Kiwi Wars by Garry Douglas Kilworth Page A

periods of darkness. Sleep was impossible, even when he crawled to the base of a giant tree, and tried to shelter in the hollow of its buttress roots.
    In the morning it continued to rain. Jack dragged himself out of the wood and tried to get his bearings, but from a sitting position this was hopeless. Even when he found a branch and got himself into an upright pose, he could not see through the dense downpour. He slid back down to the ground and sat there shivering, hoping for a miracle.
    The miracle turned up on two legs. He saw the figure coming, just a silhouette in the sheeting rain, like a dark phantom, and though he prayed it was one of his men, he knew from its build the figure was more powerful than any of his soldiers. It could have been Ta Moko of course, but it was not. It was the fellow who had stood over him while his companions had robbed Jack’s camp. The fellow who had struck him with a bladed weapon.
    The man had on a sodden jacket now, no doubt to protect his bare torso against the cold. It remained unbuttoned and looked far too small for the big Maori. The temperature had dropped very low and Jack’s visitor was visibly shivering. Jack noticed the Maori was carrying the Tranter 5-shot revolver he had stolen.
    ‘Come back to finish me off?’ croaked the captain.
    The Maori shook his head irritably. He tossed the Tranter down at Jack’s feet.
    ‘Came to give you this.’
    Jack snatched the weapon up, but the Maori smiled grimly.
    ‘It’s empty. That’s why I’m giving it back. I can’t seem to get the bullets to fit it. Not the right calibre anyway.’
    The revolver was indeed light enough to be out of ammunition. Jack tossed it aside. It made a splash on the muddy ground.
    ‘You’re not going to kill me?’ It was a matter-of-fact question.
    Again, the Maori looked annoyed. ‘Why would I do that now?’
    Jack admitted, ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘I tried to kill you back in the bush, but you have a head as hard as a steel pan.’
    This was rather puzzling to the British officer.
    ‘You didn’t just try to knock me out cold?’
    ‘No – I tried to kill you. If you could see your wound now, you’d know I did. Your skull is split open. I can see the white bone.’
    Jack shuddered at these words. Gingerly he reached up and touched his head with the tips of his fingers. There was indeed a crevice there, beneath the coagulated blood. His scalp had been hacked open with a less than sharp blade. Indeed there was a flap of skin with hair on it, hanging to one side. He tried to replace it, like a divot flung from a lawn by a pony’s hoof, but it fell to one side again. The knowledge of the wound made Jack’s brain swim and he almost swooned away. He felt an ocean swell of nausea roll through his stomach and he might have thrown up at the Maori’s feet if he had not lain back on the ground, with the rain forming a puddle around his supine body.
    ‘Quite frankly,’ said Jack, miserably, ‘I believe I would prefer it if I had died under the blow.’
    The Maori laughed. ‘Is this the British humour?’
    ‘No, this is the British irony. I don’t think you would understand.’ Jack was still lying on his back, looking up at the sky. One or two stars were beginning to show in the heavens above. The clouds were obviously clearing and letting through their light. ‘I still don’t understand something myself – why was there no second blow? Why not finish me there and then?’
    The Maori found a sodden log and sat on it, staring down at Jack.
    ‘In the old days, I would have done. If you had been a warrior from another tribe I would have caved your head in just like that. But the old ways are gone. We can kill them in battle. But we must – what is that word Bishop Selwyn uses?
Succour.
Yes, we must succour the wounded, not bash their brains in. That’s why I have come back. To give you your pistol.’
    In his right hand the Maori had a wooden staff, flattened to a broad blade at one end. He