THE next morning at break of day a dense fog was spreading heavily over the river, but the rays of the sun were not long in piercing the mist, which rapidly disappeared under the influence of the radiant orb. The banks of the stream were released from their shroud, and the course of the Waikato appeared in all its morning beauty.
A narrow tongue of land bristling with shrubbery ran out to a point at the junction of the two rivers. The waters of the Waipa, which flowed more swiftly, drove back those of the Waikato for a quarter of a mile before they mingled; but the calm power of the one soon overcame the boisterous impetuosity of the other, and both glided peacefully together to the broad bosom of the Pacific.
As the mist rose, a boat might have been seen ascending the Waikato. It was a canoe seventy feet long and five broad. The lofty prow resembled that of a Venetian gondola, and the whole had been fashioned out of the trunk of a pine. A bed of dry fern covered the bottom. Eight oars at the bow propelled it up the river, while a man at the stern guided it by means of a movable paddle.
This man was a native, of tall form, about forty-five years old, with broad breast and powerful limbs. His protruding and deeply furrowed brow, his fierce look and his sinister countenance, showed him to be a formidable individual.
He was a Maori chief of high rank, as could be seen by the delicate and compact tattooing that striped his face and body. Two black spirals, starting from the nostrils of his aquiline nose, circled his tawny eyes, met on his forehead, and were lost in his abundant hair. His mouth, with its shining teeth, and his chin, were hidden beneath a net-work of varied colors, while graceful lines wound down to his sinewy breast.
There was no doubt as to his rank. The sharp albatross bone, used by Maori tattooers, had furrowed his face five times, in close and deep lines. That he had reached his fifth promotion was evident from his haughty bearing. A large flaxen mat, ornamented with dog-skins, enveloped his person; while a girdle, bloody with his recent conflicts, encircled his waist. From his ears dangled ear-rings of green jade, and around his neck hung necklaces of “pounamous,” sacred stones to which the New Zealanders attribute miraculous properties. At his side lay a gun of English manufacture, and a “patou-patou,” a kind of double-edged hatchet.
Near him nine warriors, of lower rank, armed and of ferocious aspect, some still suffering from recent wounds, stood in perfect immobility, enveloped in their flaxen mantles. Three dogs of wild appearance were stretched at their feet. The eight rowers seemed to be servants or slaves of the chief. They worked vigorously, and the boat ascended the current of the Waikato with remarkable swiftness.
In the centre of this long canoe, with feet tied, but hands free, were ten European prisoners clinging closely to each other. They were Lord Glenarvan and his companions.
The evening before, the little party, led astray by the dense fog, had encamped in the midst of a numerous tribe of natives. About midnight, the travelers, surprised in their sleep, were made prisoners and carried on board the canoe. They had not yet been maltreated, but had tried in vain to resist. Their arms and ammunition were in the hands of the savages, and their own bullets would have quickly stretched them on the earth had they attempted to escape.
They were not long in learning, by the aid of a few English words which the natives used, that, being driven back by the British troops, they were returning, vanquished and weakened, to the regions of the upper Waikato. Their chief, after an obstinate resistance, in which he lost his principal warriors, was now on his way to rouse again the river tribes. He was called Kai-Koumou, a terrible name, which signified in the native language “he who eats the limbs of his enemy.” He was brave and bold, but his cruelty equaled his bravery. No pity could be expected from him. His name was well known to the English soldiers, and a price had been set upon his head by the governor of New Zealand.
This terrible catastrophe had come upon Glenarvan just as he was about reaching the long-desired harbor of Auckland, whence he would have returned to his native country. Yet, looking at his calm and passionless countenance, you could not have divined the depth of his anguish, for in his present critical situation he did not betray the extent of his misfortunes. He felt that he ought to set an example of fortitude to his wife and his companions, as being the husband and chief. Moreover, he was ready to die first for the common safety, if circumstances should require it.
His companions were worthy of him; they shared his noble thoughts, and their calm and haughty appearance would scarcely have intimated that they were being carried away to captivity and suffering. By common consent, at Glenarvan’s suggestion, they had resolved to feign a proud indifference in the presence of the savages. It was the only way of influencing those fierce natures.
Since leaving the encampment, the natives, taciturn like all savages, had scarcely spoken to each other. However, from a few words exchanged, Glenarvan perceived that they were acquainted with the English language. He therefore resolved to question the chief in regard to the fate that was in store for them. Addressing Kai-Koumou, he said, in a fearless tone:
“Where are you taking us, chief?”
Kai-Koumou gazed at him coldly without answering.
“Say, what do you expect to do with us?” continued Glenarvan.
The chief’s eyes blazed with a sudden light, and in a stern voice he replied:
“To exchange you, if your friends will ransom you; to kill you, if they refuse.”
Glenarvan asked no more, but hope returned to his heart. Doubtless, some chiefs of the Maori tribe had fallen into the hands of the English, and the natives would attempt to recover them by way of exchange; their situation, therefore, was not one for despair.
Meantime the canoe rapidly ascended the river. Paganel, whose changeable disposition carried him from one extreme to another, had regained his hopefulness. He believed that the Maoris were sparing them the fatigue of their journey to the English settlements, and that they were certain to arrive at their destination. He was, therefore, quite resigned to his lot, and traced on his map the course of the Waikato across the plains and valleys of the province. Lady Helena and Mary Grant, suppressing their terror, conversed in low tones with Glenarvan, and the most skillful physiognomist could not have detected on their faces the anxiety of their hearts.
The Waikato River is worshiped by the natives, as Paganel knew, and English and German naturalists have never ascended beyond its junction with the Waipa. Whither did Kai-Koumou intend to take his captives? The geographer could not have guessed if the word “Taupo,” frequently repeated, had not attracted his attention. By consulting his map, he saw that this name was applied to a celebrated lake in the most mountainous part of the island, and that from it the Waikato flows.
Paganel, addressing Captain Mangles in French, so as not to be understood by the savages, asked him how fast the canoe was going. The captain thought about three miles an hour.
“Then,” replied the geographer, “if we do not travel during the night, our voyage to the lake will last about four days.”
“But whereabouts are the English garrisons?” asked Glenarvan.
“It is difficult to say,” replied Paganel. “At all events, the war must have reached the province of Taranaki, and probably the troops are collected beyond the mountains, on the side of the lake where the habitations of the savages are concentrated.”
“God grant it!” said Lady Helena.
Glenarvan cast a sorrowful glance at his young wife and Mary Grant, exposed to the mercy of these fierce natives, and captives in a wild country, far from all human assistance. But he saw that he was watched by Kai-Koumou, and, not wishing to show that one of the captives was his wife, he prudently kept his thoughts to himself, and gazed at the banks of the river with apparent indifference.
The sun was just sinking below the horizon as the canoe ran upon a bank of pumice-stones, which the Waikato carries with it from its source in the volcanic mountains. Several trees grew here, as if designed to shelter an encampment. Kai-Koumou landed his prisoners.
The men had their hands tied, the ladies were free. All were placed in the centre of the encampment, around which large fires formed an impassable barrier.
Before Kai-Koumou had informed his captives of his intention to exchange them, Glenarvan and Captain Mangles had discussed various methods of recovering their liberty. What they could not venture in the boat they hoped to attempt on land, at the hour for encamping, under cover of the night.
But since Glenarvan’s conversation with the chief, it seemed wise to abandon this design. They must be patient. It was the most prudent plan. The exchange offered chances that neither an open attack nor a flight across these unknown regions could afford. Many circumstances might indeed arise that would delay, and even prevent, such a transaction; but still it was better to await the result. What, moreover, could ten defenceless men do against thirty well-armed savages? Besides, Glenarvan thought it likely that Kai-Koumou’s tribe had lost some chief of high rank whom they were particularly anxious to recover; and he was not mistaken.
The next day the canoe ascended the river with increased swiftness. It stopped for a moment at the junction of a small river which wound across the plains on the right bank. Here another canoe, with ten natives on board, joined Kai-Koumou. The warriors merely exchanged salutations, and then continued their course. The new-comers had recently fought against the English troops, as could be seen by their tattered garments, their gory weapons, and the wounds that still bled beneath their rags. They were gloomy and taciturn, and, with the indifference common to all savage races, paid no attention to the captives.
Towards evening Kai-Koumou landed at the foot of the mountains, whose nearer ridges reached precipitously to the river-bank. Here twenty natives, who had disembarked from their canoes, were making preparations for the night. Fires blazed beneath the trees. A chief, equal in rank to Kai-Koumou, advanced with measured pace, and, rubbing his nose against that of the latter, saluted him cordially. The prisoners were stationed in the centre of the encampment, and guarded with extreme vigilance.
The next morning the ascent of the Waikato was resumed. Other boats came from various affluents of the river. Sixty warriors, evidently fugitives from the last insurrection, had now assembled, and were returning, more or less wounded in the fray, to the mountain districts. Sometimes a song arose from the canoes, as they advanced in single file. One native struck up the patriotic ode of the mysterious “Pihé,” the national hymn that calls the Maoris to battle. The full and sonorous voice of the singer waked the echoes of the mountains; and after each stanza his comrades struck their breasts, and sang the warlike verses in chorus. Then they seized their oars again, and the canoes were headed up stream.
During the day a singular sight enlivened the voyage. About four o’clock the canoe, without lessening its speed, guided by the steady hand of the chief, dashed through a narrow gorge. Eddies broke violently against numerous small islands, which rendered navigation exceeding dangerous. Never could it be more hazardous to capsize, for the banks afforded no refuge, and whoever had set foot on the porous crust of the shore would probably have perished. At this point the river flowed between warm springs, oxide of iron colored the muddy ground a brilliant red, and not a yard of firm earth could be seen. The air was heavy with a penetrating sulphureous odor. The natives did not regard it, but the captives were seriously annoyed by the noxious vapors exhaled from the fissures of the soil and the bubbles that burst and discharged their gaseous contents. Yet, however disagreeable these emanations were, the eye could not but admire this magnificent spectacle.
The canoes soon after entered a dense cloud of white smoke, whose wreaths rose in gradually decreasing circles above the river. On the shores a hundred geysers, some shooting forth masses of vapor, and others overflowing in liquid columns, varied their effects, like the jets and cascades of a fountain. It seemed as though some engineer was directing at his pleasure the outflowings of these springs, as the waters and vapor, mingling in the air, formed rainbows in the sunbeams.
For two miles the canoes glided within this vapory atmosphere, enveloped in its warm waves that rolled along the surface of the water. Then the sulphureous smoke disappeared, and a pure swift current of fresh air refreshed the panting voyagers. The region of the springs was passed. Before the close of the day two more rapids were ascended, and at evening Kai-Koumou encamped a hundred miles above the junction of the two streams. The river now turned towards the east, and then again flowed southward into Lake Taupo.
The next morning Jacques Paganel consulted his map and discovered on the right bank Mount Taubara, which rises to the height of three thousand feet. At noon the whole fleet of boats entered Lake Taupo, and the natives hailed with frantic gestures a shred of cloth that waved in the wind from the roof of a hut. It was the national flag.