All at once I saw a man on the other side of the opening aiming at my companion, and I at once fired and knocked him over; at the same moment my companion fired and hit a man I could not see, but who was aiming at me. Our men just then rushed up, and we continued the charge; but the enemy had bolted, and as night was falling fast we did not pursue them, but went up to the two men we had put out of mess. My man was quite dead, and was quickly recognised as a man of no great consequence, though of some reputation as a fighting man. The other one, however, was only wounded, but refused to tell us who he was, and to our questions replied by using the greatest insult in the Maori language—i.e. called us boiled heads. Having a suspicion as to his identity, the O.C. tore the breast of his shirt open, and there across his breast was tattooed the much-cursed name. Well, if he had lived like a beast, he met the death of a beast without flinching.
Two years later, after the wars were over, I was again crossing that part of the country and rode a little out of my way to the scene of the fight, to see if there were any traces of the men we had killed. Sure enough the skeleton of the half-caste was at the very spot on which he had fallen. Dismounting, I picked up a leg-bone, slipped it under my wallet straps and rode away. Later, I had it made up into a Maori flute by an old native—they used to make all sorts of useful and ornamental instruments out of human bones—and hung it on the wall of my quarters among other trophies and curios.
Some time after I was visited by the very official who had been father to this half-caste. He examined my collection of curiosities with some interest, and catching sight of the flute, said: “Oh, I used to tootle a bit on a Maori flute in my young days.” Then taking it down he tootled a “wyetta” (a Maori song). Little did he think he was playing a tune on the leg-bone of his own son; and I was not such a bally fool as to tell him.
Let sleeping dogs lie is an old and true aphorism, and I did not wish to stir up bitter family recollections by reminding him of a dead one; besides, he was a very big pot indeed, and the head of my department, so that a discreet silence as to who had been the original owner of that flute was sound policy.
CHAPTER XV
THE DOCTOR AND THE SENTRY
Years ago in New Zealand there was a chain of forts stretching from the sea to the centre of the island. These forts were intended to keep open the road that had been constructed at great trouble and expense, on which a coach ran every week, conveying the mails and passengers to and from the wonderlands of Taupo and Rotomahana.
The headquarters of the district was at a place called Opepe, and consisted of a strong stockaded fort on the top of a pumice-stone hill, or, rather, I should say on a flat piece of ground surrounded by steep-sided gullies, which made it into a hill, and contained sufficient area for the fort and a parade ground.
Through the gully in front ran the road, and on the other side of the road were the troopers’ stables and a hotel for coach passengers, which also held the troopers’ canteen. The fort was approached by a zigzag path cut out of the hill, which was here perpendicular, and on the top of the path was posted a sentry.