Camp Fire Yarns of the Lost Legion

by G. Hamilton-Browne

The main position of the Colonials was in the rear of three strong thorn hedges, two of which flanked the third, and these had all been well trenched and were, of course, held, day and night, by a strong guard; in fact the men lived and slept in them. Between the centre hedge and the pah, a distance of less that 500 yards, stretched a smooth meadow, without a particle of cover, and the astonishment of our men was intense when, at 11 o’clock a.m., they saw some hundreds of the Hau Haus quietly leave the pah and advance in two wedge-shaped columns against the centre of their position. At first they thought it was a general surrender, but the war flags the enemy carried rapidly dispersed that idea; and when the two columns were well between the three hedges, and not 100 yards from any of them, the bugle sounded and a tremendous volley was poured into the misguided Maoris, who fell in heaps of dead and wounded men. Notwithstanding the awful shock their nerves must have received from this quite unexpected slaughter, these gallant though fanatical warriors at once charged home and tried to force their way through the strong thorn fence, only to be swept away like flies. And soon the survivors had to beat a hasty retreat back to the pah, lashed the whole way by the heavy fire of the white men, who did not go to church.

It was during the advance that the incident I originally alluded to took place. The first volley had smashed the Hau Haus’ leading column, the advance of which the apostle led in person; for, to give these prophets only their just due, they never hung back from taking the post of the greatest danger in any of the crazy enterprises that they persuaded their disciples to undertake.

Well, the first volley knocked over the prophet, who fell badly wounded, but succeeded in regaining his feet, whereupon one of the chiefs, disengaging himself from the mass of stricken and shaken men, deliberately walked up to him, drew his tomahawk and cleft his skull, then, springing forward, led his surviving followers to almost certain death. This might be called an instance of sharp and ready reckoning, but it was by no means a singular case of rough and rapid retribution; so that, taking into consideration the number of apostles who were knocked over, in a legitimate manner, fighting, and those who were tomahawked by furious and disappointed votaries, the trade could scarcely be called a healthy one, and it must have required a great amount of pluck on the man’s part who took on himself the prophetic rôle. But, then, what will not some men risk for notoriety?

Now, having finished with this Johnny, let me tell you about another of a somewhat similar kidney.

The friendly tribes of the Wanganui sent a contingent to the east coast, to assist us during the Opotiki Expedition, and among them was a first-class, up-to-date prophet named Pitau. The Wanganui, at this time, were not strong in prophets, so that this man was made much of by his tribe, for although some of the young men had begun to deride prophecy, yet the old warriors still implicitly believed in the ancient cult, and regarded Pitau as a valuable adjunct to the field force.

Now it was the usual custom of the various tribes, when they went to war, to hold deep consultations with their tribal prophets, who for a consideration would advise and foretell what was going to happen, and if the war was going to prove successful or otherwise. It was so in this case. Pitau was called on to lift the veil of futurity, and, having gone through the necessary incantations, the oracle spoke as follows:—“You will be successful in all things, O Wanganui: only one man will die, and that man will be Pitau.” Now this was distinctly rough on Pitau, who must either die or be declared an impostor. Anyhow, the oracle had spoken, and the war party started. The Wanganui reached Opotiki, did their duty well, and on the completion of their service were to take ship for home. Up to this time nearly everything had panned out all right for the soothsayer, with regard to his prophecy: the Wanganui had been successful and had not lost a single man; but the oracle had distinctly stated Pitau was to die himself, yet here he was still alive. It certainly was not his fault, for at the fight at the Kiori-kino, and also in other skirmishes, he had done his best to get killed, but seemed to bear a charmed life; yet if he returned home alive, his name and reputation as a high-toned prophet would be gone for ever. The Fates, however, gave him one more chance, and he grasped it. Canoes, heavily ladened, were pushing off from the shore to the ship: he sprang into one of these, and by his extra weight swamped the canoe. The amphibious natives easily swam ashore, but so did not Pitau, for, raising his arms above his head, he allowed himself to sink down to his rest, among the eels and crabs, rather than allow his prophecy to be unfulfilled. Surely there are many names on the scroll of martyrs who have laid down their lives, to prove the truth of their convictions, less worthy of fame than that of Pitau.

And now I think I may spin you a yarn about a personal experience I had of the superstitious fears of the Maoris, although by doing so I must confess to a mauvaise plaisanterie I was guilty of perpetrating, and of which I am thoroughly ashamed, that created a greater emotion, among a party of highly respectable old cannibals, than any convulsion of nature would have caused.

It happened in this way: I was well aware of the great superstitious dread the Maoris had of the green lizard. These, although they exist in New Zealand, are rare birds, and during the years I was there I saw but few of them. The Maoris, however, believe that at death one of these lizards enters a man’s body, and consequently look on them with horror and abhorrence. At the period I am yarning about, I was located at Ohinimutu, in the hot lake district, and had made a short visit to the town of Napier.

During my stay there, while wandering about the streets, I noticed that a speculative storekeeper had added some children’s toys to his stock in trade, perhaps the very first that had ever been imported into the country, and as they attracted my attention I stopped to examine them. We are told that Old Nick is ever ready to prompt an idle man, and he must have been mighty adjacent to me that day, for on my spotting one of those old-fashioned, wooden crocodiles, painted a vivid green with bright-red spots on it, I immediately went into the shop and purchased it. The thing was constructed of small blocks of wood, sawn in such a way, and connected together with string, that when you held it in your hand it wriggled, and looked alive, while it also possessed a gaping red mouth and staring eyes. The confounded insect would not have raised a squall out of a nervous European babe of a year old; but, such as it was, I put it into my kit and, on my return up country, took it with me.

In due course of time I reached Ohinimutu, where, after a swim in the hot water and a good dinner, I retired to my private abode, a large hut built Maori fashion, but with European door and window, as I knew I should have to give audience to some dozen chiefs of the Arawa tribe, who would call on me to welcome my return and hear the news. It did not take me long to prepare for their reception, and getting the toy out of my kit, I slipped it up my left sleeve, so that it was hidden. I then sat down in a low camp-chair and awaited my victims, who soon arrived, giving me their words of welcome as they entered, and squatting down in a semicircle in front of the fire, all of them as keen as mustard to hear the news. They were a fine-looking lot of old chaps, ten in number, and some of them almost gigantic in size. Old Hori Haupapa must have stood over seven foot high, when in his prime; and the rest were all big men. Anxious as they were to hear the news, still they were far too well-bred to ask any questions, and, as I pretended to be in very low spirits and sat speechless, heaving an occasional deep sigh, they squatted there, conversing in low whispers, with looks full of commiseration for my unhappy state.