War to the Knife

"What a splendid fellow!" said Hypatia. "He fought for his country, as why should he not? But then, having received the Christian faith, he followed implicitly the precepts he had learned. Our men would have given water to wounded Maoris, but which of them would have risked his life to procure it?"

"I could tell you of other instances of similar conduct," said Mr. Summers. "The bishop, when he comes, will, I am sure, add to my list. But we must set to work now to ensure him a suitable reception. You will have a sermon, too, which, like all his addresses, will be deeply impressive."

All requisite preparations having been made, and a sort of "fiery cross" sent round in the hands of a fleet-limbed native youngster, a considerable gathering of Maoris of all ages and conditions was present at the appointed time. They came in honour of that heroic personage, George Augustus Selwyn, the famous Bishop of New Zealand, the hero of a hundred legends, the pioneer missionary, the modern embodiment of faith, zeal, and devotion, who had always been willing – nay, passionately eager – in the words of St. Paul, "to spend and be spent" in the service of his Master.

Hypatia stood back a little space while Mr. Summers and his wife warmly welcomed their pastor and master, with an earnestness there was no mistaking. The dark-skinned contingent then closed in, and obstructed her view of the man whom (with one exception), of all living personages, she was the most anxious to see, whom by reputation she honoured with a feeling akin to adoration.

He had come attended only by a middle-aged Maori, whose grizzled countenance and war-worn features showed that he had done his share in the professional occupation of the Maori gentilhomme of the period. He stood apart, leaning on his musket, but from the respect with which he was treated by all who approached, it was evident that he was a personage of no ordinary consideration.

It was a scene of more than ordinary interest. The older members of the hapu who still dwelt in the vicinity of the mission, were chiefly those who from age or infirmity were debarred from going to the war, then waged within so short a distance of their homes. A large proportion was composed of women, children, and young people not yet entitled to rank as combatants. All in turn came to be presented to the Pihopa Rangatira, making obeisance due and lowly. To each one he addressed a few words in Maori, the replies to which were made with evident pleasure, the children almost gasping with pride and gratification at the honour of the interview. Inquiries were made after well-known men, who had formerly been regular attendants at the little church, but too often resulted in downcast looks, as the sad word maté (dead) came forth, and in broken accents the name of the battle, skirmish, or locality was uttered. Well posted in the personal history of the missionary centres and their converts, the bishop never failed to bestow a word of sympathy or condolence upon the mourners.

The reception being ended, Mr. Summers announced that the assembly was free to betake itself to their kai (or meal), which had been prepared, taxing to the utmost the resources of the establishment.

"Permit me, my lord, to present to you Miss Tollemache, a friend and schoolfellow of my wife," said Mr. Summers, as they moved towards the cottage. "A young lady lately from England, who has cast in her lot with us."

The bishop looked with extreme surprise at the distinguished-looking girl, so unlike what he naturally expected to see at the place and time. Bowing, however, with easy grace, he said —

"I am afraid I cannot congratulate you upon the occasion you have selected in which to commence your labours in the Master's vineyard. Have you had previous experience, may I ask?"

"I have had two years' work in and around Whitechapel," said she. "I took up the East End City Mission work soon after I finished my college course."

"Then you have quitted your first sphere of usefulness, may I say, for a wider field?"

"I discovered," said Hypatia, "that the locality was not suited to my age and disposition. I retired in favour of more experienced workers. Gathering from the letters of my dear friend and schoolfellow, Mrs. Summers, that she needed help, I decided to come here."

"And you did well, my dear young lady, to follow the dictates of your heart, though I would it had happened a few years previously, when we were all rejoicing in the fruition of our hopes and the visible reward of years of toil and privation. Now, alas! there have been sad backslidings, griefs, and discouragements. I have been sorely tempted to despair; but He who has hitherto led us through the wilderness will not abandon us now. May His blessing be upon you, my dear child, and upon all in this household. Though terrors encompass us, we know in whom to trust, as our Defender and Guide."

As he spoke, standing within sight of the mountain and the wave, with head raised, and that noble countenance illumined with the courage that is not of this earth – the fervent faith in things not seen – he appeared to Hypatia as a prophet inspired, transfigured, worthy to bear His sacred message, to speak the words of the Most High. Her overwrought emotional feelings overpowered her. Yielding to an irresistible impulse, she cast herself on her knees before him and cried aloud —

"Bless me, O my father, even me!"

Strongly stirred, the good bishop laid his hands solemnly upon her head, saying —

"May the Lord God, Most High, Most Mighty, bless, protect, and save thee, dear child, from all evils of body and mind, also from all the sorrows and terrors of this distracted land. May He shield thee in the hour of need, and may His guidance be with thee until thou art led in safety to thy home and thy friends. For Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."

Hypatia retired to the little room which she had occupied since her sojourn in Oropi, feeling a renewed confidence in the vocation which she had adopted, and a fervent resolve to persevere in the path marked out for her, no matter what obstacles might present themselves.

When she appeared at the simple midday meal, all traces of emotion and excitement had vanished. The little household talked freely of the conclusion of the war as being at hand, and, that once an established fact, the recovery of the country and the revival of the Church were but matters of time.

"And do you think that the two races will ever agree to live in peace and amity, after all the blood that has been shed?" asked Hypatia, leaning forward with a rapt and eager look upon her face which reminded the bishop of the early Christian martyrs.

"One may well doubt, Miss Tollemache," said he, with a sad yet unshaken air of confidence. "The best blood of England has been shed like water in these sieges and engagements. Still, I foresee the termination. It cannot be distant now. The flower of the Maori warriors and their leading chiefs lie low. All history teaches us that a conquered people is always absorbed into the superior race in course of time."

"But the difference in origin and tradition?" queried Mr. Summers.

"Is by no means an insuperable obstacle," answered the bishop. "In those mixed unions which have already taken place, no degeneration of type is apparent; indeed, to speak frankly, it has even appeared to me that the offspring in many instances show an advance, physically and mentally, upon both the parent stocks. I could name instances, but it is perhaps unnecessary."

"We have our Joan of Arc, too," interposed Mrs. Summers; "only, unfortunately for the romance, she is fighting or nursing, whichever it may be, on the invaders' side."

"You mean Erena Mannering," said the bishop. "I know her well – or did, rather, in the dear old past days. She is truly a noble damsel in every sense of the word. Her Herculean father is a paladin for valour, struggling with the tastes of a savant and philosopher. In a different age he would have stood at a monarch's right hand, or more probably have been a conqueror in his own person. Her mother was a chieftainess, brave, beautiful, and of long descent. No wonder that she is a marvel of womanhood!"

"She is not without friends who appreciate her," said Hypatia, smiling at the enthusiasm of the sympathetic prelate. "Fortunate girl! to be born to a heroine's task, a heroine's applause. This is the last home of romance, it would appear, since it has quitted Britain, at any rate for the present."

"Have you heard the last rumour about her, my lord?" said Mr. Summers.

"No, indeed. Koihua and I came across the bush after leaving the Forest Rangers before Orakau. I trust no harm to her is feared."

"No, but the situation is not wholly free from risk. A young lieutenant of the Forest Rangers, wounded in the storming party, which was repulsed at the Gate Pah, is reported missing. It is said that she was seen with a small party of natives, who carried him off at the bidding of her father, and that neither she nor he have been since heard of."

"In that case it is most probable that she saved his life, and, in the absence of definite information, I should be inclined to believe that he has been taken to a place of safety, where he will remain for the present. What did you say his name was?"

"Roland Massinger."

"Not De Massinger of the Court, in Herefordshire – surely not?" said the bishop, more keenly interested. "I saw him in camp when I came from Pukerimu, poor boy! I knew his people well in England – among the very oldest families in the land. I met him soon after his arrival in Auckland. Whatever hard fate brought him into this disastrous strife? But I should not say fate; rather the will of God, which often from present chastening leads to our eventual gain. But the time draws near for our service – the last, most probably, that I shall hold here. It will be my farewell to these poor people, whom I have loved and prayed for so often."

And as the good man retired to his chamber for the preparation of prayer which he always held to be necessary, even in the most thinly populated and apparently humble localities, Hypatia took the opportunity of escaping from a conversation which threatened embarrassing conditions.

Punctually at the appointed hour, the bell of the little church having sounded for the canonical time, the man of God walked through the crowd of dark-skinned proselytes, who awaited his arrival with unaffected reverence; and murmurs of approbation were heard as he paced with solemn steps towards the humble building, for which many of those present had contributed labour or materials. Yet were not all fully agreed. Some of the older men had been acted upon by the disaffected of the tribe, and hardly concealed their distrust of the pihopa, who went between the contending forces, and might, perhaps, convey information to their foes. This allegation, openly made at the rebel camp, caused the good bishop the most poignant grief – to think that his people, his children in the Lord, as he fondly called them, should distrust him, who for them, for their present advantage and eternal weal, had sacrificed the intellectual luxuries of the parent land, his place among the noble and the great, all the unspeakable social advantages which await the distinguished son of literature and the Church in Britain! And for what? To live in self-imposed exile in a distant colony, among a barbarous people but recently redeemed from the grossest heathen practices! It was more than discouraging, it was heartbreaking, to one of his sensitive temperament and fervent spirit.

The service of the Church of England was read by Mr. Summers. Hypatia was touched by the manner in which the responses were made by young and old. Nowhere in the world could more earnestness have been shown, less apparent wavering from the appointed ritual, which was wholly in the Maori tongue. She had made sufficient progress in the language to follow easily – a task lightened by the preponderance of vowels and the disuse of the perplexing consonants so frequent in European tongues. A greater advance can be made in Maori in a shorter time than in almost any living language. There is much of the ore rotundo claimed for the noble fundamental languages, which now only survive among degenerate descendants of the orators, warriors, statesmen, and artists, who, while they rolled out the sonorous sentences, swayed the known world with their pre-eminence in arts and arms, speech and song.

The prayers of the Anglican Church were concluded. Then the great apostle of the South Seas ascended an ornate pulpit, the gift of a few English friends of Mr. Summers, the carving of which had much impressed the native congregation, themselves by no means without practice in this ancient section of art. In his sermon – short, fervent, and chiefly persuasive – he appealed to those better feelings which the teaching of the missionary clergy, of whatever denomination, had been chiefly desirous of fostering. "What," he asked, "had been the condition of the tribes before that great and good man Marsden, the pioneer pastor, came among them? War unbridled, ruthless, remorseless, with its accompaniments still more dreadful – slavery, torture, child-murder, the eating of human flesh, practices which, to their honour be it spoken, the Maoris as a nation had discontinued. Were they not ashamed of these things?" ("Yes, yes!" from the assembled crowd.) "Who had taught them to be ashamed of these things? The missionary clergy, the pakeha from beyond the seas. Who had given them the seed, the grain, the potato, the domestic animals, the tools of iron, from which they now reaped such abundant harvests and stores of produce? Bread, flour-mills, garden-seeds and vegetables, – all these came from the pakeha. Who taught them the use of all these things? The Mikonaree. He laboured with his hands, he lived poorly, he coveted nothing for himself, he only held a small portion of their waste lands on which to grow food for himself and his family.

"He had done all this. But he had done more. He had taught them to worship the only true God, and His Son Jesus Christ our Lord – the God of mercy, of truth, of charity, of peace. And had they not lived in peace, in plenty, in good will among themselves, until this war arose, which was now raging to the destruction of Maori and pakeha alike? Who counselled this shedding of blood, this burning of pahs? The clergy? No. They knew that the voice of every clergyman, every missionary in both islands, had been against it, was against it now. If his advice had been taken, a runanga would have been held, of the wisest pakehas and the high rangatiras. Judges like Mannering and Waterton would have sat there – men who knew the Maori tongue and the Maori customs. They would have done justice. The Waitara would never have been bought from Teira. The Maori law would have been respected, as well as the English law, in which every man has equal rights, the native as well as the pakeha. Then there would have been no war; no killing of pakeha settlers who wished to cultivate the soil and to live in peace; no death of the soldiers and sailors; no death of the volunteers who wished to buy and sell in the towns, who bought the natives' pigs and potatoes, their wheat and their flax; no death of high chiefs or of the young men of the tribes, of officers of the troops, of officers of the ships. All these of the young and the old who now lie cold in the earth or beneath the sky would be alive and well this day." Here more than one face betrayed deep feeling; falling tears and gestures of unutterable anguish told their tale.

"But the war, unhappily, had commenced, and still raged. Unwise white men, proud and haughty chiefs, had been impatient, and forced on the war. Had the Maoris respected the lessons they had been taught, and been patient, even when suffering injustice, all would have been well. The Waitara block would have been given up. It has been given up now. They had many friends in the pakeha runanga; even in Sydney the Kawana Dennitoni had sent a letter in their favour, warning the council of the pakehas not to take Waitara. But there were unwise men on both sides. Blood was shed. And the state of war took place. And now you will say, 'This is all very well, but we knew much of this before. The state of war is accomplished. What are we to do? What is best for the Maori people?'

"I will tell you. This is my saying. I have prayed to God that it may be right and wise, according to His will, and for your benefit, who are my children in the Lord. We have always taught you to desire peace – peace and good will towards all men. Cherish no more hard feelings against the pakeha. You will have to live in the land with him. His race is the stronger, the more numerous; he has ships, soldiers, and guns, more than you can number; they are like the sands of the seashore.

"The war must soon be over. I, who speak to you now, say so. Heed not those foolish men of your race who tell you to go on fighting. It is of no use. When the last battle is fought, and my words come true, yield yourself to the Kawana, Hori Grey, saying, 'We are conquered. Show us mercy. We desire peace for the future.' He has always been a friend of the Maori people. He is a friend now. You will find that you will receive mercy, that a portion of your lands will be restored to you. Not all. Part will be taken for utu, as by Maori custom. After that I say, heed my words and those of the good Mikonaree who have always tried to do you good – who will do you more good in the future. 'Love your enemies; do good to those who despitefully use you. If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink,' as did Henare Taratoa, whom I taught when he was young. You can read your Bible, many of you. Do what you are there commanded, and it will be well with you.

"And now it may be that you will see my face no more. I have been called back to the land whence I came, so many years ago, to do you good, to help, to teach every man, woman, and child in this land of Maui; such I may have done, though the seed of the Word has sometimes perished by the wayside. But other seed, I will believe, has taken root, and will bring forth, in due time, some twenty, some fifty, some an hundred fold.

"And when the day comes, as come it will, when peace overspreads the land, when the churches are again crowded, when the schools are full of your children, when the harvests are bounteous, and the Maori people are as well clothed, as well fed, and as well taught as the pakehas, you will hear that your pihopa, the man who loved you and prayed with you, is no more. In that hour remember that I told you all this would come to pass, and honour his mana by obeying the words of his mouth, and the commandment of the most high God."

As the sermon neared this conclusion, the hearts of the people were more deeply and strongly affected. Tears streamed down the faces of the younger members of the congregation. Sobs and groans were frequent. And as he turned to leave the little chapel, a simultaneous rush was made to the door, so as to be enabled to say a last farewell. All doubt and hesitation as to his actions since the war were swept away by the magic of his vibrating voice, the magnetic force of his earnest tones. They now commenced to realize that they were losing a friend in need, a judge in Israel, a champion in the day of their oppression.

As he left the church with his host and hostess, the women and children clustered around him, with cries of grief and genuine sorrow. They knelt before him, they struggled for the right to kiss his hand, they implored him to come again; they vowed that they would always be his children, and would obey his commands till their death.

It was to Hypatia a scene indescribably affecting. The tears came to her own eyes as she stood there, sympathetic, emotional, wondering no more at the contagious power of the united forces of faith, enthusiasm, and oratory combined to sway a multitude and lead a people to heroic deeds. The men stood aloof while the women were making their moan, and then came forward respectfully, each to receive a handshake and a word of greeting, advice, or friendly warning. Last of all, the few elders who had attended as it were under protest, made known their recantation of doubt or distrust. An aged chief, whose scarred countenance and limbs told a tale of ancient wars, hobbled forward, leaning upon his hano. With an air of mingled dignity and despondency he thus delivered himself —

"This is my saying, the saying of Tupa-roa the aged. I have listened to the words of the pihopa rangatira; they are good words. The great Atua of the pakehas has spoken in them. If we had hearkened to them before, if we had said at Waitara, 'This thing is unjust, but we will not fight; we will leave it to a Court; we will send a letter to the Kawini across the sea; we will ask for justice till the winds cease to blow, till the fire-mountain in White Island stops breathing flame;' then our wisdom would have been great. What the pakeha says is true. We had many friends, just men, in the pakeha runanga. After all, Waitara was given back. Why? Were the pakehas afraid? No! See what has come of it. My son is dead, and his" – pointing to another elder who stood near him – "and Takerei and Puoho, all dead – all gone past the reinga, where I also shall soon follow. But we were as children, who see not into the future. Those unwise ones, who should be silent in council, were allowed to lead the nation; and now we are a broken people, our pahs are burned with fire. Our lands are taken, our sons are dead, also our high chiefs. If we had listened to the pihopa, to the Mikonaree, to Kawana, Hori Grey, these things would not have come to pass. My saying to you, O people, is to show honour to the pihopa and his mana, and so will it be well with you, with all of us, and our children's children."

Here he advanced, and motioning to one of the seniors who carried his greenstone mere, an emblem always of honour and authority, he made a gesture of humility and handed it to the bishop, who, receiving it, shook hands warmly with the old warrior and his aged companions. At this moment Mr. Summers gave out the Hundredth Psalm, which the whole congregation took up and sang with wonderful fervour and correctness, many of the voices being rich and expressive. At the close, the bishop, raising his hand, solemnly pronounced the benediction, and the congregation slowly departed.

"What a wonderful scene!" said Hypatia to Mrs. Summers, as she and the two children walked slowly after the bishop and her husband. "I feel certain that they will not believe it in England, when I write and tell them what interest these people showed in the service. There was none of the yawning or irreverence that one often sees in a village church there. How they hung upon the bishop's words! I could understand a good deal, but not all. It is a fine language, too, and by no means difficult to learn."

"Didn't old Tupa-roa talk well, mother?" said the eldest girl, a fair-haired Saxon-looking child, the rose bloom of whose cheeks did justice to the temperate climate. "He looked very fierce, too, when he spoke about the war, his sons, and the chiefs, all maté, maté, maté."

"I thought it inexpressibly mournful," said Hypatia. "The aged veteran, a war-chief, I suppose, in his time, grieving over his broken tribe and ruined land. Owning, too, that if wise councils had prevailed all might have been avoided."

"He was a great chief once," said the little girl. "Old Tapaia told me that he used to kill people, and eat them too. Wasn't that horrid? But he has been good for a long time, hasn't he?"

"You mustn't believe all that Tapaia tells you," said Mrs. Summers; "and you know I don't like you to talk to the old women, only to Hiraka, who is sure to tell you nothing foolish. You monkeys can chatter Maori as well as any child in the kainga. I think I must forbid you going there at all."

"Oh, mother, I will be good, and never talk to the old women, if you will let me go sometimes. The children are so funny, and they play such nice games. One is just like our cat's cradle."

"You can go, my dear child, when I am with you, or Miss Tollemache, but not by yourself. And now it must be nearly tea-time, so let us get home. The bishop will leave us at sunrise, I know."

That evening, with its homely meal, was long remembered by Hypatia. The quiet converse continued far into the night with Mr. and Mrs. Summers. Even, moreover, a short private conversation which the good bishop found time to arrange with her sank deeply into her heart.