Camp Fire Yarns of the Lost Legion Part 13

Now among the officers stationed at headquarters was a doctor who had medical charge of the district. As far as his profession went, he had scarcely anything to do. The men were all picked men, most of them young; and in that splendid climate, with plenty of good, healthy work to do, sickness was almost unknown. This was very fortunately the case, as the doctor, having, perhaps, too much spare time on his hands, and caring nothing for sport, devoted that time to the wors.h.i.+p of Bacchus and, at the time I write about, had become scarcely fit to attend to a crocodile, much less a human being.

Had he not given the regimental sergeant-major a dose for a cold that made that ancient warrior tie himself into complicated knots, then dance and squirm for a week, and even curse him for a year afterwards with a fervency that made the atmosphere tingle and the blue sky grow cloudy? Yes, it was fortunate the men were a healthy lot, and the doctor's medicine was not in demand. The medico's appearance was also decidedly against him. He wore his hair and whiskers, which were white, very long. His face was very red, and his nose, bulbous in shape, was purple in colour. He was, moreover, very slovenly in dress and dirty in his habits. It was strange he, being an Irishman by birth, should be morose and ill-tempered when sober (I beg his pardon.

I don't think I ever saw him really sober), and far from amusing when drunk. So, taking him in the large, he was neither popular nor respected by his brother-officers nor by the men. He had never been on active service, was very nervous of being sent on it, and had a holy dread of fire-arms of all sorts.

Well, this beauty made it his habit to go down to the hotel every night and booze there by himself. The men's canteen was closed at 9.30 P.M., and lights-out was blown at ten. The doctor would leave the hotel at 10.30 and proceed up the hill to his quarters; and as by this time he was quite full up, he would climb the steep zigzag path on his hands and knees, and refuse to answer the challenge of the sentry. This caused trouble; he was reported over and over again and the O.C. reprimanded him once or twice, till at last, determining to give him a fright, he ordered the sentry to be served out with some blank ammunition, and that if the doctor again refused to answer the challenge, he was to let rip at him with a blank charge.

The following night the doctor began his crab-like ascent. "Halt, who goes there?" rang out the challenge. No answer. Twice again the challenge was repeated. Still no answer. Bang went the carbine. A loud yell from the medico, and he rolled over and over to the foot of the hill. Promptly the guard turned out. Down the hill they ran and found the doctor much shaken by his roll, and sobered by his fright.

They brought him up, and next morning at office he complained to the O.C., and charged the sentry with trying to murder him, swore that he had heard the bullet whiz just past his ear, and that it was dangerous to trust a sentry with such a thing as a carbine.

The O.C. listened to him and told him he could not punish the sentry for firing at him, as he was performing his duty by doing so, but he would severely reprimand him for making such a bad shot, and the next sentry who missed him would be severely punished.

This put the fear of the Lord into the doctor; but the force of habit was too strong for him, and the following night he was down at his usual haunt, filled up, and started at 10.30, his usual time, to return in his usual manner; but he took unusual precautions. No sooner had he crept across the road than he started howling at the top of his voice: "Friend, friend, friend"; and so on up the hill, past the laughing sentry and guard, across the parade ground and crawled into his quarters, still yelping his protecting cry.

This went on for a few nights, until one day he had to visit an out-station. He stayed there that day, got full up and started to return home that night. He must have fallen off his old pony and slept in the fern, for he did not turn up till 6 A.M. next morning. Then, having handed over his nag to the stable orderly, he immediately made for the hotel, and began to freshen his nip with more liquor. That day there was a commanding officer's parade, and at 10 o'clock all the officers and men fell in. By 10.30 the inspection was over and the men standing at ease, previous to the drill commencing, when the howl of "Friend, friend!" was heard coming nearer and nearer. It seems that the doctor, true to the clock, had filled up, and at his usual time, but, oblivious to the fact that it was 10.30 A.M., and not 10.30 P.M., was making the best of his way to his lair and, by way of protection against the possible murderous attack of the sentry, was singing his usual ditty of "Friend, friend!"

Presently he appeared over the crest of the hill on his hands and knees, crawling across the parade ground towards the quarters, still uttering his doleful howl, when, glancing up, he saw the long line of men looking at him. He staggered to his feet and gazed at them for a full minute, with horror and consternation depicted on his face, then yelled out, "O blessed St Bridget, they mean to kill me this night.

Sure, they've mounted one hundred bally sentries, and they can't all miss me." With that he reeled away, looking over his shoulder and, still yelling his s.h.i.+bboleth of "Friend, friend!" ran to earth in the welcome portal of his stronghold. This spectacle was too much for the risibility of the parade; officers and men went into a roar of laughter, which could not be checked for some time.

Next morning the doctor was informed he must resign or stand a court-martial. He did the former, and we got rid of him, while he retired to some place where he could indulge in his favourite pastime without running into danger from a murderous sentry or of the unkind remarks of a censorious commanding officer.

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 whale-boats, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TE TARATA: THE FAMOUS WHITE TERRACES, ROTOMAHANA.]

He was one of the first Maoris who visited England, having been brought there by Kendal 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 Makoia? 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 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 a.s.sertion, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, they saw, to their horror and consternation, the advancing fleet of their bloodthirsty enemies. The time for jeering and laughter had pa.s.sed, 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 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 s.h.i.+rts 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 princ.i.p.al 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 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 s.h.i.+rt. He looked at the water, and then at his lovely white trousers.

Then, with sudden inspiration, he touched the princ.i.p.al 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-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 awe-inspiring 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 blood-curdling 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 n.o.ble marquis was at this time proconsul in New Zealand, and when I received warning of 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 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.