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The Greenstone Door

Chapter II I am Claimed in Utu and Become the Little Finger of Te Waharoa

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Chapter II I am Claimed in Utu and Become the Little Finger of Te Waharoa

He was an elderly man, grey-haired and deeply lined about the face, but lithe and active in movement. As he rose, he threw his cloak from him and now stood up clothed only in his war-girdle. In his hand was a club or mere of greenstone, a thong from the handle of the weapon being caught in a loop round his thumb.

"The old talk is done, pakeha," he said. "This is a new talk. Observe the words of the chief; they are considered words. Said he to you, 'Go thou,' or 'Go all of you'? No. 'Go you two' were the words of Te Waharoa. But here are three persons. Our talk relates to the third. Let us speak now of the child. Begin."

Whatever reply my protector might have made to this strange commencement was taken from his lips by the missionary, who, with that lack of imagination which so often renders futile the most heroic efforts of the single-minded, saw only the opportunity of turning my presence to account in the framing of still another reproof. Drawing back Purcell's coat till the firelight fell on my unconscious form, for by this time I was sound asleep, he cried, "Yes, look! Of all those who when the morning's sun dawned were alive and happy in this village, only this one poor babe remains."

But the effect of his words was far different from anything he could have anticipated. A murmur, partly of astonish-page 15ment, partly of wrath, ran round the circle, and several warriors rose to their feet, crying out together. In that instant of confusion the old man raised his weapon and made a blow at me which must have ended my career then and there had it not been for the vigilance of my protector. Frustrated in his first attempt, the savage drew back, his eyes gleaming fiercely, and began a watchful circling of the man and child, crouching low the while, his weapon held ready for a thrust. The warriors, restored to good-humour by interest in the new event, were now all shouting their advice, mostly to the attacker, but not a few to the white man, who stood like a great mastiff, watching the snarling approach of some too daring cur.

"Utu! A son for a son!"—"Be careful, O Ngaru! His fist is as the knot of a kauri tree."

The missionary, dismayed by this unexpected turn of events, drew near to Te Waharoa and, in more humble tones than he had yet used, besought him to exert his authority for the preservation of the white man and the child.

"Friend pakeha," responded the chief, with grim irony, "you have shown yourself a laggard both in coming and going. On your own head be the consequences." With that he waved the missionary aside and again turned his eyes on the central figures of the drama.

"Be wary, O Ngaru!" cried the warriors, "Let your blow strike the child only. Now! Now!"

With a feint that drew his adversary to shift his position, the old warrior bent and sprang with surprising agility at his mark; but, rapid as were his movements, they were met by others of equal quickness. The murderous thrust of the heavy mere glanced harmlessly aside, and a mighty blow on the neck of the crouching figure sent Ngaru rolling to the very feet of the leader of the war-party.

"Enough," said Te Waharoa. "Now we will talk. Let the white men seat themselves."

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The blow, which must have killed a man of less hardihood, seemed to have taken little effect on the old warrior. Rising to his feet, he gave a twist to his neck, as though to discover whether his head were still securely fixed on his shoulders, and then began a measured pacing up and down the sward, coming to a standstill as he reached the distance most desirable for oratorical effect, and speaking in brief sentences with long pauses between. The gist of his remarks was to the effect that the child was the son of Terekarene (Tregarthen), that the tribe had no quarrel with Tregarthen or any other pakeha, nor had they desired to injure him; nevertheless, Tregarthen—though warned of the mistake he was making—had espoused the cause of the people with whom he resided. He had fought desperately, and no less than seven of their bravest warriors had fallen to his hand alone. One of these warriors was the eldest son of the speaker. True that Tregarthen himself had been finally overpowered and slain, yet since he had ranked himself with their enemies all of his blood became also their enemies, and none should be suffered to remain alive. The correct process in circumstances of this kind was not to leave a blood-feud to be carried on by the generation that followed, but to make an end by the simple process of annihilation while the opportunity presented itself. It was correct that the child should be given up to the speaker as utu for his dead son.

A murmur of approval greeted this suggestion. Ngaru retired to his place, and another warrior took possession of the stage. He also had lost a son at the hand of Tregarthen, and therefore to him, equally with Ngaru, was the life of the child forfeited. The fact that the whole of the hapu1 had been destroyed was immaterial. Tregarthen was not of the hapu; he had begun a new quarrel, all the advantage of which was as yet on his side, for while they

1 Hapu – sub-tribe.

page 17had lost seven, Tregarthen s hapu had lost but one. Even the killing of the child would not equalise matters. Nevertheless, concluded the speaker magnanimously, let that suffice.

Several others followed, claiming utu for the death of a brother, a father, or-other relative; then came the other side. But the fire that distinguished the speakers for the prosecution was lacking from those who assumed the rôle of defence. It was evident that they were actuated by the love of debate and not at all by any feeling of humanity. They were learned in the law of utu, and unfolded it, in precedent and opinion, as being averse to the demands of the claimants. Presently the deadly imminence of the question seemed to withdraw into a mist of words. For a full hour argument and counter-argument clashed and wrestled, while I slept on, and my protectors awaited the issue with what patience they might. At length the audience—hitherto ready to applaud any telling forensic speech—gave evidences of surfeit.

"Hoi ano! Ka mutu!"1 cried the throng.

All this time the chief had sat perfectly still, his eyes cast down, giving no sign that he took any interest in the proceedings, until the impatient cries of the warriors seemed to arouse him, as from a reverie. Motioning the last speaker aside, he bent his eyes on my protector.

"And the pakeha," he asked, "what has he to say in this matter?"

"Only this, Te Waharoa," said Purcell, rising to his feet. "It is not the life of one that is in question, but of two."

"Nay, of three," cried the missionary, springing to his companion's side.

Purcell's tone had been stern, but at this fiery support his voice dropped and took on a quaint humorousness.

1 Enough! End it!

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"It is not, chief," he said quickly, and before Wake could continue, "that I venture to dispute with these eloquent gentlemen as to what is or is not in conformity with the law of utu, That is a Maori law. I only know the law of the white man, which bids me stand by this little one as long as I can."

"You would fight for the child, then, pakeha?" said Te Waharoa, with cold contempt.

"So, chief. As for my friend, he is a man of God and of peace. Whatever may be said of us others, the missionary seeks nothing for himself. He asks nothing of you that is not for your own good in the doing. It would be a lasting stain on the Maori race if he should come to harm because of this. Therefore, let him go in peace. With respect to the child, I claim him by a law stronger than your utu, the law of humanity. He who would take his life must first take mine."

A dead silence followed this calmly spoken yet resolute speech. As there is no braver race than the Maori, so there is none more quick to see and admire courage. But perception and appreciation of bravery are not necessarily conjoined with the desire to spare the courageous, and while the resolution of the white man awoke admiration it aroused also in the warlike minds of Te Waharoa's warriors the desire to match themselves against it. In an instant a score of warriors leaped to their feet and, with a cry of defiance, sprang towards the white men.

Te Waharoa also rose, his gleaming eyes fixed steadily and with curiosity on the central figure. How—those eyes seemed to ask—would he act when the crucial moment came? Was this white man indeed daring enough to face alone and unarmed the very flower of the Maori race? So it seemed, for Purcell having given utterance to his resolution, stood silent and unmoved, following with watchful eyes the motions of the howling mob around him.

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As the armed warriors rushed upon them, the missionary had attempted to close in upon his companion, but, and as though acting in accordance with some concerted plan, the attackers, without striking a blow, drove between the two white men, thrusting Wake back until he stood within arm's length of the chief,

"Te Waharoa," he cried, breathlessly seizing his opportunity, "end this before it is too late. If you think to frighten this man into surrendering the child, then you misjudge him. His blood will be on your hands, and you will bring down on your head the execration of the pakehas."

The chief's brow contracted as he listened. He vouchsafed no reply, but, turning to those about him, uttered a curt command. The missionary was immediately surrounded and forced, without actual violence, to the outskirts of the crowd, where he was bidden to seat himself and remain quiet under pain of instant death.

Meanwhile Purcell stood surrounded at a distance of a few yards by a grimacing and dancing ring, shouting jests and defiance. The jests, indeed, predominated, and it would have been difficult for any person not conversant with the character of the actors to have perceived, in a scene of so much apparent good-humour, a savage and relentless purpose. Yet the most barbarous races are not incapable of acts of chivalry. A young brave, whose magnificent proportions were not unworthy to be matched with the giant frame of Purcell himself, suddenly cast his spear perpendicularly forward into the hand of the white man.

"Defend thyself, O pakeha!" he cried, and, seizing his mere, rushed to the attack.

Whether or no the fact that Purcell was unarmed had hitherto acted as a deterrent to the assault, the spear had no sooner fallen into his hand than his assailants were upon him. But the conflict—desperate indeed as between one page 20and twenty—was no longer of the-impossible character that had first threatened. The young brave had in fact put into the hand of his enemy the only spear possessed by the attackers; the one weapon which could be trusted to keep at a distance the short clubs and tomahawks of his assailants.

Purcell's wits had all this time been at work. He had looked keenly about him for some object against which he could set his back, but the ground for some distance around was destitute of post or tree. There remained but the fire, and, desperate as he recognised the position to be, with roaring flames behind him and twenty enemies in front, he did not hesitate to accept it. As the ring continued to dance round him, he had worked his way, with apparently purposeless movements, nearer and nearer to the fire, hoping to provide himself not only with an unassailable rear, but also a weapon of defence. Thus when the spear came into his grasp he was provided with a plan, and lost not an instant in putting it in execution. So close was he to the flames that the ring in that quarter was already broken. He took one step forward, and, with a whirl of the spear that effectually cleared his flanks, faced about to meet the assault.

It was impossible that he should long withstand it, yet for the best part of a minute none got within the guard of that whirling point, or reached to it without feeling its thrust. Sideways he leapt, and, with fingers glued to the staunch wood, thrust and smote. Once at a crucial moment he stepped right back into the fire and kicked hot ashes and flaming embers into the faces of his assailants, falling on them before they could recover themselves and driving them ignominiously before him. But when the spectators beheld this tremendous feat of arms and realised the shame which threatened the taua, they sprang up in their tens and scores and rushed to join in the conflict.

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Scorched by the flames, perspiration streaming from his face, but uninjured and with the child still safe in the bend of his arm, the dauntless white man caught his spear in a fresh grasp and looked with steady gaze at approaching death. No single arm could withstand even for a moment the multitude that now came against him. Only a miracle could save him. And the miracle happened. One instant he was gazing into the fierce, contorted faces of his enemies; in the next the whole scene was blotted from his vision. Something had fallen, as from the sky and enveloped him. Was it a ruse of the enemy? Hampered by the child and the necessity of retaining possession of his spear, it was impossible that he could free himself before the death-blow fell. But the moments passed and nothing happened. He became aware of a silence that, in contrast with the uproar of the preceding minutes, was as death itself. Could that be the solution of the mystery? Suddenly the obscuring veil was withdrawn and he looked wonderingly about him.

Before him, as though arrested and petrified in midcareer, were the enemies whose last seen motions had threatened to overwhelm him. Their faces expressed chagrin, verging on anger, but held in check by something approaching awe. At his side, holding his great mat of dog-skin dependent from one hand, stood the chief, Te Waharoa.

"Enough, O warriors!" he said quietly. "This pakeha is the Thumb of my Right Hand; the child is my Little Finger."

Not a voice was raised. As though the words possessed in themselves some magical charm to still the passions of men, the attackers melted away and became merged in the rest of the war-party. Soon the chief and the white man over whom he had cast the mantle of his protection stood alone.

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"Pakeha," said the former, "as concerns you and the child and the Man of Many Words, be at ease; henceforth the tapu1 of Te Waharoa clothes and protects you. For to-night enough has been spoken. My young men will guide you to a whare where presently food shall be brought to you. But see to it that the Man of Words does not trouble me again."

"I shall do your bidding, chief," said Purcell. "For the protection you have given me and the child, I thank you. Is it permitted me without offence to speak one more word?"

"Speak, pakeha."

"It concerns the body of the white man, the father of this child——"

"It shall be sent to you. Do with it as you please. As for the food, have no fear. The Maori follows the custom of his forefathers, but he is not prone, as the Man of Words, to thrust his observances on the stranger."

With this parting thrust at the missionary, the chief turned away, while Purcell, inwardly congratulating himself on his narrow escape from death, stood to await the arrival of the promised guide.

He came in the person of the young chief who had so gallantly and opportunely thrown him his spear, and he brought Wake with him.

"Come, great warrior," said the brave, running an eye admiringly over the form of the Englishman.

"Comrade," said my protector, extending his hand, "if it should ever chance to you to need the help of a white man, to me belongs the right. Let me know the name of a brave enemy, that I may remember it among those of my friends."

"Paoa," responded the youth, his face showing gratification. "The pakeha is a fighter of fighters. He has

1 See note, p. 400.

page 23given many wounds, yet received none. What of the child?"

"Still sleeps on, unharmed."

"Truly, it is wonderful," commented Paoa. "I and many others sought only the life of the child."

"Such words sound harshly in the ears of your friend, Paoa," said my protector reprovingly. "Does it become a brave warrior to make war on an infant?"

Paoa shrugged his shoulders. "What matter a life that knows not of itself," he said; "it is as a bird that falls in the thick bush and is remembered not at all."

Both the white men recognised that the moral aspect made no appeal to the savage mind, and refrained from continuing the argument.

"He is now the Little Finger of Te Waharoa," Purcell reminded him.

"And the Little Finger may grow into the Right Hand of the Chief's enemies," was the reply. "But come, let us go."

He led the way round the fire, and, avoiding the groups of warriors making their way in the direction of the cooking fires, set off at a brisk pace round the outskirts of the ravaged village. The fires that for the best part of an hour had rocked and roared on the hill summit, a beacon of terror and warning to the surrounding country, were now dying down, heaps of glowing ashes marking the spots where the homes of the villagers had so recently stood. Purcell shuddered as he saw in imagination the dismembered bodies of those villagers now prisoned in the fiery stones of Te Waharoa's ovens.

After proceeding at a rapid pace for something like half a mile, their guide turned in towards the village, and a minute or two later stopped before a group of buildings which had escaped the fate of the rest. These were three in number, and though with none of the adornments that mark the more sacred edifices of the Maori pa, were yet page 24apparently substantially built and in good repair. The largest of the three, built on piles to exclude vermin, was a storehouse of such dimensions that Purcell paused to ask their guide to whom it had belonged.

"To the pakeha," Paoa replied briefly.

"Then it is to the child's home that you have brought us?"

The native made a gesture of assent and, sliding back the door of the building by which they stood, motioned them to enter. Darting away at the same moment, he returned ere they were well inside the dark interior with a flaming brand plucked from a burning building. A small lamp, still containing oil, stood on a rough table, the legs of which were sunk into the earthen floor, and presently in its dim light the white men looked round on the rude home of a man of their race, who had fallen a victim to the tribal wars of his adopted country. That the place had been raided by the conquerors was evident by the confusion that prevailed. The contents of chests and shelves, or such part of them as had not found favour with the raiders, lay in heaps or scattered broadcast over the floor. Little of economic value remained; books and papers formed the greater part of the litter. The sleeping-bunks were bare of coverings, save for one tattered blanket, in which, after a glance round, my protector wrapped my still unconscious form, subsequently depositing me on the bunk.

The missionary, overcome by the horrors he had witnessed, sank to a seat, and with his chin in his hands stared gloomily at the floor.

"Come, Mr. Wake," said Purcell, cheerfully, "let us rather thank God for the little we have accomplished than lament over what we have failed to do."

Mr. Wake shuddered and shook himself, as from a nightmare. "You are right, my friend," he said. "Forgive my weakness. It is not to every man that there is given page 25the greatness of soul to face such scenes undismayed, Now let us consider what is to be done for Tregarthen's child."

Paoa, who, after lighting the lamp, had carried his firebrand outside, now returned with an armful of rugs, which he threw down on the vacant bunk. "Food and drink shall be sent for the pakehas," he announced, pausing in the doorway.

"The storehouse has not been touched then, my friend?" said Purcell, indicating the rugs, which had apparently never been in use.

"No. All therein is the war-spoil of the chief."

"Friend Paoa, it seems to me that, instead of utu being payable by the child, he has a right to demand it of those who have bereft him of father and possessions—of all save the rags in which he lies."

The warrior's eyes followed the direction of Purcell's to the little bundle on the bunk. "Many chiefs and sons of chiefs fell in this quarrel," he replied; "their beds are not so soft as that of the child."

My protector nodded. "Go then, friend," he said. But he continued to discuss the question with Wake, whose knowledge of native law and custom was considerable.

The missionary roused himself to the consideration of a problem beset with difficulties. Having dismissed the claim of the other side and thus acknowledged me to be a non-combatant, Te Waharoa had laid himself open to be proceeded against in turn. But was this a moment to enter a claim? If the motives that had actuated the chief in sparing my life were sufficiently powerful, they might extend also to the preserving to me of the possessions of my father. In short, it was impossible to entertain any action save an appeal to the clemency of the conqueror. While this decision was being arrived at, the sound of voices and approaching footsteps brought both men to the door-page 26way. In the darkness momentarily dispersed by the winking flame of the failing fires, was a body of men moving in single file towards the hut. A long pole rested on their shoulders, and sagging from the middle was a mysterious bundle closely swathed in fern.

In this manner my father, with the blood of seven warriors on his dead hands, returned to his home.