The idea caught the fancy of some; the flag arrived from Sydney in H.M.S. Alligator, and was inaugurated with a salute of twenty-one guns. The Parliament of Chiefs took shape a little later, when thirty-five hereditary chiefs declared their independence, and received the designation of the "United Tribes of New Zealand."
Barely a year after Mr. Busby's appointment, a "regrettable incident" occurred, which compelled him to assume the character of "Vindex," in which neither he, nor those associated with him, showed to advantage.
The affair gave rise to the employment of British troops for the first time in New Zealand, and arose out of the shipwreck of the Harriet at Cape Egmont, Taranaki. The sailormen lodged for a fortnight in a Maori village, and then a quarrel arose. A fight followed, and twelve sailors and twice as many Maori were killed.
Since the Maori loss was double that of the ship's company, the account could only be balanced by utu; so the surviving whites were held to ransom, and Guard, the shipmaster, was sent to procure the same.
Five months later, the Government of New South Wales despatched H.M.S. Alligator with a company of soldiers on board to bring away the prisoners. On her arrival off the scene of the disaster, Guard went ashore, accompanied by the military, when the Maori at once gave up the sailors. All was going well—for Guard was assured of the safety and well-being of his wife and two little ones—when an officer, perhaps deceived by gestures incomprehensible to him, hurled an unfortunate chief into the boat and bayoneted him.
This wrong-headed act was not immediately followed by hostilities, though it interrupted the progress of negotiations. Matters were at last smoothed over, the wounded chief was sent ashore, and Mrs. Guard and one of her children brought down to the boat. Then, as the ransom was still unpaid, the second child was carried to the shore upon the shoulder of the chief who had cared for it.
This chief not unreasonably requested permission to carry the child aboard, and himself receive the stipulated payment; but, when curtly informed that no ransom would be paid, he turned away, still carrying the child. It is dreadful to be obliged to relate that the Maori was shot in the back at close quarters, and fell dying to the ground with the little child in his arms. As if this were not enough, his corpse was insulted.
Following upon this tragedy, a shot was fired, by whom or from whence no one could or would say. The Alligator immediately began to shell the Waimate Pa, and the troops played their part. When sufficient punishment had been inflicted, the dogs of war were called off and the ship sailed away.
Unpleasant as is the task, it is right that these dark pictures of mistakes and injustice should now and then be shown, if only to induce those whose duty brings them in contact with primitive races to remember that the rights of man belong to the coloured as well as to the white. It is not denied that the Maori treated their prisoners with consideration, and it is pitiful to learn that Mrs. Guard identified the chief who was the first to be slain as one who had behaved with unvarying kindness to her and to her children. Nor is there any doubt that the British disregarded every claim of justice and humanity. Not even common honesty was exhibited; for, although the prisoners were given up, the ransom agreed upon was refused.
The one bright spot in the whole affair was the decision of a committee of the House of Commons, condemning the incident, and pointing out that, while the Maori had fulfilled their contract, the British had broken theirs. The committee might with propriety have said a good deal more in the opinion of those whose view was not that of the chief witness, Guard—shipmaster and ex-convict—that "a musket ball for every Maori was the best method of civilising the country."