European vessels, they had maintained their liberty in their several
islands. No European power had thought of taking possession of this
archipelago, which commands the whole Pacific Ocean. The missionaries
stationed at various points were the sole channels of Christian
civilization. Some of them, especially the Anglicans, prepared the minds
of the New Zealand chiefs for submitting to the English yoke. It was
cleverly managed, and these chiefs were influenced to sign a letter
addressed to Queen Victoria to ask her protection. But the most
clearsighted of them saw the folly of this step; and one of them,
after having affixed his tattoo-mark to the letter by way of signature,
uttered these prophetic words: “We have lost our country! henceforth it
is not ours; soon the stranger will come and take it, and we shall be
his slaves.”
And so it was; on January 29, 1840, the English corvette HERALD arrived
to claim possession.
From the year 1840, till the day the DUNCAN left the Clyde, nothing had
happened here that Paganel did not know and he was ready to impart his
information to his companions.
“Madam,” said he, in answer to Lady Helena’s questions, “I must repeat
what I had occasion to remark before, that the New Zealanders are a
courageous people, who yielded for a moment, but afterward fought foot
to foot against the English invaders. The Maori tribes are organized
like the old clans of Scotland. They are so many great families owning a
chief, who is very jealous of his prerogative. The men of this race are
proud and brave, one tribe tall, with straight hair, like the Maltese,
or the Jews of Bagdad; the other smaller, thickset like mulattoes, but
robust, haughty, and warlike. They had a famous chief, named Hihi, a
real Vercingetorix, so that you need not be astonished that the war with
the English has become chronic in the Northern Island, for in it is
the famous tribe of the Waikatos, who defend their lands under the
leadership of William Thompson.”
“But,” said John Mangles, “are not the English in possession of the
principal points in New Zealand?”
“Certainly, dear John,” replied Paganel. “After Captain Hobson took
formal possession, and became governor, nine colonies were founded at
various times between 1840 and 1862, in the most favorable situations.
These formed the nucleus of nine provinces, four in the North Island
and five in the southern island, with a total population of 184,346
inhabitants on the 30th of June, 1864.”
“But what about this interminable war?” asked John Mangles.
“Well,” said Paganel, “six long months have gone by since we left
Europe, and I cannot say what may have happened during that time, with
the exception of a few facts which I gathered from the newspapers of
Maryborough and Seymour during our Australian journey. At that time the
fighting was very lively in the Northern Island.”
“And when did the war commence?” asked Mary Grant.
“Recommence, you mean, my dear young lady,” replied Paganel; “for there
was an insurrection so far back as 1845. The present war began toward
the close of 1863; but long before that date the Maories were occupied
in making preparations to shake off the English yoke. The national party
among the natives carried on an active propaganda for the election of a
Maori ruler. The object was to make old Potatau king, and to fix as the
capital of the new kingdom his village, which lay between the Waikato
and Waipa Rivers. Potatau was an old man, remarkable rather for cunning
than bravery; but he had a Prime Minister who was both intelligent and
energetic, a descendant of the Ngatihahuas, who occupied the isthmus
before the arrival of the strangers. This minister, William Thompson,
became the soul of the War of Independence, and organized the Maori
troops, with great skill. Under this guidance a Taranaki chief gathered
the scattered tribes around the same flag; a Waikato chief formed a
‘Land League,’ intended to prevent the natives from selling their land
to the English Government, and warlike feasts were held just as in
civilized countries on the verge of revolution. The English newspapers
began to notice these alarming symptoms, and the government became
seriously disturbed at these ‘Land League’ proceedings. In short, the
train was laid, and the mine was ready to explode. Nothing was wanted
but the spark, or rather the shock of rival interests to produce the
spark.
“This shock took place in 1860, in the Taranaki province on the
southwest coast of Ika-na-Mani. A native had six hundred acres of
land in the neighborhood of New Plymouth. He sold them to the English
Government; but when the surveyor came to measure the purchased land,
the chief Kingi protested, and by the month of March he had made the six
hundred acres in question into a fortified camp, surrounded with high
palisades. Some days after Colonel Gold carried this fortress at the
head of his troops, and that day heard the first shot fired of the
native war.”
“Have the rebels been successful up to this time?”
“Yes, Madam, and the English themselves have often been compelled to
admire the courage and bravery of the New Zealanders. Their mode of
warfare is of the guerilla type; they form skirmishing parties, come
down in small detachments, and pillage the colonists’ homes. General
Cameron had no easy time in the campaigns, during which every bush
had to be searched. In 1863, after a long and sanguinary struggle, the
Maories were entrenched in strong and fortified position on the Upper
Waikato, at the end of a chain of steep hills, and covered by three
miles of forts. The native prophets called on all the Maori population
to defend the soil, and promised the extermination of the pakekas,
or white men. General Cameron had three thousand volunteers at his
disposal, and they gave no quarter to the Maories after the barbarous
murder of Captain Sprent. Several bloody engagements took place; in some
instances the fighting lasted twelve hours before the Maories yielded
to the English cannonade. The heart of the army was the fierce Waikato
tribe under William Thompson. This native general commanded at the
outset 2,500 warriors, afterward increased to 8,000. The men of Shongi
and Heki, two powerful chiefs, came to his assistance. The women took
their part in the most trying labors of this patriotic war. But right
has not always might. After severe struggles General Cameron succeeded
in subduing the Waikato district, but empty and depopulated, for the
Maories escaped in all directions. Some wonderful exploits were related.
Four hundred Maories who were shut up in the fortress of Orakau,
besieged by 1,000 English, under Brigadier-General Carey, without water
or provisions, refused to surrender, but one day at noon cut their way
through the then decimated 40th Regiment, and escaped to the marshes.”
“But,” asked John Mangles, “did the submission of the Waikato district
put an end to this sanguinary war?”
“No, my friend,” replied Paganel. “The English resolved to march on
Taranaki province and besiege Mataitawa, William Thompson’s fortress.
But they did not carry it without great loss. Just as I was leaving
Paris, I heard that the Governor and the General had accepted the
submission of the Tauranga tribes, and left them in possession of
three-fourths of their lands. It was also rumored that the principal
chief of the rebellion, William Thompson, was inclined to surrender, but
the Australian papers have not confirmed this, but rather the contrary,
and I should not be surprised to find that at this moment the war is
going on with renewed vigor.”
“Then, according to you, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “this struggle is
still going on in the provinces of Auckland and Taranaki?”
“I think so.”
“This very province where the MACQUARIE’S wreck has deposited us.”
“Exactly. We have landed a few miles above Kawhia harbor, where the
Maori flag is probably still floating.”
“Then our most prudent course would be to keep toward the north,”
remarked Glenarvan.
“By far the most prudent,” said Paganel. “The New Zealanders are
incensed against Europeans, and especially against the English.
Therefore let us avoid falling into their hands.”
“We might have the good fortune to fall in with a detachment of European
troops,” said Lady Helena.
“We may, Madam,” replied the geographer; “but I do not expect it.
Detached parties do not like to go far into the country, where the
smallest tussock, the thinnest brushwood, may conceal an accomplished
marksman. I don’t fancy we shall pick up an escort of the 40th Regiment.
But there are mission-stations on this west coast, and we shall be able
to make them our halting-places till we get to Auckland.”
CHAPTER VIII ON THE ROAD TO AUCKLAND
ON the 7th of February, at six o’clock in the morning, the signal for
departure was given by Glenarvan. During the night the rain had ceased.
The sky was veiled with light gray clouds, which moderated the heat of
the sun, and allowed the travelers to venture on a journey by day.
Paganel had measured on the map a distance of eighty miles between Point
Kawhia and Auckland; it was an eight days’ journey if they made ten
miles a day. But instead of following the windings of the coast,
he thought it better to make for a point thirty miles off, at the
confluence of the Waikato and the Waipa, at the village of Ngarnavahia.
The “overland track” passes that point, and is rather a path than a
road, practicable for the vehicles which go almost across the island,
from Napier, in Hawke’s Bay, to Auckland. From this village it would be
easy to reach Drury, and there they could rest in an excellent hotel,
highly recommended by Dr. Hochstetter.
The travelers, each carrying a share of the provisions, commenced to
follow the shore of Aotea Bay. From prudential motives they did not
allow themselves to straggle, and by instinct they kept a look-out over
the undulating plains to the eastward, ready with their loaded carbines.
Paganel, map in hand, took a professional pleasure in verifying the
minutest details.
The country looked like an immense prairie which faded into distance,
and promised an easy walk. But the travelers were undeceived when they
came to the edge of this verdant plain. The grass gave way to a low
scrub of small bushes bearing little white flowers, mixed with those
innumerable tall ferns with which the lands of New Zealand abound. They
had to cut a path across the plain, through these woody stems, and this
was a matter of some difficulty, but at eight o’clock in the evening the
first slopes of the Hakarihoata Ranges were turned, and the party camped
immediately. After a fourteen miles’ march, they might well think of
resting.
Neither wagon or tent being available, they sought repose beneath some
magnificent Norfolk Island pines. They had plenty of rugs which make
good beds. Glenarvan took every possible precaution for the night. His
companions and he, well armed, were to watch in turns, two and two,
till daybreak. No fires were lighted. Barriers of fire are a potent
preservation from wild beasts, but New Zealand has neither tiger, nor
lion, nor bear, nor any wild animal, but the Maori adequately fills
their place, and a fire would only have served to attract this
two-footed jaguar.
The night passed pleasantly with the exception of the attack of the
sand-flies, called by the natives, “ngamu,” and the visit of the
audacious family of rats, who exercised their teeth on the provisions.
Next day, on the 8th of February, Paganel rose more sanguine, and almost
reconciled to the country. The Maories, whom he particularly dreaded,
had not yet appeared, and these ferocious cannibals had not molested him
even in his dreams. “I begin to think that our little journey will end
favorably. This evening we shall reach the confluence of the Waipa and
Waikato, and after that there is not much chance of meeting natives on
the way to Auckland.”
“How far is it now,” said Glenarvan, “to the confluence of the Waipa and
Waikato?”
“Fifteen miles; just about what we did yesterday.”
“But we shall be terribly delayed if this interminable scrub continues
to obstruct our path.”
“No,” said Paganel, “we shall follow the banks of the Waipa, and then we
shall have no obstacle, but on the contrary, a very easy road.”
“Well, then,” said Glenarvan, seeing the ladies ready, “let us make a
start.”
During the early part of the day, the thick brushwood seriously impeded
their progress. Neither wagon nor horses could have passed where
travelers passed, so that their Australian vehicle was but slightly
regretted. Until practicable wagon roads are cut through these forests
of scrub, New Zealand will only be accessible to foot passengers.
The ferns, whose name is legion, concur with the Maories in keeping
strangers off the lands.
The little party overcame many obstacles in crossing the plains in which
the Hakarihoata Ranges rise. But before noon they reached the banks of
the Waipa, and followed the northward course of the river.
The Major and Robert, without leaving their companions, shot some snipe
and partridge under the low shrubs of the plain. Olbinett, to save time,
plucked the birds as he went along.
Paganel was less absorbed by the culinary importance of the game than by
the desire of obtaining some bird peculiar to New Zealand. His curiosity
as a naturalist overcame his hunger as a traveler. He called to mind
the peculiarities of the “tui” of the natives, sometimes called the
mocking-bird from its incessant chuckle, and sometimes “the parson,”
in allusion to the white cravat it wears over its black, cassock-like
plumage.
“The tui,” said Paganel to the Major, “grows so fat during the Winter
that it makes him ill, and prevents him from flying. Then he tears his
breast with his beak, to relieve himself of his fat, and so becomes
lighter. Does not that seem to you singular, McNabbs?”
“So singular that I don’t believe a word of it,” replied the Major.
Paganel, to his great regret, could not find a single specimen, or he
might have shown the incredulous Major the bloody scars on the breast.
But he was more fortunate with a strange animal which, hunted by men,
cats and dogs, has fled toward the unoccupied country, and is fast
disappearing from the fauna of New Zealand. Robert, searching like a
ferret, came upon a nest made of interwoven roots, and in it a pair of
birds destitute of wings and tail, with four toes, a long snipe-like
beak, and a covering of white feathers over the whole body, singular
creatures, which seemed to connect the oviparous tribes with the
mammifers.
It was the New Zealand “kiwi,” the -Apteryx australis- of naturalists,
which lives with equal satisfaction on larvae, insects, worms or seeds.
This bird is peculiar to the country. It has been introduced into very
few of the zoological collections of Europe. Its graceless shape and
comical motions have always attracted the notice of travelers, and
during the great exploration of the Astrolabe and the Zelee, Dumont
d’Urville was principally charged by the Academy of Sciences to bring
back a specimen of these singular birds. But in spite of rewards offered
to the natives, he could not obtain a single specimen.
Paganel, who was elated at such a piece of luck, tied the two birds
together, and carried them along with the intention of presenting them
to the Jardin des Plantes, in Paris. “Presented by M. Jacques Paganel.”
He mentally saw the flattering inscription on the handsomest cage in the
gardens. Sanguine geographer!
The party pursued their way without fatigue along the banks of the
Waipa. The country was quite deserted; not a trace of natives, nor any
track that could betray the existence of man. The stream was fringed
with tall bushes, or glided along sloping banks, so that nothing
obstructed the view of the low range of hills which closed the eastern
end of the valley. With their grotesque shapes, and their outlines
lost in a deceptive haze, they brought to mind giant animals, worthy
of antediluvian times. They might have been a herd of enormous whales,
suddenly turned to stone. These disrupted masses proclaimed their
essentially volcanic character. New Zealand is, in fact, a formation
of recent plutonic origin. Its emergence from the sea is constantly
increasing. Some points are known to have risen six feet in twenty
years. Fire still runs across its center, shakes it, convulses it, and
finds an outlet in many places by the mouths of geysers and the craters
of volcanoes.
At four in the afternoon, nine miles had been easily accomplished.
According to the map which Paganel constantly referred to, the
confluence of the Waipa and Waikato ought to be reached about five miles
further on, and there the night halt could be made. Two or three days
would then suffice for the fifty miles which lay between them and the
capital; and if Glenarvan happened to fall in with the mail coach that
plies between Hawkes’ Bay and Auckland twice a month, eight hours would
be sufficient.
“Therefore,” said Glenarvan, “we shall be obliged to camp during the
night once more.”
“Yes,” said Paganel, “but I hope for the last time.”
“I am very glad to think so, for it is very trying for Lady Helena and
Mary Grant.”
“And they never utter a murmur,” added John Mangles. “But I think I
heard you mention a village at the confluence of these rivers.”
“Yes,” said the geographer, “here it is, marked on Johnston’s map. It is
Ngarnavahia, two miles below the junction.”
“Well, could we not stay there for the night? Lady Helena and Miss
Grant would not grudge two miles more to find a hotel even of a humble
character.”
“A hotel!” cried Paganel, “a hotel in a Maori village! you would not
find an inn, not a tavern! This village will be a mere cluster of huts,
and so far from seeking rest there, my advice is that you give it a wide
berth.”
“Your old fears, Paganel!” retorted Glenarvan.
“My dear Lord, where Maories are concerned, distrust is safer than
confidence. I do not know on what terms they are with the English,
whether the insurrection is suppressed or successful, or whether indeed
the war may not be going on with full vigor. Modesty apart, people like
us would be a prize, and I must say, I would rather forego a taste
of Maori hospitality. I think it certainly more prudent to avoid this
village of Ngarnavahia, to skirt it at a distance, so as to avoid all
encounters with the natives. When we reach Drury it will be another
thing, and there our brave ladies will be able to recruit their strength
at their leisure.”
This advice prevailed. Lady Helena preferred to pass another night in
the open air, and not to expose her companions to danger. Neither Mary
Grant or she wished to halt, and they continued their march along the
river.
Two hours later, the first shades of evening began to fall. The sun,
before disappearing below the western horizon, darted some bright rays
through an opening in the clouds. The distant eastern summits were
empurpled with the parting glories of the day. It was like a flying
salute addressed to the way-worn travelers.
Glenarvan and his friends hastened their steps, they knew how short the
twilight is in this high latitude, and how quickly the night follows it.
They were very anxious to reach the confluence of the two rivers before
the darkness overtook them. But a thick fog rose from the ground, and
made it very difficult to see the way.
Fortunately hearing stood them in the stead of sight; shortly a nearer
sound of water indicated that the confluence was at hand. At eight
o’clock the little troop arrived at the point where the Waipa loses
itself in the Waikato, with a moaning sound of meeting waves.
“There is the Waikato!” cried Paganel, “and the road to Auckland is
along its right bank.”
“We shall see that to-morrow,” said the Major, “Let us camp here. It
seems to me that that dark shadow is that of a little clump of trees
grown expressly to shelter us. Let us have supper and then get some
sleep.”
“Supper by all means,” said Paganel, “but no fire; nothing but biscuit
and dried meat. We have reached this spot incognito, let us try and get
away in the same manner. By good luck, the fog is in our favor.”
The clump of trees was reached and all concurred in the wish of the
geographer. The cold supper was eaten without a sound, and presently a
profound sleep overcame the travelers, who were tolerably fatigued with
their fifteen miles’ march.
CHAPTER IX INTRODUCTION TO THE CANNIBALS
THE next morning at daybreak a thick fog was clinging to the surface of
the river. A portion of the vapors that saturated the air were condensed
by the cold, and lay as a dense cloud on the water. But the rays of the
sun soon broke through the watery mass and melted it away.
A tongue of land, sharply pointed and bristling with bushes, projected
into the uniting streams. The swifter waters of the Waipa rushed against
the current of the Waikato for a quarter of a mile before they mingled
with it; but the calm and majestic river soon quieted the noisy stream
and carried it off quietly in its course to the Pacific Ocean.
When the vapor disappeared, a boat was seen ascending the current of the
Waikato. It was a canoe seventy feet long, five broad, and three deep;
the prow raised like that of a Venetian gondola, and the whole hollowed
out of a trunk of a kahikatea. A bed of dry fern was laid at the bottom.
It was swiftly rowed by eight oars, and steered with a paddle by a man
seated in the stern.
This man was a tall Maori, about forty-five years of age, broad-chested,
muscular, with powerfully developed hands and feet. His prominent and
deeply-furrowed brow, his fierce look, and sinister expression, gave him
a formidable aspect.
Tattooing, or “moko,” as the New Zealanders call it, is a mark of
great distinction. None is worthy of these honorary lines, who has not
distinguished himself in repeated fights. The slaves and the lower class
can not obtain this decoration. Chiefs of high position may be known by
the finish and precision and truth of the design, which sometimes
covers their whole bodies with the figures of animals. Some are found
to undergo the painful operation of “moko” five times. The more
illustrious, the more illustrated, is the rule of New Zealand.
Dumont D’Urville has given some curious details as to this custom. He
justly observes that “moko” is the counterpart of the armorial bearings
of which many families in Europe are so vain. But he remarks that there
is this difference: the armorial bearings of Europe are frequently
a proof only of the merits of the first who bore them, and are no
certificate of the merits of his descendants; while the individual
coat-of-arms of the Maori is an irrefragible proof that it was earned by
the display of extraordinary personal courage.
The practice of tattooing, independently of the consideration it
procures, has also a useful aspect. It gives the cutaneous system an
increased thickness, enabling it to resist the inclemency of the season
and the incessant attacks of the mosquito.
As to the chief who was steering the canoe, there could be no mistake.
The sharpened albatross bone used by the Maori tattooer, had five times
scored his countenance. He was in his fifth edition, and betrayed it in
his haughty bearing.
His figure, draped in a large mat woven of “phormium” trimmed with
dogskins, was clothed with a pair of cotton drawers, blood-stained from
recent combats. From the pendant lobe of his ears hung earrings of green
jade, and round his neck a quivering necklace of “pounamous,” a kind of
jade stone sacred among the New Zealanders. At his side lay an English
rifle, and a “patou-patou,” a kind of two-headed ax of an emerald color,
and eighteen inches long. Beside him sat nine armed warriors of inferior
rank, ferocious-looking fellows, some of them suffering from recent
wounds. They sat quite motionless, wrapped in their flax mantles. Three
savage-looking dogs lay at their feet. The eight rowers in the prow
seemed to be servants or slaves of the chief. They rowed vigorously, and
propelled the boat against the not very rapid current of the Waikato,
with extraordinary velocity.
In the center of this long canoe, with their feet tied together, sat ten
European prisoners closely packed together.
It was Glenarvan and Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Robert, Paganel, the
Major, John Mangles, the steward, and the two sailors.
The night before, the little band had unwittingly, owing to the mist,
encamped in the midst of a numerous party of natives. Toward the middle
of the night they were surprised in their sleep, were made prisoners,
and carried on board the canoe. They had not been ill-treated, so far,
but all attempts at resistance had been vain. Their arms and ammunition
were in the hands of the savages, and they would soon have been targets
for their own balls.
They were soon aware, from a few English words used by the natives,
that they were a retreating party of the tribe who had been beaten and
decimated by the English troops, and were on their way back to the Upper
Waikato. The Maori chief, whose principal warriors had been picked off
by the soldiers of the 42nd Regiment, was returning to make a final
appeal to the tribes of the Waikato district, so that he might go to the
aid of the indomitable William Thompson, who was still holding his own
against the conquerors. The chief’s name was “Kai-Koumou,” a name of
evil boding in the native language, meaning “He who eats the limbs
of his enemy.” He was bold and brave, but his cruelty was equally
remarkable. No pity was to be expected at his hands. His name was well
known to the English soldiers, and a price had been set on his head by
the governor of New Zealand.
This terrible blow befell Glenarvan at the very moment when he was
about to reach the long-desired haven of Auckland, and so regain his own
country; but no one who looked at his cool, calm features, could
have guessed the anguish he endured. Glenarvan always rose to his
misfortunes. He felt that his part was to be the strength and the
example of his wife and companions; that he was the head and chief;
ready to die for the rest if circumstances required it. He was of a
deeply religious turn of mind, and never lost his trust in Providence
nor his belief in the sacred character of his enterprise. In the midst
of this crowning peril he did not give way to any feeling of regret at
having been induced to venture into this country of savages.
His companions were worthy of him; they entered into his lofty views;
and judging by their haughty demeanor, it would scarcely have been
supposed that they were hurrying to the final catastrophe. With one
accord, and by Glenarvan’s advice, they resolved to affect utter
indifference before the natives. It was the only way to impress these
ferocious natures. Savages in general, and particularly the Maories,
have a notion of dignity from which they never derogate. They respect,
above all things, coolness and courage. Glenarvan was aware that by this
mode of procedure, he and his companions would spare themselves needless
humiliation.
From the moment of embarking, the natives, who were very taciturn, like
all savages, had scarcely exchanged a word, but from the few sentences
they did utter, Glenarvan felt certain that the English language was
familiar to them. He therefore made up his mind to question the chief on
the fate that awaited them. Addressing himself to Kai-Koumou, he said in
a perfectly unconcerned voice:
“Where are we going, chief?”
Kai-Koumou looked coolly at him and made no answer.
“What are you going to do with us?” pursued Glenarvan.
A sudden gleam flashed into the eyes of Kai-Koumou, and he said in a
deep voice:
“Exchange you, if your own people care to have you; eat you if they
don’t.”
Glenarvan asked no further questions; but hope revived in his heart.
He concluded that some Maori chiefs had fallen into the hands of the
English, and that the natives would try to get them exchanged. So they
had a chance of salvation, and the case was not quite so desperate.
The canoe was speeding rapidly up the river. Paganel, whose excitable
temperament always rebounded from one extreme to the other, had quite
regained his spirits. He consoled himself that the natives were saving
them the trouble of the journey to the English outposts, and that was
so much gain. So he took it quite quietly and followed on the map the
course of the Waikato across the plains and valleys of the province.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant, concealing their alarm, conversed in a low
voice with Glenarvan, and the keenest physiognomists would have failed
to see any anxiety in their faces.
The Waikato is the national river in New Zealand. It is to the Maories
what the Rhine is to the Germans, and the Danube to the Slavs. In its
course of 200 miles it waters the finest lands of the North Island, from
the province of Wellington to the province of Auckland. It gave its name
to all those indomitable tribes of the river district, which rose -en
masse- against the invaders.
The waters of this river are still almost strangers to any craft but the
native canoe. The most audacious tourist will scarcely venture to
invade these sacred shores; in fact, the Upper Waikato is sealed against
profane Europeans.
Paganel was aware of the feelings of veneration with which the natives
regard this great arterial stream. He knew that the English and German
naturalists had never penetrated further than its junction with the
Waipa. He wondered how far the good pleasure of Kai-Koumou would carry
his captives? He could not have guessed, but for hearing the word
“Taupo” repeatedly uttered between the chief and his warriors. He
consulted his map and saw that “Taupo” was the name of a lake celebrated
in geographical annals, and lying in the most mountainous part of the
island, at the southern extremity of Auckland province. The Waikato
passes through this lake and then flows on for 120 miles.
CHAPTER X A MOMENTOUS INTERVIEW
AN unfathomable gulf twenty-five miles long, and twenty miles broad was
produced, but long before historic times, by the falling in of caverns
among the trachytic lavas of the center of the island. And these waters
falling from the surrounding heights have taken possession of this
vast basin. The gulf has become a lake, but it is also an abyss, and no
lead-line has yet sounded its depths.
Such is the wondrous lake of Taupo, lying 1,250 feet above the level of
the sea, and in view of an amphitheater of mountains 2,400 feet high.
On the west are rocky peaks of great size; on the north lofty summits
clothed with low trees; on the east a broad beach with a road track, and
covered with pumice stones, which shimmer through the leafy screen of
the bushes; on the southern side rise volcanic cones behind a forest
flat. Such is the majestic frame that incloses this vast sheet of water
whose roaring tempests rival the cyclones of Ocean.
The whole region boils like an immense cauldron hung over subterranean
fires. The ground vibrates from the agitation of the central furnace.
Hot springs filter out everywhere. The crust of the earth cracks in
great rifts like a cake, too quickly baked.
About a quarter of a mile off, on a craggy spur of the mountain stood
a “pah,” or Maori fortress. The prisoners, whose feet and hands
were liberated, were landed one by one, and conducted into it by the
warriors. The path which led up to the intrenchment, lay across fields
of “phormium” and a grove of beautiful trees, the “kai-kateas” with
persistent leaves and red berries; “dracaenas australis,” the
“ti-trees” of the natives, whose crown is a graceful counterpart of the
cabbage-palm, and “huious,” which are used to give a black dye to
cloth. Large doves with metallic sheen on their plumage, and a world
of starlings with reddish carmeles, flew away at the approach of the
natives.
After a rather circuitous walk, Glenarvan and his party arrived at the
“pah.”
The fortress was defended by an outer inclosure of strong palisades,
fifteen feet high; a second line of stakes; then a fence composed of
osiers, with loop-holes, inclosed Verne the inner space, that is the
plateau of the “pah,” on which were erected the Maori buildings, and
about forty huts arranged symmetrically.
When the captives approached they were horror-struck at the sight of the
heads which adorned the posts of the inner circle. Lady Helena and Mary
Grant turned away their eyes more with disgust than with terror. These
heads were those of hostile chiefs who had fallen in battle, and whose
bodies had served to feed the conquerors. The geographer recognized
that it was so, from their eye sockets being hollow and deprived of
eye-balls.
Glenarvan and his companions had taken in all this scene at a glance.
They stood near an empty house, waiting the pleasure of the chief, and
exposed to the abuse of a crowd of old crones. This troop of harpies
surrounded them, shaking their fists, howling and vociferating. Some
English words that escaped their coarse mouths left no doubt that they
were clamoring for immediate vengeance.
In the midst of all these cries and threats, Lady Helena, tranquil to
all outward seeming, affected an indifference she was far from feeling.
This courageous woman made heroic efforts to restrain herself, lest she
should disturb Glenarvan’s coolness. Poor Mary Grant felt her heart sink
within her, and John Mangles stood by ready to die in her behalf.
His companions bore the deluge of invectives each according to
his disposition; the Major with utter indifference, Paganel with
exasperation that increased every moment.
Glenarvan, to spare Lady Helena the attacks of these witches, walked
straight up to Kai-Koumou, and pointing to the hideous group:
“Send them away,” said he.
The Maori chief stared fixedly at his prisoner without speaking; and
then, with a nod, he silenced the noisy horde. Glenarvan bowed, as a
sign of thanks, and went slowly back to his place.
At this moment a hundred Maories were assembled in the “pah,” old men,
full grown men, youths; the former were calm, but gloomy, awaiting the
orders of Kai-Koumou; the others gave themselves up to the most violent
sorrow, bewailing their parents and friends who had fallen in the late
engagements.
Kai-Koumou was the only one of all the chiefs that obeyed the call of
William Thompson, who had returned to the lake district, and he was the
first to announce to his tribe the defeat of the national insurrection,
beaten on the plains of the lower Waikato. Of the two hundred warriors
who, under his orders, hastened to the defence of the soil, one hundred
and fifty were missing on his return. Allowing for a number being
made prisoners by the invaders, how many must be lying on the field of
battle, never to return to the country of their ancestors!
This was the secret of the outburst of grief with which the tribe
saluted the arrival of Kai-Koumou. Up to that moment nothing had been
known of the last defeat, and the fatal news fell on them like a thunder
clap.
Among the savages, sorrow is always manifested by physical signs;
the parents and friends of deceased warriors, the women especially,
lacerated their faces and shoulders with sharpened shells. The blood
spurted out and blended with their tears. Deep wounds denoted great
despair. The unhappy Maories, bleeding and excited, were hideous to look
upon.
There was another serious element in their grief. Not only had they lost
the relative or friend they mourned, but his bones would be missing
in the family mausoleum. In the Maori religion the possession of these
relics is regarded as indispensable to the destinies of the future life;
not the perishable flesh, but the bones, which are collected with the
greatest care, cleaned, scraped, polished, even varnished, and then
deposited in the “oudoupa,” that is the “house of glory.” These tombs
are adorned with wooden statues, representing with perfect exactness
the tattoo of the deceased. But now their tombs would be left empty, the
religious rites would be unsolemnized, and the bones that escaped
the teeth of the wild dog would whiten without burial on the field of
battle.
Then the sorrowful chorus redoubled. The menaces of the women were
intensified by the imprecations of the men against the Europeans.
Abusive epithets were lavished, the accompanying gestures became more
violent. The howl was about to end in brutal action.
Kai-Koumou, fearing that he might be overpowered by the fanatics of his
tribe, conducted his prisoners to a sacred place, on an abruptly raised
plateau at the other end of the “pah.” This hut rested against a mound
elevated a hundred feet above it, which formed the steep outer buttress
of the entrenchment. In this “Ware-Atoua,” sacred house, the priests or
arikis taught the Maories about a Triune God, father, son, and bird, or
spirit. The large, well constructed hut, contained the sacred and choice
food which Maoui-Ranga-Rangui eats by the mouths of his priests.
In this place, and safe for the moment from the frenzied natives, the
captives lay down on the flax mats. Lady Helena was quite exhausted, her
moral energies prostrate, and she fell helpless into her husband’s arms.
Glenarvan pressed her to his bosom and said:
“Courage, my dear Helena; Heaven will not forsake us!”
Robert was scarcely in when he jumped on Wilson’s shoulders, and
squeezed his head through a crevice left between the roof and the walls,
from which chaplets of amulets were hung. From that elevation he could
see the whole extent of the “pah,” and as far as Kai-Koumou’s house.
“They are all crowding round the chief,” said he softly. “They are
throwing their arms about. . . . They are howling. . . . . Kai-Koumou is
trying to speak.”
Then he was silent for a few minutes.
“Kai-Koumou is speaking. . . . The savages are quieter. . . . . They are
listening. . . . .”
“Evidently,” said the Major, “this chief has a personal interest in
protecting us. He wants to exchange his prisoners for some chiefs of his
tribe! But will his warriors consent?”
“Yes! . . . They are listening. . . . . They have dispersed, some are
gone into their huts. . . . The others have left the intrenchment.”
“Are you sure?” said the Major.
“Yes, Mr. McNabbs,” replied Robert, “Kai-Koumou is left alone with the
warriors of his canoe. . . . . Oh! one of them is coming up here. . . .
.”
“Come down, Robert,” said Glenarvan.
At this moment, Lady Helena who had risen, seized her husband’s arm.
“Edward,” she said in a resolute tone, “neither Mary Grant nor I must
fall into the hands of these savages alive!”
And so saying, she handed Glenarvan a loaded revolver.
“Fire-arm!” exclaimed Glenarvan, with flashing eyes.
“Yes! the Maories do not search their prisoners. But, Edward, this is
for us, not for them.”
Glenarvan slipped the revolver under his coat; at the same moment the
mat at the entrance was raised, and a native entered.
He motioned to the prisoners to follow him. Glenarvan and the rest
walked across the “pah” and stopped before Kai-Koumou. He was surrounded
by the principal warriors of his tribe, and among them the Maori whose
canoe joined that of the Kai-Koumou at the confluence of Pohain-henna,
on the Waikato. He was a man about forty years of age, powerfully built
and of fierce and cruel aspect. His name was Kara-Tete, meaning “the
irascible” in the native tongue. Kai-Koumou treated him with a certain
tone of respect, and by the fineness of his tattoo, it was easy to
perceive that Kara-Tete held a lofty position in the tribe, but a keen
observer would have guessed the feeling of rivalry that existed between
these two chiefs. The Major observed that the influence of Kara-Tete
gave umbrage to Kai-Koumou. They both ruled the Waikato tribes, and were
equal in authority. During this interview Kai-Koumou smiled, but his
eyes betrayed a deep-seated enmity.
Kai-Koumou interrogated Glenarvan.
“You are English?” said he.
“Yes,” replied Glenarvan, unhesitatingly, as his nationality would
facilitate the exchange.
“And your companions?” said Kai-Koumou.
“My companions are English like myself. We are shipwrecked travelers,
but it may be important to state that we have taken no part in the war.”
“That matters little!” was the brutal answer of Kara-Tete. “Every
Englishman is an enemy. Your people invaded our island! They robbed our
fields! they burned our villages!”
“They were wrong!” said Glenarvan, quietly. “I say so, because I think
it, not because I am in your power.”
“Listen,” said Kai-Koumou, “the Tohonga, the chief priest of Noui-Atoua
has fallen into the hands of your brethren; he is a prisoner among the
Pakekas. Our deity has commanded us to ransom him. For my own part, I
would rather have torn out your heart, I would have stuck your head, and
those of your companions, on the posts of that palisade. But Noui-Atoua
has spoken.”
As he uttered these words, Kai-Koumou, who till now had been quite
unmoved, trembled with rage, and his features expressed intense
ferocity.
Then after a few minutes’ interval he proceeded more calmly.
“Do you think the English will exchange you for our Tohonga?”
Glenarvan hesitated, all the while watching the Maori chief.
“I do not know,” said he, after a moment of silence.
“Speak,” returned Kai-Koumou, “is your life worth that of our Tohonga?”
“No,” replied Glenarvan. “I am neither a chief nor a priest among my own
people.”
Paganel, petrified at this reply, looked at Glenarvan in amazement.
Kai-Koumou appeared equally astonished.
“You doubt it then?” said he.
“I do not know,” replied Glenarvan.
“Your people will not accept you as an exchange for Tohonga?”
“Me alone? no,” repeated Glenarvan. “All of us perhaps they might.”
“Our Maori custom,” replied Kai-Koumou, “is head for head.”
“Offer first these ladies in exchange for your priest,” said Glenarvan,
pointing to Lady Helena and Mary Grant.
Lady Helena was about to interrupt him. But the Major held her back.
“Those two ladies,” continued Glenarvan, bowing respectfully toward Lady
Helena and Mary Grant, “are personages of rank in their own country.”
The warrior gazed coldly at his prisoner. An evil smile relaxed his
lips for a moment; then he controlled himself, and in a voice of
ill-concealed anger:
“Do you hope to deceive Kai-Koumou with lying words, accursed Pakeka?
Can not the eyes of Kai-Koumou read hearts?”
And pointing to Lady Helena: “That is your wife?” he said.
“No! mine!” exclaimed Kara-Tete.
And then pushing his prisoners aside, he laid his hand on the shoulder
of Lady Helena, who turned pale at his touch.
“Edward!” cried the unfortunate woman in terror.
Glenarvan, without a word, raised his arm, a shot! and Kara-Tete fell at
his feet.
The sound brought a crowd of natives to the spot. A hundred arms were
ready, and Glenarvan’s revolver was snatched from him.
Kai-Koumou glanced at Glenarvan with a curious expression: then with
one hand protecting Glenarvan, with the other he waved off the crowd who
were rushing on the party.
At last his voice was heard above the tumult.
“Taboo! Taboo!” he shouted.
At that word the crowd stood still before Glenarvan and his companions,
who for the time were preserved by a supernatural influence.
A few minutes after they were re-conducted to Ware-Atoua, which was
their prison. But Robert Grant and Paganel were not with them.
CHAPTER XI THE CHIEF’S FUNERAL
KAI-KOUMOU, as frequently happens among the Maories, joined the title
of ariki to that of tribal chief. He was invested with the dignity of
priest, and, as such, he had the power to throw over persons or things
the superstitious protection of the “taboo.”
The “taboo,” which is common to all the Polynesian races, has the
primary effect of isolating the “tabooed” person and preventing the use
of “tabooed” things. According to the Maori doctrine, anyone who laid
sacrilegious hands on what had been declared “taboo,” would be punished
with death by the insulted deity, and even if the god delayed the
vindication of his power, the priests took care to accelerate his
vengeance.
By the chiefs, the “taboo” is made a political engine, except in some
cases, for domestic reasons. For instance, a native is tabooed for
several days when his hair is cut; when he is tattooed; when he is
building a canoe, or a house; when he is seriously ill, and when he is
dead. If excessive consumption threatens to exterminate the fish of a
river, or ruin the early crop of sweet potatoes, these things are put
under the protection of the taboo. If a chief wishes to clear his house
of hangers-on, he taboos it; if an English trader displeases him he is
tabooed. His interdict has the effect of the old royal “veto.”
If an object is tabooed, no one can touch it with impunity. When a
native is under the interdict, certain aliments are denied him for a
prescribed period. If he is relieved, as regards the severe diet, his
slaves feed him with the viands he is forbidden to touch with his hands;
if he is poor and has no slaves, he has to take up the food with his
mouth, like an animal.
In short, the most trifling acts of the Maories are directed and
modified by this singular custom, the deity is brought into constant
contact with their daily life. The taboo has the same weight as a law;
or rather, the code of the Maories, indisputable and undisputed, is
comprised in the frequent applications of the taboo.
As to the prisoners confined in the Ware-Atoua, it was an arbitrary
taboo which had saved them from the fury of the tribe. Some of the
natives, friends and partisans of Kai-Koumou, desisted at once on
hearing their chief’s voice, and protected the captives from the rest.
Glenarvan cherished no illusive hopes as to his own fate; nothing but
his death could atone for the murder of a chief, and among these people
death was only the concluding act of a martyrdom of torture. Glenarvan,
therefore, was fully prepared to pay the penalty of the righteous
indignation that nerved his arm, but he hoped that the wrath of
Kai-Koumou would not extend beyond himself.
What a night he and his companions passed! Who could picture their
agonies or measure their sufferings? Robert and Paganel had not been
restored to them, but their fate was no doubtful matter. They were too
surely the first victims of the frenzied natives. Even McNabbs, who was
always sanguine, had abandoned hope. John Mangles was nearly frantic at
the sight of Mary Grant’s despair at being separated from her brother.
Glenarvan pondered over the terrible request of Lady Helena, who
preferred dying by his hand to submitting to torture and slavery. How
was he to summon the terrible courage!
“And Mary? who has a right to strike her dead?” thought John, whose
heart was broken.
Escape was clearly impossible. Ten warriors, armed to the teeth, kept
watch at the door of Ware-Atoua.
The morning of February 13th arrived. No communication had taken place
between the natives and the “tabooed” prisoners. A limited supply of
provisions was in the house, which the unhappy inmates scarcely touched.
Misery deadened the pangs of hunger. The day passed without change, and
without hope; the funeral ceremonies of the dead chief would doubtless
be the signal for their execution.
Although Glenarvan did not conceal from himself the probability that
Kai-Koumou had given up all idea of exchange, the Major still cherished
a spark of hope.
“Who knows,” said he, as he reminded Glenarvan of the effect produced on
the chief by the death of Kara-Tete--“who knows but that Kai-Koumou, in
his heart, is very much obliged to you?”
But even McNabbs’ remarks failed to awaken hope in Glenarvan’s mind.
The next day passed without any appearance of preparation for their
punishment; and this was the reason of the delay.
The Maories believe that for three days after death the soul inhabits
the body, and therefore, for three times twenty-four hours, the corpse
remains unburied. This custom was rigorously observed. Till February
15th the “pah” was deserted.
John Mangles, hoisted on Wilson’s shoulders, frequently reconnoitered
the outer defences. Not a single native was visible; only the watchful
sentinels relieving guard at the door of the Ware-Atoua.
But on the third day the huts opened; all the savages, men, women, and
children, in all several hundred Maories, assembled in the “pah,” silent
and calm.
Kai-Koumou came out of his house, and surrounded by the principal chiefs
of his tribe, he took his stand on a mound some feet above the level,
in the center of the enclosure. The crowd of natives formed in a half
circle some distance off, in dead silence.
At a sign from Kai-Koumou, a warrior bent his steps toward Ware-Atoua.
“Remember,” said Lady Helena to her husband. Glenarvan pressed her
to his heart, and Mary Grant went closer to John Mangles, and said
hurriedly:
“Lord and Lady Glenarvan cannot but think if a wife may claim death at
her husband’s hands, to escape a shameful life, a betrothed wife may
claim death at the hands of her betrothed husband, to escape the
same fate. John! at this last moment I ask you, have we not long been
betrothed to each other in our secret hearts? May I rely on you, as Lady
Helena relies on Lord Glenarvan?”
“Mary!” cried the young captain in his despair. “Ah! dear Mary--”
The mat was lifted, and the captives led to Kai-Koumou; the two women
were resigned to their fate; the men dissembled their sufferings with
superhuman effort.
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987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000