The Treaty of Waitangi; or, how New Zealand became a British Colony

by Thomas Lindsay Buick

Now here's we: Here's the chiefs of the Assemblage of the tribes of New Zealand who are congregated at Waitangi. Here's we too. Here's the chiefs of New Zealand, who see the meaning of these words, we accept, we entirely agree to all. Truly we do mark our names and marks.

This is done at Waitangi on the six of the days of February, in the year one thousand eight hundred and four tens of our Lord.

The whole subject was now before the meeting for discussion, and the chiefs were invited to express their views upon it, or to make any enquiries upon points that were still obscure. There being some little hesitancy displayed Mr. Busby rose and, addressing the natives, assured them that the Governor had not come to deprive them of their lands, but rather to secure them in possession of what they had not already sold. He reminded them that he had frequently given them his word that land not properly acquired from them would not be recognised as the property of the person claiming it, but would be returned to the natives, to whom it rightly belonged. He was proceeding to say that this promise the Governor would of a certainty be prepared to carry out, when suddenly he was interrupted by Te Kemara, a chief of the Ngatikawa tribe, who, springing from his place in front of the platform exclaimed:

"Health to thee, O Governor. This is mine to thee, O Governor. I am not pleased towards thee. I will not consent to thy remaining here in this country. If thou stayest as Governor then perhaps Te Kemara will be judged and condemned. Yes, indeed, and more than that—even hung by the neck. No, no, no, I shall never say 'Yes' to your staying. Were all to be on an equality, then perhaps Te Kemara would say, 'Yes.' But for the Governor to be up and Te Kemara down—Governor high up, up up, and Te Kemara down low, small, a worm, a crawler. No, no, no. O Governor! this is mine to thee, O Governor! my land is gone, gone, all gone. The inheritances of my ancestors, fathers, relatives, all gone, stolen, gone with the Missionaries. Yes, they have it all, all, all. That man there, the Busby, and that man there, the Williams, they have my land. The land on which we are now standing this day is mine. This land, even this under my feet, return this to me. O Governor! return me my lands. Say to Williams 'Return to Te Kemara his land.'" With outstretched finger he ran and pointed to the Missionary, "Thou, thou, thou, thou bald-headed man, thou hast got my lands. O Governor! I do not wish thee to stay. You English are not kind to us like other foreigners. You do not give us good things. I say go back, go back, Governor, we do not want thee here in this country. And Te Kemara says to thee, go back, leave to Busby and to Williams to arrange and to settle matters for us natives as heretofore."

Te Kemara was a master in the art of Maori oratory, and he delivered this speech with much simulated anger. Gesture and grimace were alike extravagant even for a native; his eyes rolled in violent oscillations and flashed with demoniacal fire, while his whole body trembled as though convulsed by pent-up rage. He made a brave show of injured innocence, especially when pleading for the return of his lands. And yet it was not serious: it was mere theatrical display; for not long afterwards he gave evidence before the Land Claims Commissioners, and testified to the fair sale of his land. For the present, however, Maori vanity was satisfied—Te Kemara had made a great speech.

The serious impression made by the hostile deliverance of the Ngatikawa chief was somewhat dispelled by the diversion created when Rewa, of Ngaitawake rose, and, addressing His Excellency in the best English he could command said, "How d'ye do, Mr. Governor?" The sally was so unexpected that it immediately created a roar of laughter, in which all present joined. But Rewa soon became more earnest. He had evidently no intention of being frivolous—"This is mine to thee, O Governor!" he impressively said. "Go back. Let the Governor return to his own country. Let my lands be returned to me which have been taken by the Missionaries—by Davis and by Clarke and by who and who besides. I have no lands now—only a name,[67] only a name. Foreigners come, they know Mr. Rewa, but this is all I have left—a name! What do native men want of a Governor? We are not whites or foreigners. This country is ours, but the land is gone. Nevertheless we are the Governor—we the chiefs of this our Fathers' land. I will not say 'Yes' to the Governor's remaining. No, no, no, return. What! this land to become like Port Jackson and all other lands seen by the English. No, no, return. I, Rewa, say to thee, O Governor, go back. Send the man away. Do not sign the paper. If you do you will be reduced to the condition of slaves, and be compelled to break stones on the roads. Your land will be taken from you and your dignity as chiefs will be destroyed."

The next speaker was Moka, a chief of the Patukeha tribe, from Rawhiti, the burden of whose speech was also against the acceptance of the treaty. "Let the Governor return to his own country. Let us remain where we are. Let my lands be returned to me—all of them—those that are gone with Baker. Do not say, 'The lands will be returned to you.' Who will listen to thee, O Governor? Who will obey thee? Where is Clendon? Where is Mair?[68] Gone to buy, buy our land, notwithstanding the 'book'[69] of the Governor."

On this statement being interpreted to him Captain Hobson immediately stopped the speaker, and in the most earnest manner assured the gathering that lands unjustly held would be returned, and that after the date of the Proclamation all land, however purchased, would be the subject of enquiry, and no purchases would be lawful until sanctioned by the Crown.

This scarcely sufficed to satisfy the sceptical Moka, who replied, as he advanced close up to the platform, "That is good, O Governor! that is straight. But stay, let me see. Yes, yes, indeed! Where is Baker? Where is the fellow? Ah, there he is—there standing. Come, return to me my lands?"

Here the orator paused, awaiting a reply. His injunction was addressed to Mr. Baker in the most direct and personal way, so that it could not be evaded. Moka stood leaning against the edge of the platform, looking directly at the Missionary, upon whom all eyes were immediately turned. There was profound silence and the suspense was acute. Mr. Baker did not flinch but quietly replied, "E hoki, koia"; in other words, "We shall see whether they will return."