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To
Lady Loch,
Whose Many Virtues Have Shed a Lustre on the
High Position She Occupies as
First Lady in the Land,
And Have Enshrined Her in the Hearts of the
People of Victoria,
This Book is Respectfully Dedicated
By Her Humble Servant,
The Author.
Oh! Wonderland of the Southern Seas. Oh! Beauty Spot of the World Oh! Land whose glacier-crowned mountains pierce the fairest of Heavens—whose rivers rush over beds of crystal and gold—whose lakes, embosomed amid the lonely hills, shimmering in the sunshine, as it were vast sapphires in a setting of emerald, ruby, and amethyst—whose forests deep, dark, dense, are the home of a myriad birds that flit like living gems from bough to bough. Oh! Land of flaming sunlight and gloomy shadow, of calm and storm, of summer heats and wintry snows.
Thou art so near and yet so far.
So near, for I can close my eyes, and, lo, I am once again in the mysterious recesses of thy olive and pale green woods, I wander again by thy rushing rivers, I look up with mental vision from where, as in a vast amphitheatre, thy hills on every side tower up, terrace above terrace, till their tops of steely blue, purple, and silver, reach the clouds. I sail again into thy solitary fiords, where the iron-bound coast, cleft asunder by some awful convulsion of nature, is penetrated, showing how vast and terrible is nature, how little man. I stand on the summit of thy mountains and look far abroad at the bewildering sea of ice peaks, and below at the clouds and mists that hide the lower earth. Yea, indeed, thou art so near.
And yet so far. I open my eyes. Houses, streets, shops, men and women, dress, fashion, civilization, wealth, poverty, dust, dirt, turmoil. All the petty struggles and contemptible shifts of this everyday life, and thou liest smiling in thy tranquil loveliness, or frowning in thy sublime tempest, and many and many a league of angry sea between.
Can it be?—is it possible that so many years have sped that I have almost lost count, since I traversed thy gloomy gorges, thy romantic valleys—since I wandered by thy lakes—since I was “borne like a bubble onward,” upon a frail raft of Korattis, down thy river rapids—since I scaled thy heights—since I ate of thy Mamuka fern, thy Nikau palm, and thy Kumera, or lay in a native Whare of Kohe-Kohe poles and Raupo, or under a tree by the camp fire, or beneath the shadow of a flax bush, listening to the legends of his race told by some lordly Maori—since I compassed thy length from the North Cape to the Bluff, thy breadth from Tauranga to Cape Egmont, from the Katuku river to Port Chalmers?
Even so. The years have sped. The time is past. But never forgotten. Ah, no! never forgotten.
more jealously guard their rights of property, no nation who are more ready to take up arms to resist encroachment on their land; and, as the lines of demarcation were necessarily somewhat arbitrary as between the tribes, these disputes were constantly arising, and almost as constantly being settled by an appeal to arms.
It was this very question of disputed territory that led to the disastrous wars between the Maoris and the British that, a few years since, were the curse of New Zealand, and which were the fruitful cause of so much rapine and bloodshed.
Of the tribes named none were more frequently at feud than the allied Waimate and Te Nama tribes, and the powerful Patea tribe, the disputed territory being a tract of land on the north bank of the Waingongora river. The two parties were fairly evenly matched, and in their desultory wars, or rather raids (for they were more like the forays of the old border freebooters than aught else, with the difference that their object was to carry off prisoners instead of black cattle), success as often attended one side as the other.
The principal pahs, or palisaded enclosures, of the tribes were: of the Pateas, on the Patea river, 26 miles north-west of the Wanganui river; of the Waimates, near the Kaipokonui stream, about 38 miles further; and of Te Namas, one mile north-west of Opunake Bay. which is 17 miles from Waimate, and the scene where this story opens.
The chief, or Rangatira, of Te Nama tribe was a brave but ferocious warrior named Marutuahua, a descendant of the great chief of the same name, who was the progenitor of the powerful Kawhia tribes, of which, in fact, Te Namas were a branch. But he was no less wise in council than he was brave in war, and no voice was listened to in the Korero, or parliament of the tribe, with more attention than that of the sapient and eloquent Marutuahu, Te tangata kai whakaako, or the man who teaches.
The pah, or fortification, or rather village, was, like others of the same character, a roomy quadrangular enclosure, surrounded by strong palisading, sunk deeply into the earth and pointed on the tops of the posts, an abbatis in fact, strengthened by wooden flying buttresses and heavy beams. Immediately inside the fenced wall ran a trench, or covered way, sloping inwards and extending all round the quadrangle. It was entered by a narrow gateway of solid beams, elaborately carved in the usual style of Maori ornamentation. Hideous faces, with lolling tongues and elaborately tattooed cheeks, grinned, leered, and scowled, over and on the lintels of the doorway, the faces of the Atuas of the tribe, the intervening spaces being carved in regular curved and angular lines and cross hatchings, embellished with circles of the achromatically colored mutton fish (haliotis) shell, and rings formed out of the tusks of the wild boar. Inside the pah were the whares, or houses of the tribe, that of the Rangatira being larger than the rest, and profusely carved and ornamented, also the Wharekura, or place of meeting and residence of the chief Arikis and Tohungas or priests of the tribe.
The pah stood on the summit of a not very lofty hill, which rose in successive terraces from the low lying land, and which was difficult of access except by means of a narrow pathway leading up to the gate.
The Waimate and Patea pahs were similar enclosures, tho former one especially being so strongly constructed as to be almost impregnable. It was certainly one of the most formidable strongholds in the whole of New Zealand, and was situated in an admirable position for defence, nearly insulated, and joined only to the mainland by two narrow shingle sp'its. On the outer or sen side was a perpendicular cliff one hundred feet high, and on the land side was a natural ditch filled with deep water. The summit was riat, and was covered with pits for the reception of provisions, as well as for shelter.
This fortification was the stronghold of the Waimates, who, under their chief, Tamaiti, occupied the neutral territory between the Namas and the Pateas, which two were at feud, if not at open war, the Namas taking part with the whites who had settled at and about Taranaki and Rawhia Bay, and the ferocious Pateas having declared for the Uriweras and other inland tribes under the banner of the fanatic Hau-Hau leaders, who were at war with the intruders, as they deemed them, and whose battle cry was “Extermination to the Pakehas.”
The lingering beams of the declining sun danced merrily on the sparkling surface of Opunake Bay, a horseshoe-shaped roadstead a a third of a mile deep, about twenty miles south of the extensive kainga, or pah, of the powerful Taranaki tribe. The rapidly dying light glinted on the rocky cliffs which stretched from one head of the bay to the other, and which rendered access inland impossible save in one spot near the centre, where was a sandy beach about two hundred yards wide, over which flowed the translucent waters of the Opunake river, a rapidly running, shingle-bedded and boulder strewn stream having its rise in the snow-clad cone of the giant Maunga Taranaki, that glistened like an enormous sugar loaf of dazzling whiteness, fifteen miles or so away to the north east. Back from this opening into the land lay a dense bush of huge pine, birch, and totara, whose sombre foliage gradually became more and more darkened by the purple twilight, while farther inland, and belting the lower part of the distant ranges, shone the bright mass of red rata blossom, which imparts to the New Zealand mountain scenery so weird and lurid a glow.
Save for the lapping of the water on the sandy beach, the occasional break of a wave against the rocky cliffs, the rhythmic murmur of the stream, and the droning buz of the mosquitoes from the swamps, there was a profound silence, broken only by the rushing rustle of a night owl in search of his prey, or the distant querulous bark of the kuri (wild dog), a silence soon to be dispelled by the voices of the nocturnal fauna of the New Zealand forest.
Slowly the sun sank beneath the flashing waves of the Western Ocean, then suddenly the narrowing lines of light disappeared, and in a few minutes the scene was enveloped in a mantle of thick darkness, and then broke into full chorus the song of night.
The shrill piping of the kiwi. —This singular bird, the —Maori hen. A brown bird of the rail family, about as large as a pullet. It is very tame, and does not fly.apteryx, belongs to the ostrich family (Struthionidœ). Practically it is wingless, and therefore cannot fly. It is rarely seen except at night. Its feathers are long and narrow, almost filamentary, and are used by the Maoris for making their best mats. Its note is a peculiar shrill cry, not unlike its name in sound.
By and by the moon rose, tipping the tree tops with a strange weird light, and bathing the distant mountains in silver glory, although ever and anon a heavy cloud would flit across her face, and make the gloom denser than before. During one of these transient gleams of moonlight might have been heard a rustling in the undergrowth as if some person or animal were passing through the bush and approaching the sandy beach, and then, forcing his way through the thick fern and tutu (poison plant), appeared first the head and shoulders and then the entire figure of a young man. He emerged from the tangle, and stepped forward on the sand, stopping at the creek, and kneeling down to drink.
He was a tall and stalwart young fellow, clad half in European, half in Maori costume, that is to say, while his lower limbs were encased in stout serge trousers and seaman's boots, the upper part of his body was enveloped in a highly ornamented flax mat. On his head he wore a broad-brimmed felt hat, and over his arm he carried a rifle.
No Maori he, as his ruddy Saxon features, embrowned by exposure to the sun and air, but unseamed by the Moko, indicated. How came he there, so far from the haunts of the Pakeha?
But as he knelt and drank of the limpid water, a dark form stole noiselessly from behind a thick clump of hini-hini scrub, and, approaching the unsuspecting victim with uplifted meré, dealt him a savage
Tainui Te Ngatiawa, as he called himself, was a Maori of gigantic proportions, strong as a bullock, yet lithe and slippery as an eel. Throwing the senseless body of his enemy over his shoulder as easily as he would have done that of a child, he struck into the bush with that peculiar intoed lope or trot characteristic of most savage nations, notably the American Indians and the Maoris. His first intention had been to kill him out of hand, and to leave him in a lonely part of the bush, to be devoured by wild dogs, pigs, and hawks. But as he proceeded the devilish instinct of cruelty inherent in the Maori breast filled his mind, and, not content with slaughtering his victim, he determined to torture him. The Maori is a firm friend, but a ruthless and relentless enemy. He is an adept at all the varieties of torture, and in the refinement of cruelty has made it a study, almost approaching the dignity of a science.
And Tainui was one of the most malignant of his race, and he chuckled with fiendish delight at the anticipated torments of his prisoner. He would carry him to the swamp, bind him with flax, tie him down, strip him, and then revive him if he could, and gloat over his agony as he lay helpless against the attacks of the thousands of mosquitoes that infested the morass. He would hack his joints with his maripi (knife) until nature would bear no more, and would then dash out his brains with his meré. Such was the revenge of this truculent savage on his hated rival.
But barely had Tainui quitted the bay with his hapless load, when another actor appeared on the scene. Grating lightly on the sandy bar, a small canoe, impelled by skilful hands, shot into the mouth of the stream, and there stepped from it to the beach a woman—a woman tall of stature, dark of skin, tattooed on the nether lip and clad in a frayed and tattered dog-skin mat and kilt. She stepped forward to the edge of the bush, standing perfectly still, her head thrust forward in an attitude of rapt attention, striving to pierce the dense pall of blackness that shut out everything from sight, for a heavy cloud had again obscured the moon. She gazed this way and
She had, while coasting along the bay, heard Tainui's triumphant yell, and had paddled to the spot whence it had appeared to come, but now all was dark, all silent.
But as she moved toward the creek her foot struck something which emitted a metallic sound, and stooping, she found the pakeha's rifle, which the Maori, in his excitement, had overlooked. At that moment there suddenly arose, and from a spot at no great distance from the shore, a short, sharp, agonised cry, the voice of a human being calling for assistance. It was not repeated, or, if it were, it was drowned in the discordant forest music which it instantly evoked.
Presently, rising above the confused medley of sound from the feathered denizens of the woods came another cry, this time a shout of dorision, followed by a faint groan, and a weak cry for help.
Guided by the sound, the woman dashed into the bush, trampling down the fern, forcing her way through the prickly and tenacious lawyer-bush, and threading the intricacies of the tangled supple-jacks with a comparative ease, even in the darkness, that indicated perfect familiarity with tin? peculiarities of the New Zealand forest.
After passing through the bush as rapidly and noiselessly as the nature of the ground would permit, for a couple of hundred yards, she came to the edge of a small swampy opening in the timber, overgrown with tussocks of grass, and there she again stopped to listen. As she did so, the moon suddenly broke from behind a thick cloud, and showed with terrible distinctness a strange scene.
On a small patch of open ground lay stretched, bound and helpless, a human form, while another stood near him mocking at the torments he was suffering from the ferocious attacks of a cloud of virulent mosquitoes. Well did she understand the meaning of that terrible sight. Well did she know the maddening torture inflicted by those diminutive pests when every spot on the body is covered by them, iust risen from a foul and foetid coast swamp and hungry for blood.
Twice she raised the rifle to her shoulder, twice she lowered it in indecision, until the sufferer with a low groan fainted, and his tormentor rushed forward at him with an angry cry. The sharp knife in his hand glittered above his head in the moonlight as he prepared to cleave his victim's heart—
There was a sharp crack, a flash of name, a puff of pungent smoke, and the assailant bounded forward, and fell prone on his face across the body of the senseless man.
Not a moment too soon. Another second and the keen maripi would have been plunged into the breast of the prostrate youth.
A rush and flutter of startled birds in the surrounding trees and the dim bush shrubbery, the howling of a score of wild dogs, the trump of a drove of wild pigs that were feeding in the neighborhood, and all was silent. Another heavy bank of cloud blotted out the moon, and all was once more darkness.
About the same time as the incident occurred as related in the preceding chapter, the whare or hut of Marutuahua, chief of Te Nama tribe, was occupied by two persons in deep converse, the Rangatira himself and a stranger. The Rangatira, who sat or rather squatted on a rug in the centre of the apartment in dignified state, was a man of about fifty years of age, and of stern, almost forbidding, aspect, having his face seamed all over with the moko of his tribe and rank, his emblazonment of savage heraldry in fact. He was clad in a flax petticoat or kilt, and a kakapo mat, and wore on his head a fillet of kea feathers, and in his ears a long greenstone drop, and a shark's tooth. In his hand he held the meré, the dreaded greenstone weapon that had crushed the brain of so many of his enemies, and cloven the skulls of so many slaves led out for sacrifice.
His visitor was a man of about the same age, a hard-featured, weatherbeaten, austere, and sinister-looking man, with a grey beard and hair, and the unmistakeable look of a sailor. He was a pakeha, a white man, clad in coarse European fashion, and he sat on a low box smoking a short wooden pipe.
“I tell you I have no home, no country. I am an outcast and a fugitive, one who would not care to live, nay, who would not live another day, were it not for Frank.”
“Ah, Paranaki,” said the old chief, with an attempt at a smile, “I like Paranaki.”
“Everybody likes Frank; he's a good lad is Frank, far too good for a father like I am, far too good.”
“But why do you hate your own people as you do?” asked the chief.
“Because I have suffered wrong, nothing but wrong, at their hands. Listen, you. I was a rich man once, and I was a fool. I had money, plenty of money; I sailed my own ship, and was part owner in another, and I spent my money freeely, lavishly, recklessly. Spent? I gave it away, threw it away.” He paused, and then went on in a lower voice, “I had a wife too, a wife whom I loved, and who, as I thought, loved me. Poor fool, poor fool. Perhaps she did love me at first; I don't know. We had a child, this lad Frank. When he was nine years old I took him a voyage to sea with me, to South America and back, at his mother's request. She said he was delicate, and meeded a change of air. Ah, the false, deceitful Jezebel. When I returned I found her gone, and I heard a tale that turned my blood to ice. She had gone off, fled with my familiar, my trusted friend, my partner—fled—and left me almost a beggar. They had taken all they could, they had involved me in debt, and the law left me bare. My ship was sold; I was ruined! ruined! Had I met her then, or him, I would have killed either or both. But no, they had gone and left no trace. I travelled the world over for three years in
The chief bowed his head in assent. “But Paranaki, is he content to remain here? Does he not wish to go back to his own people?” he asked.
“I think not. This free, wild life suits him well enough, I fancy. Besides, he's a good lad, and loves his father, and will never leave him while he lives. When I am dead, why—after all, why should he want to leave here? His experiences of civilization are not so pleasant as to make him anxious to return to it. And the specimens of white humanity he has met here, the few whalers and Sydney traders that call occasionally, manned mostly by escaped convicts and other scum, are not such as to give him a very exalted notion of the race. He's contented enough, and happy enough, he and that lad of yours—”
“Ha!” ejaculated the old man proudly, “toku tamaiti Matariki” (my son, the star of June).
“They are fast friends, and then again, I rather fancy—but that's what brings me here to-night; I'll explain.”
“My ears are open; speak.”
But what Richard Burnett was about to say was not said, for just then the mat that hung over the doorway was lifted and over the threshold stepped a girl.
Who shall describe her, that Maori maiden, that nymph of the wild New Zealand forest? She had none of the heavy flatness usual in Maori female features, she was tall and lithe, with a lovely face, a soft, light olive complexion, beautifully rounded limbs, and hands and feet unusually small. Straight as a dart, active as a deer, graceful as an antelope, she looked a princess, as indeed she was, Hine-Ra, the Rangatira Wahine.
She was clad in the usual dress of a Maori girl of high rank, a short petticoat of flax and dyed reeds, and a mat of kiwi feathers ornamented with tufts of the snow-white throat feathers of the tui-tui. Her feet and ankles were encased in slippers of dressed shark skin, round her neck and wrists were strings of tiny shining shells, and on her head was a fillet decorated with a plume of the wing feathers of the blue crane.
“Matua,” she said, addressing her father.
“Tamahine,” was the reply, “speak.”
“Where is my brother? Where is Matariki? I fear some evil has befallen him.”
“What need you fear? Matariki is no baby. He is the son of a Rangatira,” was the dignified reply.
“I know, and yet I fear. He was to have been here long before sunset; he promised me he would, and I—”
“No need for fear, I say; but do you not see our guest?”
The girl blushed slightly, for politeness to strangers is the first rule of Maori social ethics, and extending her hands to him said, in her soft musical voice, “E hoa” (friend), the salutation due to his age and standing in their community.
“E ko,” was the reply, “but why this fear for your brother” it is not yet late, the Cross has not yet turned in the sky, and Matariki is a rangatira, and beyond the spells of wicked Atuas.”
“It is not wicked Atuas I fear,” she said simply; “it is wicked men. I have heard that some of the Pateas have been seen in a canoe off Otumutua Point—”
“Pateas are dogs, and dare not land on these shores. And if they did Matariki is the son of a chief, and fears them not,” was the rangatira's stately reply. “Girl, get you gone with your foolishness.”
“But will you not send out to find him? He promised me to be at the pah long ago, and I feel, I know not why, a strange presentiment of evil.”
“To calm thy fear, E Hine, be it so. Bid Arawa (Shark) and—stay, I will go myself. The pakeha will pardomme, but as he sees, my daughter is alarmed, and she is very dear to the koroheke” (old man), said the chief, turning courteously to his guest.
“Certainly, my all means,” was the reply; “another day will suit for our korero, better perhaps than now.”
Marutuahua lifted the mat that covered the doorway and passed out, leaving the pakeha and the Maori girl together.
“Why, E Hine, do you fear for your brother Matariki? True, the day is ended, but it is not yet night,” said the former in a reassuring voice.
“True, Ehoa, but I feel, I am sure, something has detained him Matariki promised me to be here long before sunset, and he never breaks his word. The Pateas—”
“The Pateas?” interrupted Richard Burnett, scornfully. “As your father has said, the Pateas are dogs, and are of no account. Be not afraid, Hine; all will be well, and he will be here anon. He and my son Frank—”
“Ha, Paranaki—”
“And that reminds me, I had something to say with regard to him that might as well be said now. I had intended to speak to your father on the subject first, but perhaps it were better, as you are here, to talk to you. My boy Frank—”
“Yes, Paranaki.”
“You know Frank, and you are very fond of him. Is that not so?”
“Yes, that is so. Paranaki is the friend of the Maoris. I love Paranaki,” she replied simply.
“But,” said Burnett, somewhat staggered by the naivale of the answer, “Frank is a pakeha.”
“And what of that?” she said; “he is a pakeha Maori—he is my brother.”
“Ay, brother, that's all very well. But there is another kind of love which—”
“I do not understand,” she said, seeing that the other paused.
“The Maori knows but one kind of love, and I love Paranaki.”
“Yes, but then you see—I hardly know how to explain it—you love your father?”
“Assuredly I love my father.”
“And Matariki, your brother?”
“And Matariki, my brother.”
“That's quite right, but then you see Frank is not your brother.”
“To me he is as my brother.”
Mr. Burnett was puzzled. The girl was evidently so innocent, so guileless, so ignorant of wrong, that he was at a loss to make his meaning clear. She, however, opened a way to him by asking,
“Is it wrong to love Paranaki?”
“Well, not exactly, as you would say, wrong, but there is a difference. When a young girl loves a young man who is not her brother, and when he loves her, why it usually, unless there is some grave reason to the contrary, ends in—in—a different kind of relationship altogether.”
“Yes?”
“It usually ends in—in—marriage.”
“Yes?”
“And you couldn't marry Frank, you know.”
“Why not?”
This was coming straight to the point with a vengeance, and he felt still more puzzled. However he went on:
“Oh, there are many reasons. You see Frank is a pakeha, a white man, and you are—”
“I see,” she replied, the rich blood suffusing her dusky cheek, “and I am only a Maori.”
“Well, that's one reason. Then, again, he's too young to think of marrying, and your father might object, and—”
“Enough, the first reason is sufficient. No more need be said. Paranaki is a pakeha, and the Rangitira Wahine o te Nama is but a Maori, after all. I did not think of that. It is enough,” and so saying, the haughty beauty turned away, lifted the hanging mat, and left the apartment.
The old man looked after her sorely perplexed, and, putting on his hat to go, muttered between his teeth, “Confound the women.”
Ay, just so, Richard Burnett; a sentiment that has been expressed a thousand times before and since: “Confound the women.”
Frank Burnett—as the reader will have guessed the youth who had so narrowly escaped death at the hands of his savage enemy was none other—came to himself with a dull consciousness of an aching and throbbing brain, and a sharp tingling pain in every part or his body, a sensation as if thousands of red-hot needles were being plunged into his flesh.
For a little while he lay in a semi-comatose state, utterly regardless of where he was, or what was going on around him, but as reason and memory once more asserted their sway, he became aware of a human voice reciting, or rather chanting, in a low monotonous tone, the words of a Maori charm which he had heard used only by the Arikis of the tribe with whom he sojourned.
Opening his eyes, he found himself lying on a kind of rude couch or bed composed of the tassels of the toi-toi reed, and covered with a feather mat, his own and other mats being used as a covering for himself.
Looking round, and as his eyes became accustomed to the semidarkness, he perceived that he was in a somewhat roomy, rocky cavern, the floor of which was of smooth sand, and with an entrance or mouth opening to a small sandy beach on which the waters of the sea beyond lapped and rippled with a soft murmur. Further in and near the extremity of the cave, a small fire was burning, over which crouched a female form intoning the spell spoken of, and intent on an earthen kettle, the contents of which simmered briskly over the flame.
For a while he lay silent, wondering how he came into so strange a place, and into the companionship of so singular a being, and striving to recall to memory what had lately passed. But in vain. All he could recollect was kneeling to drink of the Opunake stream. Beyond that was a blank, except that he had a dim idea of pain and deadly peril, although of what or how he had no conception.
As he lay thus, vainly striving to concentrate the thoughts that fleeted through his aching head, and watching the moonlight as it danced on the waters and silvered the little beach before him, the woman rose from the fire, and, mingling the boiling contents of the pot with cold water to cool them, approached him.
As she stepped forward into the comparative light he caught a glimpse of her features, and in a tone of surprise, not unmingled with alarm, and even with terror, ejaculated, “Matutira te Taipo?”
“Koia (yes), Matutira te Taipo.”
This singular woman was a mysterious being, well known to all the tribes of that part of the country, and was as heartily dreaded as she was universally known, personally or by repute. The Maori, like all other uncivilized or only partially civilized peoples, is essentially superstitious, and is always apt to put down the strange
tapu (making sacred), but, to a great extent, that of life and death, in their hands. He believes implicitly in various kinds of signs and omens, and in spells, charms, and conjurations, and it is therefore not to be wondered at that Frank Burnett, who had passed so many of his youthful and therefore impressionable years among the Maoris, should have, to a very considerable extent, become imbued with their superstitions and the nameless terrors of their singular system of priestcraft.
Amongst those who exercised this kind of influence over the tribe was this extraordinary woman, Matutira te Taipo, or te Ruawahine, that is to say, the prophetess, witch, female dreamer, or priestess of the third rank, who possessed a power over the Maoris little inferior to that of the chief, Marutuahua himself, and who shared with Hoturoa, the Ariki, or chief priest of the tribe, the awe and veneration accorded to their spiritual guides by these children of nature.
Matutira was a woman of great eloquence and some insanity, who was regarded by the Maoris, not only of her own, but of the other tribes in the vicinity, in the double light of a conjuror and prophetess, and this role she filled to perfection, being invested in an atmosphere of religion and mystery. In a word, she embodied the genius of her race, intensified by a little madness, that only added to her supernatural personality in the eyes of her followers.
She was an old woman, at any rate old enough to have so far outlived the friends of her youth, that her admirers found it easy to invest her origin in marvellous fables, without having any envious persons to disprove them.
Her habits in life were odd and uncanny. She lived alone—or alone save for an old slave as odd and uncanny as herself—in a solitary cavern by the sea shore, with no visible means of support except the offerings of fish, birds, and vegetables which were regularly laid near the entrance to her dwelling by those who wished to court her favor, or to avert her displeasure.
Amongst other awful gifts accorded to her by popular belief was the power somewhat resembling what is known in Europe as that of “casting the evil eye,” meaning that, being more or less in league with the unseen world, she could exercise a good or malign influence over persons, places, and things. In a word, she was a reputed witch, whose spells for good or evil were of potent power, and were to be sought or avoided as the case might be.
As Matutira advanced toward the couch on which Frank Burnett lay, he partially raised himself on his elbow, and asked huskily, “Where am I? What is the meaning of this? What would you with me?”
“Ekoro (oh, young man), son of the Pakeha, fear not,” was the reply; “thou art safe. Thou art here by the command of the great Atuas whose servant I am. He is Atuakikokiko, and from thy mouth, even from the mouth of the alien, shall come the Irirangi. Was it for nothing that the god Pipiwharauroa spread across the sky in a cloud yesterday to tell me to prepare for a stranger? Not so. I had the Moehewa (a dream). I was in the Reinga (abode of spirits) last night, and I spoke with the Atuas of my ancestors. ‘Go,’ said they, ‘to the Opunake stream, and save the life of the Waraki (European), who is in deadly peril. The means thou wilt find. Go.’ I went, and found it even as the Irirangi (voice of a deity) had spoken. Thou layest bound and helpless, tortured by the Naenaes. Already had thy would-be murderer lifted his hand to strike the fatal knife into thy heart, when with thy rifle I slew him. Did I do well to take the life of one of my own people to save thine? I did but as I was bidden, and the Atuas know best.”
“I owe you my thanks, Ekui (mother), but how came I to this place?”
“In my canoe I brought thee hither to preserve thy spark of life. Not I, but the gods, willed it. Thy assailant I left for dead in the bush.”
“And he—who was he who sought my death?”
“No matter whom. He was a Maori. He hated thee, and where the Maori hates, he kills.”
“Hated me—wherefore? I never gave a Maori cause to hate me.”
“No? Ask thine own heart, Pakeha. Is it then nothing that there is a fair face and bright eyes in the tribe that thou hast dared to aspire to, ay, and that looks on thee with favor too. And shall our young men suffer the pale-faced Whanako (thief) to steal, not only their land, but their women?”
“Good mother, I know not what you mean.”
“Indeed? Is then Matutira te Taipo blind? Hast thou not cast eyes of love on Hine-Ra?”
“Hine-Ra?”
“Ay, Hine-Ra, the daughter of our chief, the princess of our tribe.”
“Upon my soul, you do me wrong. That I do like and admire Hine-Ra—love her, if you choose—I admit, but only with the love & brother might bear to a sister.”
“Yes, yes, so thou sayest, so perchance thou thinkest, but what says the proverb? ‘He kokonga whare e taea te rapurapu; he kokonga ngakau ehore e taea.’ (We can touch every corner of a house, but the corner of the heart we cannot.) Enough of this, kati (be quiet). I have here a decoction of the poroporo (solanum lacincatum), which will heal thy wounds. That is my word.”
So saying, she laid down the hake or bowl she had in her hand near the couch, and going to the entrance of the cave, emitted a kind of whistle or hiss, in response to which, from his lair outside, shambled
A veritable Caliban in this wild place he looked, with a large apelike head, covered with a thick shock of coarse black hair. His eyes, which were black and bloodshot, rolled wickedly on each side a nose of the wide African type, and he was deeply tattooed all over the face, showing that he was a slave captured in war, for slaves born or taken young are left tipai, that is, untattooed on the face. His mouth was a huge cavity, displaying an irregular set of enormous yellow tusks, and he was not only ngutiriwa, or hare-lipped, but, as was not unfrequently the custom with slaves, he was whatero, that is to say, he had had his tongue cut out, so that he could only emit a few unintelligible and hideous sounds.
His legs were bowed almost into a circle, and were, even at that, absurdly short for his body, while his arms were as abnormally long, both, however, being tremendously muscular, exhibiting tokens of vast strength, and being covered with thick black hair. In short, this deformed dwarf resembled nothing so much as a huge chimpanzee, or a gorilla, the likeness being more striking from the fact of his us ing his hands in locomotion, going, in a manner, on all fours.
The name of this repulsive object was Katipo, a word signifying a venomous kind of spider, and never was name so aptly applied, for he was as malignant in disposition as he was horrible in appearance. He was clad in a short ahumehume, or kilt, and his shoulders and body were covered with an old worn out and tattered dogskin mat. He paused at the entrance to the cavern, resting on his hams and claw-like fingers, and, with a hideous grin that displayed his tiger-like fangs, crouched, looking up into the face of his mistress for commands.
In compliance with directions given by the witch, the dwarf Katipo applied the embrocation prepared by his mistress to the still smarting skin of Frank Burnett. The effect was marvellous, for, almost as soon as it was applied, the venom appeared to be neutralised, as if by magic, and the hot pricking sensation to vanish.
His head still ached from the blow with the meré inflicted by the treacherous Tainui, but the stroke had not been powerful enough to cause any fracture, and the roromi (shampooing, or rather gentle stroking and squeezing skilfully) applied by the mute to the sufferer's head, albeit, much to his disgust, soon relieved the pain.
While this was going on the woman had retired to the upper end of the cavern, and seemed to be busy again with the fire that glowed there, burning therein certain ingredients that gradually filled the atmosphere with a faint pungent odor.
At length, bidding the slave retire, she approached Frank once more. Her features appeared to have undergone a marvellous transformation. Her eyes absolutely blazed with a wild prophetic fire, partial insanity it might be, but Frank could not help being singularly affected thereby. Seating herself on the ground near him, she gazed into his eyes with her dark lustrous orbs, and began again to chant the mystic Karakea. At first the words were broken and disconnected, but having a kind of rude rhythm, and, as she proceeded, the prophetess seemed to become inspired, and the measure and character of the chant insensibly changed into a low wail, the tangi of her race:
“This is the word of Matutira te Taipo, of Matutira te Ruawahine, of Matutira no te Matutu. The Atuas have spoken, the Kehuas have whispered ‘Ka Ngaro a Moa te iwi Nei’ (the tribe will become extinct like the moa). But how? Even now I feel the Hau, that tells me the Atuas are here. What do they say to me? I cannot tell. Not to me shall the future be shown. But to this youth, this alien, this stranger to our race. He alone has been chosen. He alone has the gift. From his lips alone must I learn the dread future. Enough. He is here. It is the time. Ka hua te Marama. He hua. (It is full moon. The 13th day of the moon.) Mara po (midnight). Blood has been spilled. Let me prepare the Matutu”
As she spoke, or rather chanted, in a monotone, Frank felt a sensation of listless apathy gradually creeping over him. He seemed steeped in a kind of delicious languor, from which he had neither the power nor the inclination to arouse himself. The faint odor of the smoke from the fire filled his soul with an overpowering sense of peace, and rest, and perfect tranquillity. It was as if the present were all in all—as if there were no past, no future; no thought, no memory.
And yet his mind was active. He saw, he heard, he understood everything that passed.
He saw, as in a dream, yet clearly and distinctly, as if with some finer, keener perception than that of the eye, the woman rise from where she sat, and, with certain cabalistic signs, circle slowly round the fire, the while she chanted in a dialect he did not understand what seemed to be an incantation, or charm. Her voice, low at first, grew louder by degrees. A thin cloud of a most subtle and exquisite perfume filled the cavern, impregnating the atmosphere and producing a singular feeling of buoyancy and elation.
Gradually the cloud of smoke became more dense and less transparent, and as it did so it seemed to form itself into vague shapes which, in turn, expanded and contracted, and then rolled back into formless clouds of winding smoke.
Frank Burnett seemed to sleep, and yet he had a perception that he did not sleep. His eyes were wide open, and his brain as receptive as ever. But it was only receptive. What he saw he knew, but he only knew. He neither thought of the reason, nor wondered at the meaning.
The vision, if vision it were, grew clearer. He seemed to be able to discern through the mist, faintly and obscurely at first, but after a time more distinctly, a phantasmagoria of figures and objects.
At this stage, in obedience to what appeared to be a series of mesmeric passes made by the witch, he began to speak. He knew that he was speaking, and yet the words seemed not to emanate from him, but from some other person. He knew that he was describing what he saw, and yet he knew not the sequence of what he said.
What was it? Trance, spiritism, mesmerism, clairvoyance, magnetism, or an abnormal straining of the imaginative faculties brought about by the operation of the fumes arising from the substances burnt in the fire? Who can tell?
Or was it the Mata-Kiti of the wizards of New Zealand and the South Seas? Is there, after all, any truth in the mysticism, the occult forces, the Astral Book, the white and black magic, the brothers of Light, and of the Shadow, of the Hindoos and the Egyptians? It were perhaps too curious to inquire in these pages.
Suffice it to say that, according to. Maori superstition, it was what is known as Atuakikokiko.
As has been said, the words issued from his lips as if by abstract volition.
“The clouds clear away,” he said, “and I see the pahs and kaingas of many tribes. The fields are green with the kumera and the taro, and the rowers chant the chorus of the plentiful fishing. The young men snare the birds of the forest, and the women weave the baskets and mats. The blue smoke of the fires steals through the trees. There in abundance of food in the huts and timangas, there is water in the stream, and the wine of the tutu in the kahakas. These are the days of peace. But the red war cloud rises in the North. The tongues of flame lick the rafters of the whares, the rivers run with blood, and the land is desolated with rapine and murder. The spear and the merè are at work, and the parekuras are many. It is the abomination of desolation, for tribe is pitted against tribe, family against family. The tangi of the widow and orphan is heard far and wide, and the smoke of the poaka-roa rises from many ovens. But, lo! from the far off lands of the west come the Tiwhas, the Warikis in their winged canoes, and like locusts they cover and eat up the land. The Maori is driven forth from the lands of his fathers. There is pestilence and famine in their midst, for the Atuas are angry with their children. The Maori says ‘E kore e take te parapara a ona tupuna, tukua iho ki a ia’ (he cannot lose the spirit of his ancestors, it must descend to him), but it is a lie. The Maori sells his birthright for the Pakeha's gold; still worse, for the poison that destroys him body and soul. Ever thus has it been, ever thus will it be: the white man plants his foot in foreign lands, the aboriginal must go. As in other countries so here. The Maori is doomed. War, pestilence, famine, vice, disease, all the spirits of evil wave their death-dealing wings over the descendants of Kupe, Turi, and
Treachery Frustrated
[Page 14.]
As the young man uttered the last words the fire, which had burned low, shot up with one expiring flicker, revealing a strange scene in the cavern. The medium through whom the prophecy had been spoken sat up on his couch, his staring eyes fixed on the column of smoke, and his face white and bathed in perspiration, the prophetess crouched on the ground, her head hidden in a mat, while at the entrance to the cave the bestial form of Katipo cowered on his hams and claw-like fingers, his yellow tusks grinning, and his bloodshot eyes scintillating, like some fabled monster, half animal, half demon, prepared for a spring on its victim. The voice ceased, the tongue of fire died suddenly out in a blue flame, Frank Burnett fell backward on the couch in a deep, exhausted sleep, and the cavern was buried in thick darkness, and in silence profound as that of the grave.
Mataraki, the son of Marutuahua, the Rangitira, or chief of Te Nama tribe, the youth with regard to whose absence from the pah Hine-Ra, his sister, had expressed her concern and alarm, was a young Maori of about the same age as Frank Burnett, and had, ever since he and his father had come to dwell with the tribe, been his constant companion, and, to a considerable extent, his tutor in the wild woodcraft and sea-craft of the dark-skinned Maoris.
Mataraki, brought up as the only son of their chief, and as, there fore, their future ruler, had been carefully educated in all the laws and observances of the race by the priests, and in its manly sports and exercises by the best hunters and fishermen and the most noted warriors.
All that a Maori knew he knew, all that a Maori could do he could do. He was an adept in the use of every one of the native weapons; every snare for birds, every net for fish, every implement of war was known, every fruit, fern, tree, and root familiar to him. No voice louder than his in the Hari, the Ngeri, or the Totowake; no one more agile in the Haka, Tokaro, Poi, or Tutungarah; no limbs more fleet in the race, no eye more keen, no ear more acute, no sense more fine for the thousand and one signs of the heavens the sea, and the forest.
More, too, than this he knew. He could track with an unerring instinct the pathless wilds, could dive and swim like a waitoreke (otter), and, thanks to the elder Burnett, who had presented him with a rifle, and had taught him how to use it, was an unerring marksman, rather an extraordinary accomplishment for a Maori who is usually an indifferent shot.
On the same day that Frank Burnett had been attacked by the treacherous Tainui, Mataraki had wandered into the bush in an opposite direction, and farther from the pah than was his wont. He had been out in search of a kotuku, having promised to shoot one for his sister, but had met with no success, and had gone on in a south-easterly direction almost unsconsciously, until, after crossing the Kaipokonui stream, and within a little distance of the Waimaté pah, the shades of evening had overtaken him, and he had, after a short pause of indecision, turned to retrace his footsteps.
He knew that he was on neutral ground, but he also knew that while the territory of the Waimates was open to him, it was equally open to the Pateas, between whom and his clan a tribal war had been proclaimed, if it were not in active operation.
But although he was aware of the risk he ran of meeting some wandering party of his enemies single-handed, he felt no fear, for he also knew that the Pateas entertained a wholesome dread of his deadly rifle. Besides that, he thought the Pateas, even in force, would never venture, although they saw him, to attack him on neutral ground, for fear of embroiling themselves with the Waimates, who, although at peace with both parties, were a powerful tribe, and one which could easily turn the scale against either of them if they chose.
Therefore, without a thought of danger, he strode boldly through the growing darkness in the direction of home, heedless of the harsh rasping and crackling of the fern and undergrowth that he trod underfoot. Once, as he neared the stream he had crossed, he fancied he saw, through the dusk, a dark shadow flit across the path at some distance ahead of him. He stopped, listened. There was nothing, save the ordinary sounds of the forest at evening, and the dull boom of the breakers against the blue clay cliffs on his left.
Nevertheless, he advanced more cautiously, keeping a sharp lookout on both sides, and his rifle over his arm ready for use. But as he passed a thick patch of flax and brushwood that bordered the river, a net was suddenly thrown over his head, and at the same moment he felt himself seized by a dozen powerful hands, and rendered helpless. His rifle, which he had fired aimlessly and uselessly amongst his captors was torn from his grasp, and in a few seconds he lay bound hand and foot with an aho of twisted flax, and totally unable to move, a prisoner in the power of his fierce enemies, who, with loud yells of savage exultation, performed a haka of triumph round his prostrate form.
One, who seemed to be a kind of leader in the party, a gigantic and ferocious-looking Maori, deeply tattooed from the forehead to the chin with the well-known Moko of the Pateas, at length signed for silence, and, approaching the captive, and spurning him with his foot, said tauntingly:
“This is Matariki, the great warrior of Te Nama. This is the clever Matariki, who walks into the Haupapa like a baby or a blind puppy. Where are now the big words he spoke against the Pateas?”
“The Pateas are dogs,” was the scornful reply; “they are very brave when they are ten to one. They can boast when they have Te Nama a bound captive, but let them meet Te Nama free and in the daylight, when they can look upon his Moko, and they will run like pigs, they will cry like women, they will hide like Kiwis.”
“Te Nama speaks boldly. We shall see what he will say when his hand is hung upon the Kuwaha of Rehua's Wharè, when the Patea girls spit in his face, and the old women burn him with firebrands.”
“Rehua, like all his tribe, is a Tutua, or he would know better than think to frighten the son of Marutuahua with threats of the torture. Enough, the Pateas are traitors. They have broken the Aukati, and the Namas shall sweep them from the face of the earth as the whirlwind scatters the dried flax sticks. I have spoken.”
The captors of Mataraki knew well enough that that expression meant that he would say no more, nor heed any taunts or insults that might be levelled at him, and although, in accordance with Maori usage, they showered filthy invective and coarse threats on him, still it was in a half-hearted sort of way, for his hint as to their having violated the Aukati was not without some weight. They knew that their neighbors the Waimates, on whose land the outrage had been perpetrated, were a proud and jealous race, and that this infringement on territorial rights might be made a cause of war, and for the Waimates to join, or even to assist, the Namas might be, and doubtless would be, a very serious matter for them.
Still the capture had been made, and if the worst came to the worst it only remained for the aggressors to aver that it had taken place a point further on, and on the Te Nama side of the tribal boundary. Certainly, the Pateas were notorious liars, but Matariki out of the way, there would be none to contradict the statement, even did the matter come to the korero.
After a hasty consultation, therefore, the prisoner was lifted up and carried down stream by his captors, until, arriving at the boulder-strewn entrance, he was roughly deposited in the bottom of a large canoe which had been drawn up on a small spit at the sea mouth.
At a word from their leader, the entire party hastily shoved off the craft, jumped into her, and, taking their oars, pulled sturdily away to the south eastward across the Waimate (or, as it is now called, the South Taranaki) bight, and, stealing away into the darkness which covered the tranquil sea, were soon out of sight of land, and beyond the reach of pursuit, even had any been instituted.
It was a pull of about 25 miles in a straight line from the Kaipokonui stream, whence the young Maori had been so unceremoniously carried off, to the Patea river, on whose bank the pah, or stronghold of the tribe, was situated, but the dark-skinned rowers bent steadily to their work, and the canoe shot over the water with surprising rapidity.
Already the moon was high in the heavens, kissing the dancing
But although the excitement in the settlement was intense, there was, as yet, no undue noise, nor any sounds of rejoicing or acclamation. Maori etiquette forbade the appearance either of the Rangitira or any of the chief men of the tribe, for curiosity or a display of unwonted interest in either person or occurrence was looked upon as a weakness only permitted in women and children. Therefore came it that, although between a double line of scowling faces, it was amidst an ominous silence that Mataraki was partly carried, partly dragged, through the bush to a small raupo hut outside the pah, into which, bound as he was, he was ignominiously thrust, a coarse mat thrown over him, and, surrounded by a cordon of guards, was left to sleep, or to ruminate on the unlucky chance which had left him a bound prisoner in the hands of his enemies.
The sun had scarcely risen above the mountain tops in the morning when the loud cry of the herald, resounding through the pah, warned him that the principal men of the tribe were being assembled to the Kerero, and after an hour or so (for the Maori likes to do everything with due deliberation), the prisoner was led forth, bound as he was, to the Wharekura, or house of council, to confront his captors, who waited there to meet him.
The fierce Rehua, the chief, his equally ferocious brother Titotiki, and all the priests and head men of the tribe, were inside the house, while outside, and forming two dense lines, were the rest of the Pateas, the men standing silent with scowling faces, and the women and children rending the air with their shrill cries of triumph over, and objurgation at, their hated foe.
Bound, and sore and stiff almost to numbness in all his joints, he strode boldly forward, wearing upon his impassive countenance no expression, except a smile of contempt at the vituperation with which he was assailed. His entrance into the Wharekura, which was made with a proud step, and a calm, fearless look, was the signal for a profound silence.
At length Rehua spoke, in a soft, silky tone, unusual in him, and one foreboding no good to its object. Looking round at the assembled
The hot blood flushed to the prisoner's face at this, to a Maori, the direst insult, and he answered in a harsh, constrained voice.
“You do well, Rehua o Patea, you do well to insult one who is in your power. But it is all one. The Pateas were always blackguards and barbarians. They know no better, and must be taught.”
“Ha! barks the mongrel cur so loud?” ejaculated the chief, stung to the quick by this contemptuous reply. “Has then the Patea forgotten how to curb the tongue of insolent youth?”
“The Patea has not forgotten, because he never knew,” said Matariki, coolly.
“Be it so. I would have spared this braggart, I would have given him a whipping, and sent him whimpering home. But not now. Listen. Let the moko be cut from his face, let him receive the torture of the maripa and the firebrand, let him be dishonored, and let his body be cast outside the kainga for the wild pigs to cat. It is my word.”
The doom of Matariki was sealed, and the dread sentence of the chief would have been carried out on the instant but that there occurred an event, totally unexpected, which for a time interrupted the proceedings. Even as Rehua spoke, a Maori scout or runner burst into the place, breathless with haste, and bathed in perspiration, and, regardless of etiquette, rushed to the chief and rapidly poured a few words into his ear. The effect was electric.
“Good,” he cried; “better and better. Now we shall see. Take hence this prisoner, bind him still more securely, and bring him before me at noon. Be content, oh, Arikis; I will wreak such a vengeance on him and his as shall make the Atuas of his tribe pale with rage and impotent fury. I have spoken. Away with him! Brethren, remain, I have a word to say.”
Matariki was hurried away on the moment, and was once more thrust into the whare whence he had been brought, and the Korero or council of the principal men of the tribe again proceeded.
It was indeed no light matter which had thus summarily put a stop to the proceedings in the Wharekura in relation to Matariki. The scout who had entered so abruptly had brought intelligence which affected far higher interests than the mere torture of a prisoner. That could be postponed, this demanded instant and close attention.
A few words of explanation here become necessary in order that the situation may be clearly understood, and so that the incidents in this story may go on uninterruptedly.
The tract of country lying inland from the coast, and between Opunake and Taranaki was the cradle of that singular institution arising out of a mingling of Maori superstition and imperfectly understood Christianity, known as the Hau-Hau religion, a creed so fanatical in its character, and so disastrous in its effects, as to have caused more bloodshed and general devastation than even the tribal wars which had, from time to time, been such a curse to the country.
Hau-Hauism as it originated, and Hau-Hauism as it rapidly developed into, were two totally different things. Its founder was a probably well meaning, but altogether fanatical, if not absolutely insane, man named Te Ua, who lived in the district, and who was regarded by the natives as a kind of saint, or prophet, or miracle-monger, or wizard, for to the Maori mind these terms are nearly synonymous. He was deeply imbued with the wild and fantastic superstitions of his race, and on these, impelled thereto by the teachings of the missionaries, he had built up a superstructure of what to his mind were the principal tenets of Christianity, or rather perhaps the doctrines and precepts inculcated by a study of the earlier history related in the Old Testament.
Be it as it may, Te Uá was a dreamer of dreams, and a beholder of visions. He had, so he preached, personal communication with the Angel Gabriel, and professed to have been authorised by that being to promulgate the new religion of “Pai-Marire,” a term meaning “good and gentle.” It is somewhat difficult to understand now what the exact doctrines he proclaimed really were, but it is not too much to suppose that the religion he taught was of a mild and peaceful character.
But his successors, Hepanaia and Kereopa, the leaders of the new movement, were men of a widely different stamp to Te Ua, and under them the “Pai-Marire” soon merged into a murderous and bloodthirsty fanaticism. The religion, so suited in its new aspect to the turbulent and warlike Maoris, rapidly spread throughout the middle portion of the North island. Tribe after tribe joined the standard of the new prophets, and it only needed a spark to set the whole land in a blaze.
That spark was too soon applied; whether wisely or unwisely,
Hostilities were imminent, unavoidable perhaps. The first skirmish took place at Ahu Ahu, a small settlement a few miles south of Oakura, near New Plymouth. It was brought about by a detachment of the —th, and about 100 settlers under the command of Captain Loyal, destroying the crops on the Kaitaki ranges as a punishment for some act of insubordination. The infuriated Maoris rushed upon them, barking like dogs (whence their name of Hau-Haus), and the whites fled. Captain Loyal stood his ground, however, and was slain, his head being cut off and carried round through the tribes by propagandists, under the belief that out of the mouth their Divinity spoke his oracles, a belief inculcated and fostered by the wily leaders of the rebellion.
Encouraged by their first success, the Hau-Haus proceeded to still further acts of violence and bloodshed. Near Waitara, a mission station in the same district, the missionary and the lieutenant in charge, with his wife and three children, were treacherously murdered by the Mokau Maoris. At Sentry Hill, where the chief Tito Kawarau lost an eye, a sanguinary encounter took place, resulting in much loss to the whites. At Turu Turu Mokau, between Normanby and Hawera, the redoubt with a force of 25 men was attacked, and a captain and nine men were killed, and most of the others wounded. At Te Ngutu o te Manu, the gallant Van Timson and others of his rangers were killed by a deadly fusillade from the Rotos. Other disasters followed fast, the wave of war spreading rapidly to the eastward, until they culminated in the terrible slaughter by thy Maoris, under Rawiri, entrenched in the celebrated Pah Pukehinahina, or “Gate Pah,” near Tauranga.
Meanwhile the seeds of disaffection, ending in many cases in open revolt, were spreading throughout the length and breadth of the land. From the Parihaka pah, about twelve miles from Opunake, which the British troops had captured after a fierce struggle, and where they had mounted a six-pounder gun to overawe the natives of the district, to the Bay of Plenty on the north-east, the entire country was in a ferment, and the savage Hau-Hau prophets, Hepanaia and Kereopa, had spread their murderous doctrines of bloodthirsty fanaticism.
Ill fared it with the few tribes that preserved their allegiance to the whites, or even those neutrals who were suspected of pakeha proclivaities, for, incited by the lust of bloodshed, and encouraged by the vacillating policy of the British, tribe after tribe joined the new religion, the “Pai-Marire,” or “good and gentle,” as it was called in grim irony, with all its concomitants of rapine and slaughter.
Of the few tribes who had remained faithful or partially faithful
On this tribe the Hau-Hau leaders had vowed dire vengeance, but, protected as the pah was by the sea on every side but one, where the mountain rose abruptly from the sandy shore to a height of 865 feet, the chief, secure in his fancied inaccessibility, laughed his savage foes to scorn.
But the Hau-Haus were not less cunning than ferocious, and while withdrawing, or apparently withdrawing, from the neighborhood, were in fact only waiting a fitting opportunity to wreak their vengeance on the tribe that had defied them.
It was a wild night. The gale, which had been blowing all day, had risen to a hurricane. The rain fell in torrents, and amid the pitchy darkness the lightning blazed, and the thunder bellowed, while the mighty billows, rolling in unchecked from thousands of miles of the vast Pacific, seemed to shake the very foundations of the rocky mountain, adding new terror to the scene. Even the bravest heart within the pah was appalled at the terrific conflict of nature, and every one sought such shelter as the whares afforded from the pitiless storm.
Rain-drenched, her wild elf-locks streaming in the wind, and her eyes glittering with the fire of madness, stood Totana, the priestess or sorceress of the doomed tribe, on the very edge of the cliff, amid storm and dark, her arms pointing to the murky sky, crying, as if moved by the spirit of prophetic fury, “Heaven and earth are rent! —man next!”
Surely it was prophecy, for even then the invading Hau-Haus had already scuttled the canoes, and were stealthily scaling the mount. The inmates of the pah, taken by surprise, were slaughtered, almost without resistance, and the few who managed to elude the murderous meré were driven into the water, and drowned. None escaped; not one. The Hau-Haus had scored another sanguinary victory, and the Ngamaunganui tribe was extinct.
This, then—the outbreak of this terrible war, and the intelligene that the northern tribes had declared war against the British, and had, in fact, entered into open hostilities—was the important news brought to the Patea chief by the scout, and this it was which had saved Matariki, for the time, from the torture.
We left Frank Burnett lying in an exhausted sleep in the cavern of the sorceress, Matutira, watched by the malignant dwarf, Katipo, who, crouched near the entrance, but waited a sign from his mistress to strangle the young man with his claw-like fingers.
When he woke he was alone. The witch Matutira, and the hideous dwarf, where were they? Were they merely creatures of his imagination, or was this all sorcery? Was it all a dream? No: it was real, or how could he be where he was? And where was he? In a cave, opening on the sea, he saw that; but where or how?
He went to the mouth of the cavity. There was nothing to be seen except the wide expanse of ocean before him, and a long way distant to the North the bold outlines of the Nga-motu group of rocky islands standing off Cape Egmont. The little shingle beach opposite the entrance to the cave extended only a few yards on either side, and was then shut in by perpendicular cliffs, so that escape in that direction was hopeless. He turned back into the cavern, and examined that. Nothing to be found there, beyond rugged granite walls. No hope of escape that way. He sat down to think. No: yet stay; might there not be some hidden doorway, some secret outlet? He would examine carefully. There was a rude lamp on the floor; and with the aid of his flint and steel, which he never went without, he soon had a light. There were numerous clefts, crevices, and niches in the walls; but all were closed with solid rock. There was no way of escape. Absolutely none.
What did it mean? Was it that he was left imprisoned in this unescapable cave to die of starvation? No: most certainly not: for there, around him on every hand, was food; such as it was, of course; but abundance of it. Kumera, Taro, the pith of the Mamuka fern tree—all, everything that sustains life among the Maoris; and, more, the dried Mutton Bird, which, with its wealth of oil, is far more nutritious than the ordinary steak or chop of Europeans. All this was stored there in plenty; and it was, therefore, clear that the youth who had been decoyed or brought into the toils of Matutira, the witch, was not doomed to die of lack of food. There were his and other mats, a heap of firewood, and, leaning against the wall, near the entrance, his rifle.
But he was a prisoner, that was also clear. He did not know where the cave was located; for that was a secret jealously guarded by the tribe, nor had even Matariki or Hine-Ra ever spoken to him of its existence, although they must have known. Yes: he was a prisoner. He sat down and thought. Could he swim along by the cliffs? He knew not how far they extended. It might be miles; and then there was the terrible risk of sharks, which abounded near the coast.
As he mused, his face buried in his hands, he suddenly heard
Presently the canoe grated on the beach, and a vooice called “Matutira! Matutira te Taipo!—Katipo!” There was no response, and after a short pause the new comer dragged his canoe up the sand, and entered the cave.
“Not here,” he muttered. “Where the deuce is she? This is confoundedly unlucky. How have I managed to miss her, and at this particular time of all others? Confound it all, I must search further,” and he turned, somewhat irresolutely, as if to go.
But Frank had recognised the visitor, and, stepping from his hiding place, called his name—
“Jack—Jack Hall!”
The one addressed sprang rapidly round, and the two men stood gazing into each other's faces, as if each in doubt of the other's intentions.
Jack Hall spoke first. “Why, what in the name of Heaven—or the other place—brings you here? I thought—but there, no matter what I thought — how did you get here, any how?”
“I hardly know myself, but here I am, and likely to remain here, unless—”
“Yes, unless?”
“Unless you help me to get away.”
“To get away? But—but—I must know more of this matter before I do that. What are you doing in this accursed place at all?”
“Matutira te Taipo brought me here last night, or so she said, at least.”
“Matutira te Taipo brought you here last night?”
So she told me.”
“And where is she now?”
“That's more than I know. She must have gone away while I slept. I only know when I woke, half an hour since, she had left.”
“This is a rum start, young fellow, a very rum start,” said Jack Hall musingly. “Blow me if I can understand it.”
“Perhaps.” responded Frank, “I'd better tell you the whole story, as far as I know, for I feel awfully confused about it. Seems to me like a dream.”
“Well, perhaps you had,” replied the other drily.
While Frank Burnett is relating his adventure, or as much of it as he knew, we may as well describe Jack Hall, the Maori scout, as he was called, especially as he will occupy a somewhat prominent part in these pages.
Jack Hall, or to give him the benefit of his full appellation, the Maori scout, was no Maori at all, unless he may be called a naturalised
He was a true pakeha Maori, had a thorough knowledge of bushcraft, and of every part of the country; spoke the language, even to the various dialects, of which there are seven, and was well known to the whites as Jack Hall, and to the Maoris as Hake Hori. He was celebrated throughout the country, not less for his skill with the rifle than for the rapidity and secrecy of his movements, and his thorough acquaintance with the tactics of Maori bush warfare, and was, therefore, looked upon as no small acquisition to the British.
Amongst the Maoris, especially the friendlies and the neutrals, he possessed very great influence, even to the extent of being permitted, and frequently invited, to take part in their Koreros and most sacred rites, while to the disaffected tribes he was an object of dread, for had he not been declared tapu by the great Atua himself, the Atua of Atuas, who dwelt in the crater of Ruapehua? Had he not been invested with the Pounamu tapu, the sacred clouded greenstone drop, taken from the ear of the Supreme Deity, which it was sacrilege for even an Ariki to touch? Was he not a wizard, endowed with the most powerful functions of the Makutu, and able, were he injured or offended, to call down fire from heaven, to dry up rivers, to drive away the fish, and to blight the crops?
The simple fact was that he was a gipsy by birth, and had at one time been a conjuror,—a professor of legerdemain,—and his marvellous tricks of sleight-of-hand, manipulation of the cards, and knowledge of chemistry enabled him so to befool and mystify the, in such respects, simple-minded children of Nature, amongst whom he dwelt, as to impress them with the belief that he was a being of supernatural powers. Certainly some of the priests—the wise men of the tribes—doubted this; but, as they were equally interested in gulling the common people, it suited them very well to keep up the deception, and to play into his hands so long as he played into theirs.
Jack Hall listened attentively to Frank's recital with a slight smile of contempt when he mentioned the magic cauldron and the mesmeric passes.
“And who was the Maori who, you say, struck you down with his mere?”
“That I know not. Matutira would not tell me his name.”
“And she shot him with your rifle, and left him dead in the bush by the Opunake stream?”
“So she said.”
Jack Hall paced the cavern uneasily, muttering to himself, “So this is Tainui's work. I thought the fellow was lying when he told me his cock-and-bull story of having been fired at as he was quietly passing through the bush in search of me. All the better, as it gives me a still greater hold on him. “And now,” he said aloud, suddenly stopping in front of Frank, “what is it you want me to do?”
“Help me to escape from this horrible den.”
“Young fellow,” was the reply, “I know who gave the patu on the Opunake—”
“And who was it?” interrupted Frank eagerly.
“Perhaps you will know some day. At present it is my secret, and hers. Enough, you want me to help you to get away from here ?”
“If you will.”
“I both will and can. I know more of you than you think for, and I—I—like you. More than that, you can be of service to me; therefore, I can and will aid you. But you must do something for me in return. I do nothing for nothing.”
“Anything I can—”
“Just so—make no rash promises until you hear. I will help you to quit this place, and—I will help you in another direction, when it is needed. Now listen. First of all, you must promise me not to say one word to anyone—anyone—mark me—either about last night's attack, or about this cave, or even its existence, until I give you leave.”
“Not even to—?”
“Not even to any living soul,” was the stern reply.
“Very well, you have my word, my oath if you will. I promise.”
“Enough! your word will do. The man who will break his word will break his oath, at least I think so. Then, again, you must promise to meet me, alone, at such time and place as I shall appoint.”
“Yes, but when?”
“That I will find means to let you know.”
“I promise.”
“Very well; now watch. I am about to show you the secret of this cave, a secret known only to myself, to Matutira, and to—another. Light the lamp.”
Frank did so with a beating heart. What wonderful revelation was about to be made to him?
Jack Hall went on—“Observe these rocky walls; not a chink, not a crevice that a mouse could penetrate. Here you might stay until the day of doom, unless, ah, unless—now look.”
As he spoke, he crossed th