VI.
MAORILAND.
LEAVING These two solitary islands, we had to settle down to the more protracted part of our journey, and I may also add, the most uncomfortable one. We were bound for New Zealand, therefore had to go south of Van Dieman’s Land. A merchant-man would naturally have shaped her course for the latitude of Cape Lewin. Not so, however, a man-of-war, whose sailing directions are based on “bureaucratic” prudence, so that we had to go well into the S.W. wind, and heavy seas of the low south. These instructions we followed most religiously. The poor old frigate had a rough time of it; for seven or eight weeks she rolled most unmercifully under close-reefed courses, until the long-wished-for day came, when we began to steer north, and gradually got into warmer and finer weather.
“Land ho!” That most welcome shout from the fore-gallant-top brought us all to the fore-castle—a speck to leeward gradually emerging from the blue waters—the long-looked-for mountain ranges on the New Zealand coast.
A few days’ coasting brought us safely in to the Bay of Islands. We dropped anchor opposite the small unpretending residence of the Catholic Mission, a short distance from the Flag-staff Hill, since rendered famous by the outbreak of Kawiti and Honi Heke. The whale boat, which brought on board the Maori pilot, was manned by Natives, all more or less tattooed—my first insight into real savage life. I had heard and read of the Maori race. Now, I, for the first time, had an opportunity to study it from life. Monseigneur Pompallier, the head of the Mission, was well acquainted with my brother in Sydney, who was acting agent and purveyor for the Catholic missionary stations in the Pacific. At his request I became a guest at the Mission, where the Native chiefs—Rewa, Kawiti, and Pomare—were daily visitors, so that I soon became a fast friend of the two former. Pomare, though friendly, was always looked upon as an unreliable neighbour, and tolerated rather than welcomed at the Mission. His pah was situated on the summit of a sugar loaf hill at the bottom of the Bay of Islands, some miles from Kororareka, being a fortified pah, accessible only by a ladder, which, when removed, rendered the stronghold impregnable.
We made up a party to visit the warrior in his fortress. Having sailed up the bay, we ascended the rough approach, and were courteously ushered by Pomare into his residence—a large bee-hive-shaped structure, with only a small, low opening to admit visitors. A huge fire, even at that time of the year, burning in the centre, filled the place with smoke, and rendered the temperature almost tropical. The Chief, his warriors, and wives appeared quite as much taken up with our appearance as we were with theirs. The conversation, as one may well imagine, was not over lively, considering our utter ignorance of each other’s language. Art, however, came to the rescue of science; one of our officers pulled out of his game bag an album, some pencils, and other drawing materials. He made Pomare understand that he would like to sketch him and his wife as a remembrance of our visit. The Chief, evidently flattered, brought to the centre of the whare a keg upon which he sat in state, holding a carved paddle in one hand, whilst the other rested on the shoulder of a handsome Native female—wife or daughter, I never knew which. The other Natives, following the Chief’s example, formed a group round the fire, each one on a keg of his own.