CHAPTER XVI.
NEW ZEALAND.—FIGHTING THE MAORIS.
The years 1860 to 1865 witnessed a very stubborn war in New Zealand between the British and the Maoris, the original natives of the country. Many causes combined to make this war unduly long. In the first place the importance of the outbreak was underestimated, and the small force already in the islands was considered strong enough to cope with it; secondly, it was forgotten, or overlooked, that the Maoris, although incorrigibly lazy in times of peace, were a race of born fighters, to whom war was almost the chief end of existence; and thirdly, there was the difficult nature of the country itself, with its many forests and swamps, and miles on miles of dense, tangled bush. The odds were all in the Maoris’ favour at the outset.
For many years we had been at peace with the natives, a treaty having been signed by which we bound ourselves to respect the chiefs territorial rights. By 1860, however, a good deal of friction had arisen over purchases of land by the colonists, it being claimed by the Maoris that some of these transactions took place without the full consent of all the parties interested.
Especially was this the case in the transfer of a piece of land at Taranaki, in the Northern Island. It was only a small plot that was in dispute, but the Waikato tribe who claimed possession would not be pacified, and made a desperate resistance when an attempt was made to oust them. Their success in repulsing the few British troops sent against them incited the tribe and their friends to proceed still further. Old feuds were now revived, and the insurrection at Taranaki quickly spread into a general movement against the colonists, which in turn resolved itself into a wholesale rebellion of the Maori race.
In the fighting that ensued twelve Victoria Crosses were gained, mostly for gallant rescues of wounded men struck down in the bush or in the pahs, the native palisade-fortified villages. The Maoris have always been exceptionally cruel to their prisoners in war, and the knowledge that a fallen foe would receive no mercy at their hands spurred our soldiers to make every effort to save a wounded comrade.
One of the first Crosses to be won fell to Colour-Sergeant John Lucas, of the 40th Regiment (the South Lancashires). Early in 1861 he was fighting up in the Taranaki district, near to the Huirangi Bush. During one afternoon, while out skirmishing, he and his party were suddenly subjected to a terribly fierce fire from a hidden enemy. Men began to drop quickly as the bullets pinged across the ravine, and Lieutenant Rees fell badly wounded.
The officer having been carried to the rear, Lucas stood guard over the other wounded, towards whom the Maoris, breaking cover for the first time, made an ugly rush. The colour-sergeant had several rifles at hand, and adopting savage tactics, he got behind a tree, only showing himself to neatly “pot” an enemy. It was one man against a hundred; but, like Private McManus in “Dhoolie Square,” he made himself properly respected by the natives, and he held his position until a reinforcement arrived to relieve him of his charge.
A more exciting experience fell to the lot of a sergeant of the York and Lancaster Regiment (the old 65th) two years later. While in action with a large body of Maoris both his superior officers, Captain Swift and Lieutenant Butler, were wounded, and the duty of withdrawing the little force devolved upon him.
Sergeant Edward McKenna, who had a strong strain of Irish blood in him, showed himself the man for the occasion. The district was a broken and rugged piece of country near Camerontown, and swarmed with Maoris. If he wished to save his officers’ lives and the lives of the whole detachment, he had to act boldly.