INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A JOURNALIST.

Observer, Volume 7, Issue 163, 27 October 1883, Page 10

INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A JOURNALIST.

By Nemo.

No. XXIV. — The Native Contingent — Their Treachery — Unreliability of Native Allies inWar — The Convoys and Little Skirmishes — .- Harrassing Duties ■ Love of ancFAdventure — A Dangerous Outpost — The Fortunes of War — Night Alarms — Eats inCamps — My Little Adventure — A Surprise- A and a Surprise.

In the skirmish described in our last chapter we- ■ made our first acqu&intace with the so-called " friendly natives." A company of these hadi been enrolled and dressed in a kind of grey uniform, with the letters " N.C." (Native Contingent) on their forage caps, and this company was thrown out in skirmishing order on theright. They kept up a hot fire, yelled lustily,, and to all appearance seemed to be terribly inu earnest, and to do considerable executionWhether the commanding officer had any doubtof their loyalty, or wished to spare them, I don'tknow, but they were relieved, and a company of ' European troop 3 doubled up to replace them. X saw some of these men when they returned tocamp, and their story was this : — When they took. \;p the ground which the Native Contingent had occupied on the edge of the bush, they found theplace thickly strewn with cartridge papers anc& biillets ! The fri»nc\ly(?) natives had merely fired blank powder at their countrymen, and thrown tho ends containing the bullets on theground! I have no doubt from what earner under my observation on this and subsequent' occasions that many of these "friendly natives' 7 were traitors, who gave information to the enemy r and fought against us when they could. We^ sometimes saw their tiniform among the enemy r . and I believe several of the contingent were-' ... identified among the dead that fell into our hand* in the later engagements. It was said, of course,, ' by way of explanation, that the enemy had killed some of the friendlies, and donned their uniform* in order to deceive us, but the story was too thiiu.. In later times one body of the Native Contingent, was disarmed and disbanded, when the majority of them immediately went over to the enemy.. The uniform of those who wero still trusted was^ modified, the distinguishing mark worn being a< white handkerchief round the arm, and a tins badgeon the breast. But some of our men never trusted,, and I believe never lost an opportunity o-f firing: upon them. Indeed, the natives complained in someof the subsequent engagements that they had lost, men in that way. The plan of employing Maorisas an auxilliary force in the field in company with Europeans is rarely wise, or productive o£' any good results. That it has succeeded in someinstances I freely admit. Ido not go so far as to ■ say that all friendly natives, " or kupapas," were--traitors. Isaiah (Ihaia) and his imTnediate*followers rendered some service, but it was this 1 ' same chief who led tile 40th into the mes3 atPuketekaure, which resulted in their being: frightfully cut up. Mete Kingi, Kemp, Ropfcte>. and others also fought well during the operationson the East and West Coasts, their services were' frequently acknowledged in despatches, and they were the recipients of swords of honour presented! by the Queen. But as a general rule the employment of friendly natives as allies in the field is a risky experiment. Blood is thicker thans water. In spite of every precaution you cannotprevent communication between them; moreespecially through the medium of the womenMoreover, during an action the presence of nativesallies is likely to create a panic — at any rate, to;-----shake the confidence of our European troops, or throw them into disorder. The Ngafciruanuts continued to construct their' lines of rifle-pits around the redoubt -with am industry worthy of a better cause. It was greatr fun when the convoys arrived from town. The* enemy would make a ridiculous show of intercepting them at a wooded gully south of our i position, and there was always a little harmless* skirmish in which they got much the worst of itSometimes a party would be sent out from camp* to co-operate with the convoy, and there wasalways great eagerness among the men to get out on one of these expeditions, as it was a pleasant, relief to the routine and monotony of camp life, ; . and generally afforded an opportunity of obtaining; a supply of potatoes from some of the planta---tions, a stray sheep, or wild poaha. But this life in the redoubt was very harrassing: to a young and unseasoned soldier. The nativeswere constantly trying to cut; off sentries, er" creeping up under cover of the darkness and! firing into the camp. It was no uncommon? occurrence to be turned out under arms three or four times during a single night, and we were?* always under arms before dawn, one-third of thegarrison being on guard. Then the tents were- - I overcrowded, fourteen men being crammed into- , a single bell-tent ; you could not take off jb.urclothes, and had to sleep with your aecoutre- | menta on. To this day I feel the effects of thehardships of this and the subsequent campaign ire Waikato. I At Waireka I had an adventure of which t shall always be proud. Of course, it is not right; to blow one's own trumpet, and frequently in thecourse of this narrative I have omitted matterg--which might have the appearance of self-praise.. For many years my life was a wild and adventurous one ; I was fond of danger and excitement^and was continually brought face to face withdeath in various forms. I cln-'^'ab credit for it--It was merely the temperan, .\' v and disposition I inherited from my father, who was, 1 am proud! to say, a distinguished soldior of high rank.. who rendered good service to his country, juri vrssrewarded with many decorations aud medals.., In these weak piping time's of pence I am often. impelled to seek other forms of excitement,, which, if less dangerous, are less noble than shafc of war, and I say it to my sorrow. Bur, in -thosedays, twenty-one years ago, I was full of theenthusiasm and romance of youlh, and Lad 'a • natural lore for adventure. One very dark night, .vhem a dmzling rain fell, there was trouble in ,the- camp. The sentries-, posted outside the redoubt t^ere three tunea^^ driven in. The alarm always came from tono^f particular spot, the head of ft' wooded ravine*- A which ran up close to the camp. It was j uß t.Mft'^> :

line of approach which an enemy like the Maori •would select before making an assault on the and I know that at this time, owing to the Wisrge number of natives concentrated in the neighbourhood, an attempt to surprise our position was expected. The sentry posted at the head of this ravine was, to all events and purposes, a sacrifice for the safety of the rest. Had ithifre been an attack in force he must have been the first to fall. Everything depended on his rigilanee and promptitude in giving the alarm, " Vhich would have afforded time for the whole garrison to get under arms in readiness to resist an assault. It o?ten happens in war that a sentry, •*' a picquet, or an outpost is placed in this position. It ia better that some men should die at their posts than the whole garrison should be surprised and overpowered. The risk ia common to all, and every man stands hia chance of being made a target of when it comes to his turn. It is the fortune of war. The oivler all along the line of sentries was to challenge notlting, but fire at anything seen in front. A single shot made the whole garrison leap to it 3 feet and man the breastworks with fixed bayonets. Three times this happened on the night I speak of, and each time the men returned to their tents, muttering curses on the sentries who had raised a false alarm. This kind of thing is very hamissing and demoralising, and wants putting down with a strong hand. I remember I lay in the guard-tent trying to snatch an hour or two of sleep, until it came to my turn to go out on sentry. I had just hoisted a big rafc off my leg w.hen the last alarm was raised. The rats used to come into the tents at night in search of scraps of biscuit, and they ran over you as you slept. We got so used to it that we didn't mind it much. You get accustomed to many things in war. The rats evidently got used to it too. It was worse in the Waikato war. There, the big water rats would come up from the river and nibble you while you slept. After the third turn-out the captain of the guard— l .think it was Clark— came into the tent, and, in an angry tone, said — " What the devil is the meaning of this nonsense ? Is there no man here who will keep that P osfc? " at f For a minute there was no response. JNone or us cared to lose our rest, or take the risk of being suddenly sefc upon and tomahawked before one could utter a word or lift one's rifle in defence. But the captain grew angrier, swore, and repeated the question. Then I sat up, and he said : " Very well, I want a volunteer ; you will do ; come along," and I was placed on the post and left to my fate. I knew there was another sentry "a few yards on my right, but I could not see him In tha pitchy darkness. I unfixed the bayonet, crouched down in the fern, and, with the rifle at tuc "ivfuiy," kopt my eyes skinned. The grey ' overcoat is not very rasilr discernible m the ni"ht, nn.'J. h:-. the brass aumi. •■•? were removed from the forage caps, there w.-;.--, noting ■'■■ /Jt^tict -the notice of :m enirra.y's :-yu.<i. The m.httjrv grey bhu^L is iAn; best thing !'• <. :.?nin"s _ You :nviy v;:>ik up to v '.nan ti've'recl wuii it in vthp aighi ' v il.houi. seoirn* him. JFpretty soon the tops or t!it> \-.-?\\ were st-e.'iW. -)v the breeze. It is not pleasant to bo ii. i.'!v<- •:' nation. One is apt to mistake every ;>.■•>■'•• im;. iTaiich for a Maori's head. There is ever the di-t^d <>l" the tomahawk before your mind's eye. A gueriihwarfare against savages is always distasteful to regular troops. They would rather fight a battle in the open with a disciplined enemy than risk being tomahawked in the dark by a treacherous and barbarous foe. You do not so much fear a straightforward attack as a sudden surprise from behind, tho sudden sweep of a tomahawk in the air, which goes crashing through your skull, or an assegai from a skulking foe in a bush. The instinct is only natural in civilised people. It is the same feeling that makes you prefer an open foe to a secrect enemy. -. When I saw the fern-tufts move I clutched my rifle with my finger on the trigger, and waited. I felt that my eiedit was at stake, and that if I * fired it must be to some purpose. Suddenly something rustled in the fern. It must be a i ' Maori creeping upon me. Then there was a ' -grunt, and I knew it was only a pig. The sudden • relapse was too much. One felt inclined to laugh aloud. I let the pig pass through behind our •lines, and it was followed by others. We killed and roasted some of them next day, and had a big feast of pork. But the vigilance was not relaxed one whit. The wind sighed among the »• waving tree-tops just visible above the level of the ravine, and the rain fell in a drizzling shower. Par away towards the right the surf beat up upon r the rocky shore. Sometimes the cry of a nightbird came from the forest, or the song of a chief, urging his followers to be brave and vigilant, was heard towards the left. Suddenly I saw an object raise itself above the .fern. It was unmistakably a human head. To ■fr'this day I swear I saw the gleaming eyes and the of the hair in the dim starlight. The head 'went down as suddenly as it came up. The first impulse was to challenge, but the instantaneous thought flashed upon one's mind that this would ' only reveal one's position and bring a couple of 1 shots, if not a volley. The next impulse was to fire and run in, but this was equally risky. Then • I covered the spot with my rifle, clenched my teeth, and waited with abated breath. That head came up again a little more towards the left, and nearer. It was a man peering cautiously , over the fern ! I could even see the rough flax jrm'at and the barrel of a gun. Then there was a iflash, the sharp report of a rifle, and I re-loaded, a yard or two towards the right, crouching .•^w'er," and listening with an intense anxiety. I .^he^rd a sort of gurgling noise, like the death ■ vi^fctle in » dying man's throat. A minute or two lait'lr a patrol came out. va' ; \s/ gentry! what's up? Is this another d •'"'.fiftse alarm ?" . /' "I don't know. Look over there; I think you'll find so.mething." Very cautiously we crept a few yards down the << gentle incline through tho long fern, and there, sure, .enough, .was a Maori shot through the neck. I-jiatt -aimed too Jow for his head. To aim low is a'sgeod. fauty.^Jt. is better than aiming too high, 'sfl&s the Maoris generally did. * , , .. « ■ '■ ''fltyfoll done, my man! You've done your '^atiare of sentry-go," said the captain, " and we'll jpu off-duty for the night." ;'TT.^ f_.J -'■■_'.^—

Then double sentries were posted, and after that we slept in peace. The Maori was an old fellow, profusely tatooed. He lived only an hour or two. The bullet had passed clean through his neck, cutting away the windpipe, and leaving an awful gash. We did all we could to alleviate his sufferings, but nothing could have saved him. I think the friendly natives got the body and buried it next day. I know this story sounds egotistic, and that some people will doubt its truth. I don't care. It makes no difference to me either way. It can neither do me good or harm. It is merely related as an incident of war. Hut if anyone is inclined to challenge it, I can produce a properly certificated entry of the fact in my Regimental small book, which, somehow, has stuck to me through all these years, while many things of more intrinsic value have been lost or gone up the

spout

(To be continued.)