Prologue
Pōtatau
Williamson’s Clearing. South of Auckland. Colony of New Zealand. 1860.
War has broken out in the remote Colony of New Zealand between the Māori tribes of Taranaki and the British after Governor Browne unjustly confiscated land. Fearing they will be next, the tribes of Waikato have rallied under one leader and pronounced him a King. The Governor fearing that more tribes will unite... Must do everything he can to sow discord and division.
I
“The road south never leads anywhere good.” Colonel Marmaduke Nixon muttered...
As he rode high in saddle upon man’s carved vein on the land, a rough road clotted and clogged with all manner of people and produce feeding into the main artery of Auckland.
Once a officer in the famed Hodson’s Horse renowned for their enthusiastic suppression of Indians in their hopeless freedom cause, he has now of late settled in the arse end of the world... The fledging Colony of New Zealand, in a bid to be more then a middling shit buried in the rank and file pile of the vast British Empire... To acquire some land, wealth, maybe some peace, contentment, even if just for a while.
Although...
His stiff upper lip and straight rod back had by days wane loosened and slacked as road turned track, path, bridleway, trod and now as it climbed the steep razor back hills of the Hunua into barely a rut, a muddy mess of root and rock where feet slipped and slid under each step and hands grasped every available branch to stay one’s evitable stumble face first into water laden sod.
Nixon more soaked and soiled than some poor Sapper clearing out camp latrines, best dress uniform once peacocking golden gilt and shiny trinkets of glory and war now dangled dulled with dirt, caking gleam, upon a heaving chest and nipples rubbed red raw, while fine boots high in length for the ride, supple grained leather every Calvery man’s pride, bruised and bled ankles and shin as they filled to the calf with enough muck to keep a good Irish bog supplied with turd for a month...
Was raging!...
But he was less angry than his minion the half caste native George Kupapa.
Kupapa, equally as bedraggled, tired, wet, also had the pleasure to suffer the day in silence, most miserable regret, while torment, abuse and curse, boot to rare and ridding crop across back rained freely upon him whenever the Colonel perceived some slight or slack.
“He will get his!”
Was Kupapa’s whispering curse to see the day through, to lessen pain worse.
“He will get what’s coming and the sooner the better, it will be my pleasure to do! I’ll even do it for free... Nice and slow, make him scream, beg for release. Oh the pleasure I will gleam!”
Leaving his whispers to the wind, he half turned back.
“Not long to go Sir... We will soon be at Williamson Clearing.”
Kupapa’s voice dry and parched was but a croak, his normally good looks, immaculate preen by days ends revealed but a dishevelled beggars joke.
“Shut up! Shut up! You fool! Keep moving!”
The Colonel hissed after spitting out grime and grit from his latest slip, he had vigorously tried to kick the man for simply being in exist, limping now from right foot turned in a particularly vicious twist.
Kupapa said nothing, but face displayed the slightest crease of upward skin, where one who might on perchance have stared closely enough, could just discern a very satisfied grin.
“He will get his!... “He will get his!...” He shared with the wind.
His throat now razor swollen, closed as tight as legs of a nun, with tongue listless meat, protruding lump to whisper the sweetness of revenge was now a torture, a pain best saved. Better to scream the words in his head and save his breath for the end of this god awful day.
Evil and hate was now his fuel and only relate as he continued leading their two tired equally remorseful horses along the trail, up the last long hill... Taunting with false promises of the summit again and again only to disappoint and drive a dagger in the heart as the next hump descended just like the last, only to appear once more and beckon more tantalizing than a drunken harlots sure thing, sneaking peeks between branches of overgrown dark dense bush, which threatened to hide the way forever, saved only by wear of wandering lost pigs, cattle and occasional human trespassers who dared the forest gods on brave venture hinter.
“Look... Lights ahead Sir... We must be near Williamson’s Clearing.”
Kupapa croaked. Nixon could only manage a grunt in reply, even his entitlement and pride had worn out and died.
II
The dogs, two great mastiffs of particularly unfriendly temperament had alerted their master, on paper yes, in all else not... Mister Williamson long before the tired travellers had stumbled out of the night, into the clearing and the homesteads welcoming light.
Williamson was waiting at a open door, bright and warm with the beckoning allure of a good fire to stay the bone shaking chill of the wet and tired and the promise of pots and pans simmering with all manner of delight tended with womanly fuss by his good wife Katherine and dear, although somewhat rebellious daughter... Lucy, who now both stood at side.
“I did not expect you so late.”
Mister Williamson shouted in pleasant welcome of a man who had spent the day at leisure, possibly in hardship with a good book, whiskey and pipe.
“Had the heavy rains of late slowed the path?... It can be tough going in parts, although nothing so challenging for a old war horse like yourself!”
Nixon made impolite reply, to vile for any sober author to write.... And forcing Katherine to cover daughters’ ears, but Lucy only giggled, little did mother know she had used much worse. But mother did not know many things about her only child, and the better for all that she did not.
The Colonel was welcomed in, greeted by a hearty roast meal, hot water to wash, good smoke and brandy close to hand and bed warmed, feather soft.
Kupapa on the other hand had no such luck, a barn with dirty old straw, butter on the turn, stale bread, surprise meat and a bottle of gin at least to cockle warm a cold stiff body from head to feet... The price paid for a poor half-castes lot.
He paid no care, content with the provisions and a rusty bucket filled to brim, icy rainwater to awaken soul and skin, and horses and dogs to keep true company, at least he could speak his mind to them, drop the shroud, pretend not to live under a dark violent cloud... Even if just for one night.
“I wonder why the Colonel is travelling south?”
Kupapa said to the mastiffs who were making good use of his legs as pillows. Their massive heads did not stir at the question, nor as Kupapa fawned their ears in desperate search for even a dogs love and affection.
“You are right my friends, dogs of war don’t question, best to take rest and sleep, for if I know one thing... If the Colonel is heading south it is not to play happy families with those Waikato Māori.”
Kupapa snuggled into the straw, covering himself and dogs in horse blankets, settling in to consume the gin for the night, grog a daily needed tonic to soothe aches in muscles, pain in soul, dampening the ghosts that lurk in minds shadow where even he hesitated to go... Little did the man know he was treading the same path as his unknown mother to mortal ruin, listening to the wrong spirits, his nightly stupors clouding heavenly warnings.
“Beware! Child... Beware! Do not trust these men, they do not have your interests in care. The Colonel is a man who has no love for you... Beware my sweet baby! Heed my words, run from here. ”
Kupapa’s dead mother whispered in his head, much to quiet as the grog already dampened his ears to hear. His sleep though was a troubled turn, visited by ghosts and strange visions of times past and to be.
III
The next day warm, dry, New Zealand’s winter weather unpredictable as a woman and not worth the guess in try.
The sun now near noon high, heating the barns corrugated iron roof while shards of light strike through the many breaks and patch-ups of Kaupapa’s temporary abode, piercing his lids in heavenly call to open, it was the brimstone however, that finally stirred his soul, the dreadful smell of animal dung stirring lively as temperatures rose.
No sooner adding his own contribution to the pile and throwing stagnant water flavoured with crusty scum onto body parts he dared to damp. Last nights welcoming water, now on closer inspection a bucket of forgotten swamp...
When he heard the call...
“Kupapa! Kupapa... You dog... Where are you?”
His name spoken, his day has begun, a dogs obedience is never done.
With horses saddled, provision packs restored, three horses were now led by Kupapa to the house, where Mr Williamson also waited to journey join.
“By God look at it... Fit for Horse Guards! Your ladies do you honour Williamson.”
The Colonel cooed, admiring the fine stich and hidden patch hiding the gash’s and cuts to his tunic from yesterdays gorse bush brush, which Mrs Williamson now handed over in a rush.
Mrs Williamson and daughter Lucy had spent the best part of the night, cleaning, polishing, mending the Colonels uniform who once again in saddle looked the grand sight.
The ageing veteran of many a battle in India and particularly fond to recount the slaughter at the Battle of Maharajpore, should he find someone to corner and bore... Had come to these Islands to support two spinster sisters and make modest pension grow, before long that Queens Schilling had turned gold, not raining plenty but positively snowed.
Luck had played a hand, but guile, cunning and viciousness of fist had more seen fortune become his, ample farm and homestead at Mangere where he and sisters now reside in unusual family bliss and now Command of the Auckland Militia had given him the keys to prosper on the broken backs of the poor, stupid unfree... But especially at the cost of the native Māori.
Mister Williamson also in saddle was in best Harris tweed, ridding boot and his pride and joy a new Locke and Co bowler hat safe for ridding under tree, a top hat having that habit when riding in bush of becoming frequently knocked free... After all they were off to see a King, even if a Māori.
Willaimson had done well to, acquiring wealth and land that if back in Britan he would have no right too, this new land was on the make, and all the better yet for the likes of Nixon and Williamson ready for the take.
Williamson however did not have the Colonels command, instead greasing the wheels of success, with wit and charm... And if that failed good honest bribery.
“We head South towards the Waikato and the village of Ngāruawāhia, home to that old vile black Pōtatau Te Wherowhero... The one who has the audacity to call himself King!”
Williamson said on departure, blowing kisses to his dotting wife.
“And Lucy behave yourself for once while I am gone, strictly no fraternising with that native girl you are always disappearing with, look after your mother and be on best behave I shall but be a few days.”
“Yes father.”
Lucy had no intent of not seeing who only true friend... Karauria, who lives not far with her family down the valley.
IV
Kupapa rode well ahead, just within sight of the two but out of earshot of what was said, but no doubt secret converse of scheme and plan to steal more land from the natives and sell to the ever-increasing settlers arriving for as much as they can, he rightly guessed.
But as a outcast of both white and black, shunned by all, left to rot on the soil heap of life from a young age with no hope or crack, he cared little for politics nor it’s making strife, and in fact gave no concern for anyone’s life... Especially his own.
The ride today was easier and mostly of descent, a small way occasionally used by local tribes heading to the Hunua hills to hunt or avoid passing in travel the white man... The Pakeha. However, it was still steep in parts and prone to slip, Williamson not quite the rider, or the horse a good judge of character feigning trip, narrowly avoided on several occasions a heavy ground hit.
As evening approached and the trail flattened out approaching the Mangatawhiri River, a camp was sought and by luck, chance or plan, there then came at that instant a robust shout...
“Williamson my dear man...Over here!”
A white man waved and bid welcome hither, although from distance Kupapa found it hard to tell, so dirty, dishevelled, and wild looking as he was, he could have been a Kikokiko waiting for Kupapa for recompense of past deeds, ready to escort him to the gates of hell, to face penance in eternity knowing the trouble he inflicted so well... Only Williamson giving a friendly exchange in turn settled his companions’ concerns, but Nixons sabre and Kupapa’s pistol only lowered when Willaimson had dismounted and embraced the man... It was none other when introduced then Mister Hayr the Government Surveyor on a mission in sleuth finding hidden routes deep through native land.
They shared Hayr’s camp for the evening a large sagging canvas tied sadly between trees, but a good fire gave comfort and light, tea in the billy and salt meat to share under a crisp clear night with constellations many and bright, a hint of a aurora beckoning heavenly promises should one dare to cross the mystical bridge in the southern skies and forever escape the woe and care of
earthly ties.
Hayr’s tongue lubricated good, ready on story tell after Williamson’s silver hipflask did the rounds, glinting promises of comfort every time the fire caught its polished Sheffield metal well... Shared adventures freely and rambled on, no matter what food or spittle left mouth so long in country he has been, manners and social norms seemed a forgotten luxury, a lost possession of a previous self as much missing as his razor, soap or change of ones clothes.
It was just as well for his present company stayed in the main silent, unwilling to tell much, small talk and weather the main topic they felt compelled to discuss, best not to share intent of committing a crime or doing deeds unjust against any man... But a King beloved... A definite must!
Hayr waffled recount of his past months in the wilds finding a way to connect the town of Auckland with the rest of the country on paths not Māori made.
The aging King Pōtatau had put a tapu on his trails, forbidding any solider or man bearing arms nor traders selling alcohol or vices to walk upon his ways or cross his land, much to Governor Browne’s fury and frustration, and so ordering Mister Hayr to leave beloved family behind...
“Go find me new roads, good for the speedy transport of men at arms and bullocks pulling carts.”
The Governor had so ordered.
“And Hayr... No dilly nor dally, do this quick sharp!”
Williamson and Nixon knew this of course, with the ear of the Governor on regular lend and their advice actively sought. But they nodded, and murmured and made the appropriate noise, as if hearing what Mister Hayr had to say for the first time, Hayr did not guess through their poker faces... Kupapa saw through it all.
V
Day broke with timid glow through scattered rips in the dark, encouraging a lonely morepork near the camp to give its last soulful cry before fluttering depart.
The trio also made quick ready and promptly set off, leaving Hayr under a mound of sheepskin in hide of heavy rains and frigid air, he had no intention to break camp until the weather had fully turned and cleared, although snow was rare this far north the cold bite of winter could still chill bone and inflict sorrowful remorse, making the hardest man weep and seek recourse.
Horses and men were soon fording the fleet waters of Mangatāwhiri Stream, flowing deep enough to ensure they were drenched from top, bottom and within, with blankets and clothes well and truly sodden, theirs’s was not to be a day of gay joyful riding.
The Mangatāwhiri being the border, at least if not recognised then certainly understood, of marking northern entrance into the lands of the Waikato Māori, where welcome was anything but a given, and safe passage a laugh, still, if they had any misgivings or fears, they kept it well hidden under other cares...
On guard now, hackles up, feeling naked now, as weapons were buried in the bottom of saddlebags to avoid confrontation, suspicion or stop.
Trouble was not expected, but trouble might be expecting them, with plans dark and of ill intent as the weather, who knows what greedy rat lays amongst them or theirs.
For every man that carry’s a secret, expect ten more to know. The burden of silence a heavy burden for one to quietly swallow, nothing travels quicker then gossip worth the share, one just might be without care, whispering to friends of Pōtatau their intent, hoping for a good bounty on the heads of these very men.
Soon many native settlements were seen, as the lands of the Waikato are rich, fertile, green with plentiful orchards, farms and market gardens to show, they frequently now passed Māori going about their business to and fro.
But thankfully only a cursory or apathetic glance was given, a occasional acknowledgement, and surprisingly no challenge... Perhaps Kupapa’s steely presence, the gold and gilt of Nixon’s uniform, Williamson’s airs and graces, gave the men a shield of supposed importance or at the very least a sense of entitlement to the natives that they should be here, with their comings and goings being of little interest or care.
VI
Night hit worse then slow suffocation in a old coal sack, making the riders quite relived to finally see the lights of the village of Ngāruawāhia, and her surrounding camps.
A peaceful silhouette behind many scattered flickering fires with families and friends circling like moths waiting for dinner boiling in large communal pots of hearty meat broth, and the will-o-whisps of lanterns and lamps swaying in the wind, sirens beckoning this way in.
Kupapa was left at the outskirts with the horses and his wits as he was questioned and quizzed while other natives fondled the straps and buckles hoping to find in the saddlebags answers to questions he was not forth coming to give.
News of the world was slow to come, this strange half caste might have tales to share, fighting in Taranaki of particular interest to some, others from what tribe did he descend from, but he faced his relentless inquisition pleading dumb, one word answers and occasional dismissive grunt.
Meanwhile Nixon and Williamson with puffed out chests, nose high, swagger of white men with self entitled pride had marched off to the elaborate carved gates of the Pa to meet the challenge of the guard, two warriors young and strong, ageing muskets in hand although primed and ready with attitudes to match.
The visitors sensed they would need guile to enter rather then upper-class privileged sass.
It turned out it was easier then thought, bluff and great fuss of a confidential message for the ears of the King and they were quickly given leave, welcomed in... That and discreet slip of good tobacco and clay pipe, the guards being quite prone to the vice and more then pleased with the gifts, a long night of tedious picket now made much more happily bliss.
A few steps through the gates was all that was made before the Kings eldest son... Tāwhiao, and another native not met before... Urihara had made stealthy intercept from the shadows, two bull looking men displaying intricate Moko, strength in character and also body...
They were promptly halted!
Little moves in the Waikato without knowledge or say so, the strangers had been watched and followed as soon as they crossed the Mangatawhiri, only the Kings wish had allowed them to travel free, out of intrigue and curiosity or perhaps out of peaceful courtesy.
They were foolish to have think the save passage they enjoyed was a easy given.
Tāwhiao made question, then welcome and led the visitors to the meeting house, a good size building of wood and rush’s, with fine carvings at the entrance of unknown meaning, perhaps of gods or ancestors or past demonic beings.
The Kings son beckoned the men in, he was wary of the visitors, but it was well hidden under cordial politeness and a charming grin and bid them take seat on the thick flax mats that covered the meeting houses floor and provided a quite combatable relax.
The room was dark and smoky from a good fire that hid the intricate carved panelling on the walls except the glowing eyes inlaid with shell from the wooden icons which gleamed down menacingly seeing all.
There was several men already seated in various parts, how many was hard to determine, the shadows hid the answer.
Tāwhiao went to one dark form in the corner and whispered not heard what, he quickly left to reappear with several lit lanterns that shed some light, but not a lot.
Williamson and Nixon as eyes adjusted soon recognised the King, they had seen him before, but not often, his facial tattoo’s... Moko... Were still bright and sharp under the weathered wear of a man with worry and care in heart.
The King... Pōtatau Te Wherowhero, frail and aged of indeterminable years, the great warriors muscles and sinews faded under hanging skin, dangling from arms, ears, chin, along with the memories of great exploits and happier times, few being equal to age, his legend only now heard in reverent story, prose, rhyme... Still though he possessed wit and a shrewd mind...
Had been expectantly waiting...
“And what do we owe the honour of this visit? If my poor old eyes do not betrayme it is Colonel Nixon, the slaughterer of my kins women and children who dared live in the surrounds of Auckland, and Mister Williamson the man that steels pots of gold from every rainbow, even pots that do belong to him... Why do you trouble me at this hour late..?”
The King rasped, his lungs laboured with the effort, as if every breath was his last.
Before they could respond he waved them off, it was a statement not a question, a royal polite flip off.
“I am sure your troubles will be shared soon enough, for trouble it must be, for no good comes from English men when they come visit me... Well I am sure you will reveal all in good time... First share my food, let it not be said that Pōtatau Te Wherowhero... King of the Māori is a inhospitable host... We shall break bread and make toast, then discuss the urgent matters that you will no doubt lay before me, I am sure you bring quite the story!”
With that said food was brought and upon the floor silently spread, roast mutton leg, Rēwana soda bread freshly baked, Kumara sweet to taste and plenty of hearty soup to drown any lingering empty stomach ache.
With eating done and all pleasantries and small talk laid to bed, Williamson always the chancer took his opportunity and said...
“We thankyou for your generosity and hospitality, and yes indeed we have need to hold converse, a message from the Governor himself, but for your ears only sire to be heard. May we speak alone? It is after all a matter of great importance, and delay in response to the Governor will only serve his annoyance!”
The King held Williamson to account, with a stare into his soul that brought a momentary feeling of fear, a uncontrolled frown, the involuntary resurgence of a fidgeting schoolboy caught acting the clown, with a Headmaster who loved the rule, and its sound when violently whacking down.
The glare of a wizened old man and more so a King has the power to transcend lesser folks walls and pierce their very being...
“The tongue might whisper honey, talk heavenly sweet.”
“But the bitter taste of lies will not disguised be.”
“Your body you might give over in loving embrace.”
“But I will feel the wither and shake, betraying the hidden snake.”
“Promises of love and friendship you promise to live.”
“But your soul will betray the falsehood you so give.”
The King blinked and the moment passed, with gaze lifted Williamson felt his mind free to think at last, a discreet nudge from the Colonel also helped to break the trance like spell, Williamson no fool himself recovered well. It was said the old man possessed skills in the dark arts, Mākutu the Māori called it, gypsy magic to British folk, Williamson and Nixon believed neither, believing tiredness and fatigue only led the men to feel groggy, heads slightly spinning as if quite tipsy.
The King however made relent, and bid his audience leave, their was protests of course, Tāwhiao being particularly unhappy and made clear his thoughts.
After the particularly slow shuffles to leave, their remained just the three, silence for a minute lingered into eternity before Nixon finally spoke...
“The Governor presents your Highness with a gift, a mere trifle token of his esteem and best wish, remembering your fondness for all things of cake and treat he brings you straight from England some most delicious Bradford sweets.”
Nixon handed the well made mahogany box full of enticement over with lid ajar, tempting the King with a Cheshire grin, dare he go to far?
Sugar a expensive commodity in the Colony and before the European settlers a food of dreams was the Kings great weakness, that had the power to bring out the long lost inner child within.
“What is it?”
The King asked with thinly concealed glee, his fingers already outstretched to sample the delicacy.
“The best English sweets with the finest Jamaican sugar cane... Here try one, take two, take three.”
Nixon beckoned in a silky soft voice, enticing siren offering delectable rewards.
The King did.
Four in fact straight to mouth and there they sat, as he sucked like a hungry babe at tit, his eyes rolled in pleasure, before abruptly hid behind eyelid...
And then he fell abruptly silently back, motionless as a lump of coal in a sack.
“What have you done?”
Williamson squealed looking at Nixon, with a crazed look of fear, concern, consternation.
The Colonel got up, slinking over like a naughty cat unsure if it was getting a reward or a slap and bent over the prone body, taking pulse and placing ear to face, listening for life, feeling for beat, anything to betray the poison did not work... But it had worked a treat.
“I think the dosage was to much, perhaps less arsenic next time, he is alive... Just!”
The Colonel whispered. He could feel his body quiver in anxious thought, they could be the next to suffer if so caught... This was not going as it should.
“It was meant to be slow over many days, weeks even... And most importantly... When we were long gone... What are we to do now?”
Williamson hushly hissed, as venomously as a snake pitched forked by a angry farmer and facing imminent unlive.
It was then that Tāwhiao, Urihara and the tribes elders had re-entered, time enough had passed without summons, they had grew suspicious.
”He just collapsed, it was most strange. I would suggest the meat was off, it did have a slight smell, at least as far as I could tell.”
Nixon said quite confidently. He was unceremoniously brushed aside, while the screams and shouts woke the village outside.
Everyone was rushing in every which way, blankets, water to collect, healers to find... Anyone brave enough felt the need to share their mind.
The women were now on scene, the wives and daughters in full wail, our beloved King was most poorly, their mournful tears and waitara told the tale.
“It was the meat, past days due.”
“I have no idea what happened, not a clue.”
“Those Kumera, dangerous if recooked.”
“That soup was it heated enough, as it should?”
Nixon and Williamson with honeyed tongues suggested to all that had come.
But focus as of yet not cast at them, they took the chance most heavenly sent, and quickly departed the meeting house, the commotion outside also did help.
They walked briskly... Although with great effort fighting the instinct to run, out the gates to waiting Kupapa and from there horses remounted they then put a good trot on.
VII
Back at Ngāruawāhia words were said, the cloud of suspicion was not long to descend, with the visitors gone, without leave or goodbye, one would be a fool not to guess why...
Foul play had been committed, and the King after falling unconscious, was now no more. Yes he had been old and frail, but his death was something more.
Questions were needed, answers demanded... Where were these white men? Where were the strangers?
Tāwhiao fighting back tears and overwhelming grief still had the presence of mind and the clarity to seek explanation of this tragedy.
Urihara so ordered had grabbed the two guards from the gate, with muskets in hand and the fleetest horses they gave chase.
North they would have gone, they had no friends south, west or east, they must catch them before they cross that Mangatawhiri stream.
They rode hard through the night, they knew the trails and relied on no shrouded moon or weak starlight.
It was nearing sun raise when one guard riding the most quick horse, the fastest in the Waikato named Hōiho who needed no rest or pause had made intercept.
Catching Nixon and Williamson as they stopped for brief water and rest, the guard riding like the wind caught them surprised and unawares.
He raised his musket, one shot loaded it will have to do...
“Halt there... Do not move! I have need to talk with you!”
He said in broken English, the muzzle of the gun however made clear the authority.
The poor guard did not see from his side Kaupapa with raised Taiaha swing violently connecting with a vicious crack, just above his right eye...
He fell from his horse, dead!
It was sometime before Urihara and the other guard came upon the sight, with Nixon and Williamson clear in the gone, and their brother in arms bloody, prone on the ground, clearly not right.
“Did he fall from his horse after hitting a branch? Or was he killed?”
The other guard asked, tearful at seeing his friend for the last.
“I don’t know... I don’t know.”
Urihara replied, as he dismounted to examine the broken body.
“But what is clear, those Pakeha are gone and we will find no answers tonight.”Start writing here…
