A. L. Haydon

The years 1860 to 1865 witnessed a very stubborn war in New Zealand between the British and the Maoris, the original natives of the country. Many causes combined to make this war unduly long. In the first place the importance of the outbreak was underestimated, and the small force already in the islands was considered strong enough to cope with it; secondly, it was forgotten, or overlooked, that the Maoris, although incorrigibly lazy in times of peace, were a race of born fighters, to whom war was almost the chief end of existence; and thirdly, there was the difficult nature of the country itself, with its many forests and swamps, and miles on miles of dense, tangled bush. The odds were all in the Maoris’ favour at the outset.

For many years we had been at peace with the natives, a treaty having been signed by which we bound ourselves to respect the chiefs territorial rights. By 1860, however, a good deal of friction had arisen over purchases of land by the colonists, it being claimed by the Maoris that some of these transactions took place without the full consent of all the parties interested.

Especially was this the case in the transfer of a piece of land at Taranaki, in the Northern Island. It was only a small plot that was in dispute, but the Waikato tribe who claimed possession would not be pacified, and made a desperate resistance when an attempt was made to oust them. Their success in repulsing the few British troops sent against them incited the tribe and their friends to proceed still further. Old feuds were now revived, and the insurrection at Taranaki quickly spread into a general movement against the colonists, which in turn resolved itself into a wholesale rebellion of the Maori race.

In the fighting that ensued twelve Victoria Crosses were gained, mostly for gallant rescues of wounded men struck down in the bush or in the pahs, the native palisade-fortified villages. The Maoris have always been exceptionally cruel to their prisoners in war, and the knowledge that a fallen foe would receive no mercy at their hands spurred our soldiers to make every effort to save a wounded comrade.

One of the first Crosses to be won fell to Colour-Sergeant John Lucas, of the 40th Regiment (the South Lancashires). Early in 1861 he was fighting up in the Taranaki district, near to the Huirangi Bush. During one afternoon, while out skirmishing, he and his party were suddenly subjected to a terribly fierce fire from a hidden enemy. Men began to drop quickly as the bullets pinged across the ravine, and Lieutenant Rees fell badly wounded.

The officer having been carried to the rear, Lucas stood guard over the other wounded, towards whom the Maoris, breaking cover for the first time, made an ugly rush. The colour-sergeant had several rifles at hand, and adopting savage tactics, he got behind a tree, only showing himself to neatly “pot” an enemy. It was one man against a hundred; but, like Private McManus in “Dhoolie Square,” he made himself properly respected by the natives, and he held his position until a reinforcement arrived to relieve him of his charge.

A more exciting experience fell to the lot of a sergeant of the York and Lancaster Regiment (the old 65th) two years later. While in action with a large body of Maoris both his superior officers, Captain Swift and Lieutenant Butler, were wounded, and the duty of withdrawing the little force devolved upon him.

Sergeant Edward McKenna, who had a strong strain of Irish blood in him, showed himself the man for the occasion. The district was a broken and rugged piece of country near Camerontown, and swarmed with Maoris. If he wished to save his officers’ lives and the lives of the whole detachment, he had to act boldly.

Accordingly, leaving Corporal Ryan and three or four men to protect the wounded captain and lieutenant, and relying on the main body of the troops soon finding them, he went slap-dash at the Maoris on the hill in front of him. The charge scattered the natives to a safe distance. Then, night coming on, McKenna and his party camped in a convenient spot in the bush. Very soon, however, this position became unsafe. So back along the bush path they trailed, firing at their invisible enemy as they went, and having some other wounded now thrown on their hands.

Owing to the darkness and the intricacies of the bush, the sergeant eventually lost his way, and, as he said afterwards, there was nothing to do but to sit down and wait for daylight. So all through the night they squatted on the ground, McKenna mounting guard with ears alert for the faintest sound of an enemy; but fortunately none came. And in the morning he had the satisfaction of leading his party back to camp to report that only one was killed and two were missing out of the thirty-eight men he had manoeuvred so skilfully.

Sergeant McKenna received a warm word of commendation in the despatches from General Cameron, the Commander-in-Chief, for that piece of business, together with the Victoria Cross, the same honour falling to Corporal Ryan, whose devotion to Captain Swift, however, failed to save that gallant officer’s life. Several of the others who figured prominently in the affair were rewarded with the Distinguished Conduct Medal.

Two very brilliant individual exploits that I may note here won the V.C. for Major C. Heaphy of the Auckland Militia, and Lieutenant-Colonel (afterwards Major-General Sir) John Carstairs McNeill, of the 107th Regiment.

Major Heaphy was engaged in a skirmish with Maoris on the banks of the Mangapiko River, Auckland, when a wounded private tumbled into the midst of a party of natives concealed in a hollow. Without a moment’s hesitation the major leaped down after him. Though wounded himself, with a dozen shot-holes in his clothes and cap, he stuck by his man, and in time got him safely away.

REINING IN HIS HORSE, HE TURNED TO CATCH VOSPER’S … AND HELPED THE ORDERLY TO REMOUNT.—Page 137.

The story of Colonel McNeill’s rescue is the story of a ride for life which finds a close parallel in the deed for which Lord William Beresford gained the V.C. in Zululand, as will be told hereafter. The colonel was returning from Te Awamuta, whither he had been sent on special duty, with two orderlies, Privates Gibson and Vosper, both of the Colonial Defence Force, when a body of the enemy was descried some distance ahead. Despatching Gibson to the nearest camp (at Ohanpu) for assistance, he rode a little way up the road to the summit of a hill to reconnoitre.

As McNeill, with Vosper by his side, trotted on, unsuspecting any ambush, keen eyes watched them from the thick ferns that bordered the road, and presently some fifty Maoris sprang out to intercept them. The moment the natives appeared the two horsemen wheeled and galloped back down the hill. They got a flying start, but an unlucky step into a hole brought Vosper’s horse to his knees, sending his rider head over heels into the ferns.

Then the colonel did a plucky thing. Reining in his horse, he turned to catch Vosper’s, which was galloping in the opposite direction, and leading it back helped the orderly to remount. He was just in the nick of time. A few seconds later, and the Maoris would have been on them. As it was, only a mad gallop at top speed carried them clear out of range of the bullets that whistled round them.

Vosper spoke nothing but the plain truth when he said that he owed his life entirely to his colonel; for he could not have caught his horse, on foot as he was, and the Maoris would have made short work of him.

The New Zealand War was brought to a close in 1864 by General Sir Trevor Chute, who broke the Maori power and stamped out the rebellion. Four or five years later there were renewed disturbances, massacres of settlers and raids upon outlying farms, but these were isolated cases. Since 1870 the natives have been content to live peaceably under the British rule.

In 1864, a few months before the Maori chiefs gave in their submission, a memorable fight took place near Tauranga, Auckland, memorable for the disgrace which it brought upon a British regiment, and for the act of heroism which gained the V.C. for an Army surgeon and a bluejacket. The story of it is as follows.

On the peninsula of Te Papa, in the Poverty Bay district of East Auckland, the Maoris had entrenched themselves in a very strong position. They had built a long stockade along the narrow strip of land connecting the peninsula with the coast, at Tauranga, with rifle-pits extending almost the whole length. This formidable fort was known as the Gate Pah, because it commanded the entrance to that region.

The natives chose the place for their stronghold wisely. The Gate Pah was guarded by great swamps on both sides, which rendered a flank attack impossible. The assault must come either from the front or rear. Fully alive to the difficulties of the task, General Cameron proceeded to attack this position on April 28th with a force of infantry (the 68th and 43rd Regiments) and two hundred seamen from the warships off the coast.

While some of the Naval Brigade and the 68th Regiment (the Durham Light Infantry) stole round at night to the rear of the stockade, the artillery the next morning opened fire in front, pouring shot and shell unceasingly for eight and a half hours into the pah. The Maoris responded at first with a brisk rifle-fire, but after a time this stopped. Dead silence reigned over the stockade, as if most of its inmates had been killed. Believing this to be the case, the 43rd Foot (the Oxfordshire Light Infantry, known popularly as “the Light Bobs” and “the Fighting Forty-third”) moved forward with a number of bluejackets to carry the place by storm.

That the fight was practically over seemed evident from the ease with which the troops drove out the few Maoris remaining in the pah. But the wily natives had laid a subtle ambush, to the success of which a regrettable accident contributed. As the Oxfordshires and the naval men followed up the pursuit in the gathering darkness, the detachment sent previously to the rear began firing into the medley of Maoris and British. Considerable confusion was caused, and both the 43rd and the sailors were ordered to retire.

This was done promptly, the troops regaining the shelter of the stockade. Here they had no fear of danger, for the place was apparently deserted, and only the fugitive Maoris, who had rallied, menaced them. They wandered about the pah in careless disorder, some even laying aside their rifles, when suddenly from the ground beneath them a whole host of native warriors appeared, rising like apparitions in their midst. In cunningly concealed holes and rifle-pits, covered over with branches and pieces of turf, the Maoris had awaited the coming of the pakehas.

Before this mysterious ghostly enemy, who fell upon them with rifle and war-club, the soldiers and sailors fled in wild confusion. A perfect panic set in, and every man sought to save his own skin.

It is difficult to locate the blame in instances of this kind. British troops and British officers have been seized with panic before under the stress of great excitement, and the same thing will probably happen again. Human courage is, after all, an uncertain quantity; an admittedly brave man has more than once failed at a critical moment through lack of nerve or some less explicable reason and turned coward. Was there not the well-known case of a lieutenant-colonel (his name is charitably concealed) in the Indian Mutiny, whose conduct Sir Colin Campbell characterised in a vigorous despatch as “pusillanimous and imbecile to the last degree,” before dismissing him from the service? This officer had a distinguished record, but a momentary weakness led him to surrender an important position without cause and blasted his whole career.

In the panic that set in when the hideous tattooed faces of the Maoris rose up so uncannily from the depths of the earth the slaughter of our men was terrific. Officers and privates alike fell easy victims to the well-armed natives. Then it was that Assistant-Surgeon William G. N. Manley, R.A., and Samuel Mitchell, captain of the foretop of H.M.S. Harrier, won glory for themselves by a gallant rescue.

Commander Hay, of the Naval Brigade, fell badly wounded at the first discharge, and lay groaning in the middle of the pah. All were in full flight, but seeing his officer helpless on the ground Mitchell ran to his side, picked him up in his strong arms and bore him outside the stockade. Here he found Dr. Manley, who oblivious to the bullets that fell thickly around, bound up the commander’s wounds. That done, he and Mitchell conveyed the dying man back to camp.

Not content with having done that duty, the brave surgeon returned voluntarily to the pah and coolly set about tending the wounded. They lay there in heaps, alas! and he had all his work to do to get them removed to a place of safety. The fire which swept the stockade is said to have been terrible, yet not a scratch did he receive the whole time, and he was the last to leave the pah. Both Dr. Manley and Mitchell were awarded the Cross for Valour some months later, for the heroism that in part redeemed the Gate Pah disaster.

As for the Fighting Forty-third, whose colours bore the names of Corunna, Badajoz, Vittoria, and many another famous fight of the Peninsular War, the memory of that night of panic rankled deep in their minds. They swore a solemn vow that the next time they came to grips with the Maoris the enemy should remember it. It was at Tuaranga that they got their chance, on June 21st of the same year, and on this day one of their officers, Captain Frederick Augustus Smith, won the Cross for leaping into a rifle-pit and routing a number of the Maoris single-handed.

This made the second V.C. that the 43rd won, by the way, the first having been given in 1859 to Private Addison for saving the life of an officer in India.