Woman with the Knife: The Story of Ensign Dean

I felt restless; trapped.  I was stationed in the Pyes Pa blockhouse near Tauranga, between the settlers’ land and the bush where wild tribes of Hauhau Māori lived.  Every day was the same – monotonous, boring, dull.  Early drill on the parade ground, and then nothing to do but watch and wait.  For what?  The Māori didn’t attack.  The British killed most of them four years ago in 1864, at the Battle of Te Ranga.  I stood up, strode into the arms room and grabbed a double-barrelled musket.  I was going hunting.

My grey-haired sergeant looked a little alarmed as I strode out through the gate, but my look silenced him.  “He’ll be happy with a bag of fat pigeons for dinner,” I thought as the gate slammed behind me.  Whistling cheerily, I strode up the fern covered slopes towards the bush.  As I entered its darkness, I thought of the Hauhau tribes living deep in these hills.  Their land was taken from them after Te Ranga.  Now they were hostile to the British.  Surely they’d keep well clear of the fort?

Following a narrow trail, I stopped and smiled.  A pair of fat bush pigeons sat on the branch of a tawa tree, feasting on the ripe berries.  Aiming carefully, I squeezed the trigger.  The rifle stock kicked my shoulder and the bird dropped like a stone.  Incredibly, its mate was still there.  Grinning, I fired again.  The gunshot echoed off the hills, and I glanced nervously around as I carefully reloaded.  Even if the Hauhau heard the shots, I’d be back in the stockade before they got near me.  I pushed on through the bush, and before long my haversack was nearly full.  My mouth watered at the thought of pigeon roasting in the oven.

Hearing a faint rustling, I turned.  I was slammed violently against the ground.  Fear shot through my body like a bullet.  Three warriors were sitting on me, one had taken my rifle, and another was peering into my haversack.

“Kereru,” he said angrily.  “You stole our birds!” 

They wrenched me to my feet and pointed a musket at my heart.  Pulling a tomahawk from his belt, a warrior swung it wildly at my head.  I flinched. The leader stopped him with a glance.

“Give me my gun and let me go,” I said. 

“No.  You are trespassing on our land and shooting our birds.  Come with us.  We shall see what Hakaraia has to say about you,” he said grimly, and set off through the bush.

I stumbled along, trying to keep up.  Once I glanced backward, and shuddered as four muskets pointed at my head.  My heart was pounding and my hands cold.

Twenty minutes later we entered a clearing.  A tall matai pine towered in the centre surrounded by thatch-walled whare with bark roofs.  People came from all directions, crowding around me.  I was pushed against the pine and bound with flax. 

Then came a council of war.  The people sat in a large semicircle around me, a tattooed old chief and his wife in the centre.  Would they kill me?  I knew that the Hauhau hated the British, and sometimes still cooked and ate them.  Would my hunting trip end with me roasting in the oven?

A young warrior stood to his feet and danced before me, rolling his eyes, flashing out his tongue and thrusting his taiaha at my head. 

“Wait until Hakaraia comes,” he taunted.  “He’ll sacrifice you to his gods!”

I’d heard of this war leader, Hakaraia, and knew he wasn’t bluffing.

One by one, the warriors rose to their feet to have their say.  A few wanted to set me free.  I watched the old chief as they spoke.  He seemed to agree, but was in a difficult position.  The younger ones, eyes ablaze with hate, danced up and down in front of me, waving their guns and tomahawks, urging revenge for their brothers slaughtered at Te Ranga.

A man stood by my side, restlessly swinging his tomahawk.  Again came the words that sent chills down my spine: “Keep him for Hakaraia.  He’s coming from Te Puke today with his war party.  He’ll want him for his gods.” 

I closed my eyes and prayed.

Suddenly the chief’s wife stood to her feet, tall and dignified.  Picking up a long sharp knife, she strode towards me.  She slashed the knife at my wrists.  I was free!  Swinging a short flax cloak from her shoulders, she wrapped it around me.

“This man is mine!” she cried.  “Come and take him if you dare!  He did wrong to shoot our pigeons, but we have his gun and the birds he shot.  It is sufficient.  If anyone wants to kill pakeha, let him do it in battle.”

The people sat stunned and silent as she strode from the circle, motioning for me to follow.  As we entered the bush track, she moved behind me, shielding me with her body.  We walked swiftly, silently, my ears straining for sounds of pursuit, but only the sweet call of the Tūī rang through the bush.

We reached the edge of the open fern country and she stopped.  “Now, pakeha, run as fast as you can,” she commanded.  “My men may be close behind us.”

“Thank you,” I began, wishing to express my deep gratitude.

“Go!” she said and disappeared into the gloom of the bush.  I walked away quickly, not wanting to appear a coward, but soon a hollow hid me from the bush and I sprinted, never looking back.

I reached the blockhouse at sunset.  The gate swung open at my approach.  In the gateway stood the sergeant, his eyes fixed on me in a penetrating stare.  I said not a word as I entered, without gun or pigeons.

But now, as an old man, I enjoy sitting around a campfire in the bush and telling the tale of the woman with the knife.

Author’s note: The resource used was Tales of the New Zealand Bush, by James Cowan.