The Chronicles of a Gay Gordon

by J. M. Gordon

Not far from the Gate Pah, in what was then called The King Country, lay Ohinemutu, the Maori settlement, alongside which rose the celebrated Terraces—later on, somewhere about 1885, the scene of the terrible eruptions which completely wiped out that wonderful country, submerged the terraces and mountains, and formed fresh lakes in what is now well known as the Rotorua district. How soon or how late further eruptions will take place in this district, where now a modern hotel and marble baths have taken the place of Maori whares and mud-holes, it is not for me to say.

While at Tauranga I became acquainted with the method then in vogue of settling people on the land in New Zealand. A retired officer, who had himself migrated thither, and had secured a holding not far from the township of Tauranga, obtained from the Government a large area of land, north of Tauranga, on the road towards Grahamstown and the Thames Goldfield. It was reported at the time that the price he had paid the Government was ten shillings per acre, right out. This tract of country was completely covered with bracken, and bracken is a difficult growth to get rid of. Proceeding to England, he induced a good many of his friends to try their fortune on the other side of the world, offering them land at an upset price of two pounds per acre—good land, beautiful climate, great possibilities. It was a very tempting offer to those who knew no better, and he succeeded in practically disposing of the land on these terms. The greater number of these would-be pioneers were retired officers, an ex-bishop or two, retired clergymen, and others of a similar walk in life, who, one would naturally think, were the least qualified to battle at their time of life with the problems of cultivating unknown lands in far-distant colonies. The promoter, if report is correct, chartered two sailing vessels, and into these endless furniture, pianos, household goods, belonging to the settlers, were duly packed. Yet, remember, all that they were to find on their arrival was bracken—no houses, no fences, no roads, nothing but bracken. Not one of them knew which portion of the bracken was to be his own. Part of the contract was that, during the voyage out, the settlers were to draw lots for the allotment of positions, the value of which they could only judge from a map hung up in the saloon of the ship.

I rode through this settlement about one year after the arrival of the settlers. There were a certain number of huts, intended finally to be homesteads, in the course of being built. A few tracks formed the so-called roads. Some of the bracken was disappearing. But the ready money which the settlers, or some of them, had brought out with them had been spent, and the outlook was anything but cheerful. Further, the necessary conditions for the survey of the allotments—as required by the Government—had not been fulfilled. Consequently the settlers were unable to borrow any funds on their property, unless they applied to the Jews. This is many years ago, and, though I have not been there lately, I believe that it is now a most prosperous district. But how many of those courageous original settlers or their families are there now?

In connexion with the eruption at Ohinemutu there was an incident which it is worth while to record. Should it occur again, the record should act as a sure warning to the residents at Rotorua. Situated some thirty miles from the coast, to the eastwards of Tauranga, there is an island. It rises in the shape of a conical hill clean out of the sea. It was then known as Sulphur Island, or perhaps better as White Island. As a matter of fact it was an old volcano, though never quite extinct. On landing at this island you would have found that the conical hill was absolutely hollow, and that on its base, in the inside, level with the sea, lay a lake, whose waters were of the dark blue hue that only sulphur lakes can show. The specific gravity of the water is very heavy, much the same as that of the blue lake in the Mount Gambier district, in South Australia, at the top edge of which Adam Lindsay Gordon made his famous jump over a high fence. From both the inner and the outer crust of this shell mountain continually poured sulphur deposits, practically pure sulphur. On the outward side of the mountain this sulphur accumulated on the base, towards the beach. It was indeed a glorious sight, on a moonlight night, to look at this peak rising majestically from amidst the waves of mid-ocean, white as a sugar-loaf, as the rays of the moon bathed it with its silvery light.

Beautiful as it looked, it was yet tainted with the saddest of histories. Though it was known that at some period or another it had been inhabited by natives, yet no fresh water could then be found within its shores. The only solution that could be found for the fact that it had been inhabited was that some springs of fresh water existed between the low and high water mark of the tide which were known to the then inhabitants, but the knowledge of the situation of these springs had died with them. The sulphur, however, almost in its pure state, was there in abundance, and White Island, at the time I am speaking of, was leased by the Government to a small syndicate, which employed a certain number of hands, and exported the sulphur, chiefly to Tauranga. It was a fine paying game for that merry small syndicate. The conditions, however, under which white men were bound to labour at White Island were as sad and as deplorable as it has ever been my lot to know. Any man who decided to fill sulphur bags at White Island knew that he was going to his last home in this world. The conditions of life on the island were practically hopeless. The strong sulphur fumes ate up one’s vitality. One’s teeth fell out. Nothing but woollen clothes could withstand the ravages of the fumes. Eyesight failed. The only fresh water available was that which was landed on the Island by the schooners which carried away the sulphur bags. The spirit of those labourers was broken, and they were content to finish their lives under the influence of the strong and adulterated spirits with which those same schooners supplied them, thus helping them on their passage to another world. Sulphur (or White) Island is doubtless still there, and, no doubt, supplying many tons of that most useful product of this earth under very much happier conditions.

But, to hark back to the incident of the wonderful volcano upheaval which wrecked Ohinemutu and its terraces, its mountains and its lakes. For about a month previous to the eruptions the captains of the coastal boats plying along the eastern coast from Wellington to Auckland, making Gisborne, Napier and Tauranga their ports of call, noticed that when travelling between White Island and the main coast they passed through shoals of dead fish floating on the surface of the sea. They were astonished at this, but they failed to arrive at any solution of the phenomenon. It was not till after the eruptions took place that these reports caused the Government authorities to attempt to trace a connexion between the shoals of dead fish on the waters and the eruption at Ohinemutu. The result of these investigations proved—as far as it was reported at the time—that serious volcanic disturbances had been taking place between White Island and the mainland, unknown and unseen, but the result of which was apparently proved by the presence on the surface of the waters of the dead or stunned fish. All boys know that a concussion caused in waters where there are fish, stuns them and brings them to the surface, ready to be gathered in by the enterprising but unsportsmanlike spirit who fires off the exploding charge. That a great explosion and upheaval had taken place within the deep sea was proved by the experience of the skippers in the coasting trade. I think I am making a correct statement when I say that the connexion between White Island and the District of Ohinemutu on the mainland, as volcanic centres, was established.

My duties, as I have already stated, were not onerous. My chief work, as instructor, was minimized by the small number of troopers. I had under me some thirty or forty mounted men. The Maoris were somewhat restless between the east and west, and they proved that restlessness by making raids on the working parties which were then employed on road making through the Parihaka district. Their chief delight was to raid the road-makers’ piles of broken metal and scatter it, broadcast, from their well-constructed heaps.

Before I left Tauranga an incident occurred which appealed to me very much as an instance of the curious ways of Providence. I was riding back one afternoon after visiting some of the country patrols. I had filled my pipe, but discovered that I had no matches. Presently I noticed, on the right-hand side of the road amidst the bracken, a very humble abode. As a matter of fact, it was just what was then known as a “lean-to,” the preliminary stage of the farmhouses that were then being built by the settlers. These “lean-tos” were, in the first instance used for living purposes. Later on, when the front parts of the houses were built, they became the kitchens and domestic offices. The building was only some four hundred yards from the road, so I turned in to get a light for my pipe. I noticed, as I was getting near, that a man was standing on a step-ladder, apparently doing some painting. He looked down on me from his ladder as I approached. Then I saw that instead of painting he was engaged in tarring the roof of the building. He was evidently an amateur tar-man. The bucket which held the tar was tied on to the ladder below him. The roof he was tarring was a little above him, with the result that he himself was fairly covered with sprinklings of the tar. As he possessed a pair of somewhat large whiskers and his head was uncovered, he presented a quaint appearance. After greetings, I ventured to ask if he could supply me with a few matches.

As he turned and looked down on me from his perch on the ladder, I recognized an old friend at whose beautiful country house in the county of Cork in Ireland I had spent many, many happy hours when I was quartered at Carlisle Fort. I could hardly believe that he was the host who had been so kind to all of us young officers only a few months before.

“Surely you are not Colonel ——?” I said.