How to explain this? These days I’m a rangatira, old and respected, with photographs and paintings, and people like Wharepapa bandying my name about the town. Back then, when I was young, Hongi was an ariki, a paramount chief, and when we were summoned to fight alongside his people, we went. There were always debts and alliances to be honoured. Sometimes we were lured with gifts. Besides, a taua was an opportunity to resolve disputes of our own along the way.
The Bohemian pulls up a low chair for me near the fire, and drops sugar into my tea. He knows how to make it the way I like. He only has one spoon and no saucers, but I don’t mind.
‘In my studio in Pilsen, my patron was a doctor, Dr von Meyer,’ he tells me. ‘This is when I was a young man, after my studies in Vienna.’
The Bohemian always has one patron or another. Here it’s Mr Buller and Mr Partridge. He’s told me that this is important for artists, for otherwise they might starve, like us in London without Jenkins.
This Dr von Meyer was once physician to the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, and from him the Bohemian learned many interesting things. For many centuries the Sultans of that place were guarded by a group of the very best soldiers in the empire, and these men were called Janissaries.
‘They were boys from Christian families,’ the Bohemian explains. ‘At a very young age, they were removed from their families and villages forever. They could be Christians no more. They were taught how to fight, and all their loyalty was to the Sultan.’
I sip my tea and rest my boots against the grate, for my feet are cold. The Bohemian keeps talking, asking me if this was the way things were done here. I don’t understand what he means.
‘When Hongi took slaves,’ he says, ‘was that not the same thing? They were young men who could fight for him?’
‘No, no, no.’ I would drum my feet against the grate, but I don’t have the energy. The Bohemian understands nothing. The men of a taua are tapu in a way a low-born slave could never be. A slave could gather food for us, or cook, but never fight alongside us.
I mean, of course, that we were tapu. I speak of things as though they’re going on now, but these were the old days. Sometimes slaves would be taken to resolve a dispute, or perhaps some would be killed so honour could be restored without having to harm other rangatira. Sometimes, when we were away from home on a taua for a long period of time, slaves would be killed because we needed to eat. Sometimes they were killed after we returned home, taken as utu by the family of a slain warrior, or killed for our feasts.
Some prisoners taken during a battle were a different sort of captive, a rangatira who was useful for a marriage alliance, or for trade. These are not the kind of slaves the Bohemian is talking about. I don’t know why he brings all this up. It’s unseemly. No one speaks of this any more.
As I said, these were the old days, before the missionaries persuaded us that so many of our ways were wrong – everything from our moko to our songs to the way we slept in our houses. Tapu was wrong. Slavery was wrong. We were supposed to release slaves, and if we couldn’t do that we should at least promise not to kill them. This is why so few of the old-time rangatira agreed to convert. The loss of tapu and mana was too much to bear.
I tell the Bohemian the story of Toi, whose slave killed his dog and was punished, because the dog was tapu.
‘You can’t fight alongside slaves,’ I say, ‘because you can’t trust them.’
This is all I will say on the subject of slaves.
‘But these Janissaries, they were trusted when they were slaves,’ the Bohemian insists. ‘When they began to admit men who were not slaves, there was a problem. These new men had much ambition. They wanted to own land and have power, and tell Sultans what to do. Dr von Meyer told me that the old Sultan was very unhappy about this. He decided to kill all the Janissaries. So he did.’
‘He killed all of them?’
‘Yes, many thousands of them. Now there are no more.’
People say terrible things about Hongi these days, but nobody accuses him of killing thousands of his own men. This was not the way things were done.
I place my teacup on the floor and tell the Bohemian that I have to go back to the hostel now and rest. I will not be able to write much tonight. Some days I feel too old for everything. But I must try to write something, to shake the past from my head. It’s so much more vivid than the present. Its voices are loud, crying out to be heard.
Through wisdom is a house builded; and by understanding it is established:
And by knowledge shall the chambers be filled with all precious and pleasant riches.
PROVERBS 24:3–4
Off we set for the city of Bristol, expecting to stay a week. Such was our popularity there, however, that eventually our visit was extended to a month. We were told that the city was smaller than London, but it still seemed a huge and busy place, its streets bustling with people, though certainly the river did not smell quite so foul. Bristol had a grand train station with a vast vaulted roof, the steam from the engines drifting about like clouds, and hundreds of men were building a bridge that stretched high above the river. There was no bridge as high and daring as this in London.
We stayed in lodgings on Queen Square. On warm days we could walk in the square, and sit in the shade of its many trees, and from my room I could look out at the statue of a king sitting upon his horse. This was a much finer place than Leicester Square, I can tell you, and the statue had not been set upon with an axe. Kihirini did not like it here, because he heard that many hundreds of people had been killed in Queen Square some years before. The place was tapu, he said, refusing to walk there or sit with us.
We didn’t care one way or the other, for by now he was little company. He complained of exhaustion, and then swollen knees, and Jenkins had to call the doctor. ‘More money,’ said Reihana, still gloomy despite the sunny weather. Kihirini’s illness was rheumatic fever, the doctor said, and he was to stay in his bed as much as possible, and not attend any public meetings.
For it was in Bristol that our life of meetings and lectures really began in earnest. Jenkins was very pleased to be in this city, because he was a Wesleyan, and John Wesley had built a chapel here, and because at last he could have his way and give one illustrated lecture after the next about New Zealand, with us – and his new painted map – serving as illustrations. There was no Mr Ridgway here to chastise him, or to report his activities to the Duke of Newcastle. Instead there was the Mayor and his council and hundreds of ladies and gentlemen, all eager to invite us to receptions and make speeches, and nearby there was another city, Bath, where the Mayor and other dignitaries were all equally happy to see us. Jenkins told us that every day he received letters from the great manufacturers of the county, inviting us to tour their premises.
Like London, Bristol and Bath had their own Zoological Gardens and museums, as well as assembly rooms, guildhalls, churches, and great houses. We visited the hospital and gaol and the baths, the newspaper offices, a house were orphans lived, a house where the blind were cared for and taught. If ever we doubted the greatness of England, or thought it just confined to one city, we realised the falseness of this in Bristol.
When we walked in the street, scores of children followed us, wishing to tug on our coats or shake our hands. After church services, ladies clustered around us, begging for our autographs. Horomona Te Atua was a particular favourite, for he was much taller and more handsome than Hapimana. This went to his head a little. Some ladies said he resembled an Italian tenor, or a dashing pirate. But Mr Lightband told us that everywhere we went, English people were amazed to find us so agreeable and dignified in our bearing. They expected us to be savages, you see, eager to pounce on the English and beat them to death.
In the Zoological Gardens, so many people pressed round us that the only escape was to launch some small boats out on the lake, and row them around while the ladies called out and applauded from the shore. This was my favourite thing in Bristol, I must say. The lake was s
mall – what I would call a pond. But to be on the water is preferable to being always in a crush of people.
We visited many manufactories as well, seeing machines that spun flax, and others that wove floor-cloths. The men and women and children who worked there stepped away from their roaring machines, calling out to us or staring with their mouths open. They had never seen anyone like us, and we had never seen anything like these places. A small child would at once tend several machines that whirred and shouted, even though these machines were large enough to gobble him up.
We were given many gifts in Bristol, and shown much hospitality. After we inspected the floor-cloth works, the Mayor took us to the manager’s office where we were handed glasses of wine and cigars, and each presented with a book printed with colour pictures of many different floor-cloths. Horomona Te Atua and Takarei returned from a visit to a brass foundry with stories of the way boiling hot metal was poured from giant spoons. Horomona was given a copper kettle engraved with his name, and Takarei received a portrait of the Queen in polished brass.
Best of all, in one manufactory we each were given a pair of new shoes. I had never in my life had more than one pair of shoes at a time. We were ashamed that we had nothing to give these people in return, apart from the cloaks Jenkins insisted we wear to all meetings and visits. These, he said, we must stop giving away, lest we have none left before the month was out. I had already given my dogskin cloak to the Prince of Wales, and after that day had to borrow one of Takarei’s rain capes to wear here and there in London, or else wear something brought to England by one of the Pakeha. Takarei was already obliged to share his cloaks with Hapimana, and was very ill-humoured about lending his treasure to others in our party, especially someone from Northland.
When Hirini Pakia ran off to join the Maori Warrior Chiefs, he left his kaitaka behind, so usually I wore that. In Bath I presented it as a gift to the daughter of the Mayor, at the end of a big evening meeting at the guildhall. Even Jenkins did not have the cheek to ask for it back, though he threatened as much.
‘He’ll send you home now,’ Hapimana joked when we were clambering into the omnibus waiting for us outside the guildhall. ‘The last person here will be Takarei, because he has more cloaks than anyone else.’
Wharepapa was also running out of things to give, for he had presented his greenstone mere to the Mayor of Bath. He suggested we dig a hangi pit in the garden of one of the Reverends, so the ladies could taste our food rather than just hear about it. This garden, by the way, was bigger than any garden I’ve seen in New Zealand. It had stone walls, and towering trees, and a lawn that stretched as far as I could see. Several hundred people were there that day, and because they all wanted to taste the fish and potatoes cooked for them, we soon ran out of food. One kete was filled with mussels and cockles, and these were especially popular with the little gang of charity boys employed by the Reverend that day to play upon their fifes and drums.
I supervised the digging of this pit, by the way, and the laying in of the coals, but I did not take part in the cooking and serving of food. Reihana took his part with much gusto, which impressed me. This is what I mean when I say he was a true Christian. I could never claim such a title for myself.
Wherever we went, many people asked if we had cartes de visite, and if Jenkins, Mr Lloyd, or Mr Lightband heard these requests, they would produce small photographs of us and hand them over in exchange for coins. Some of us didn’t like this at all. I had no objection to giving these cards to people, but selling them was another matter. It did not seem proper. When our photographs were taken in London, it was at the request, we were told, of the Prince of Wales. We didn’t know these pictures would be stuck onto cards and hawked in the street. I raised the issue with Mr Lightband. He was most apologetic, but said it was an English custom and besides, we needed every penny. Even with our reduced party, he was barely able to cover everyone’s expenses.
For this reason our group had to give many lectures, with Jenkins talking, then each of us in turn speaking, then the group singing or performing a haka. Reihana would speak, though he never took part in these performances. At first I would not perform either, but after a week or so I stood to sing the waiata or hymn along with the others. It seemed churlish and ungenerous to stay in my seat. There was no harm in it, I think, especially as the ministers present at these lectures never objected.
Wharepapa had plenty to say at these events. He was often introduced as ‘the leader of the chiefs’, a title he liked very much. In the Victoria Rooms, an elegant place that looked like a church, he talked for so long, and with such violent emotion and gestures, that one lady fainted.
At that particular lecture I was sitting on the platform next to Horomona Te Atua, who was often subject to melancholy now his brother was gone. True, the attentions of young ladies cheered him up, and his understanding of English was improving every day, because so many were eager for him to practise conversation with them. This was a cause of much jealousy on Hapimana’s part, for Horomona Te Atua was generally agreed to be the more distinguished of the two. Not only was he much taller than Hapimana, he had a more dignified bearing. There was nothing dignified about Hapimana Ngapiko, as I will tell in a moment.
At the lecture in the Victoria Rooms Wharepapa was proclaiming the things he proclaimed everywhere. Since we arrived in Bristol, he had become quite the statesman, with much to say about the war in Taranaki. This was their own foolish business, he said, and nothing to do with us. It was all the fault of the so-called Maori King. Quite right too. We all murmured in agreement.
Our troubles in New Zealand, Wharepapa said, could be blamed on two things. Firstly, blame lay with the Roman Catholics, who had come up with this wrong idea of a Maori King. Secondly, our problems were the fault of intoxicating drinks, which were ruining the country. This latter idea Wharepapa trotted out a lot, because it always received warm applause, especially from the ladies. Jenkins liked it as well, for he was a Wesleyan, and they are against everything that brings a person pleasure or relief, unless it is a great deal of prayer and the loud singing of hymns.
I often wondered that Takarei didn’t take offence at Wharepapa’s speech, because we were all convinced he was a Roman Catholic. We didn’t know this for certain, and perhaps we were wrong, for we had no particular evidence for this suspicion. We could have asked him, I suppose, but none of us ever did.
The part of Wharepapa’s speech about intoxicating drinks was designed to cause offence, this time with Hapimana in mind. Because of Hapimana, we were all asked to sign a pledge not to drink. Hapimana had been making a fool of himself in the streets of Bristol, carousing with no-good people. One night he was escorted back to his lodgings by a policeman, and his landlady complained to Jenkins. We were all annoyed with him about this, because it made us look like low-class Maori, and because the outcome of it was this pledge written out by Mr Lightband. Apart from Reihana, all of us liked to drink a beer or take some wine. We were not Wesleyans, after all.
Perhaps it was at this lecture in Bristol that I made my speech about the Sabbath, or perhaps it was at a lecture in Bath. On many days we had two or three of such events, the afternoon meetings attended by hundreds of people, and the evening lectures by thousands. Soon we barely knew the name of the town or the hall.
I think this particular evening we were in Bath, for I remember the broad smile on the face of the Mayor there, and also that I began my speech by praising his beautiful city and the kindness he had shown our party. Then I talked of how surprised I was to see that so many English people wore two hats on the Sabbath – that is, they wore their hats to church, but they also carried baskets about on their head, selling goods in the street as though it was any day of the week. I was very surprised to observe the Sabbath desecrated in a Christian country like England.
While Jenkins interpreted my speech for everyone in the audience, I thought of my final taua, when we all agreed not to fight on Sunday. No one was a Christian, but we didn
’t want to upset the missionaries who were anchored in the bay, and there was also much discussion of not angering their God. He was very powerful and, we’d heard, vengeful. It was safer to declare the day tapu and wait for the next day to resume our siege.
Once I was baptised in the Christian faith, I observed the Sabbath for different reasons, of course. It seemed strange to me that rangatira who rejected this faith would respect the Sabbath, when so many English Christians did not. I received no satisfaction on this point, however, as Kihirini Te Tuahu seemed eager to stand up and have his say.
Perhaps this was an evening in Bath, for Kihirini liked to come to that city to take the waters, hoping that they would make him well again. That night he talked in his wheezy, cracking voice about how as a warrior he had slain hundreds of men, with both our native weapons and the muskets of the Pakeha. Yet now, he said, the only weapon that mattered to him was the Word of God. After Jenkins relayed his words, the audience clapped for a long time.
I said nothing about this, but I truly doubt that Kihirini slew hundreds of men. I, Paratene Te Manu, would not make such a claim, and I am older than Kihirini and fought with more taua. He would be the greatest living warrior in New Zealand if this story were true, which I doubt. The missionaries liked to tell such stories, of untold hundreds killed, and thousands enslaved, and so on, but they were watching from a distance, or often not there at all.
Almost everyone took their turn to speak that night. Hapimana, not at all chastened after the encounter with a police constable, said there were far too many poor people in England, and he felt very sorry for them. They should go to New Zealand where they could till the land or work in a mine. He also said that his favourite thing in England was the public house, but Jenkins frowned at him and did not appear to relay his words to the crowd.
‘Let’s play a joke on Wharepapa,’ Horomona Te Atua whispered to me. In London Horomona left the jokes to Wiremu Pou, but perhaps now he was stepping out from his brother’s shadow. ‘Watch his face while I talk.’