It was necessary to steal a march on time in order to give a connected, though imperfect account of the foundation of Christianity in New Zealand. Return we to Hongi Ika and his doings.
If Mr. Marsden hoped to turn the philosopher-warrior-cannibal from the error of his ways, the good man must have been grievously disappointed. Hongi remained a pagan; but he never broke his promise to the missionary. He was a terrible fellow, but he was not a liar. His word was sacred, and he regretted on his deathbed that the men of Whangaroa had been too strong for him when they drove the Wesleyan missionaries from their station.
Leaving Mr. Marsden and his colleagues at Rangihoua, Hongi returned to his trade of war, and for five years or so enjoyed himself in his own way. Then, tiring again of strife, his thoughts turned once more upon foreign travel.
This time his ambition soared high, and with a fellow chief he sailed for London under the wing of a missionary. He was exceedingly well received, for the horror and fright with which the New Zealanders had been regarded was greatly diminished in 1820, and Britons were again looking longingly towards a country so rich in commercial possibilities.
So Hongi found himself a "lion," and with the adaptability of his race so comported himself, that it occurred to few to identify the bright-eyed little fellow with the ample forehead and keen brain with the lusty warrior and ferocious cannibal of whom startling tales had been told.
Even His Majesty, George the Fourth, did not disdain to receive the "Napoleon of New Zealand," and being, perhaps, in a prophetic mood, presented the great little man with a suit of armour.
Hongi would have preferred a present of the offensive kind in the shape of guns and ammunition; for the Nga-Puhi had early gauged the value of such weapons in settling tribal disputes, and had managed to acquire a few, though not nearly enough to meet the views of Hongi Ika.
The king had set the fashion, and his subjects followed suit so lavishly, that, if Hongi had chosen to lay aside his dignity and open a curio shop, he could have done so. The little man was overjoyed. He was rich now, and he gloated over his presents as a means to an end. What a war he could wage, if he could only find a pretext. Pretexts did not, as a rule, trouble Hongi; but the eyes of the great were upon him, and it would be just as well to consider appearances. As he recrossed the ocean his active brain was at work planning, planning. Ah, if he could but find a pretext!
Hongi had been absent for two years, and with right good will the tribes of the north-east wished that he might never return. However, with the dominant personality of the little man lacking to the all-conquering Nga-Puhi, there was no knowing what might happen; so the tribes around about the Thames river, whose frith is that thing of beauty, the Hauraki Gulf, took heart of grace, marched to the fight, and slew, among other folk, no less a person than Hongi's son-in-law.
Here was indeed a pretext. Hongi clung to it as a dog to his bone. In Sydney he had melted down, so to speak, his great pile of presents into three hundred stand of arms, which included a goodly share of the coveted tupara, or double-barrelled guns. Ammunition was added, and thus, with a very arsenal at his command, Hongi Ika came again to his native land.