But what was the fate of the wounded and dying officers left in the pa? Night closed over them and concealed them in impenetrable darkness. No less than seven officers of the 43rd were there, besides others belonging to the navy. They were in the hands of those who cut off Captain Lloyd’s head, and sent it round among the other tribes as a trophy of victory. The vanquished soldiery could hear the yells of triumph from the pa; some even imagined that they heard the shrieks of their tortured countrymen, but this was only the work of the imagination. The Maoris remembered mercy in the hour of victory, and treated our dying officers with humanity worthy of the imitation and admiration of all civilized nations. No hostile hand hastened on the hour of death, already fast approaching. Their persons and their property were alike respected. An effort was made to relieve the sufferings of those who were still alive. Lieutenant-Colonel Booth, commanding the 43rd, was shot through the spine and the arm. His wounds, though mortal, did not produce immediate death. He stood leaning against the wall of the pa, suffering intensely from thirst; around him lay his slaughtered officers. Our pen shrinks from recording the sufferings he endured throughout the night of horror which he survived. He had risen rapidly to command, and was in the very prime of his strength and manhood. Tall, erect, and powerful, he looked like a man who could ward off death for half a century; he had done so in India and elsewhere, but now he had met his fate at the Gate Pa at Tauranga. This was the first time that he had led his regiment into action, and had they behaved in a manner worthy of their high reputation? Alas!
There lay the two Glovers, the sons of an English clergyman, on the field of gore, but not of glory. They were lovely in their lives, and in death they were not separated. We had seen the elder fall in the foremost of the fray, and the younger, who loved him with more than a brother’s love, rush forward with a loud and bitter cry. A brother’s love may do much, but it cannot reverse the iron decrees of fate, which take no account of human affection or sorrow. It was in vain that he raised him in his arms, and strove to bear him from the field—a hostile bullet brought both the brothers to the ground, and left them side by side, with the tide of life ebbing fast away. If there is a mother in some distant English rectory weeping, like Rachel, for her children, because they are not, or a father lamenting their loss, let us comfort them with the assurance that in life and in death they were all that the fondest parent could wish.
We have read of a martyr’s sufferings at the stake: we question whether in intensity they equalled those endured by Colonel Booth during that fearful night. He never lost his consciousness, and an occasional groan escaped from his lips. An armed Maori stole up to him. There was no sorrow in the thought that he had come to give him the coup de grâce; but it was not so. The heart of the half-savage man was touched by the spectacle of woe. Colonel Booth read this feeling in his face, and muttered, “Water.” The Maori shook his head, to show that there was none in the pa, and slipped out in search of some. He never returned, but next morning his body was found at the brink of the swamp, with a pannikin by his side. A soldier of the 68th, ignorant of his purpose, had fired at him with fatal precision, and arrested him on his errand of mercy. The will must be taken for the deed. The exposure of his life to all but certain death from the humane desire to give a cup of water to a dying enemy shall not be without its reward.
In the course of the night the insurgents abandoned the pa, and made good their retreat by the rear, without suffering much loss from the 68th, who had been placed there to intercept them. No blame can be attached to the 68th; no regiment has ever been able to prevent the Maoris from effecting their escape. They pass with ease through swamps where the British soldier could never gain a footing. Amphibious in their habits, they are as much at home in the water as on land. Their loss on this occasion was trifling: it certainly did not exceed thirty men, while ours amounted to 104 killed and wounded, including a larger portion of officers than on any other occasion where British troops have been engaged. The causes of this disproportion are already known to our readers.
For a time it was not known in the British camp that the enemy had evacuated the pa. The frantic yells had died away—no sound was heard to disturb the stillness of the night. Tempted by the long-continued silence, Major Greaves, of the 70th, stole up to the ditch, mounted the breach, and found the pa empty. Returning to camp, he reported what he had seen, but no attempt was made to enter the pa till daybreak. The enemy had fled, carrying their wounded with them. Colonel Booth was still alive, but the surgeon told him that his hours were numbered. He was borne to the camp, where he survived till the following day. Before his death he was visited by General Cameron. “I endeavoured, sir, to carry out your orders; I am sorry that I have failed. I at least tried to do my duty.” “You have done so nobly,” was the general’s reply, as he pressed the hand of the dying soldier, in whose breast the sense of duty was stronger than the love of life. It is pleasing to record the virtues of men who, in this inglorious warfare, have gone down to the grave unwept, unhonoured, and unsung, because England takes little interest in a war with savages, and dismisses the subject for others more attractive. The other dead or dying officers were removed from the pa. Captain Hamilton, of the 43rd, breathed only once after his body was found. A bullet had passed through his head, and so altered his features that it was difficult to recognise the handsome face with which we were once so familiar. We had known him years ago in the East, when he was an ensign in the 10th Regiment. During the interval he had served throughout the whole of the Indian campaign, and followed Havelock to Lucknow. He belonged to a race of soldiers, and was every inch a soldier himself. Poor Hamilton! we think of him still as he sat at the mess-table, expatiating on the capture of Lucknow, or some cognate subject, to a group of admiring ensigns who loved him for the dangers he had passed. He served in the 10th Regiment with the present Sir Henry Havelock, now on the staff in New Zealand, who always spoke of him with respect as a gallant soldier, and betrayed the deepest sorrow on learning that he had fallen.
The cause of the sudden panic which seized our men at the Gate Pa will never be known with certainty. It would be easy to show, from ancient and modern history, that the best troops are subject to such panics, which often spring from the most trifling causes. Terror, like courage, is sympathetic; it spreads like an infectious disease, from man to man, till all are swept away before it. At the battle of Fridlingen, fought on the 14th of October, 1702, between the French and Austrians, the former almost lost the day through a sudden panic which seized their ranks. The infantry had reached the summit of a hill to dislodge the German cavalry, and had succeeded in doing so, when a voice suddenly exclaimed, “Nous sommes coupés!” On this every regiment turned and fled. It was fortunate that in Marshal Villars they had a leader equal to the occasion. “Allons, mes amis!” he cried; “la victoire est à nous! Vive le roi!” “Vive le roi!” replied the soldiers, still retreating as fast as they could. With some difficulty Villars rallied them, and led them back to victory; but if a single regiment had attacked them at that moment the result would have been the same as at the Gate Pa. The most trifling incident may make a whole army retire in confusion. Such an incident occurred during the Indian campaign. A body of our men were on the march, preceded by some of their officers on horseback. A horse became restive, and threw its rider; other horsemen rushed to his assistance; clouds of dust were raised; the cry rose from the ranks that the rebels were upon them; a sudden panic was the result, and our soldiers fled when no one pursued. It was fortunate no enemy was at hand to profit by the confusion and terror occasioned by the nowise remarkable incident of a surgeon falling from his horse.
The 43rd Regiment have already atoned for the disaster at Te Papa. A few weeks after that event they again encountered the enemy at Te Ranga, and proved themselves worthy of their Peninsular fame and the glorious names inscribed on their standards. A temporary reverse is no proof that a regiment has degenerated; it is often the occasion, as in this instance, of eliciting the display of a higher amount of courage than might have attended ordinary success, and of teaching a deeper respect for those whose military spirit and capacity we have been disposed to under-estimate.
