the very look and smell of the pa as he came in turned his stomach, just as all these dark crowding faces turned his heart back to the fair English face he could not claim as his own. Great reed-latticed gates to the pa, guarded by enormous and supremely hideous wooden figures with their tongues out. Split fish drying everywhere in the sun, green bundles of flax, scattered refuse where the dogs nosed, rancid odours of whale-oil, mutton-bird-oil, berry-oil, smells of pungent fern-root being scraped for food, musty smell of heaps of feathers for mats which the old hags were making … all blown and drifted together on the woody smoke from cooking-fires that never went out.

Oh, Tihane! thought Hemi, being greeted by drums and the long wooden trumpets as became the grandson of a mighty chief, why did you send me to this?

Te Patiti looked him over, thinking him unpleasantly pale and narrow in the beam. Hemi would never be able to carry his share of a war-canoe over the portages. But he was of the blood and could perhaps explain why these amazing English had degraded their Governor (chief of all head-chiefs) making it necessary for him to consult with lesser chiefs before saying Yea or Nay. Patiti had not signed the Treaty. He had never been to Auckland, and he was inordinately proud of his fortifications, which the cannon Hemi had seen on English warships would blow sky-high in no time.

So Hemi sat on a carved stool in the full ceremonial of the meeting-house to read from the newspapers which Patiti had been collecting for years; and on the dais beside Patiti were grouped his brown sons and grandsons, and round the intricately woven and coloured raupo walls squatted rows of silent warriors. The first paper dated back to 1856.

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“Our first ministry of responsible government, as distinct from a former lamentable effort when ministers were appointed by the Crown, has fully beaten cock-fighting,” read Hemi in slow colloquial Maori. “Magnificently it took the field under Mr Sewell, and after defeating itself within a fortnight did it not with equal magnificence take another field under the banner of Mr Fox? When, a few days later, a vote of want-of-confidence obliterated Mr Fox, was it discouraged? No, gentlemen. The word is not known to our brave pioneers who (whatever may chance) retain their gallant determination to say and do exactly as they choose. Now, with the assistance of Mr Stafford, it is thundering off down a third field, where, we have no doubt, it will continue to make history….”

Patiti scowled. Young warriors were grinning and nudging each other. This was not well. “Read more,” he ordered.

Hemi took a later paper, which lightly alluded to the Governor as a bric-a-brac fellow, which Hemi had to translate as egg-shell, thereby confirming Patiti's suspicions about birds'-eggs. “Governor Gore Browne,” read Hemi, “has seen fit to annul the embargo against selling ammunition to the Maoris, who are now buying in enormous quantities, undoubtedly with a view to future use upon ourselves….”

“Since they have discovered that,” said Patiti, “why do they make it so easy for us to get it?”

Hemi didn't know. No one, he explained, knew a pakeha's reasons, but it was believed that they never had any. Patiti's scowl deepened. That was nonsense. Every man had reasons, and with the logic and cunning of the Maori he soon discovered this one. The ammunition must be bad, and the pakeha were taking Maori maize and kumeras and poakas for what was worth nothing. This was an ugly jest which Maori pride would like washed out with blood. Patiti glared down the length of the whare-rununga on his warriors … strong men bred of a page 255 race to whom fight is the only just breath in the nostrils, and he felt the old desire, the old ambition rise in him.

“Oh, my children,” he said, “it is not well. I shall go down into Taranaki and consult with those chiefs in their great new meeting-house. And I shall take this my son Hemi to read them what the pakeha are doing. For truly it is not well. This is all I have to say….”

Pioneers were finding plenty to say. They had got over the excitement of Canterbury sending its first wool-ship direct to London, and since others were following they could now thumb their noses at Australia's control of New Zealand commerce. They had weathered the wonder of reaping-machines pushed by horses to cut such grain as was not scattered in the process, and ceased to complain of the stench of Auckland's foreshore where reclamation was still going on intermittently, though gentlemen still spat when they had to go there and ladies did what they could.

And now they were breaking chairs at the Mechanic's Institute over this scandalous king-movement down in the Waikato, with Major Henry declaring that Chief Tamihana ought to be shot, and Sir Winston amending: “And that goat Gore Browne too.” Perhaps Nick Flower, going here and there among the Maoris, was almost the only white man who didn't blame Tamihana … who seemed to have put a fox in the hen-roost, all the same.

It was not (explained Tamihana to Nick Flower, spending a night at his pa) merely that tapu was being defied now by the young warriors; nor that they were everywhere setting up water-wheels to grind the flour they sold the pakeha in order to buy so many guns that little tribal wars couldn't satisfy them. Nor was it only that every Maori now despised the white Governor-Chief who had to ask permission of others before he did anything, nor that the military was beginning to drive a wide road down into the Waikato. “But put all these together, my friend, and they make a large sum,” said Tamihana, page 256 who was a good Christian and had been to England and really wanted peace.

“You'll never get peace until the chiefs can rule their men again,” said Flower, knowing they wouldn't get it then.

“We think that,” said Tamihana. “What we need is a king who will rule us all in the Maori way without harming anybody. So I will go to Auckland, and talk to your Governor, although a chief who cannot say Yea or Nay out of his own head is not of much use.”

Gore Browne was of even less use than Tamihana expected, for he never saw him. A clerk denied him entrance at the new Government House, and someone set the dogs on him as he strode down the drive in his best mat of ceremony, and little white boys in the town called “Nigger” after him.

Tamihana went back to the Waikato and sent out tenders for a king.

This was less easy to arrange than one might think, for many of the chiefs were already kings in their own territory and took no interest in foreign titles. It was like offering to knight The Macintosh. At last Tamihana persuaded Te Whero Whero, who had sat with that old conquistador Te Rauparaha in Auckland Domain and was now too old to mind anything much.

But Te Whero Whero had a reputation second to none, and he was not a Treaty man. So they made him king with many beautiful and mystical ceremonies, and prayed earnestly for Queen Victoria, to whom they assigned equal right to rule, though explaining that she couldn't be expected to understand Maori ways. Then they named Te Whero Whero by his shorter title of Potatau, whipped ceremonial tops all over the place, set up their own new flag beside the Union Jack, and saluted both.

“Now we shall be happy,” said Tamihana, immediately taking charge of everything with old Potatau as complacent figurehead and hoping for the best. But the best he page 257 got was a fierce tribal war against those who preferred the slack English rule and plenty of drink to the stern rigour of Maori law; while Gore Browne, demented at the notion that divided rule was better than none, denounced the king-movement savagely and sent for more troops.

This was very pleasant for the ladies, who hadn't had a new regiment since the dear knows when; and (since Andrew Greer, having disposed of his bull, had come back in a hurry and carried Linda off almost before she had time to say “I will”) Caroline hastily put Sophia and Maria on the market and began to tighten Emily's stays. “La,” cried Caroline, “what with Linda's trousseau and these Immigrant Bazaars that never have enough clothes for the babies that sea-voyages seem to produce in such quantities, I declare I'm just worn to a shadow.”

“You'll have clothes to make for Linda's babies soon,” promised Darien, turning to Corny who was declaring that Gore Browne's attempt to placate the Maori by taking off the ammunition embargo was having just the result that might have been expected.

“We always do things the wrong way, make them think us blasted fools. A shockin' mess we're in now,” complained Corny, staring with his puzzled bloodshot eyes.

Did Corny and his kind know what a shocking mess they were making by breeding up a mixed race? wondered Darien. Not likely. Here and elsewhere gentlemen seemed content to leave those kinds of mistakes to God—as old Sir Roderick Lovel had left Nick Flower. Had Corny seen Flower lately, she asked. Corny hadn't, but Hemi wrote that he had. Hemi had gone for a trip to his grandfather in the Waikato, explained Corny, but if war came he'd have to fight for England. “All my sons shall fight for England or I'll shoot 'em with my own hand,” declared Corny.

“Quite the best method of persuasion,” said Darien, cheerfully. “And what about your daughters?”

Corny took no interest in his daughters. But Darien page 258 did. Last time she had taken a big riding-party out to the farm dull old John had let it out how regularly Eriti Fleete brought the mail, and Darien had turned sharply to look at Roddy, who had gone as red as fire. Very gay and good-looking just now, this Roddy with his absurd fluffy upper lip catching the sun like gold, very scornful about Peregrine's notion of sending him down to Canterbury.

“Let him send Brian,” said Roddy, standing big against the slab wall. “I am very content here.”

“By God,” swore Brian, who was so like Peregrine that Darien always wanted to give him the slappings Peregrine had deserved so long. “I'll pink you if you suggest that, Rod. Me go down to that filthy country! No, thanks. A gentleman's life for me.”

“But, Roddy, you hate this place so,” cried Tiffany. “I think you'd like Canterbury much better. And then I could come and live with you, perhaps,” she said, her brown eyes so appealing that Hew Garcia was at her side in a minute.

“He'll go if Mr Lovel tells him to, Tiffy,” promised Hew.

“I'll be shot if I do,” declared Roddy, very bright-eyed and aggressive.

Darien was charmed. It was Eriti of course; and good luck to Roddy who had the wit to make something out of the negations with which Peregrine had always surrounded him. Peregrine would never allow the heir of all the Lovels to wive until he had chosen him a suitable helpmate; and meantime what were Maori girls for but to assist a young man to sow his wild oats, thought Darien, going with John to look at his merino rams.

“There's money in rams,” she said, even more charmed than with Roddy. “I wish I had them.” There, she thought, was the way to become famous. Build up the finest flocks in all the world, send thousands and thousands of ships brimming with wool all over the clamouring page 259 world. “I shall marry a farmer when I can get Calthorpe to divorce me,” she told a shocked and delighted John. “New Zealand has a divorce court now, you know.”

Tiffany rode home sadly with long shadows racing before her as the sun set over the Waitakeres. For the first time in all her life Roddy didn't want her; and so the bottom was out of everything and cattle-bells, goat-bells in the tall bracken rang a dirge. Far ahead on the height of Karangahape Road Partington's mill caught the red light of its vanes. A landmark for maniners, a useful servant which ground Auckland's corn and provided hard-tack biscuits for the army, but to Tiffany it was the haunted place where she had so often sat with Roddy, who tilted at it not with Don Quixote's spear but with wild music until it seemed to spin faster and faster, giddy with ecstasy.

I shall never do that again, she thought, turning the knife in her wound with the ruthlessness of the young. That has gone for ever … like Hemi … like the Beach. Tragic irretraceable steps one has to take in growing up.

Ahead Darien and the young bucks round her were singing catches.

I 'listed in life for a soldier,
Oh, who would not sleep with the brave….

sang Darien, slanting her naughty eyes round on the officers.

Tiffany came thundering past at a gallop, with Hew Garcia after her and shouting: “Stop her! She'll be killed.” But there was no stopping Tiffany, who took the tall post-and-rail in her wild flight and tore on towards the town. Hew got off to open the gate, angry now that his fear was past. He had only tried to take Tiffany's hand, edging his horse up beside her, and she had gone mad like this! Unaccountable creatures, females, thought Hew.

“Tiffany,” remarked Darien with satisfaction, “will never be daunted by locked gates.”