FIFTY LASHES.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXI, Issue XVII, 22 October 1898, Page 541

FIFTY LASHES.

(By

F. ATHA WESTBURY.)

A full summer moon over head, casting bars of soft sneeqi athwart the trees in the public Domain, Auckland, New Zealand. On a rustic bench, beneath the widespreading branches of a giant kauri pine, sat a. half-caste Maori girl, and her side a tall handsome youth, wearing the dark blue uniform of Caversham’s Horse. No Spanish gipsy could boast a more glorious beauty of face or form than Kiora Selby. Her mother —daughter of the old Maori chieftain, Te Puke, fell in love and married one Tom Selby, a sergeant in the 6th Regiment, and with her hand came many broad acres in the most fertile valleys of the Waikato, which the old soldier soon converted into a good payable estate. While Kiora was yet a child her mother died, whereupon Tom Selby bought a snug villa outside the city, and sent his daughter to a boarding school until she became old enough to take charge of his household. ‘And so you are going to-morrow, Charlie?’ she asks timidly, at the same time toying nervously with her companion’s palm between her own shapely hands. ‘Must it really be to-mor-row?’ ‘Really and truly, Kiora,’ he answered. ‘The horses were put aboard early this evening, and we sail to-morrow at daylight.’ ‘How dreadful this war is,’ she says in a low tone. ‘Ah, dreadful, indeed, my darling, but we must not stand idly and see those mad fanatics, the rebels, murder and plunder innocent people. Since Rewi was driven out of the Waikato, the Government have done all in their power to induce the dissatisfied Maoris to lay down their arms and live at peace with their pakeha neighbours, but you see it it is of no avail. Tipore and his crazy brother have roused the Taranaki tribes to open rebellion, and by so doing have unfortunately prevented one Charles Stanton from enjoying his Christmas dinner under the same roof as Kiora Selby.’ ‘Dear Charlie, no one can regret that misfortune more than poor Kiora,’ she answers softly. Charlie laughs lightly, then stoops downward until his moustache reaches Kiora’s ripe, red lips, and — well, the moon only knows what took

place, for he was watching them. His Moonship sees many things that lovers wot not of. On this lovely evening, there was no exception to the rule, for he observed, close by where Charlie and his companion billed and cooed at each other, the form of a man, crouching low down behind a thick shrub, which completely hid him from the eyes of those he was evidently watching—a man with a pale, vile-looking face, which peered out at them from the screen of foliage with a savage gleam in his eyes. The apparel of the eaves dropper was similar to that worn by the girl’s companion, save that he had three narrow golden stripes upon his coat sleeve at the wrist, which bespoke the man a noncommissioned officer. During a long chat, such as lovers usually indulge in, the watcher never stirred from his bent position; but listened to every word uttered with a greed that was only borne of deep and absorbing interest. It was only when Kiora rose to depart that he drew further into the shade, and in so doing made a noise which attracted the girl’s attention. ‘What was that, Charlie?’ she cried, nestling herself close to the side of that gentleman, and gazing round in alarm. ‘What is the matter, dear?’ ‘Did you not hear a rustling noise? it sounded close by that bush there.’ she said. ‘Sweet Kiora, you are filled with strange fancies to-night,’ he said gaily. ‘First it was a shooting star, big with evil portend for us. Now it is a noise as of some lurking assassin. Pooh, my girl, there is nothing—save perchance some grasshopper looking for its mate.’ Oh, Charlie, I would give all I possess in the world to prevent you going to Taranaki,’ she said with sudden energy. ‘Nonsense. Why?’ ‘Because I have one morbid fancy that when we part to-night it will be for ever.’ ‘My darling, I ’ ‘Listen to me, Charlie. Do you believe in dreams?’ ‘Dreams, certainly. I believe they are dreams, nothing more.’ The maiden nestled her small head —crowned with a coronet of glossy raven hair—closer to his breast, and looking up at him with her large eyes, said: ‘I had a terrible dream the night before last —a dream in which I saw what took place as plain as I can see those trees before me now.’

‘What did you see, Kiora?’ ‘An encampment of armed men, situate on the margin of a lovely lake, and surrounded on every hand by high rugged hills, treeless and barren in the extreme,’ she responded, in a low’, hushed tone. ‘Beyondthe tents on a green patch of sward, my’ dream disclosed a solid square of glittering bayonets, in the centre of which were three posts standing upright. On those cruel stakes a man was being tied hand and foot to be flogged like a slave. My God, it was terrible.’ The trooper put his arm about the slender form of his companion, for she had begun to shiver like one in an ague fit. ‘Did you recognise the features of the unfortunate fellow at the triangle?’ he asked presently. ‘1 did.’ ‘And you knew him?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Who was he, Kiora?’ ‘Yourself. Charlie! Oh. the unutterable anguish depicted there! Oh. the misery’ and the despair, and the sickening' dreadful blow’s that fell upon my ears like some shuddering horror too great for mortal heart to bear! Yet I was compelled to gaze until the dreadful work was ended. Then 1 heard a lout! shout away towards the cliff, and looking thence, beheld a great horde of Maori warriors rush like a mighty avalanche upon the square of armed men. and shiver it into a hundred fragments. Then all became chaos and confusion, intermingled with shouts and cries, and a vision of the man who had been degraded mounted upon a saddle and bridleless horse, his bare and bloody back glistening conspicuously above the crowded nelu, until tossed to and fro like a worthless waif, it went down amid the tide of battle and I saw it no more.’

Charlie Stanton stood silent for a moment. A feeling of some nameless dread began to steal over him at Ki-

ora's recital, but he shook it off, and replied in a bantering way: ‘Dreams are all my eye, sweetheart. Indeed, it has been said by certain crusty old bachelors that dreams are like ladies, they follow the rule of contrary. Come, hold up your head, my dear. I shall return to you ere the new year is many weeks old, with all my honours thick upon me.’ ’I fervently trust you may. dear Charlie,’ she replied. Then, suddenly i.fting her head:

‘Charlie, 1 want you to make me a promise—a solemn promise.’

‘Certainly, dear Kiora. What am I to promise?’ ‘That you will refrain from taking one drop of intoxicating liquor until you return to Auckland.’

‘You little tyrant,’ he cried, laughingly. ‘You would like to set a trap for me. You have your tea without stint —which the doctors say is rank poison—and yet one is to be deprived of his glass of grog, simply because that giddy head of yours has been running too much on wars and rumours of wars. But. sweet Kiora. let us change this subject. How lovely the night is.’ They went out into the soft glow arm-in-arm—she pleading for his promise—he. laughingly, resisting her. Onward down the green slopes, strewn with murky shadows, that seemed to swallow them up and leave no trace behind.

By and by the lurking figure came forth from his lair, and stood up in the full light of the moon —a tall, dark man. about thirty years of age, face sallow and closely shaven, disclosing a wide, sensual mouth and strong determined jaw, filled with firm white teeth.

‘So here you are Sergeant Clement Exley, playing the spy.’ he muttered, apostrophising himself, a sinister gleam in his eyes the while. ‘Why. who wouid have thought the ring doves would select this spot for their senseless chatter?—almost under my nose. Humph! my limbs are racked with cramp. Confound them both. What

the devil can there be about this weak fooling dandy that she must prefer him to a better man. Aye. one who cares more for her than he does.' He stood with folded arms a moment. watching the direction they had taken. ‘There ye go. Charlie Stanton, with the whip hand of me; but take care, my lad. 1 don't checkmate you. For ten years you and I have been what modern society calls friends. Charlie; but modern society little drcams how

I hate your friendship. It has robbed me of many things I had set my heart on. even the love of this proud wench who has thought fit to treat my advances with scorn and insult since you have taken the field. Charlie, mon cher. Well. well. 1 am content to bide my time, Kiora Selby. Dreams have been fulfilled ere this. I have the cue, my weak-minded spark, and it shall go hard but I will use it to advantage when opportunity offers.’

He followed in the wake of the lovers with a slow and meditative step, his head bent .and his hands clasped behind his back. ‘lf my friend Stanton has one pet vice above another that vice is drink,’ he muttered, pausing in his walk. ‘Not a sot who loves to tipple alone, until he is speechless, oh, dear no; but one of your gentlemanly social souls, who cannot say nay when it is placed under his nose. Let him promise if he will, he cannot resist it. I have studied the man. Twice has he risen to the rank of sergeant since the corps were formed, and each time degraded to the ranks again through his love of good liquor. So, so, Charlie, all’s fair in love and war. Therefore, I’ll bait my line and angle for you, my friend. Once landed, I see my way to la belle Kiora, and her broad acres.

Sergeant Exley, of Caversham's Horse, quickened his pace, crossed the park, and entered Parnell: thence his walk became slower until he reached Shortland Place. Here he halted, and stood watching the front of a pretty villa on the opposite side of the way. There must have been something very attractive here to engage the sergeant’s attention, for he remained on the spot close upon two hours. He was still waiting and watching, when a young man issued from the house, humming a favourite operatic air.

‘Hallo, Charlie! well met, dear boy. Where have you been?’ cried Exley, in a surprised, yet pleasant tone. ‘Just run over tobid theSelbys goodbye,’ replied Stanton. ‘But what are yon doing down this way. Exley?’ ‘Ah, taking a walk under the moon to view the city. I guess we shan’t have another opportunity of viewing the spires of Auckland by moonlight for some time to come. Truth is, Charlie, I’m glad to have met you.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because I was just making my way to the Albion, where I’ve promised to meet one or two jolly fellows, to take a parting glass. You will join me. of course?’ ‘My dear Exley, nothing would give me greater pleasure, but— ’ ‘But what?’ ‘The truth is,’ stammered Charlie, ‘I have made a. promise not to touch liquor of any kind until I return from Taranaki.’ ‘Phew!’ whistled the sergeant. ‘I am sorry for that, inasmuch as you

will miss a bowl of the best punch, and one or two of the most comic dogs in New Zealand. Good night.’ Sergeant Exley turned upon his heel, but Stanton caught him by the arm. ‘Hold hard, Exley. We sail early in the morning. It’s almost morning already, therefore I’m with you. 1 can accompany you without breaking my word, eh?’ ‘Certainly.’ And the angler went in with his intended dupe, and brought him forth in the grey light of the dawning day, staggering, uproarious, and with his promise shattered to the winds. CHAPTER 11. There are few scenes in New Zealand more grandly rugged than the Ohan Valley, Taranaki, the spot where the volunteers had formed their bivouac on the 24th December, in anticipation of meeting the rebel Maoris.

It was Christmas Eve, the time, night — a calm, lovely night, with moon and stars studding the dark blue canopy of heaven—as on the night of the advent of the Master, nearly nineteen hundred years ago. The camp was composed of six hundred rank and file of the Auckland Rifles, together with one troop of Caversham’s Horse. The latter had pitched their tents on a small hill adjacent to where the commissariat stores had been piled and covered over by a large tarpaulin. Of the sixty men of the troop, ten of their number had been told off as guard, under the charge of Sergeant Exley. The supply of grogand provisisonswas only limited, and needed but one sentry at a time to keep watch and ward over them. There were six quarter-casks of rum standing in arow flanking the stores—a terrible temptation and dangerous in the extreme to any poor tippler who chanced to have charge in the still, dead night with no eye looking on. This idea appeared to have taken possession of the sergeant, for he called the guard together about the watch-fire and said: ‘Comrades. I need hardly remind you of the general order issued this morning. We are under martial law here in the field. Colonel Bartopp. as you all know, is a. very strict officer, and will punish the slightest neglect or carelessness with severity, mind that, and above all remember that any man found tipsy while on duty will most assuredly go to the triangles. You understand?’

Thev appeared to understand very well that drunkenness would be punished only with the lash, and they glanced towards the rum puncheons, and thought the sergeant a worthy fellow to concern himself about their welfare. There were others about the fire who did not belong to the guard. One. a short, broad-shouldered, jollylooking fellow, who had evidently seen more of the ocean than terra firma, if one might judge by his gait and his conversation. His name was Bob Cable, and while the sergeant warned his men, was deeply intent attempting to balance a camp pot on the rough nose of a magnificent water spaniel at his side. This experiment with the dog appeared equally interesting to another individual.viz..a bare-legged Maori lad about fourteen, who stood by with mouth agape. The boy, who answered to the. nom de plume of ‘Sanfly,’ was one of that gender known as a camp fag and general knock-about amongst the troopers. He could speak English pretty well, so far as lying went, and was withal one of most mischievous young vagabonds in Maoriland. As the night waxed apace, there arose a keen east wind, which made the air biting cold, and set the white tents shivering like so many sheeted ghosts under the moonlight. The Maori lad, prowling about for some place of shelter for the night, found a snug corner beneath the tarpaulin which covered the stores, and there retired to rest without more ado. The party round the fire gradually’ thinned, until only two persons remained seated by it—Charles Stanton and Bob Cable. It was easy to perceive that a warm and sincere friendship existed between these twain, y’et no two men were more opposite in person and disposition. The one handsome, gentlemanly, and refined in bearing, but weak and yielding to pusillanimity. The other coarse, plain of person, .yet obstinate and determined ns a bull-dog. How came these opposites to be friends? Simply through one little act of kindness. At

the storming of the Maori stronghold Te Ranga, Bob Cable lay bleeding to death outside the enemy’s trench from a severe gash in his side, received during the attack. The volunteers were repulsed, but at the risk of his life Charlie Stanton walked coolly’ out to the trench and brought in the wounded man up on his back, amidst a perfect hailstorm of Maori bullets. It was a gallant,kindly act, and Bob had often spoken his gratitude in language more forcible than polite. And here they sit by the fire, with the dog between them, and a small flask of rum, which has been emptied to the dregs in fighting their Waikato campaign over again.

Presently there is a call for number four of the guard. Charlie Stanton rises hurriedly, wishes Cable ‘goodnight,’ and answers ‘Here.’ It is his turn for sentry, and he is marched over to relieve the man posted on the stores. Silence now reigns throughout the camp, save for the wild screech of the pelew out yonder by the lake. Sanfiy, crouched under the friendly covering of the tarpaulin, is suddenly awakened from his rosy dreams by the sound of voices in the vicinity. The Maori noiselessly lifts one end of the covering and peeps forth. Sergeant Exley is standing with a pannikin in his hand, talking to the sentry in a low earnest tone.

‘lndeed, Charlie, I see no great harm in taking a glass of grog on such a cold night. We are not in town where it could be easily obtained; therefore one must get it by stealth. Of course, you are on sentry, and can prevent my taking any, but I must say’ a small half-pint out of one of those casks would never be missed.’

‘Perhaps not,’ answered Charlie Stanton, carelessly. ‘Pray do as you

please; you have command of the guard; but I say, Exley, what about that lecture you gave us respecting general orders, and Colonel Bartopp’s stern discipline?’ The sergeant laughed in a quiet way, and replied, ‘Wait until you’re promoted again, Charlie, then adopt my plan. One side for the men, the other for your friends. Surely you were not impressed with my caution. Lord, I feel inclined to roar sometimes at all the fuss and humbug put forth in orders—general or otherwise. Red tape and bunkum. Bunkum and red tape to the end of the chapter. I’ll bet Colonel Bartopp has not retired to his tent without a skinful of good liquor. Why, then, should we, comrade, who have to watch through the long night in this sharp wind, not wet our whistle when it is here ready at our hand?’

‘Bravo, Exley! Very well argued. My orders are to allow no one to meddle with the commissariat except the quarter-master; but I repeat, you are my superior officer, and— there are the casks.’ ‘Good. This fellow here seems a little apoplectic; we will bleed him.’

‘With all my heart. But how will you do it—through his bunghole?’ cried Charlie, laughing. ‘No! Only a bungler would go to work that way. See here. I have a gimlet. Now, keep watch while I spile this fellow's frontispiece.’ Clement Exley cast a triumphant look at his companion ere he went down on his knees to bore the rum puncheon. Had the good natured inconstant dupe seen that look, he would have thought twice before hobnobbing with the subtle and crafty scoundrel before him. But Charlie Stanton, measuring the man by his own standard, saw nothing in it save

a good fellow in want of a nobbier, and who had pluck enough to hazard his sergeant’s stripes for it. Crawling from his lair as silently as a serpent. Sanfly beheld Exley holding the pannikin over a thin stream issuing from one of the casks. How the liquor hissed and gurgled as it spouted into the pot. When the utensil was full, Charlie held his thumb to the hole until the sergeant plugged it up again.

‘Now, comrade, take a nip.’ ‘After you,’ said Charlie, modestly. 'The girls we left behind us,’ and the sergeant put the liquor to his lips, but he did not drink anv.

‘l’ll give that pledge with all my heart,’ responded Charlie, in proof of which he almost emptied the pannikin at a draught. It took away his breath for the nonce, but that was nothing, the night was cold. ‘What do you say: shall we refill the goblet, Stanton?’ ‘By all means, Exley,’ and the pot was replenished. ‘I did not expect we were going to have such a jolly time in general,’ said the sentry, seating himself on one of the puncheons, with the can of rum between his knees. ‘Come, Clem, take a sip and pass the decanter. In a short time the measure was again empty, and onee more refilled. The fiery spirit was at least twenty degrees over proof, and soon began to tell upon the troopers. ‘We must be cautious, comrade, and not arouse the sleeping guard,’ said the sergeant, as Charlie became rather noisy. ‘lt is now past midnight, and I don’t expect the visiting officer before four o’clock.’ ‘Oh, bother the visiting officer, pass the nappy, Clem.’ ‘I suppose you don’t mind my relieving you when your two hours are up, Charlie?’ ‘Not at all. I am content to remain here until daylight providingyou leave me the gimlet. Here’s your health, Clem, and may you live to be a general.’ The sergeant watched him with

glistening eyes. ‘Steady, comrade, you will be tipsy,’ he said. ‘I! nonsense. Here, hold my carbine, the pot is empty.’ One p.m. by the sergeant’s watch, and the sergeant’s companion is growing thick of speech and rather prosy. In another half-hour the poor dupe is staggering about, moralising to the empty air, like one of Congreve’s heroes. He will have another sip of the liquor, and he has his way, for he is beyond reason now. The rum has mastered him completely; anon he is nothing but a grovelling bundle of humanity, his laugh cracked, sense gone, and talking—ye Gods! — such rubbish and ribaldry that the sergeant grows disgusted and leaves him alone in his glory. The officer of the night begins his rounds earlier than was expected. At three a.m. the Commissariat Guard turned out at his summons and was hismissed as correct.

‘How many sentries have you, Sergeant Exley ?’ ‘Only one, Captain.’ ‘I will visit him.’

It was usual for two men of the guard and the non-commissioned officer in charge to accompany the officer when visiting the sentries. Exley called two of his comrades, who conducted the captain over to the stores, but of course there was no one to challenge their approach. ‘Halt!’ cried the officer. ‘How’s this; where is your man, Sergeant?’ he asked in a tone of surprise. Before the question could be answered the Maori lad emerged from his hiding and pointed out the dark inert form of the tipsy sentinel stretched upon the floor fast asleep. A light was brought from the tent and they tried to rouse him, but in vain. There appeared no need to inquire how the man got drunk on his post. The leaking cask, the gimlet, and the pannikin half-full of liquor on the ground beside him, told their own tale plainly. ‘This is a very unfortunate matter,’

cried the sergeant, with well-feigned regret in his tone. ‘What is to be done, sir?’

‘Done! Why, your duty. Sergeant Exley, of course,’ responded the captain. ‘Carry the poor devil to the guard tent, and put another man in his stead. I’ll report to Colonel Bartopp on my return. Good-night!’ Morning came with its rosy blush, tinging the hill-tops and kissing the sleeping encampment into renewed life. It found Sergeant Exley pacing moodily before the guard-tent where his unfortunate victim lay slumbering off the fumes of intoxication.

‘ls this but the prelude to her dream?’ he muttered. ‘Gad, it would seem so. Here are the circle of hills around, bare and treeless, overlooking the valley below. Yonder the Ohan Lake gleaming in the early sun like a burnished shield. What more? Shall the curtain rise to-day upon the first act of the dream?—the formed square, and the man tied to the triangles? We shall see. Charles Stanton, it would have been well hadst thou or I never seen Kiora Selby. Poor wretch, sleep on. W’hen thou wakest thou wilt see the cat ready. And now to snatch an hour’s rest.’ He turned into the tent and at that moment the voice of Sanfly was heard calling for Snap, the retriever, who ran frisking towards the lad in great glee, and the pair raced down the hill towards the tent occupied by Bob Cable.

(To be Continued.)