Rangatira

  The first thing I must speak of was the visit from a Mr Smetham, an artist, who had been commissioned by the Wesleyan Missionary Society to paint a picture of us. After we returned to live in the Strangers’ Home, he arrived one morning to make sketches of us. He was a strange fellow, this Mr Smetham. I recall a wildness to him. He was like one of the cats skulking under the bushes in Leicester Square. He drew very quickly, spending very little time with each of us. I remember Wiremu Pou laughing, saying Mr Smetham pressed the pencil so hard it looked as though the paper would rip.

  It was definitely Wiremu Pou who said that, for I remember him miming the actions, and nudging Horomona Te Atua so his brother would laugh as well. And I remember Tere Pakia talking on and on, saying that we had photographs of ourselves and now we would have a painting as well, and that she wondered which would look best. So this Mr Smetham must have visited us when we first returned to the Strangers’ Home, just before those three fools ran off to join the Maori Warrior Chiefs.

  Mr Smetham could not speak any Maori, of course, but Mr Lightband was there to explain things. Mr Lightband told us that although our likenesses were taken at the Strangers’ Home, the painting itself would show us standing in the house of John Wesley, a place we had visited in July. During that visit we were taken to see the chapel and various graves, and then shown to the room where Wesley died. We all took our turn sitting in his chair, for the minister who showed us round the house seemed to expect it. John Wesley was a figure of great mana for Jenkins, who looked close to tears that night. In the cab going home he told us that it was the most happy evening he had spent in England. I remember that, for Ngahuia mocked him for it later. She said that Jenkins was a fool, and that the happiest evenings in England, in her opinion, were the ones where we promenaded about ballrooms and were fed on champagne and delicious jellies.

  I did not see the sketch Mr Smetham made of me, and now I know that I should have asked that day to look upon it. Artists can make mistakes on their canvas as writers can on a page, and then what can be done? There is no way to argue with a painting, except to make another painting. And when we are all long dead, strangers will look upon these paintings, and they will not know which one is true and which is false, or if they are both false in different ways.

  But now I must return to those last days in London, for there was more excitement to be had before we left for Bristol, and I soon forgot Mr Smetham and his wild eyes. Hare and Hariata Pomare were about to move away from the Strangers’ Home, and with Mrs Colenso had fixed on a day of departure. I was sad that they would not be travelling with us, for they were both fine young people, but I knew that living quietly in London – if such a thing is possible! – would be preferable, especially for Hariata. I was also sad, I think, because I knew that the Queen’s eye was upon them. She would not let anything untoward happen to them; she would not let them starve or live in a degraded way. While they remained with us, I believed that the Queen’s gaze would encompass us all, and that we would never be permitted to sink too low. Once we parted from them, I worried that we might lose the Queen’s interest, and protection.

  Hare Pomare wished to remain in London for an additional reason. He had recently paid a visit to the home of Sir Frederic Rogers, to see young Wiremu Repa. The boy had left his school and was preparing to return to New Zealand. Hare went for the evening but stayed the night for, he told us, he could not bring himself to leave. The boy was terribly ill, breathing with difficulty, and sitting up in his bed like a pale ghost. Pomare was afraid the boy would not last the night, and insisted on sleeping in a chair in Wiremu Repa’s bedroom. That night, when Sir Frederic and his wife left the room, the boy wheezed out what they’d been saying. Sir Frederic had told his wife he wasn’t at all sure that ‘six-foot-three of savage’ would fit in their armchair!

  Hare returned to the house every day to visit the boy, and to tend him in his illness. Later we were to hear that Wiremu Repa finally sailed for New Zealand some time in the autumn, the English autumn. Many months after that Mrs Colenso told us that the boy died before reaching New Zealand, and had been buried at sea. We were all very unhappy to hear that news, though by that time everything we heard seemed to make us unhappy.

  Before we left the Strangers’ Home, Hare Pomare received another invitation, though perhaps it would have been better if he hadn’t. On his return from a visit with Wiremu Repa, a Captain John Reid was waiting to see him. This Captain Reid had once lived in New Zealand, more than thirty years earlier, and had known Hare Pomare’s father. These days he was a land steward on a large farm outside London, but he spent much time here with his family, in their house in Marylebone. Would Hare and Hariata, and all their Nga Puhi kin, be so kind as to pay the Reid family a visit?

  Of course, all of us from the North went – Reihana, Horomona Te Atua, Wharepapa and I. We had no Jenkins there to argue that we should be speaking at a meeting and passing around a hat. The Reids lived in one of a neat row of narrow houses, and though there was nothing grand or impressive about the premises, it was most enjoyable to be in a house where Maori was spoken. Mrs Reid arranged a great spread of food, and their two daughters, Mary Ann and Elizabeth, seemed to be sweet-natured girls and most attentive, quite unafraid of us. The girls spoke no Maori at all, of course, for they were born and raised in England. Elizabeth, the older girl, had worked as a maidservant for her father’s employers, but had been sent home to recuperate from scarlet fever, or some other malady. She had very yellow hair, and a pretty smile.

  Wharepapa enjoyed the visit more than any of us, for Captain Reid knew his part of Northland very well, and they had much to talk about. We only had a few days left to us in London, and Wharepapa managed to visit the Reid household every one of those days. Mr Lightband grew quite frustrated with us, for one afternoon, when we had a long-standing tea engagement at the home of a Wesleyan minister, he could only muster four of our party to attend.

  Our last night in London I remember particularly clearly. This was the evening that Ngahuia announced she would not travel with us to Bristol. She had no desire to leave London, where she was the pet of numerous ladies, and where there were many shops, parties, and amusements. She didn’t want to move from one lodging house to the next, or to stand on platforms and exhibit herself, especially as she was now the only woman in our party, without any sort of companion or confidante. The ladies of London would take care of her, with Mr Ridgway’s assistance.

  She said all this to Mr Lloyd, who had called at the Strangers’ Home to settle our account. He was furious.

  ‘You cannot stay here alone, you stupid woman!’ he told her, raising his voice so everyone in the large hall could hear, though only we Maori could understand.

  ‘Haumu is alone in London,’ she said, pouting. ‘Tere is alone.’

  Mr Lloyd looked at her as though, like Haumu, she had taken leave of her senses.

  ‘Hariata Haumu is in a sick house, cared for by many nurses,’ he shouted. ‘Tere Pakia is with her husband, under the protection of Mr Hegarty. You cannot stay here alone!’

  We were all there to hear this argument apart from Wharepapa, who had gone out alone that evening. Reihana tried to persuade her to come with us to Bristol, warning her that London was a wicked place filled with degenerates, and she was sure to come to no good, but Ngahuia would not listen. When Hapimana stroked at her arm, she threw him off.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ she hissed at him, and then turned to address the rest of us. ‘This is what he did to Haumu on board the ship. He said he was comforting her, but I know what happened. This is why she lost her mind!’

  Between Hapimana’s frantic and indignant denials, and Ngahuia’s sobs and foot-stamping, we made quite a spectacle in the Strangers’ Home that night. A gaggle of Lascars, smoking their pipes before the fire, watched with some interest. Mr Lloyd was unmoved by any of Ngahuia’s talk, and said that they would not pay for another night’s accommodation for her in that place. She was to come to Bristol wit
h us the next day, or be left to her own devices in London – which, he said, was ‘the most expensive place on earth’.

  Ngahuia vowed that she did not care, and that she would stay on at the Strangers’ Home without us. But some time later, when we were in Bristol, we heard that Colonel Hughes had not allowed her to stay. He doubted her ability to pay her bill, did not usually house young women with no chaperone, and, I suspect, was weary of her hysterical carrying-on. In fact, I suspect he was weary of all his Maori residents, for we seemed to be constantly in his office, arguing with Jenkins, complaining about this and that, or dashing off at night to join theatrical troupes.

  Ngahuia, that stubborn girl, had to throw herself on the mercy of Mr Ridgway, who found her lodgings elsewhere in Limehouse with a Miss Hobson. Strange that this is a name I remember, when I never met this lady at all, and yet the name of the Mayor of Bath, who was so good to us, is gone from my memory!

  My tale of our last night in London is not yet over, for it was an evening of much incident. At that time of the English summer, the days were very long, and none of us wished to be going to bed while it was still light. Horomona Te Atua and I walked out without any particular destination in mind. As I said, I liked walking in the evenings in Limehouse, for we were not followed or stared at too much, many people assuming, I think, that we were some of the many hundreds of Lascar sailors staying in this area.

  For a long while Horomona Te Atua was silent, and then he took me into his confidence. Firstly, he knew where Wharepapa was that night. Wharepapa was up to no good with Elizabeth Reid, whose father had been called away to the countryside. They had planned an assignation.

  I say ‘assignation’, but Horomona used more plain language at the time.

  The second thing he wanted to tell me was that his brother, Wiremu Pou, had sent him a message asking him to come to the Alhambra Theatre that night, to see his first performance with the Maori Warrior Chiefs. Horomona had been struggling with this all day. Mr Lightband would not approve, not least because he didn’t want any more of us to abscond, and visiting the theatre might put this idea in our heads.

  ‘But this might be the last time I see my brother in this country,’ said Horomona, looking quite miserable. Wiremu Pou was a coxcomb, and he had left us despite the pleas of Horomona Te Atua, but they were still brothers. With Hare Pomare staying in London, Horomona would be the only young man in our party. The only young Nga Puhi man, I mean. He had very little to say to Hapimana Ngapiko.

  Horomona Te Atua thought he had enough money for a cab to Leicester Square, but didn’t like the thought of going alone to such a strange place, and sitting by himself without any friends. So of course I agreed to go with him. I must admit to a profound curiosity about what occurred behind the huge doors of such a place, and I was also interested to see these so-called Maori Warrior Chiefs in action. For a moment I was concerned about unwelcome attention once we reached Leicester Square, for it would be brighter and more crowded with people there. Horomona Te Atua had no moko, and in his trousers and coat he was simply a tall young gentleman with a dark complexion. My moko, however, was etched deep into my face, and there was no way to disguise it, unless I were to wear a high collar and a false beard!

  Horomona reassured me that night was about to fall, that it was sure to be dark in the theatre, and that everyone there would be either confused by drink or absorbed by what was happening on the stage. In all of these points he was quite correct.

  Leicester Square was no more respectable at night than it was during the day, people thronging its drinking dens and pot-houses, the hurdy-gurdy boys making a racket outside the theatre. A monkey scampered over my foot, and I had to clutch Horomona Te Atua’s arm to steady myself. We paid sixpence each to enter the Alhambra without exciting much attention, and inside I only noticed a few stares. It was infernally hot, smoke thick in the air, and there was a stale, unpleasant smell of gas fumes and spilled liquor.

  The theatre had numerous storeys, each propped up with decorated pillars. Most people sat down below, but our tickets were the cheapest, and we could only wander the gallery, where there were no chairs. Many other people promenaded about here, drinking and conversing, as though the acrobats on the stage were of no interest to them. Dozens of ladies walked about or leaned against the railing, each more bawdy than the next, with their painted faces and raucous laughs. One draped herself against Horomona in a startling fashion, shouting with mock outrage when he shook her off. Even on the streets of Lime-house I had not observed so many brazen bawds in one place.

  We could not enter the main floor of the theatre, but we could look down upon it. This area was crammed with tables where people sat eating oysters and chops, and drinking wine as though it were water. The audience, as far as I could see in the gleaming gaslight, was largely comprised of gentlemen and girls, and not the kind of girls we met at the soirées and receptions to which Jenkins escorted us. These were the kind of girls who dangled on a gentleman’s knee, or threw pieces of bread at the stage, cheering when they hit one of the performers.

  The acrobats tumbled away to rowdy applause, and were replaced by a singer who was nothing like Miss Patti, the lady we heard at the Crystal Palace. I couldn’t understand the words of her song, but many in the crowd seemed to know it, and their voices soon drowned out the orchestra. Horomona Te Atua leaned over the railings, gazing at the fantastic sights of this place. I wasn’t sure if he was shocked by the decision his brother had made, or envious.

  After another performer, doing some kind of comic turn that included falling over and stealing a cymbal from the orchestra, the curtains opened again, with a roll of the drums, to reveal the so-called Maori Warrior Chiefs. How the crowd roared at their first glimpse of these men! Horomona and I pressed against the railings, trying to make out Hirini Pakia and Wiremu Pou. Even at such a distance, we soon fixed on the latter, for he was the youngest man of the six before us. Hirini and Tere didn’t take the stage that night, perhaps because they had yet to learn the different parts of the performance.

  The six men on the stage wore flax kilts but no cloaks. They had no heitiki, no ornaments of any kind, and they carried no patu or taiaha in their hands. Their half-naked appearance seemed to excite the crowd, as did the four haka they performed, each louder and more vigorous than the next, and some with words I recognised from Charley Davis’s book. They began with what looked like a tutu ngarahu, but without weapons this was meaningless, and each haka ended with the high leap of the peruperu, no matter what kind of haka had proceeded it. No one in the Alhambra knew or cared about such things, of course, and they quite obviously preferred the haka to anything else. After the haka, the men on stage, quite out of breath, performed a maudlin waiata, while the audience chattered and grew restless.

  After this, the Maori threw a ball here and there, and then wrestled each other for a while, which the crowd seemed to like very much. One man in particular was very strong, overcoming all his opponents, including the man who was so tall he towered over the rest, even Wiremu Pou. Three of the men had moko, though I couldn’t make out the detail from such a distance.

  Within twenty minutes, perhaps less, it was all over. Horomona Te Atua had talked of going to what his brother had called the Canteen, a place on a lower floor where champagne was served, and the dancers who would appear later in the evening entertained their admirers and cast about for new ones. But as soon as the performance was over Horomona seemed to lose heart, suggesting we returned at once to Limehouse. Seeing his brother on the stage was sufficient. Perhaps if he had truly believed that he would not see Wiremu Pou again in England, Horomona would have sought him out that night. At that time, I think, he imagined his brother’s flirtation with a life on the stage, playing before such a rude and drunken crowd, would be short-lived.

  We were invited to take this trip to England because we were rangatira, but in England, I think, we lost sense of what that meant. When I was a child, I learned what would be expected of me ??
? a certain dignity, the ability to lead, the observation of protocol and custom, a respect for mana and tapu. An understanding of utu, the reciprocity on which our society depended so our lives would be in balance and our ancestors would be appeased. But in England we were little better than slaves, led and directed by others, and displayed in public places like trophies of war. Perhaps this was why some of our party were chafing to be free, even if they could only find another kind of captivity elsewhere.

  Jenkins accused us constantly of ingratitude, and now I think that, in part, he was right. We were shown many wonders, and spent so much time wheedling and complaining, and wishing ourselves somewhere else. He was expecting humility from us Maori, when all we had was pride. This was what was left to us, now that the old ways of doing and seeing things had been swept away. In England we had the attitude of rangatira without any of the mana. The more that attitude angered our Pakeha, the more I wondered why they chose to bring us. If they’d just wished to instruct us, they could have done that in New Zealand. Was there nothing we could teach the English? Were the English to have all the authority?

  These men up on the stage, they called themselves chiefs. But this was simply a show. No one in the audience knew who they were, or cared to know. If these men were truly rangatira people, as Wiremu Pou certainly was, this was beneath them. The moko on their faces were so much decoration. The words they spoke were meaningless, like the squawking of the birds on Parrot Walk, or the grunts of a child struggling to be understood.

  ‘Wharepapa says you were a friend of the great Hongi,’ the Bohemian tells me. He’s making us some tea, because we’ve both been still for too long, and I need to sit for a while by the fire.

  ‘Not a friend,’ I say. ‘Not an enemy, not a friend. I fought with and for him, as so many of us did at that time.’