CHAPTER XVI. HOW KIWI SAVED HIS CLOTHES
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CHAPTER XVI
HOW KIWI SAVED HIS CLOTHES
NEW ZEALAND is, of course, famous for its natural beauties and wonders, among them the hot lakes and the terraces of pink and gleaming white stone. The latter, unfortunately, were destroyed by volcanic eruption in the eighties, but, I believe, are forming again.
On one occasion when I was located in the hot lake district several prominent Colonial officials, with their wives, came up, and I had to show them round. On Lake Rotorua we had two large whaleboats, and it was arranged that the party should be taken along the lake in these, to the island Mokoia, the scene of the romantic story of O Hinemoa and Tutanekai (the Maori Hero and Leander). The Maori yarn differs from the Greek, as it was the young lady who did the swimming part of the business, and the hussy was not drowned.
Mokoia has also been the scene of ruddy war, for it was on this island the Arawa tribe took refuge from a dreadful raid of the Ngapuhi tribe, under that bloodthirsty monster Hongi, who, from the year 1818-1838, raged through the North Island of New Zealand like a plague, and destroyed over one-fourth of its inhabitants.
He was one of the first Maoris who visited England, having been brought there by Kendal
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to help Professor Lee with his Maori grammar and dictionary. While in England he was much lionised, and received many valuable gifts.
He was presented to George IV., who made him presents of a suit of armour and other valuable articles.
On his return to Sidney he sold all his presents, with the exception of the suit of armour, and bought 300 muskets with ammunition. While in Sidney a grim story is told of him. At Kendal's dinner-table he met another Maori chief belonging to a tribe hostile to the Ngapuhi. Quoth he to his fellow-guest: "Go home, make ready for war, and prepare to be killed and eaten." Landing in New Zealand, he swept the country bare, killing thousands and eating all he could. At last came the turn of the Arawa.
Sweeping down the east coast, he landed at Maketu and twice defeated the Arawa, who retired inland and took refuge in their stronghold, the island of Mokoia. He followed them and camped on the edge of the lake. Every morning the Arawa, confident in their fancied security, used to paddle past his camp and cheek him. I do not know if they used to place their thumbs to their noses and stretch their fingers out at him, but they poked fun at him and asked him rude questions, such as: How did he expect to come to Mokoia? Was he growing wings like a duck, or, perchance, fins like a fish? etc., etc.
Naught would reply the grim old warrior, as he sat, surrounded by his cannibal chiefs, on the high bank of the lake, to his enemy's ribaldry; but he took the opportunity to tapu the splendid canoes
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as they dashed past him, the jeering crews showing them off to the best advantage.
"My skull is the bailing pot of that canoe," said Hongi, pointing to the largest and best one. This was a most awful assertion, but it rendered that canoe sacred to Hongi, as who, at the division of spoil, could claim a canoe the bailing pot of which was Hongi's skull, the most tapu part of his body.
This went on day after day, while Hongi was having his big war canoes transported from the sea, up creeks, across land, over a range of bushed hills, and through lakes to the scene of action.
First of all up a creek, then he had a road cut through a forest, covering a range of hills, until he launched them on Lake Roto Ehu. Again, he cut a road through a forest, and launched them on Lake Roto Iti and then up a rapid creek till they emerged on Lake Roto Rua. Now, poor Arawa, you will find out to your cost how Hongi is coming to Mokoia!
One morning, as the Arawa were preparing for their usual daily amusement, they saw, to their horror and consternation, the advancing fleet of their bloodthirsty enemies. The time for jeering and laughter had passed, some tried to escape and a few succeeded, the others stood and fought the hopeless fight of spears and stones versus muskets. The canoes drew near the island and Hongi opening fire on the hapless defenders, shot them down in heaps, then, landing, killed or enslaved all that remained of the Arawa tribe. The ovens, surrounded with the crumbling bones of the victims, remain still to mark the spot where scores of the unfortunate Arawa were cooked and eaten; and these, with Ohinemoa's natural hot bath, are the
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two show places on the beautiful green hill that sits like a gem on the bosom of the dark blue lake.
After we had visited Mokoia we were to descend the rapid creek up which Hongi had brought his canoes and inspect Roto Iti. The boats were manned by young Maoris of splendid physique, whom I dressed for the occasion very prettily, in shirts and trousers of white cotton, with black silk neckerchiefs. They were very proud of themselves in these smart, unaccustomed clothes.
When we came to the shallow water, at the head of the creek, it would be necessary for these fellows to jump out of the boat to lighten her, and drag her over into deep water; and I warned them that as English ladies did not like to see men without clothes on they must jump overboard in their smart suits. The three officials went into one of the boats by themselves, with a crew that knew no English, as they wanted to discuss important business, and I escorted the ladies in the other boat. We landed at Mokoia, and I showed them the bath and the gruesome ovens, and told them the tales of love and war, and then we re-embarked to visit Roto Iti. All went well till we reached the shallows at the head of the creek; here the boat grounded and I ordered the crew overboard to push her along.
All obeyed and plunged in with their clothes on, as instructed, with one exception. This was the stroke oar, a fine young Maori named Kiwi, who spoke broken English and was the son of a principal chief. He was very proud of his smart new clothes, and when the other fellows sprang into the water he sat tight. His mates called to
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him for help, and seeing he did not move I ordered him overboard. But he meant to preserve that suit. With a deep sigh he took off the black silk neckerchief, next he stripped off that immaculate white shirt. He looked at the water, and then at his lovely white trousers.
Then, with sudden inspiration, he touched the principal lady on the shoulder and said in a deep whisper of despair: "You no like to see me: you look that way." And in another moment he had whipped off his last thread of clothing and joined his comrades in the water.
THE LOST DINNER
Some time after the New Zealand wars ended Pierre de Feugeron settled down at a Maori village called Wairoa, situated at the head of Lake Tarawera, and there built himself a two-roomed shanty, which he called the Maison de Repos, and offered to entertain any tourists visiting the wonders of Rotomahana.
Now Pierre was a miraculous cook. He could make a good dinner out of anything, and there is no doubt he would have done well but for his great failing, Drink--in his case spelt with a very, very big D. For no sooner had he been remunerated by one lot of tourists than he would at once make off to Ohinimutu, where there was a drink shanty, and blow the lot.
He was indeed a queer character. In appearance, he was big enough, and looked ferocious enough, for a stage brigand, wearing his hair long and a huge beard. In reality he was as kind-
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hearted and simple as a child, and, notwithstanding his past life of bloodshed and adventure, he was just as harmless as one.
Pierre was also great on politics, in more ways than one, for his special brand would depend on the number of tots he had absorbed.
When sober he was a Legitimist, after he had had a drink or two an Imperialist, a few more made a Republican of him, and as he got full up he became a Communist, an Anarchist and a ruddy Red. At this stage he would become an aweinspiring object indeed. Armed with a tomahawk in one hand and a huge knife in the other, he would dance a war-dance of the most bloodcurdling description, and with rolling r's emit horrible wild yells, in French, broken English and Maori, sufficient, unless you had known him, to daunt the courage of Bayard himself. Yet when the non-com. on duty considered that Pierre had ranged himself enough, he only had to send a Maori kid to him, with the intimation that the guardroom required him, and Pierre, dropping the Bombastes Furioso business, would immediately make a bee-line for that hospitable abode and fall asleep, sobbing over the sorrows of La Belle France.
Well, it was my duty to escort round the hot lakes any big pot the Government chose to send up to me, and the Governor, once a year, used to come round, with a large party, and visit the wonders of the district, which, of course, included the marvellous terraces.
A noble marquis was at this time proconsul in New Zealand, and when I received warning of
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his advent I also received the straight tip that his Excellency, a bon-vivant, dearly loved a good dinner, so I determined he should have nothing to complain of while under my care.
Now it was customary for the Governor to camp a night at Wairoa en route to the terraces, and also to stay another night there on the return journey, so I determined, albeit with grave doubts, to engage Pierre to take charge of the culinary department for the two nights we should be there.
For the first night I had no anxieties, as I had kept Pierre closely confined to the guardroom for the preceding fortnight; but I was very nervous about the day that I should be at the terraces with the party, when Pierre, perchance getting hold of some of the liquor, might raise Cain and wreck the dinner. However, I put my trust in Providence, and also in the discretion and vigilance of the reliable old non-com. who would be left in charge of the camp during my absence, and to whom I gave instructions to keep a very sharp eye on Pierre and his movements; so, hoping for the best, I received his Excellency with equanimity.
The first night all went well. Pierre served up such a recherche dinner that the Governor sent for him to be congratulated, and in his enthusiasm offered the old chap a drink. Alas! I dare not interfere, though well I knew this meant trouble; for the first tot to Pierre was like the first taste of blood to a tiger.
Pierre picked up a bottle of brandy, and pouring out a bosu'n's nip, drank it off to the health of ze Governor, ze Great Queen Victoria, and ze Great
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Napoleon, and then took himself off, but, horrible dictu, he also took the bottle with him.
Unfortunately, just at that moment my whole attention was drawn from him by a lady questioning me about his adventures, so he escaped with his plunder without my observing the act.
I left the table as soon as possible, and sought out Pierre, whom I found walking about on his tiptoes, looking scornfully at the troopers, while he informed them that he himself was Pierre de Feugeron, ze grand scout. He also demanded their attention, that he himself, and no other man, was Pierre de Feugeron, ze grand cordon-bleu, who had cooked dinners for the Emperor, and that the great Reine Victoria had sent for him to cook ze dinner for herself. Le Bon Dieu save ze Queen, ip ip--
He had just reached this stage when I reached for him, and ze grand cordon-bleu retired at the double to his hut; but, alas! I knew nothing about that plundered bottle, which he had planted before my advent.
The next morning, after an early breakfast, and after I had reiterated my cautions to the non-com., and my warnings and threats to Pierre, we started in canoes for Rotomahana, where the Governor and his party enjoyed themselves thoroughly, returning in the evening to Wairoa.
Now I must confess that although I placed great faith in both Providence and the non-com., yet Black Care sat on my soul like a wet blanket; and this would have been considerably enhanced had I but known that a sudden
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stampede of the horses had forced away the non-com. and his men, leaving Pierre alone in camp to work his wicked will. All the way back in the canoes the conversation turned on gastronomy, and his Excellency, well pleased with the day and having a forty-dollar appetite, looked forward to his dinner, and hoped it would be as good as the one on the previous night. I hoped so too; but coming events cast their shadows before them, and I had my doubts.
At last we landed and climbed the steep hill that led to the flat on which the camp was pitched. Alas! while still afar off I heard the wild war-whoops and blood-curdling yells I knew so well, and was assured that my very worst apprehensions were more than justified.
I at once pushed on, the Governor accompanying me, and on our reaching the camp there was our cordon-bleu, armed as per usual, dancing a war-dance that would have excited the envious admiration of a crazy Hau Hau.
The Governor paused for a moment, and stood aghast in astonishment at the horrible-looking object before us, then full of pluck, for of course he did not know how utterly harmless the old fellow was, rushed up to him and said soothingly: "Pierre, how goes the dinner?"
Pierre briefly answered that the dinner had gone to a place where it must have been overcooked and spoilt long ago.
But quoth his Excellency: "I am so hungry."
"And a ruddy good job too," howled Pierre. "It is good for kings and governors to be hungry. I myself am Pierre de Feugeron, the great Com-
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munist. I myself am Pierre de Feugeron, the noble anarchist, and I scorn to cook the dinners of kings and governors."
Then seeing the rest of the party, who by this time had arrived and were regarding him with awe and astonishment, he at once consigned the Governor and the rest of us to the same place as he had committed the dinner, and was proceeding with his pas seul when some Maoris, acting on my instructions, took a hand in the game. Exit the noble anarchist, to be tied to a tree for the night, to regain his loyalty, while I had to bustle about to knock up an impromptu dinner for my sorrowing and shocked guests.
