"War to the Knife;" or, Tangata Maori by Rolf Boldrewood (top 10 novels of all time .txt) 📖

marshes, in daily risk of being "shot like a rabbit in a ride," the same Massinger of the Court, who was wont to turn out so spick and span at covert and copse?

He could hardly believe it, any more than that the sardonic soldier at his side, whose unsparing comments included the Government, the New Zealand Company, the soldiers, and the sailors, the general, the governor, the colonists, the natives, by no means excepting himself, as the champion idiots of the century, was the erstwhile debonair Dudley Slyde, faultless in costume as unapproachable in languid elegance.

[Pg 261]

It has been observed that a campaign brings out the best or worst points of a man's character. This struck Massinger as a proposition proved to demonstration when he saw the cheerful acquiescence of Mr. Slyde in the drudgeries and dangers of their harassing expeditions. He it was who volunteered for "fatigue" duty by night or day; ready at any hour to help to bury the dead, to forage for provisions, to cover retreat, to attend the wounded, at the same time keeping up the cheerfulness of the rank and file by his withering execrations, which, from their very incongruousness, always provoked the laughter of his comrades.

The simple privates voted him the "rummest chap as ever they see," at the same time fully appreciating his coolness under fire and many-sided utility.

Nor was Warwick unmindful of the necessity of keeping up the reputation of les trois mousquetaires, as they were occasionally called. He exhibited in his personal traits certain distinct tendencies derived from an admixture of the races. Grave, steadfast, and trustworthy, obedient to orders, as became his Anglo-Saxon descent, he was occasionally affected with the Berserker frenzy of his mother's people. At such moments he would rush to the front, heedless of friends or foes, and indulge himself in the blood-fury of her reckless race. When mixed up with friendly natives he would stalk through the hottest of the fire with those younger chiefs, who desired to have some daring achievement to boast of when the war was over. It more than once happened that his companions returned no more, having fallen to a man in the breach, or when they had surmounted the [Pg 262] lofty palisades which engirdled the fortress, behind which lay trench and fascine, gallery and bastion. So far Warwick had always returned, blood-stained and powder-blackened, with torn uniform and dimmed accoutrements, dropping with fatigue, and half dead with thirst, but safe and unharmed, ready—and more than ready—for the next day's exploits. When in this mood he had been seen side by side with the famous Winiata, standing on the parapet of a beleaguered redoubt, having guns handed to them, with which they kept up a ceaseless fusilade, they themselves the centre of a close and deadly volley.

Even in the midst of war's alarms the English soldier finds time for recreative pastime and the omnipresent national sports.

Football and cricket, polo and other matches flourish, in which distinction is enjoyed with a pathetic disregard of the morrow. When it chances that the "demon bowler" of the regiment, who has taken five wickets in four "overs," is himself bowled next day with a smaller ball and yet more deadly delivery, short shrift and brief requiem suffice. The batsman's stumps are scattered, and no L.B.W. affords an appeal to the umpire.

In polo the fortune of war, indeed, dwarfs the untoward accidents of the game. Who can object to a "crumpler" of a fall, when horse and rider may so soon form part of the sad company "in one red burial blent"? No! the bugle-call sounds to arms, and his comrades form in line, all unheeding of the gap in the ranks.

There is a superficial appearance of callousness about our British customs in this respect. But none [Pg 263] the less is deep and sincere mourning made for the dead; none the less among Britons in action all over the world is care for the wounded, self-sacrificing heroism in the field, so common as to be inconspicuous.

Hurdle-racing, not to say steeplechasing, was in abeyance, owing to the low condition of the cavalry arm, and the extreme difficulty in procuring fodder. The climate and the native pasture forbade the grass-feeding, which in Australia would have been all-sufficing. But polo, owing to the exertions of those officers who had served in India, and to the occasional capture of Maori ponies, became most popular. Football, again, was eminently suited to the damp and cold region in which their lines were cast, and supplied the means of warmth and exercise at small cost.

These sports kept up the spirits of the variously gathered forces. The Maori allies took to the game of football with zest and enthusiasm, their astonishing activity and strength making them almost an overmatch for their British instructors. Their shouts and war-cries, when there was no particular need for caution, made the camp lively and animated, tending to produce, as similar sports peculiar to England and her colonies always do, a feeling of harmony and good fellowship between the different orders and races, invaluable for the morale of the heterogeneous force gathered on the banks of the Waikato.

But all other interests and expectations were dulled in comparison with those which prevailed on the day when the somewhat irregular arrival of the mails took place.

Often by water would the messenger appear. A canoe would steal up to river-bank or lake-shore [Pg 264] at midnight, freighted with the hopes and fears of a thousand lives; or a solitary native would come tearing through the mazes of the forest, bleeding from briars, panting audibly, like an Indian runner in the old French war of the Canadas, and, casting down the precious wallet with a "hugh!" expressive of deep relief, saunter off to the Maori camp, where a sufficiency of pork and kumera awaited him, or at the worst, dried shark, pippi, and fern-root.

Then, as the priceless missives were handed to the feverishly expectant possessors, what sudden revulsions of feeling were apparent! Few had sufficient self-control to await the moment when the contents could be devoured in secrecy. But, standing about in all directions, could the recipients be descried with open letter and expressive features, relaxed, fixed, satisfied, overjoyed, relieved, despairing, according as the Fates had dealt the measure of weal or woe.

At such a momentous ordeal, when his letters were given to Massinger, one came in the well-known hand of Mrs. Merivale, n�e Branksome.

Putting the collection into his pocket without trace of excitement, he wended his way to his tent, where, seating himself, he opened the envelope, and read as follows:—

"My dear Sir Roland,

"As Harry sees all your letters, and occasionally criticizes mine from a man's point of view (terribly wrong, as I always tell him), I may without indiscretion supply the possessive prefix. Sounds quite learned, doesn't it? Besides, ten—or is it not twelve?—thousand miles' distance prevents a hint of [Pg 265] impropriety in our correspondence. After all this explanation, I proceed to say 'How do you do?' How are you getting on in that most unpleasant war, which would be ludicrous if it were not so dangerous, and into which you seem to have rushed for no conceivable reason, but because you disapprove and have no earthly interest connected with it? Talk of man being a rational being, indeed!

"He often argues like one, but how rarely—almost never, indeed—does he act in accordance with his theories!

"However, like all decent Englishmen embarked in a quarrel, you are bound in honour to go through with it. The question which perplexes your friends—and you have a few, rather more than the average, indeed—is why you should have gone into it at all. I am not going to say 'Que le diable, etc.'—by the way, I ought to have stopped at the 'Que'—but we all think so!

"One exhausts one's self in trying to find a cause (reason, of course, there is none) for this effect; that is, for your migration to the 'other side of the world,' as Jean Ingelow has it in that dear song of hers. I have been reading German philosophy lately, and now know that you must go much further back than is generally thought necessary for people's tastes and dispositions, principles, and actions.

"This, then, would be the formula. First, Hypatia's parents, or one of them, having, on account of some accidental family trait, bestowed upon her an abnormally altruistic nature.

"Then they proceed to furnish her with a shamefully superior and unnecessary education, developing [Pg 266] her intellect at the expense of her common sense, so that she feels herself vowed to the social advancement of the masses (as if they are not even now unpleasantly close to the classes). This by the way.

"Cause No. 2: Strenuous attempts to move the social fabric, with the usual effect—loss of health and failure of 'mission,' self-dedicated.

"Cause No. 3: Her refusal of the 'plain duty of womanhood,' and so on, which wrecks your career, as far as we can see, without improving her own. However, she will doubtless plead that 'her intentions were good.' Harry, who has been looking over my shoulder (most improperly, I tell him), comes out with, 'D—n her intentions!' (or words to that effect). 'Women always say so when they've made a more destructive muddle of things than usual!' He has now been chased out of the room, so I proceed to finish my letter in peace.

"As it is nearing the end, I may treat you to a bit of news which you may regard as more important than the whole of the preceding despatch. Our mutual friend has a dearest chum in New Zealand, to whom she is devoted—the wife of a missionary clergyman. They live in your shockingly disturbed district, where for some years they have been converting the heathen with gratifying results. This Mary Summers is the best of young women, and, when she is not making 'moral pocket 'ankerchers,' writes to our Hypatia. I don't want to be irreverent (Harry says—well, never mind; but he doesn't like that kind of thing—says it's bad form), only the temptation was irresistible. Well, where was I? Oh! she says 'the field' is most interesting; the Maoris [Pg 267] are a noble race—ten times more worthy of a life's devotion than our slum savages, and so on. Well, Hypatia, being discouraged about them, appears to me to incline to a Maori crusade. So that it is possible—mind, I go no further—that one of these days you might see 'the—er—one loved name,' or 'once loved,' as the case might be, in a passenger list.

"More wonderful things have happened before now, and I certainly did find her reading 'Ranulf and Amohia' the other day.

"It is really dreadful the length of this letter of mine. However, I must tell you a little news. Your successor at Massinger Court has got on very well with the county. Just at first, of course, people, after the manner of our cautious country-folk, fought shy of them. After a while, however, they were voted 'nice,' especially after Lord Lake, an ex-Governor, and his wife, Lady Maud, came down to stay with them, and it leaked out that they were related to the Lexingtons of Saxmundham. Not that they mentioned the fact. Harry says the son is a capital fellow—rides, shoots, hunts, in most proper style, quiet in manner, but amusing, and plays polo and cricket better than most men.

"The girls, too, are pretty and pleasant, great at tennis and archery, besides being musical. The father subscribes liberally to the county charities, and is hand-and-glove with the parson, who says he is unusually well read. So you are in danger of being forgotten—do you hear, sir?—and serve you right, by all but a very few, who still think occasionally of the rightful owner of Massinger Court and Chase; among whom [Pg 268] I am proud to enrol myself, and (this is the last sheet) remain

"Always yours very sincerely,

"Elizabeth Merivale."     

The dawn was breaking on the morning of a cold and gusty day, as the shivering men of the No. 2 Company of the Forest Rangers were drying themselves at an indifferent fire, when Warwick held up a warning hand.

"Some one coming."

Mr. Slyde lifted his rifle carelessly, and remarked, "A morning call. One of our scouts, or a toa bent on death or glory. He should have come last night, when we were too tired to cook supper; now I feel as if a brush with the 'hostiles' would revive me."

"It's no native," affirmed Warwick. "He has boots on, and is walking too fast for a surprise party. Here he comes."

As he spoke, the bush parted, and a plainly dressed man in dark clothes walked rapidly across the open ground in front of the camp.

"By Jove, it's the bishop!" said Mr. Slyde. Then advancing, he bowed, and in deeply respectful tones greeted the apostolic prelate who departed so seriously from the modern manner of bishops of the Established Church.

"I am afraid, my lord, that you have had an uncomfortable journey; you must have started early if you came from Pukerimu."

"Comfort and I have long been at odds," said the stranger—for it was indeed George Augustus Selwyn, the famous Bishop of New