Rangatira

  I disliked this, as Wharepapa knew I would. I never like the way the Pakeha tell of the past, implying that Hongi acted unusually, or with unusual cruelty. In fact, he acted the way he was raised to act, the way he was bound to act by custom. He didn’t create wars, as Napoleon did, in order to grab land from this one and that, and raise himself up high.

  ‘Now he’s speaking of the cannibal acts,’ Wharepapa went on, but he didn’t have to tell me this. The English loved to hear of these cannibal acts, and I knew when Jenkins had begun to speak of them, because of the looks on the faces in the crowd. The ladies were gasping and horrified, and the men grew very quiet. Some looked a little afraid. Often they all seemed to stare at me, because Jenkins would gesture at me, just as he was doing that night.

  Wharepapa had told me on other occasions what Jenkins had to say. I was one of Hongi’s notorious fighters, a ferocious cannibal warrior. But since the missionaries baptised me, he told crowds here and in Bristol and in Bath, I had learned more civilised ways and now I was a good man.

  At one point in my life, I would have felt this to be a compliment, but after the fiftieth of these Conversaziones I was no longer sure. Everything was made too simple; everything of the past was denigrated too readily. Who was Jenkins to stand in judgement over a great man like Hongi? Who was he to dismiss the service of my youth, my service to my people, as the acts of a simpleton, or a savage?

  ‘He says you feasted many times on the flesh of your enemies,’ Wharepapa whispered, and I felt my face growing hot. I forgot the words of the New Testament, to put away all bitterness and wrath. But I am no Reihana Te Taukawau, eager to shout my anger from the platform. When Jenkins asked me to lead the speaking that night, I didn’t show my displeasure. I wanted to show everyone in the assembly that I was a Christian man, just as they were.

  ‘Listen to me,’ I said, with Jenkins shouting my words out in English. His voice was hoarse. This was not a good room for speaking, especially with so many people crowded in. ‘Listen to me, you thousands of people, all of you gathered here today. I want to speak of Christian love, the best thing in the world.’

  Some faces before me were smiling, nodding as they heard my speech translated into words they could understand, but some looked disappointed. This was always the way. They wanted the Maori Warrior Chiefs with their chest-slapping and wrestling. They wanted to hear gory testimony of killing another man and roasting his flesh over the fire. We were carnival exhibits, and they wanted to be shocked and entertained by us. They wanted to gaze on the savages, and hear of our terrible exploits in the heathen wilderness.

  ‘For God so loved the world,’ I said, my voice shaking, ‘that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him shall have everlasting light.’

  Reihana told me later that I should have said everlasting life, but I meant what I said – everlasting light. In those dark winter days, I would think of the heaven waiting for me, and imagine it as the opposite of places such as Birmingham and Coventry, with their endless chimneys bellowing smoke into the sky.

  ‘We are all of that number.’ I gestured at the crowd, and at those of us on the stage. ‘All of us. I don’t think I need to say any more.’

  Not only my voice was shaking. When I sat down, I was tired and finding it hard to breathe. With too many people in this room, it was very warm and close. Although I wasn’t as ill as some of the others, I was older than the rest. The wonders of England had worn me out, and so had the noise and excitement of these meetings.

  I think about that evening now, and I wonder what I was really trying to say. I don’t give such speeches any more. I leave preaching to ministers. And sometimes I wonder if Jenkins really said all those things about me, or if Wharepapa was making a little mischief. He wanted all of us from the North to be united, and he was right in that wish. If only I were not so obliged to rely on the speech-making and understanding of others!

  After I sat down, Wharepapa spoke at much greater length, and with much greater eloquence, about the wars going on back in New Zealand, and how he was ashamed that the Waikato Maori were fighting the English at the very moment we were shown such hospitality. This was all well and good, but I wished he would not talk so much of Maori as wild beasts that needed to be tamed.

  By this time in the trip he had grown fond of making the audience laugh, so when someone asked him to speak of the marriage customs of the Maori, he saw the chance for one of his jokes.

  ‘Some adopt the English custom and marry the English way,’ he told them. ‘But others, who have no consideration for what is good and proper, keep to the old Maori ways. They marry in much the way the lions and the bears marry.’

  While the room shook with laughter, I could not help thinking about Wharepapa and Elizabeth Reid, who appeared to have married in the manner of lions and bears. But if anyone noticed me smiling that night while a morose Reihana gave his drawn-out account of our meeting with the Queen, including a list of every item on the luncheon table, they would have had no inkling of the cause.

  Jenkins was not in a good mood the next day, because, he said, only twenty pounds had been taken that night, despite the vastness of the audience. We weren’t sure whether to believe him. Now I was suspicious of everything that Jenkins did and said. There was an uneasy truce between us all for a while, when we did not complain. But just as he left us alone at Christmas, Jenkins was soon off again without us. He and Mr Lloyd hurried down to London for a meeting at the Colonial Office, and when they returned he was very, very angry.

  Wharepapa, Reihana and I were still living in our lodgings at Temple Place on Bath Row, so perhaps this is where he shouted at us. It may have been at the house next door, where the others were housed. I can’t remember who was there exactly, apart from Mr George Maunsell, who I was meeting for the first time that day.

  His presence in Birmingham was one of the reasons that Jenkins was so angry. Mr Maunsell had arrived there the day before, catching the train from London with Horomona Te Atua and Hirini Pakia. The Church Missionary Society, at the request of Miss Weale, had sent him to act as our interpreter. They’d gone to the Strangers’ Home, and talked to Colonel Hughes, and that was that. Young Mr Maunsell was to be part of our group from now on. His Maori was very good, as you might expect from the son of Reverend Maunsell. His father, young Mr Maunsell told us, was staying in Auckland, driven out of the Waikato by the terrible fighting there.

  When Jenkins arrived, he was not pleased to meet Mr Maunsell, or to see Hirini and Horomona sitting with us.

  ‘We went to the Strangers’ Home to find you,’ he said to them, ‘but Colonel Hughes told us you’d already left for Birmingham, with this gentleman. Why do you need another interpreter when you have me?’

  Mr Maunsell, listening to this but saying nothing, turned quite pink around the ears and throat.

  ‘May we Maori not have many friends?’ Horomona Te Atua demanded. ‘Must we speak to only one Pakeha, a man who can twist our words?’

  ‘Is it a friend you need?’ asked Jenkins. ‘Or is it that Miss Weale needs an interpreter of her own, someone who can twist your words against me?’

  ‘Sir, I must say …’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Maunsell.’ For a few moments they spoke in English to each other, and from the sound of the words and the looks on their faces, I could see no real ill will between them.

  ‘I am under a great deal of strain at the moment,’ Jenkins continued, his voice creaking, ‘because of our very delicate financial situation, something the party assembled here in this room has never understood.’

  ‘He must talk of the money every day,’ Reihana complained to Mr Maunsell. ‘He must keep telling us that we don’t do enough, and that we are obliged to him, and that we have signed promises. But he was the one who made us stay in the big hotel in London, and have our photographs taken, and many other things that must have used up all the money. We know nothing of the money, of course, because he tells us nothing, except that we have n
one.’

  ‘Colonel Hughes,’ said Jenkins, looking sternly around the room at everyone apart from Reihana, ‘who you all know, told me other unpleasant things. The Church Missionary Society have warned him of many malicious rumours reaching London from this place. It is said, so they allege, that our own Ngahuia and Haumu have been seen drunk in the streets of Birmingham!’

  This was a terrible and untrue accusation, and we could not think who had made it. While Hapimana may have been seen drunk in the streets of Birmingham on many occasions, no one could mistake him for one of the ladies of our party, unless he was going about dressed in Ngahuia’s bonnet.

  ‘It is also said, the Colonel tells me, that I am grievously mistreating you all. This rumour has reached him from Birmingham, and I have no doubt of the source of the rumour. And then, when Mr Lloyd and I visited the Colonial Office, we learned from the Duke’s secretary that you, Horomona, and you, Hirini, had been brought to that place just a few days ago. Do you deny it?’

  ‘We go about London, and do and speak as we please,’ said Hirini, staring at Jenkins with great contempt.

  ‘So when Mr Ridgway tells you to complain about me, and offers to take you to the Colonial Office, you are willing to go with him and to do as he asks.’

  ‘Mr Ridgway is a friend to us,’ Hirini said sulkily.

  ‘Ridgway is not to be trusted. He set himself against me from the first, and wants nothing more than to see this whole expedition end in disgrace and disaster. Lloyd and I were in a very embarrassing position, forced to defend ourselves at the Colonial Office. This is grievous ingratitude. It’s especially aggravating given the purpose of our visit to London. We have been making arrangements to take you all home. My friend, Mr Riley, offers us passage on a ship in June.’

  ‘June!’ exclaimed Wharepapa, and several other people groaned. We had been in England for more than eight months at this point. Another four months in England seemed a very long time, especially when it would take us an additional three months for the journey home.

  This conversation did nothing to lift our spirits, and then something small, mentioned in passing by Jenkins to Mr Maunsell, made everyone angry all over again. Jenkins had left the house by the time it was discovered. Really, it was such a small thing, I’m ashamed now to speak of it. At the time, however, we all perceived it as yet another affront.

  When Jenkins was in London, he had visited the studio of the artist, Mr Smetham. This was the man with wild eyes who’d taken sketches of us, preparing for a big painting of us all to commemorate the visit to England. None of us had seen the painting yet, or knew much about it. Jenkins was one of the figures in this painting, and this was why he had visited the artist. He wanted to look upon his own face, and see if the likeness was good. It was good but not good enough, he told Mr Maunsell, so he sat in the studio for some time while the artist made changes.

  As I said, of all the things Jenkins did or did not do, this was hardly the worst. But we were all upset to hear of it.

  ‘Such presumption!’ Miss Weale said when we told her, and that was precisely it. We Maori were all to be drawn as the artist chose, and would have no chance to see either the painting or the artist again. Yet Jenkins made a point of returning to have his own private sitting, like the ones I’m having this week with the Bohemian. Was the painting to commemorate our visit, we wondered, or his?

  ‘Man looks on the outward appearance,’ said Reihana, his illness making his voice low, like a foghorn. ‘But God looks on the heart. Jenkins will be punished for the darkness in his heart, and for his vanity.’

  I felt very uneasy, for this anger building up among us was dangerous as fire. When we were all invited to speak our minds at the home of the magistrate, Mr Thomas Sneyd Kynnersley, it burned out of control.

  The magistrate was, as all important people seemed to be, an acquaintance of Miss Weale’s. He also took a particular interest in New Zealand, for his eldest son had recently retired from the Royal Navy and emigrated to Pelorus Sound in the South Island, to try his hand at farming.

  One frosty morning in late January we were taken to Mr Sneyd Kynnerlsey’s big house on the edge of the city. It was the biggest house we had visited in Birmingham, in its own park, though of course it was not as grand as Marlborough House in London. A number of carriages were needed to carry us there, because in addition to the Maori party Miss Weale wanted to come, and that meant Mrs Colenso and Mr Maunsell must come as well.

  Mr Lloyd, Mr Lightband, and Jenkins were waiting for us there. Mr Lloyd looked as though he had an urgent appointment at the races, for all day he was pulling at his pocket watch or drumming his fingers on the desk. Mr Lightband smiled and shook our hands, but he too seemed very anxious for the whole encounter to be over. Jenkins was far more grave. When we walked in, he stood erect and silent by one of the windows, framed by its heavy curtains. This had the unfortunate effect of reminding us of his recent visit to the artist Mr Smetham, and thus of his selfishness and conceit.

  The room in which we were all to speak was lined with books, and Mr Sneyd Kynnersley’s servants were hurrying in and out, bringing more chairs and arranging them in a manner acceptable to Miss Weale. Mr Sneyd Kynnersley himself was a tall, distinguished gentlemen, his whiskers grey, and his voice surprisingly high-pitched for one with so solemn a face. He had written to the Duke of Newcastle, he said, and understood certain facts about our plight. Today was a chance for us all to speak openly, and let our feelings be heard. This applied to Jenkins and Lightband and Lloyd, he said, as well as us. We were all to be frank and honest.

  Much of this frankness took the form of long speeches accusing Jenkins and his company of making money and not sharing any with us. Jenkins insisted this was not the case, and Mr Sneyd Kynnersley agreed with him.

  ‘Mr Lightband has shown me the company’s books,’ he said. ‘I assure you all that there is no impropriety there, and the financial situation is exactly as they describe it. Your expenses exceed your income.’

  This statement didn’t stem the flow of accusations, especially once Reihana stood to speak. Jenkins was debasing us by forcing us to dress in cloaks, and to perform heathen haka and waiata for English audiences. He had wasted the money we had been given by English people with his extravagance in London, and with his constant travels to one place or another. He and his minister friends liked to appear with us on platforms, but they never visited us at home to pray with us. He had refused to take the advice of the Duke of Newcastle, keeping us here for months and months when we were all ill and desperate to return home.

  I would like to say this was the only meeting of this kind in Birmingham, but sadly, over the next two weeks, there were several more. Sometimes Mr Sneyd Kynnersley was present, and sometimes he was not. When he wasn’t there, the words on both sides were angrier. Jenkins denounced Miss Weale, insisting that she had turned us all against him. Reverend Stack, visiting from London, denounced Mr Ridgway, saying his interference was the cause of all our ingratitude. Wharepapa and Reihana denounced Jenkins, saying we could not believe a word he said, and that he was probably defrauding Mr Lightband and Mr Lloyd of money as well.

  At one of these meetings, Mr Lightband mentioned that Jenkins had met with the gentlemen of the committee, and that they all supported him. This was the group of important and wealthy men assembled by Mr Sneyd Kynnersley to look into our affairs and to arrange a farewell meeting for us at the Birmingham Town Hall. None of us were permitted to meet with them and state our case, and for this too Jenkins – perhaps unfairly – was blamed.

  Truly there was no point to these meetings, I must say. On and on they went, for hours at a time, with no one satisfied and no issues resolved. Instead many bad things were said that could not be forgotten. On one particularly bad afternoon, Ngahuia was told she was a vixen who would agree with anyone if she were promised enough clothes and fripperies, and Hirini Pakia was told that with his drinking and money-grubbing he was lower than a cur in the street. Privately, I
did not think either of these statements untrue. But public insults of this kind must have consequences, and therefore should not be uttered. When Jenkins told Wharepapa he was in league with Miss Weale, and no better than a monkey dancing to the tune of an organ-grinder, I knew at once that there could be no more lectures or tours. This was the end of things. Our alliance with Jenkins was broken.

  This is the last day I will visit the Bohemian in his room, because soon he must sail to England.

  I don’t know how to ask him to keep our conversations a secret. I don’t speak English to anyone else. He may not have been raised as I was, with a respect for secret knowledge. They must have their tohunga in Bohemia, I suppose, but the ways of foreigners are often strange.

  Like me, the Bohemian didn’t grow up speaking English. He tells me that when he arrived here, ten or so years ago, he didn’t know a word.

  ‘I don’t talk too much English,’ he says. ‘Not then, not now.’

  I don’t ask him why. I don’t need to ask.

  English is our weapon, hidden deep within the fold of our tatua. We reveal it only when we need to, because a surprise attack is often best.

  For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned.

  MATTHEW 12:37

  Now when I think of those times, I remember myself as an observer, saying very little. But perhaps this is what I want to remember. Maybe I too said severe and ill-considered things. We had all grown too desperate – Jenkins to make back his money, and the rest of us to return home.

  Men who are desperate sometimes act heroically, but none of us were heroic. When Miss Weale heard of Miss Elizabeth Reid’s interesting condition, Wharepapa told her that his intention all along was to marry Miss Reid. Jenkins, he said, had forbidden it.

  I may have told her that Jenkins pretended, back in Auckland, to be a minister, in order to persuade us to sign his pieces of paper.