I have had many dealings with Natives of the South Seas, as well as New Zealand, since then, and have often marvelled how they escape gun-powder explosions, considering how careless they are in the handling or storing of that dangerous compound.
Amongst the sealed orders given to the Commander of the Heroine, one was, as I said before, to bring to the French Mission in New Zealand, Church ornaments and ecclesiastical vestments. Here, also, he was to open a sealed despatch, giving him further instructions—which were to proceed to China, and there take orders from the admiral in command. Having been sent for, I was asked whether I would stay on board, and trust to finding in China an Australian bound vessel to reach Sydney. I had heard at the Mission-house that an Australian schooner—the Deborah—was at Hokianga, trading with the Natives for spars. Looking at the map, the distance across did not seem to me to be very great; I therefore decided upon crossing the Island to seek a passage on board the Deborah. The Captain and Bishop Pompallier made vain efforts to dissuade me from undertaking what they considered a most dangerous trip. My friend Rewa—the next door neighbour of the bishop, and senior chief of the locality—offered to place one of his children on board our ship as hostage until a messenger from Hokianga came back to Kororareka with the news of my safe arrival at Hokianga.
This settled the matter. I started, bag and baggage, never for one moment reflecting that I was trusting my life in the hands of uncivilised cannibals, who were carrying on their shoulders valises full of articles which, in their eyes, were treasures—the appropriation of the fowling-piece I had on my shoulder, or the powder flask slung round my neck, a sufficient inducement to wring that neck, and make a meal of the small mite I then was. The idea of danger never for a minute entered my head. I had spent a couple of weeks amongst them, and had implicit faith in their hospitality and kindness.
To this day I believe firmly that with very, very few exceptions, Natives of this or any other island in the Pacific are to be trusted by those who deal fairly and kindly with them.
At all events, I must speak of the Maoris as I found them, and say that had I been in the hands of my own countrymen, I could not have been treated more kindly. When I became wearied and footsore, they carried me as if I had been an infant, as I really was when compared to those copper-coloured giants, most of them over six feet high.
We usually managed to make for some well-known Native villages at night time. When we got to the Hokianga river, I noticed an animated conversation between my escort and the Natives in whose whare we camped; at almost every alternate word they pointed at me, and often repeating the words “Oui Oui,” which I knew meant “Frenchman.” At last I was given to understand that there was in the neighborhood a “Rangatira Oui Oui”—a great French chief—and that I certainly should go and pay my respects to him. Accordingly, after our evening meal, and by a glorious moonlight, I started with a numerous escort to interview this great countryman of mine, Baron de Thierry—whose name is, I daresay, still remembered amongst the old residents of the North Island of New Zealand—as true a specimen of the Vieille Noblesse of France as one could find in the aristocratic Faubourg St. Germain. Like many other scions of noble lineage, poor de Thierry had to flee from his beloved country to save his head from the implacable guillotine. I spent the whole night with the Baron, who told me that he was going to be recognised shortly as Sovereign of New Zealand. He strongly advised me to remain with him, when he would, on his ascension to the throne, confer an office of trust upon me.
Poor, dear old gentleman, he was perfectly guileless; he thoroughly believed in all he said, and I am quite sure was quite happy in his demented notions of coming grandeur. I often heard from him since that night, but never again met with him.
On my arrival at Hokianga, I met with a sad disappointment. The Deborah had left for the Bay of Islands, so that I was compelled to turn back. The journey, however, had lost all its novelty, and certainly was anything but a treat. I brought back to the Bay the news of my own safety, and released the hostage, who had enjoyed his stay on board much more than I did my second trip across New Zealand.
A small brig from Sydney—the Martha—having called at the Bay, I embarked on board after a most affectionate parting from my old messmates, and the dear friends I had made on board the Heroine.
Every thing in this world is judged by comparison. I did certainly find the Government fare furnished to the midshipmen’s mess “hard tack” as compared with my father’s epicurean menus. But there was even a more palpable difference between the Heroine’s ordinary and that of the Martha. The captain (poor fellow, he has since been murdered and eaten by the Natives at Tanna) was perfectly unconscious of the privations of his passengers. He was drunk from the day we left the Bay until we took in the pilot at the Heads of Port Jackson, after 28 days at sea, 20 of which we spent the best way we could on a biscuit and a cup of water a day—fresh pork a discretion, the brig being loaded with the unclean animal. It is now fifty years since I left the Martha, and I have never broken the vow I made in 1839 never again to touch pork. If I “saved my bacon” by eating it during those 28 days, I have given it best ever since, and intend to follow the Mosaic law to the end of my days.