The bay was an inlet, into which a small creek emptied itself, between two low ridges of fern. A short detour led us to the bed of the creek, down which we descended as quietly as otters, while the noise of the stream drowned any slight noise we might make in wading down it. The creek ran into a small clump of tree ferns, and we crept on till we came to where the party was encamped at the mouth of the creek.
There were four fine-looking big Maoris. Their canoe was drawn up on the bank of the creek with the paddles leaning against it. Had there been more than four paddles it would have meant that some of the party were absent; but now we knew we had only the four in front to tackle. We dare not use our fire-arms on account of the report. No, the job must be done with tomahawk and knife. We were within twenty feet of them.
A glance at my companions and we laid down our carbines, slipped off our blankets and drew our tomahawks and knives.
One more look. The four Maoris were sitting by their fire, unconscious of our presence. A nod to my mates and we sprang at them. Whiz, whiz went my men’s knives—they were both past masters at the art of knife-throwing—and over went two Maoris with the knives buried up to the hafts in their bodies.
I rushed my man, but, surprised as he was, he was a splendid, tough old warrior, and jumped at me, his tomahawk swinging loosely in the air above his head.
I had practised hard with the tomahawk for the last two years, but I knew I was no match for the old man. I therefore determined to rush in on him, guard his first blow and use my left fist. (I was very strong in those days, and a good boxer.) Throwing up my tomahawk, I guarded a smashing cut at the left of my neck, and although I felt the keen edge of the blade cut my flesh on the left shoulder, the impetus of my charge carried me in, and lashing out with my left I struck him full on the throat. Down he went, astonished by this novel mode of attack, and in another moment the head of my tomahawk was buried up to the eye in his brains.
When I looked round the fight was over, the only unwounded Maori falling an easy prey to the combined attack of my two desperadoes.
Pierre, a splendid cook, was already looking into the pot that was on the fire, and, declaring the contents to be good pork, not long pig, we were soon enjoying it. To get rid of the bodies did not take long. The marks of the struggle were obliterated, and we were off. Two days more and we reached Opepe; and, true to his word, my colonel met us with a strong patrol. We were thin, footsore, our legs torn, our kit in rags; but what mattered that? We had done our duty and had got back with valuable information, and as we swallowed some hot tea we did not care for the past—it was past. My wound was nothing—Pierre had stitched it up—and as I once more donned my breeches and boots, a clean shirt, and threw my leg over my dear old horse, I was as happy as the day was wet.