WITHOUT PREJUDICE

Dominion, Volume 18, Issue 57, 1 December 1923, Page 6

WITHOUT PREJUDICE

NOTES at random ,

(By

T.D.H.)

The French complain that tlicy do not get proper number of millions of marks in Berlin when they change half a franc— Isn’t this going out of one’s way to a pick a quarrel. The late Captain Gilbert Mair must altogether have killed with his owl ? hand a pretty considerable number of the enemy in the Maori War. In hin famous defeat of Te Kooti at Rotorua on February 7, 1870, he killed eight men at least with his favourite weapon, “a beautiful Westley-Richards breech-loading carbine, a gift from SirCosmo Gordon, uncle of my friend Gordon, the first lieutenant of H.M.S Rosario. . . . By practice,” added Captain Mair. “I had learned to fire twenty-eight to thirty shots per minute, particularly if I stuffed my mouth full of cartridges.” The letter from which this extract is taken was sent only a few months ago to Mr. Cowan for his Maori War book, in the new volume of which it appears. Captain Mair added that he owed his own life to his habit of ducking when a Maori fired at him. Even when fired! at point blank at 40 yards a bullet, in those days, could always be dodged by dropping instantaneously to the ground, particularly when inferior Maori powder was being used.

0. Henry once wrote a curious short story about Destiny, in which he told how a man came to three cross-roads. After hesitating, the man blindly takes one, meets with a series of adventures, and is killed by a bullet out of a certain pistol. Shifting the scene back, the author puta his hero at the cross-roads again and makes him take the second road, a different set of adventures follow, but the end comes by a bullet out of the same pistol, though under totally different circumstances. So with the third road, and so also with the fourth variation, in which the hero turns back to his native village. Whether life is like that T.D.H. does not profess to know. He is reminded of the tale by reading in Mr. Cowan’s book of an incident in 1868 when it was proposed to make Captain Mair commandant at thp Chathams, where Te Kooti and his men were under guard.

Captain Mair went over to have a look at tho Chatham Islands in company with Mr. Rolleston, Under-Secre-tary for Native Affairs in 1868, but decided not to take the post of commandant. However, during the visit, a big half-caste, Peka te Makarini, Te Kooti’s first lieutenant, put himself to no end of trouble to be of service to Captain Mair. He bounced a Moriori into hiring a horse for 2s. 6d. a week, and cadged among tho prisoners for carvings, securing for Captain. Mair a sackful of curios. Patara te Whata also obliged the captain. But what was their fate? . . . “It is curious,” wrote Captain Mair, “that I should have put a bullet through each of these men in after-years.” . . . What would have been the story of those bullets if Captain Mair at his crossroads in 1868 had decidei.to take commandantship at the the Cnathams?

It was in the fight against Te Kooti at Rotorua that Peka to Makarini was killed. This was a running engagement in which Captain Mair and a small party of Arawas gave Te Kooti and his Hauhaus so bad a drubbing that thev never showed up in an open fight again. Air. Cowan relates that about twentv Hauhaus were shot during the dav. while the Arawas lost only one man and four wounded. During; the fight Captain Mair at one stage was fifty yards in advance of his men, pursuing the Hauhaus. Peka te Makarini, who was a powerful savage, 6ft. 3in. high, was in charge of Te Kooti’s rear-guard of thirty men. When he saw Captain Mair alone hb jumped up from his cover, fired a shot, and clubbing his rifle, rushed at the captain. Captain Mair waited kneeling, and, when Peka was within fifteen paces fired. ThP bullet went in at the right hip and passed out at the left, smashing the bones. Peka, lying on the ground, then tried to use his revolver, and was finished off by an Arawa, who had come up, putting a bullet through his head. Peka was estimated to have been guilty of at least thirty atrocious murders. He had learned bugling when in exile on the Chathams, and carried a bugle, with which he sounded the contrary calls to those sounded by the British buglers, often causing confusion in the bush in this way., His body was dragged out at a horse’s tail bv the Arawas. and tied upright to a cabbage tree, where it remained all the summer. Later on an old tohunga from Mohaka. where Peka had been, hated, was sent to gather the bones, and fish hooks, leg-rings for parrots, and even a flute, were made from them. In this wav did the Mohaka tribe revenge themselves on their arch-enemy.

If Britain and Canada won’t help Uncle Sam to enforce prohibition, he might, as a last resort, appeal to Americans.

British universities have representatives in Parliament and university elections in the old days of the personal and open vote had their humours. A story 1 is told of J. C. Westwood, a pioneer of science m Oxford, who, sprung from the people, had never mastered the letter “h.” When the historic election was fought between Gathorne-Hardv and Gladstone, Westwood rushed in late to the poll gasping, “Glad ; no. I mean ‘Ardy. The vote was claimed for Gladstone. “But,” said the Vice-Chancellor. ‘ lie only pronounced the first syllable of Gladstone’s name.” “Yes, sir, said the don who was watching for stone’s interests, “but he did not pronounce the first letter of Mr. Hardy’s.” The closer you get to Nature the closer, you get to a state of perpetual war. _____ The vicar called on the old lady and found her in a very poor state of health indeed. “Don’t you think he saad, “that it’s high time vou had the doctor.” The old lady explained that she had been consulting a certain notorious quack whom she named. ‘I m surprised at you going to a man like that,, said the vicar. “Oh. yes, I know he s killing me,” said the old lady. But what can I do! He owes me money and it’s the only way I can get anything back.” the heavenly road. There was no milkv way of stars, But just a field of green With daisies by the pasture bora All radiant and serene! There were no angels in the air, Nor raptured seraphs wise. But up the noontide’s sunlit stair Trooped gorgeous butterflies! There was no river of pure gold. But dancing in the breeze A laughing brook forever rolled Beneath the arching trees! There were no shining jasper walls, Nor azure baldricked dome. But just a house with friendly halls. And quiet peace of home I —Edward .Wilbur Mason.