Camp Fire Yarns of the Lost Legion

by G. Hamilton-Browne

I have frequently talked to Maori warriors of their old-time wars, tribe against tribe, when they have related accounts of the awful raids of Hongi, Heki, Rauparaha and others. And these stories not only teem with incidents of splendid courage, but are also blackened by the recital of as many acts of brutality, treachery and cold-blooded slaughter sufficient to satisfy Moloch himself: and relate to men who would on one occasion perform feats of heroic chivalry worthy to stand beside those of Bayard or Sir Walter Manny, while on the next day they would commit acts that would have been considered bad form in Hades even by Tilly and Cromwell. Chivalry was to disappear entirely when the natives adopted the extraordinary and debased form of nonconformist Christianity called the Pai Marire or Hau Hau faith: at which time, retaining only their courage, they relinquished every other good quality they may ever have possessed.

During the bitter and savage fighting of the later sixties, splendid actions were done by these men while attempting to carry off, from the field of battle, their wounded or dead comrades; and their determined resistance, offered up to the last, threw a halo of glory round them that even their cold-blooded murders and torturing atrocities could scarcely obliterate.

Well I think I have said enough about their courage; let me turn to the next greatest virtue possessed by man—viz. hospitality.

The hospitality of the Maori was unbounded. The best of everything he had was readily placed at the disposal of his guest, and even should he be so circumstanced as to have only a few potatoes between himself and starvation, these would be cheerfully surrendered for his visitor’s consumption; nor was any payment expected, and if offered would have been indignantly refused; notwithstanding the fact that the recipient of the bounty might be a perfect stranger.

In those good old days, when the inmates of a pah or kainga saw a white man, of any rank or position, approaching the place, all the women, girls and children would seize mats, or anything else that came handy, and, waving these, cry as loud as they could the greetings of welcome: “Hacre mai! Hacre mai!” (Come to us! Come to us!). And these cries would continue, and be joined in by all the inhabitants, until the stranger had entered the village. On doing so, the visitor, provided he were acquainted with strict Maori etiquette, would pay no attention to anyone, but, handing his horse over to the nearest boy, pass through the screaming, gesticulating crowd, and seat himself in front of the guest hut, usually the best whare in the village. Here he would be faced by all the principal men of the place, who would squat down, in a semicircle, in front of him, the women, boys, girls and men of low degree standing in rear of them, when with one accord the whole multitude would lift up their voices and weep—and when I say weep it was weeping, real weeping, and no make-believe about it. This weeping, known as a tangi, was to me always a matter of wonder, as I could never understand how a Maori should be able to turn on the water-tap of his emotions at any moment he might desire to do so. I have frequently seen scores of grand old kai tangatas (man-eaters) squat down and, at will, cry and sob, with big tears hopping down their tattooed cheeks, as bitterly as some tender-hearted little girls would do if their favourite cat had just murdered their pet canary; and these grim old warriors, in less than a minute, would be in more urgent need of a big bandana handkerchief than a small boy with a bad attack of influenza. Old men and women would crawl out of their huts, stragglers would hurry up to join the throng, until every man, woman and child belonging to the tribe would be rocking and wailing as if their very heart-strings had been wrung with woe by the most personal disaster.

After these lamentations had lasted a few minutes, one of the principal chiefs would rise to his feet and make a short oration, somewhat in this fashion: “You have come to us, O stranger, welcome! welcome! welcome!” Then, turning to his people, he would say: “What is the use of this crying? Dry your tears. Our friend is with us, make him welcome. He is hungry, prepare food for him. He is fatigued, let him rest. Bring him water, let him drink. Our friend is with us, cease this foolish weeping. Our hearts grow light at seeing him.” He would then advance to the visitor and offer his hand, in the case of a white man; but if the said stranger should be a native, of rank or family, he would squat down in front of him and rub noses. Then, placing their hands each on the other’s shoulders, they would dissolve once more into tears, mussle their noses together, and for a minute or two mingle their weepings: this process having to be gone through by the stranger with every man in the village, whose rank entitled him to approach the guest.

The salutations having been finished, the stranger was left in peace, everyone retiring, with the exception of a chief, or some particular friend, who would remain to see to his comfort. And here at once the innate good-breeding of the Maori came to the front: insomuch as, no matter how anxious the natives were to hear the news, or the purport of the visit, the guest was never pestered with questions, not even as from whence he came, or whither he was going, and it remained entirely to his own discretion as to whether he gave them any information or not. In the meantime, girls brought him water to drink and wash with, others had swept out the whare, brought in fresh fern and laid down new mats for his use. Presently the sound of singing would be heard, and a group of girls, carrying small open trays made from the broad, glazed leaves of the flax plant, would, with a dancing step and a little song, approach him and place them in front of him. These trays contained food, such as pork, eels, enunga (fresh-water whitebait), kora (the delicious fresh-water crayfish), potatoes, pigeons, and sweet potatoes, or any of them the village contained. Anyhow, the guest might be quite sure it was the very best his hosts had to offer. On their arrival the man who had been looking after him would take a morsel of food from one dish and eat it; then, rising to his feet, he would retire, at the same time wishing his guest a good appetite. Everyone else would depart with him, with the exception of one or, perhaps, two girls, who would remain on their knees beside him, to wait on him and tempt him to eat.

The evening meal being over, the chiefs would gather round their guest, and, if he should happen to be a man of any importance, long and deep would be the conversation: the subjects ranging from the health and doings of the Great White Queen and her governor, to the most trivial topics of the day. Each man in his turn would state his ideas and reasons, and was listened to with attention; while the guest’s words were carefully weighed, and even, if his hearers disagreed with him, the arguments adduced to refute his statements were always expressed in a manner so polite, and in words so carefully chosen, that it was impossible for him to feel personally hurt in regard to his amour propre. Of course if the visit had been premeditated the stranger would have come amply supplied with tobacco, which would be passed round, and accepted with a bien aise that quite disguised, or rather hid, their intense longing for it, and would be enjoyed with many a hearty grunt of satisfaction and approbation. Then the girls would haka (dance with songs) in the moonlight, some of them having placed glow-worms and fireflies in their hair. And the sight of flashing eyes, gleaming white teeth, flowing locks and lovely, swaying figures was sufficient to have made old Saint Anthony himself sit up; although the words of the songs that accompanied the dances, and the gestures that in part composed them, were of a nature to shock a far less austere saint, and would perhaps have even extracted a blush from an habitué of the old-time Jardin Mabille.

Late night would put an end to the festivities, and the stranger, all his comforts well seen to, might retire to his fern bed in peace.

It was a point of honour among the Maoris to protect their guest, as it was a point of honour, on the part of the guest, to stand by his hosts. In the yarn I spun about Orakau, I pointed out how the Taupo and Uriwera tribes refused to render up the pah lent to them to dwell in by the Waikatos, and that sooner than do so they fought to the bitter end. Again, in 1811, when Te Kooti, flying from us, took refuge in the King Country, and demanded the protection of the Waikatos, this was readily granted him; and the Waikato tribes, although they had no personal esteem for him, much less love or even family ties, would have gone to war with us rather than have surrendered him, had the New Zealand Government demanded him from them.