OLD GUNS

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 20127, 21 April 1928, Page 13 (Supplement)

OLD GUNS

WANGANUI’S RELICS MAORI WAR VETERANS Wanganui has one of the finest collections of historical guns in New Zealand. And the collection is probably one of the least appreciated in New Zealand. Only the ocher day a suggestion was made that one of the guns in Moutoa Gardens should be scrapped. It was stated that the gun in Moutoa Gardens was a relic of the South African War. Wanganui has no guns that were used in that war, but the gun referred to has an exceedingly interesting historic record. It was first used in Heke’s war m 1815. and was probably one of the first rifled guns to be used in action. At the siege of Ruapekapeka it. was brought forward to make a breach in the walls of the pa, but the balls from the rilled barrel were propelled with such velocity that they passed right through the walls of the redoubt without making any large hole. During the bombardment the Maori warriors were crouched in.the earthworks behind the barricade, and tradition has it that the only damage done was one kuia or old woman killed. Its mate, now nearly 80 years old, served with it in every fight in the ’6os on this coast. Both guns are intimately associated with Wanganui, and when given to the town as a great honour it was promised that every care should be taken of them. Two other interesting guns are the muzzle-loading howitzers in front of the Art Gallery. They were brought out to New Zealand in the time of the Crimean War to defend the city of Wellington against possible attack from the Russians—Guns that will bring the memory of the Russian scare to the minds of many of Wanganui’s old citizens. There is an old muzzle-loading piece by the museum which has aroused the curiosity of many Wanganui children. Part of the lip of the muzzle is broken off. This occurred on the first and only occasion that the gun was fired, after it had been given to the Alaoris in exchange for some land. It is said that the weapon was obtained from a whaler before there were any white settlers in this district. At all events the Maoris, in blissful ignorance, crammed it with powder and plenty of pot-legs, stones and other rubbish and fired the touch-hole. The re suits must have been startling, to say the least. Pieces of glass and iron together with a great deal of smoke and flame flew in all directions, wounding several and singeing others. After that the gun lay in the mud at Putiki until someone heard about it. and made a search. It was finally dug i up and brought to its present position near the museum. A sister gun to the one by the museum was given to the Ala oris as tlie price of Blenheim. It stands to day in an honoured position in front of the Blenheim town buildings. In the days of the traders, all sailers (there were no steamers) had to carry an armament for protection against such pirates as Bully Hayes and many others who were perhaps regarded as respectable traders. In Virginia Lake there can be seen two guns from the ship Lady Dennison, owned by Taylor and Watt. Both are probably well over 100 years of ago. It is well worth a walk round the lake just to see these historic pieces. There are other guns in Wanganui, allof which have, their histories. There are privately owned guns; there are the guns captured from the Germans in rhe late war. But all are kept for one reason. They arc not beautiful —in fact they arc ugly —but they stand for the sacrifice of young blood for the cause of good. They show more clearly than. ?.ny stone monument or image could do, the pain that has been caused and suffered, and the braverv of the “Average Sort of a Boy.” ‘ —TIAMU.

gin, “but I’m glad to see you. I wonder if you fellows at headquarters realise the sort of existence we chaps lead in these places? That mud hut you see is my house, and my furniture consists of a table or two, a wooden bed. and a portable gramophone. It’s the loneliness and the hear that get me. I don’t look too good, do I?” He took another drink. “Mail day is the day of days here. I live for it. While I sit poring over the letters my boys squat round watching. But they never disturb me. Funny devils. They understand a great deal more than one ever thinks they understand.” It was a February morning of unexpected fog in London. I had taken half an hour to pilot a two-seater motor boat from Knightsbridge to Hyde Park corner, then . . . Crash! I disentangled myself from the back wheels of a taxicab, ran into a lamppost. folded my arms, and prayed for death. A moment later a ghostly face peer<yl into the recesses of the car. “1 say.” said a strangely familiar voice, “could you give me a lift? I’ve lost my way.” A form slid in next to me. I knew him at onee for the district commissioner, but there were no signs of fever in his cheerful face. We sat in silence for a moment. The ra'neideerp seemed too remarkable for the usual banalities. “Oh. it’s good, all this!” ho exclaimed. I looked, bur could see nothing—only thick, dank fog. My heart was bitter. I was very latp for luncheon. “It’s wonderful.” .he went on. “No sun. I mean. No blue sky. No heat. Just wonderful fog and coid. Bitter cold. It does my heart good. T used to lie awake dreaming of this. Oh, my friend, let’s stay here for ever!” T smiled to myself. There seemed nothing to say, no prospect of the fog ovpj; lifting. I settled back in my corner. Just wp two, a fog, a two-seater, ar a lamppost. T glanced at my companion. He was fast asleep.