‘Hear, hear!’ cried Miss Weale, and this we could understand, even if Mr Maunsell was too busy to translate it. It was not hot in the Town Hall the way it was in the Corn Exchange in Coventry, but Mr Maunsell was damp with sweat, bellowing Reihana’s words out to the crowd.
‘Jenkins only tells one side of the story,’ Reihana continued. ‘Let I, Reihana Te Taukawau, tell you all our side.’
‘Sir,’ said Mr Sneyd Kynnersley, standing up himself and tapping on Reihana’s arm. Mr Maunsell stepped back, mopping at his pink face with a handkerchief. A lot of the gentlemen on stage looked unhappy, and more than one was standing up. I wondered if they planned to rush Reihana and remove him from the scene. Hapimana and Takarei, heads together, were engaged in frantic discussion. ‘Dear sir, I wonder if this is the time and the place for such sentiments.’
Other gentlemen on stage started calling out, and even Mr Maunsell was now whispering to Reihana, as though persuading him to desist. The audience, however, were eager to hear more from our righteous friend, calling out all manner of things, drumming their boots on the floor, and booing Mr Sneyd Kynnersley when he took Reihana’s arm again.
‘They say, let him speak!’ Wharepapa told me. ‘They say, let the chief speak!’
I did not like this turn of events at all. This was the first time something of this nature had ever happened during our trip to England. By that I don’t mean Reihana complaining about Jenkins, or denouncing him from the platform, because that had been going on every week since we arrived in Birmingham.
But prior to this, no one in the audience could understand what Reihana was saying. This battle with Jenkins was a private one, conducted in our lodgings and in the rooms of Mr Sneyd Kynnersley, or in letters back and forth to Mrs Colenso. Tonight, all of our discontent was made public, shouted by Reihana through the hall and repeated, in loud English, by Mr Maunsell. I didn’t care for these revelations to the people who had welcomed us, and who were this very evening demonstrating their Christian good will by giving us so many gifts. The faults of Jenkins, and our dispute with him, were neither here nor there. Most of us would soon be sailing home, and this evening and its shenanigans would be the lasting impression on the people of England.
‘Since it seems to be unpleasant for you, I will say no more of Jenkins,’ Reihana announced, which induced loud laments from the crowd, and some half-hearted applause from the gentlemen on stage. I couldn’t see the face of Jenkins himself, only the back of his head. He sat rigidly in his chair, not moving at all. ‘But I will say this. We have heard tonight that certain gentlemen raised the money to bring us to England, and that this money is gone. Wharepapa and I say, rather than give us these gifts tonight, divide them between Mr Lightband and Mr Lloyd and Mr Brent, so they may make up the money they lost. These gentlemen have been ruined by Jenkins – ruined, I say! Ruined by his vanity and ambition! So we will not accept these gifts. We cannot. Let them go to the gentlemen who have lost all their money bringing us here.’
Before Mr Maunsell could finish speaking all Reihana’s words, while the people in the chairs below us gasped and shouted, Hapimana leapt to his feet and started ranting and gesturing like a man possessed, pacing up and down the stage. He was so eager to take Reihana’s place, I thought he might push him onto the orchestra below. All the while he spoke so rapidly that Mr Maunsell simply could not keep up.
‘I have confidence in Jenkins! I have confidence!’ he was shouting. ‘Don’t listen to Reihana. Don’t listen to his stupid talk of returning presents!’ I couldn’t see Reihana’s face, because his chair, to which he’d returned, was in front of mine. Perhaps the words of Hapimana upset him, but I doubt it. Hapimana was no one to him. Hapimana was just a boy, an Ati Awa, a drunkard, a sinner.
‘We’ve worked hard here in England,’ Hapimana was protesting, wheezing with the strain of his shouting. ‘We can’t go home without something to show our people! They’ll think that here we were treated as low-class Maori, not respected by the English. Let Reihana Te Taukawau give his presents away to Mr Lightband and Mr Lloyd! We will take our presents, I tell you. Mr Maunsell, tell the people that we thank them most heartily for these presents and that I, for one, will take mine home to New Zealand.’
But no one could hear what Mr Maunsell was saying, because now the hundreds of faces before us, below and above us, were laughing. This was the worst thing of all. This is, I think, my worst memory of the time in England, worse than any day I spent coughing and shivering in my bed. The people in the crowd couldn’t understand much of what Hapimana said, because his voice was shrill over Mr Maunsell’s. All they could see were his violent gestures; all they could hear was the flapping of his tongue. Reihana had silenced them, and then shocked them. Hapimana made them laugh, and not because what he was saying was a joke. He was the joke. The Maori language he spoke was a joke. Some boys in the audience started mimicking him waving their arms and jabbering nonsense, and this made the crowd laugh even more.
I sat unable to speak, while all around me was in uproar. Almost nobody on the stage was still seated. Tere Pakia was crying, probably because she was hoping to get her hands on the fine ladies’ workbox donated by a Mr Cartwright of Edgbaston Street, and now Reihana had said we were refusing all the presents. Ngahuia wandered off the stage, half-dazed, and the next time I spotted her, ten minutes later, an English lady was comforting her, and handing her a cup of tea. That sly Hirini Pakia was nowhere to be seen at all. Hapimana and Takarei were shouting at Reihana and Wharepapa, and Horomona Te Atua stood near them, his face sour. He could not take Hapimana’s side in all this, of course, because Hapimana was not Nga Puhi. But not only was Horomona going back to New Zealand without his brother, and without the cloaks he’d carried over, now he would be going back without anything at all to show for himself. People might not even believe he’d been in England. They might think he’d only been to the South Island.
Meanwhile, all sorts of speeches were still going on, though very little could be heard. I can’t remember the exact order of things or the names of the speakers, because there was too much noise and confusion, and Miss Weale seemed to be arguing with some of the gentlemen sitting on the stage. One of the ministers stood up to suggest that the presents be divided among the Maori willing to accept them, if only Reihana didn’t want them. Mr Sneyd Kynnersley spoke up again, insisting that Reihana was very sensible to the kindness of the people of Birmingham, but he was acting out of honour and honesty. Reihana, he said, simply wanted the men who funded the visit to make back their money.
Whenever anyone spoke, different sections of the audience would cheer or boo, as though they were watching boxers fight, and had placed bets on one or the other winning. Mr Sneyd Kynnersley suggested that we Maori should all go home to our lodgings and talk of this again in the morning, when perhaps we would reconsider this decision to hand over the gifts, but this idea was roundly hissed by the crowd. Other gentlemen stood to speak, but I could no longer follow what anyone was saying.
At some point I understood that the Mayor was trying to send everyone home, but many in the crowd had become raucous and disobedient. Some of the ladies were leaving, but other people appeared to be surging in through the doors, some jockeying for position near the unwanted presents as though they planned to grab them for themselves. Chairs were overturned, and cups were smashed in the mêlée. The musicians gathered up their instruments and dispersed. This was not a meeting any longer. It was mayhem.
I sat in my chair, like a man who stays very still to avoid the fury of a swarm of bees. I couldn’t decide if it was worse for the people of Birmingham to be insulted by Reihana’s rejection of their gifts, or us Maori to be insulted by their laughter. Two of the committee gentlemen started beating on the heads of lads launching assaults on some of the arrayed presents, and I overheard Tere Pakia asking Mr Maunsell why Miss Weale was shrieking.
‘Her bag has been stolen,’ he replied, looking as though he wished he were back in London. Jenkins w
as still on the other side of the stage, conferring with some of the gentlemen, so not even he could be accused of this particular crime. I have always suspected Hirini Pakia, by the way, though I have no evidence other than the jingling of coins in his pockets the next day.
An account of the event was published in the newspaper the next morning, and read to us at the breakfast table by Mr Maunsell. It was not so bad, I thought, because there was no mention of the laughing and booing, or the stealing of ladies’ bags. Still, Miss Weale declared it all a terrible business, and complained that she was being accused of instructing Reihana in what to say. The doorbell was ringing constantly, announcing ladies who had come to visit, or letters that had been delivered. Poor Haumu, who had not been at the meeting and seemed mystified by our discussions of it, retreated to her bed, and Ngahuia reported that she had vowed not to leave it until it was time for us to return to London.
Letters were published in the newspaper every day of the week, arguing this or that about our visit to England, and Mr Maunsell was forced to spend all his mornings translating the letters for us, and our reactions for Miss Weale. One of the first letters was from Mr Lloyd and Mr Lightband, to tell the people of Birmingham that they were not at all ruined, whatever Reihana said, and that neither they nor Mr Brent, who had already left for New Zealand, were willing to accept the gifts meant for us. They called Reihana ‘the dissatisfied chief ’, and when Mr Maunsell said this Reihana seemed almost pleased. For a moment I thought he was smiling, but then I saw he was just opening his mouth wide to eat his bread and butter.
‘We are all dissatisfied,’ said Wharepapa in his most solemn voice. He was solemn all the time now, caused, perhaps, by living too long with Reihana, and always trying to prove to Miss Weale that he regretted his wrongdoing with Miss Elizabeth Reid.
‘I don’t think we should have refused the presents,’ muttered Tere Pakia, who hadn’t stopped sniffling since the night of the meeting. ‘If we’re dissatisfied, it’s with Jenkins and his trickery, not with the people of Birmingham! This is what we should have said. Jenkins is bad, but the English and their presents are good. We could take the presents, and just make sure that Jenkins doesn’t get any.’
‘I will accept no presents,’ Reihana said, his mouth full, though he had nothing to say later, when Mr Maunsell read a letter from the gentlemen of the committee complaining of what they called the unfortunate and ill-timed address of Reihana.
‘I’m glad that Mr Lightband is not ruined,’ said Ngahuia, and I was glad as well. We all liked Mr Lightband, and were pleased he was sailing home on the Flying Foam with us.
The next day there were more letters to hear, but fewer of us to listen. Four of our party left early that morning to return to the Strangers’ Home in London and prepare for the journey home. Ngahuia was eager to be back in London, where I think she imagined Mr Ridgway might buy her some more dresses and bonnets to parade about the streets of Auckland. Haumu had to go where Ngahuia went, because she could not be left alone for more than an hour at a time, and Miss Weale’s maidservants were worn out with watching her, especially with all the visitors and letters coming and going from Winson Green Road. Hirini and his silly wife insisted on accompanying them, of course, because there was much more debauchery to be found in London than in Birmingham, far from the watchful eye of Miss Weale, and he, at least, would not be satisfied until he was embroiled in it.
I don’t remember why we all didn’t leave together. There was no reason for four of us to linger in Birmingham, unless it was considered less of an expense for Miss Weale to keep us there. I do remember sitting at the table once again and listening to a letter in the newspaper from Mr Sneyd Kynnersley, such a long letter that Mr Maunsell was engaged all the morning in the reading and translating of it. This letter made Miss Weale very happy, and her constant interjections made the reading of it take even longer.
Some of the things he had to say, as I recall, were that Jenkins had brought no letters of introduction with him to England, and that most of his experience of Maori was in Nelson, in the South Island.
‘There are no Maori in the South Island,’ said Wharepapa, looking as though he’d swallowed something very sour. ‘And if there are any to be found, they are inferior and not worthy of mention.’
Mr Sneyd Kynnersley also wrote that one of our original party was dead, which excited the four of us a great deal. Who had died? Was it Kihirini Te Tuahu, who had been carried off to hospital? No, Miss Weale assured us, it was not, for if he were dead she would know long before Mr Sneyd Kynnersley. He was terribly ill, but still determined to travel with us back to New Zealand, and she had received correspondence to this effect from his doctor that very morning. So was it poor Haumu, who we thought had left that morning with the others, but perhaps had died in the night, out of her mind at the prospect of the long voyage home? No, Miss Weale had kissed Haumu goodbye and seen her into a carriage just a few hours earlier, though she wished the poor woman had better chaperones for the train journey than the ones setting out with her.
We decided in the end that Mr Kynnersley meant Wiremu Pou, who was not really dead at all, but performing with the Maori Warrior Chiefs. At this Horomona Te Atua grew upset, and raged about Mr Sneyd Kynnersley insulting his brother by declaring him as good as dead, and it took much convincing from me and Wharepapa that the magistrate was misinformed, not malicious. Our cause was not helped by Reihana.
‘I said all along that this trip would bring misfortune,’ he announced. ‘And now it is quite likely that Wiremu Pou is dead – or dead to us, at any rate.’
Mr Maunsell suggested we return to the letter in the newspaper, because there was still much to be heard. Most of this was of our disagreements with Jenkins over money, and about wearing cloaks in every public place. Reihana nodded through all of this.
‘I objected to wearing cloaks all along,’ he said, and started describing, in detail, his dream and premonition on board the Ida Zeigler, when he knew that this visit to England would come to no good. I noticed that Mr Maunsell did not translate any of this business of bad omens for Miss Weale, and he soon interrupted Reihana’s recitation yet again to continue with Mr Sneyd Kynnersley’s letter.
‘He says you all grew dispirited in the cold weather, and suffered severely,’ Maunsell told us, and we all agreed with this. Our lives back in New Zealand, according to the magistrate, were spent boating, fishing, and lying down.
‘You must have told him that,’ Horomona Te Atua said to me, and perhaps I did. This was not my life as a young man, but times had changed, and I’d grown old. At that moment I felt an intense pang for my life at home, and a longing to be close to the sea again. I was even looking forward to the voyage back. There was no coastline in Birmingham, no beaches or coves. I needed to smell the sea again, to feel the waves rise and fall beneath my feet. I’m used to moving from place to place depending on the time of year, or – quite frankly – my whim. I don’t like to be confined in rooms, and certainly not in cities, for long stretches. Certainly, I’d never spent a year away from Hauturu or any of my homes.
I can’t remember much else of that long letter, apart from Mr Sneyd Kynnersley describing Jenkins’ scheme as ill-advised, and Mr Maunsell saying that many words had been misspelled by the newspaper’s typesetters. Reihana was referred to throughout as ‘Heirana’. Horomona Te Atua burst out laughing at this, and I have to say that Wharepapa and I joined in, even though it was just a piece of nonsense. Reihana sat in stony silence, looking aggrieved, and that face I can remember precisely, twenty-two years later. It still makes me want to laugh.
Before the four of us left Birmingham, yet more letters were published in the paper. One was from Jenkins, declaring that everything that Mr Sneyd Kynnersley said was wrong, and others were letters we had written ourselves some days earlier for Mr Maunsell to translate into English. Miss Weale had urged us to write these letters.
‘Let your voices be heard!’ she said, and we all agreed. This was the
day before Hirini Pakia left for London with the ladies, so he set to work on a letter, as did the other men. Ngahuia had planned to write a letter, but Miss Weale explained that ladies in England only wrote to other ladies, and to gentlemen they knew very well, not to newspapers which might be read by any Tom, Dick or Harry.
When they were printed in the newspaper, Reihana’s letter was published first of all, which pleased him. I think that all along he’d seen himself as our natural leader, the highest born, and had been offended that Wharepapa, who was younger, spoke for all of us and was proclaimed the ‘head chief ’.
I must say that I am not at all sure now that writing these letters was the right thing to do. We were all so enraged because Jenkins had dared to stand and speak for us, but now when I think of him I see him for what he was – a headstrong man, not an evil one. Jenkins was not a good businessman. He should have waited to acquire letters of introduction from Governor Grey before setting off with all of us across the oceans. He should not have mortgaged his house and his business in Nelson, as he told us he did, to fund our passage. Mr Sneyd Kynnersley once called Jenkins an adventurer, and perhaps that was the right word for him. He wanted an adventure and he wanted to make money. In this he was no different from the rest of us.
Things were undone between us because he wasn’t straight with us, and because he was using us to rise up in the world. Jenkins wanted to meet the Queen for himself; he wanted to have his photograph made, and his portrait painted. None of this would have happened if he had returned to England alone, as a simple Wesleyan, not even a minister. His mana depended on the association with us, but ours did not depend on him.