With a grunt of wrath the savage raised his tomahawk and smote strongly downwards. The keen steel almost shore the lad's arm from his shoulder, and the bugle dropped from his nerveless fingers. But, ere it fell, the brave boy caught it in his left hand, set it again to his lips, and for the last time blew the quavering notes—"Awake! Awake!"
Then the Maori struck once more, and Allen died.
Many a brave man wears the proud cross "For Valour." Was it ever better deserved than by the boy who sleeps forgotten in a far-off land, and who simply did his duty?
While this tragedy was being enacted, a fierce attack was made upon the defenceless quarter of the farm, whence Lieutenant Page, aroused by poor Allen's last bugle call, rushed with two of his startled men. They were immediately driven back; but presently, while the sergeant with a handful kept the Maori at bay, Page and six men, carrying three wounded under a hot fire, managed to reach the stockaded barn and join forces with the bulk of the command. The end of the affair soon came after that. The British poured out of the barn, led by their officer, and Mamaku and his Maori, having no liking for cold steel, scampered across the river, having killed six and wounded four of the small company of soldiers. Lieutenant Page was subsequently promoted for his gallantry in beating off a force twice as great as his own.
A boy's heroism. "Awake! Awake!"
Whether "Ould Rapparee," as the soldiers called Te Rauparaha, was really Rangihaeata's chief adviser in all this mischief, the "Fighting Governor"[64] suspected him of being so, and determined to put him where he could do no more harm for a time. "Ould Rap" was living not far from Porirua, near Wellington on the west, without the faintest suspicion that the Kawana's keen eye was upon him, and a most indignant man was he when he awoke in the grey of a winter dawn to find himself in the grasp of a number of sturdy tars. The little old fellow wriggled like an eel, fought, kicked, and bit, shouting lustily the while, "Ngati-Toa! Ngati-Toa to the rescue!" But the Ngati-Toa, seeing what was toward, judged it wiser to remain a little longer on their sleeping mats, and the warrior was carried off into what he chose to consider durance vile. Since he was treated as a State prisoner, and merely detained on board a ship of war for a year, he had only the fact of his captivity to complain of; and for this he had himself to thank.
Governor Grey now turned his attention to Rangihaeata, who had withdrawn to the Horokiwi valley, a most impracticable region, densely wooded, midway between Porirua and Pahatanui. Here he had retired behind a stockade of immense strength, upon which, by Captain Grey's advice, no assault was made. New tactics of blockade were tried, a method of warfare which the Tiger of the Wairau relished as little as he had expected it: for there had been no time to lay in supplies. Consequently, he and his men were soon starved out and dispersed; nor did Rangihaeata ever again appear in arms against the Government.
Trouble arose early in 1847 at Whanganui. Disputes regarding land tenure had been frequent and acute; but it would not be fair to ascribe to that ever-burning question the shocking massacre and the outbreak which followed it. It was a boyish prank which this time fired the train of events and once more set Maori and Pakeha face to face in armed opposition.