An Old New Zealander; or, Te Rauparaha, the Napoleon of the South.

by Thomas Lindsay Buick

When Te Rauparaha saw that his enemy was likely to circumvent him, he at once ordered his men to belt up, take their weapons with them, and carry the burning brushwood against the palisades, so that the fuel which had been collected at such infinite pains might not be consumed in vain. Without staying to question the wisdom of this order, a rush was immediately made by the younger warriors to obey the command; but they were met by a fusilade from the defenders who lined the walls, which worked havoc amongst their ranks. Had the contending parties been left to fight the issue out untrammelled by the intervention of external agencies, it is more than probable that Te Rauparaha would have been worsted in this attempt to fire the pa, and would have been compelled either to abandon the siege till the ensuing summer or to repeat during the impending winter the toilsome process of laying his fire train to the gates of the fortress. But at this juncture, as in so many others of his eventful life, his characteristic good fortune did not desert him. While his men were being mown down under the galling musketry of the enemy, the wind suddenly swung round to the south, and the whole aspect of the combat was instantly changed. The flames were carried high against the walls, licking the palisades with fiery tongues, while dense clouds of smoke rolled backwards, driving the garrison from the trenches and from every station of defence.

By this marvellous reversal of fortune Te Rauparaha was not slow to profit; and no sooner had the firing of the defenders slackened than his men crept up to the walls, and, as an essential precaution, filled up the loopholes through which the Ngai-Tahu marksmen had taken aim. This must have seriously hampered the defenders, had they been disposed to stand to their posts. But they were no longer animated so much by the desire to save the pa as to save themselves. Panic had now taken the place of heroism, and despair had completely extinguished all idea of defence. The sauve qui peut of Napoleon became equally the policy of Ngai-Tahu, and from this point there was nothing heroic in the defence of Kaiapoi. In a marvellously short space of time, the flames had completely enveloped the outer works; and, while they were eating their way through the wooden walls, many of the besiegers were indulging in the wild joy of the war dance, which, according to one native chronicler, was so vigorously conducted that "the noise they made was like thunder, and the earth trembled." As soon as a breach had been made, the attacking force rushed between the burning palisades, and the massacre—for it can be described by no other word—commenced.

"Through the fire, and through the smoke, Swiftly Ngati-Toa broke With a scream and a yell; And the glare and the flare Of the fire-tongues in the air Flung a demoniac light On the horrors of the fight: And the children in affright, And the women in despair, Shrieked for mercy, but in vain. And the blazing timbers threw A ghastly lurid hue On the wounded and the slain. And, as the fierce light gleamed On the warriors, they seemed Like fiends unloosed from hell. A struggle, fierce and short, And the keepers of the fort Were slaughtered for the feast: And the red sun in the west Went down as Kaiapoi fell."

No semblance of resistance was offered except by a desperate few, and those who still lingered were either struck down by their infuriated pursuers, or were captured and bound, to be spared or killed, as future circumstances might dictate. When the stampede commenced, the Huirapa gate was made the first avenue of escape, as it led directly into the surrounding swamp. But Te Rauparaha had provided against this by posting a strong body of men on the opposite bank; and, as fast as the fugitives landed, they fell into a snare as fatal as that from which they had just escaped. Numbers of the more active, impatient at the delay caused by the total inadequacy of this single outlet, scaled the walls, and dropped down into the swamp below, swimming or wading in the direction of the plains to the westward. Those who selected this mode of retreat were almost all successful in making good their escape, for they were able to secure the friendly shelter of those dense clusters of vegetation[118] which freely studded the face of the swamp; while the black smoke-clouds, which were carried on the wind, hung low upon the water, and effectually screened them from the searching eyes of their pursuers.

It is estimated that some two hundred of the fleeing garrison reached safety by concealing themselves in the slimy waters and rank vegetation of the Tairutu lagoon, until the vigilance of the northerners had relaxed sufficiently to enable them to creep out and slip away to the southward, or to Banks's Peninsula, where they could rely upon finding shelter in some of the tribal pas.[119] But by far the greater part of the inhabitants, who could not have numbered less than a thousand souls, met death in various ways. Many, especially the women and children, who essayed to cross the swamps, were either drowned in the attempt or shot down as they swam. Others, who, owing to age and infirmity, were slow in eluding the attack, were never able to leave the pa at all. The aged and the very young were killed without ceremony; but the more comely were for the most part overcome and bound, destined either for the feast or for a life of slavery, adorning the household of a chief or working as menials in the fields. Pureko, who had put the brand to the burning, was one of the first to fall, being disembowelled by a gun-shot; and within a few moments there was also witnessed the pathetic death of the patriarchal Te Auta,[120] the venerated priest of the tribe, who was slain as he knelt at the shrine of his patron deity, vainly imploring the assistance of Kahukura[121] in this their hour of greatest need. The air was rent by the shrieks of the dying, the shouts of the victors, and the crash of falling timbers, mingled in one hideous din, which typified all that is blackest and most brutal in human passion.[122] When an end was made of this gruesome work, and the smoking walls were ruined beyond repair, the captives were removed to Te Rauparaha's camp, situated on the spot now known as Massacre Hill; and there the full rites of the cannibal feast were celebrated at an awful cost of human life,[123] every detail being observed which, in the light of national custom, would ensure the eternal humiliation of the defeated tribe.

Kaiapoi having now fallen, and the dispersal of its people being complete, Te Rauparaha might have reasonably retired from the scene, satisfied with the laurels which his conquest had brought him. But it would seem that lust of victory and greed of revenge were in him insatiable. He knew that there were still some well-populated pas on Banks's Peninsula, and he was determined not to return to Kapiti until he had reduced them also. The canoes which had been damaged by Taiaroa were, therefore, repaired with all possible speed, and, after provision had been made for the prisoners who were to be taken to Kapiti, the remaining canoes were directed to proceed to Banks's Peninsula. A small pa on Ri-papa Island, in Lyttelton Harbour, was first attacked and reduced, and then the canoes were steered for Akaroa, from which point the war party was to move to the assault of Onawe. This pa had been but recently constructed, and owed its existence to the widespread dread which the name of Te Rauparaha had now inspired. When it was known on the peninsula that he had laid siege to Kaiapoi, a feeling of insecurity crept over the natives there, who were seized with a grave presentiment that their turn might come soon. And how inadequate were their small and isolated pas to withstand the shock of assault or the stress of siege! They accordingly hastened to concentrate their forces in one central pa, and the spirit-haunted hill of Onawe[124] was the point selected for a united stand. The pa, which was built upon the pear-shaped promontory which juts out into the Akaroa Harbour, dividing its upper portion into two bays, was both extensive and strong, and into its construction several new features were imported, to meet the altered conditions of warfare caused by the introduction of fire-arms.

With the fall of Kaiapoi, the alarms and panics to which the people of the peninsula had been subjected through Te Rauparaha's foraging parties were brought to an end, and they then knew that their worst fears were about to be realised. On the day after the sack of the pa, a few of the fugitives had arrived at Onawe with the doleful intelligence that the fortress had fallen, and that, so far as they could gather, the northern canoes were at that very moment being made sea-worthy, for the purpose of conveying the victors to Akaroa. Hurried messengers were then sent to all the outlying pas, calling the people in to Onawe, and preparations were at once made to resist the impending attack. Tangatahara, who, it will be remembered, had been the immediate cause of Te Pehi's death, was placed in chief command, with Puka and Potahi as his subordinate chiefs. The garrison, which consisted of about four hundred warriors, was reasonably well equipped for the struggle, for they had been moderately successful in securing fire-arms from the whalers, and those who did not carry muskets were at least able to flourish steel hatchets. In these circumstances, Te Rauparaha found them a much more formidable foe than had been the Muaupoko of Horowhenua, or the Ngati-Apa of Rangitikei. There he had all the advantage of arms; here he was being opposed on almost even terms; but there still remained in his favour a balance of spirit, courage, and tenacity of purpose. In the matter of provisions the pa was well provided against a protracted siege, while one of the features of the new fortification was a covered way, which led to a never-failing spring on the southern side of the promontory. Scarcely were the people gathered within the pa, and all the preparations for its defence completed, than the sentinels posted on the lookout descried, in the early morning, the northern fleet sweeping up the harbour. The alarm was at once given, and every man sprang to his post to await the oncoming. The canoes paddled to the shore below the pa, and there Te Rauparaha committed an error in tactics, the like of which can seldom be laid to his charge. He had hoped that, by his early arrival, he would have been able to take the garrison by surprise and effect an easy victory; but in this the vigilance of the defenders had frustrated him, and he therefore decided to delay the attack. In the meantime, he permitted his men to land, but unwisely allowed them to become separated. The Ngati-Toa and Ngati-Raukawa went to what is now known as Barry's Bay, and Ngati-Awa occupied the beach at the head of the harbour. In these positions respectively the sections of the invaders immediately began to establish their camps, and numerous fires, eloquent of the morning meal, were soon smoking on the shore.

Tangatahara saw with some satisfaction the disposition of the enemy, and shrewdly determined to profit by the advantage which their want of cohesion gave him. He resolved upon the manœuvre of first attacking Ngati-Awa, in the hope that he might defeat them before Te Rauparaha could come to their assistance, and then he would be able to turn upon the unsupported Ngati-Toa and drive them back to the sea. But either Tangatahara was much mistaken in his calculations or his directions were only indifferently executed, for his manœuvre failed ignominiously. As his men sallied out of the pa, their movements were noticed by the sentries of Te Rauparaha, who lost no time in communicating the fact to their leader. Instantly, the Ngati-Toa camp was in a state of intense excitement; every warrior dropped his immediate employment and rushed to secure his belt and arms. When equipped, they went off in hot haste, floundering through slime and soft mud, to reinforce the threatened Ngati-Awa. Tangatahara, seeing that his movement was observed and understood, hesitated and was lost. A halt was called, and, while his men stood in indecision upon the hill-side, the advancing Ngati-Toa opened fire upon them with fatal effect. Tahatiti was the first to fall, and several were wounded as the result of the opening volley. The Ngai-Tahu then began to fall back, firing the while; but their musketry failed to check the onrush of Te Rauparaha's veterans, who were now thoroughly seasoned to the rattle of bullets and the smell of powder. The retreat to the pa was safely conducted; but, for some reason, the defenders did not immediately pass through the gates and shut them against the invaders. They continued to linger outside, possibly to watch with greater ease the approach of the enemy. As they were thus engaged, a number of the captives taken by Te Rauparaha at Kaiapoi suddenly came over the brow of the hill and entered into conversation with those of their own kin who were still outside the gates. During this friendly parley, Te Rauparaha came boldly up to the walls with his own followers and demanded the surrender of the pa. Those within the walls were now placed in the dilemma that they could not fire upon the enemy without imperilling the lives of their own friends; and it was equally unsafe to open the gates to admit them, as the besiegers might rush in with an impetuosity that could not be resisted. In these circumstances the parley was continued, Te Rauparaha pointing to the presence of so many Kaiapoi notables as a living evidence of his clemency, while the captive Ngai-Tahu joined with him in advising the policy of surrender, chiefly, no doubt, through a jealous apprehension that the inhabitants of Onawe might escape the misfortune and disgrace which had befallen themselves.

Thus the battle, which had opened with visions of courage, degenerated into a war of words, of which the best that can be said is that the insincerity of the invaders was only equalled by the indecision of the defenders. Only one man in the pa appeared to have a clear idea of what his duty was. This was Puaka, who, recognising Te Rauparaha amongst the crowd, pushed his gun through a loophole, took aim, and fired almost point-blank at the chief, whose miraculous escape was due to the fact that one of the Kaiapoi captives, who was standing close to Puaka, pushed the muzzle of the musket aside just in time to deflect the shot. As might be supposed, the incident served only to intensify the confusion and disorder. Some of the invaders seized a moment's want of vigilance on the part of the sentries at the gate to force an entrance into the pa, where they commenced killing every one around them. All the brave vows which had brought the Onawe pa into existence were then forgotten, and the high hopes which its fancied strength had inspired were shattered in this moment of supreme trial, which revealed in all its nakedness the inherent weakness of the Ngai-Tahu character. Panic seized the people, and for some time the pa was the scene of the wildest confusion. Here and there a brave show of resistance was offered; but for the most part the defenders were too dazed at the swiftness of the Ngati-Toa rush even to stand to their arms, which, in their distraction, numbers of them even threw away. Of those outside the pa, not a few dashed for the bush as soon as the fighting commenced, and made good their escape. But those within the walls were caught like rats in a trap; and, during the conflict, the shrieks and imprecations of the miserable fugitives were mingled with the hoarse shouts of the victors, as they rushed bleeding and half naked from one place of fancied security to another. The conquest of Onawe, though swift, was none the less sanguinary. After the last vestige of resistance had been stamped out, the prisoners were collected and taken down to a flax-covered flat. There the old and the young, the weak and the strong, were picked out from their trembling ranks; and, at the command of the chief, those who from excessive youth or extreme age were regarded as valueless were at once sacrificed to the manes of the dead, while the more robust were preserved as trophies of the victory.

For a few days following the fall of Onawe, the surrounding hills and forests were scoured by the restless victors, in search of such unhappy fugitives as might be found lurking in the secret places of the bush. Few, however, were captured, and in some instances successful retaliation reversed the fortune of the chase, and the pursuers became the pursued. When the prospect of further captures was exhausted, the northern warriors asked for and obtained leave to return to their homes, and the canoes, with the exception of that of Te Hiko, immediately put to sea, a rendezvous being appointed for them at Cloudy Bay. Te Hiko was detained by the fact that his canoe stood in need of repair, and, during the operation, an incident occurred which justified the high estimate of his character which was subsequently formed by many of the earliest colonists.[125] He was the son of Te Pehi, whose death two years before was the immediate and avowed cause of this southern raid. If, then, the fires of hate and fury against Ngai-Tahu had burned more fiercely within him than in others of his tribe, there might have been some justification for it. But Te Hiko proved to be more chivalrous than many who had received less provocation. Amongst the prisoners who had fallen into his hands at the taking of Onawe was Tangatahara, the commander of the fortress, who, it will be remembered, had been the most active agent in causing the death of Te Hiko's father. What ultimate fate was intended for Tangatahara is uncertain, but he was fortunate enough to be spared an immediate death. He was, however, closely guarded; and, as he was sitting on the beach surrounded by Ngati-Raukawa warriors, two of the women who had accompanied Te Rauparaha's forces espied him, and immediately put in a claim to Te Hiko for his death, in compensation for the injury which the captive chief had caused them. The claim, though clamorously made, was firmly resisted by Te Hiko who endeavoured first to persuade and then to bribe them, by a gift of rich food, into a more reasonable frame of mind. Neither his blandishments nor his bribes were successful in appeasing their desire for the captive's life; and it was not until Te Hiko gave them plainly to understand that he was determined not to give his prisoner over as a sacrifice to them, and that he regarded his authority as outraged by their persistency, that they sullenly consented to compromise their claim. What they now asked was the right to debase the chief by using his head as a relish for their kauru, a vegetable substance which a Maori chewed, much as an American chews gum or tobacco. To this modified proposal Te Hiko reluctantly consented, and the women, approaching the captive, struck his head twice with their kauru, which they proceeded to masticate with enhanced enjoyment because of the flavour which it was thought to derive from his degradation.