CHAPTER XI. PIERRE DE FAUGERAUD: A ROTORUA MEMORY.
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CHAPTER XI.
PIERRE DE FAUGERAUD: A ROTORUA MEMORY.
During the last Maori war General Whitmore established a corps of guides or scouts, and whenever a special service was required needing courage and swift action, these men never failed. Sergeant Christopher Maling was their commandant. Among their number was a Frenchman, Pierre de Faugeraud. the subject of this sketch, who afterwards became General Whitmore's cook. But when the corps of guides was disbanded, Pierre joined my Arawa Flying Column No. 1 as cook, and proved himself indeed a treasure.
In those days Rotorua and Taupo were famous for two things. One was the boisterous appetite the beautiful atmosphere always provided; the other was the almost insuperable difficulty of satisfying it.
But Pierre never failed. If I had the luck to shoot a duck or pigeon, or Pierre could commandeer a neighbour's rooster or sucking pig, he would provide a repast many an epicure might envy.
Often times five or six unexpected visitors would appear at my camp to find my larder empty; but give the faithful Pierre a pound tin of lobster, an onion, a few ounces of dripping, and some potatoes, and it was surprising what a tasty meal he could give us.
When my Flying Column was disbanded I assisted Pierre to start a small eating house at Wairoa, above Lake Tarawera, where he more than held his own against two opposition licensed houses. The tourist traffic was then assuming large proportions, from four to five thousand persons visiting the Terraces during the season. But on the 10th of June, 1886, disaster overtook the happy village through the Tarawera eruption, over a hundred Maoris and several Europeans losing their lives. I obtained employment for Pierre at Rotorua, but he never recovered from the break-up of his home, and he died at Ohinemutu. We buried him on Pukeroa Hill.
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After the full establishment of the Government township, orders were given that those buried on Pukeroa should be removed and re-interred at the new Puarenga cemetery. This work was entrusted to two of Pierre's old pals. They harnessed up an old grey horse that Pierre himself had often driven to the Wairoa, and went about their task. After placing their comrade's coffin in the trap, they made more than one round of the several hotels, finally taking two bottles of rum and stopping frequently to drink Pierre's health in solemn silence. These stoppages and the returning memories of many jolly days the trio had spent together in the old days had their effect on the driving, and both fell head over heels backward on the coffin, crushing the frail lid to splinters. The sight they witnessed unnerved them, and they fled to Rotorua in a demented state, reporting to the authorities that Peter had sat up in his coffin and glared at them. They were directed to lie down in an outhouse and sleep it off.
They declared that Pierre's once splendid black beard had turned white, and grown nearly to his feet, and in places was projecting through cracks in the crazy coffin. He had a remarkably large, bald head during life.
In the meantime, the old horse quietly jogged Wairoa-wards, reaching the village in the afternoon. A large number of tourists and natives had just completed a visit to Rotomahana. On the old horse stopping in their midst the young men and women swarmed around the cart. A piercing wail was raised:--
"Aue! aue! Kua hoki mai a Pita, kua hoki mai ki tona iwi kia Tuhourangi ki te Wairoa. Hoki mai e Pita e." ("Alas! alas! Peter has come! Peter has come back to his people, to Tuhourangi, and the Wairoa. Aue!")
And so Pierre was laid to rest once more, mourned over by a weeping concourse of the warm-hearted Tuhourangi.
