I had practised hard with the tomahawk for the last two years, but I knew I was no match for the old man. I therefore determined to rush in on him, guard his first blow and use my left fist. (I was very strong in those days, and a good boxer.) Throwing up my tomahawk, I guarded a smashing cut at the left of my neck, and although I felt the keen edge of the blade cut my flesh on the left shoulder, the impetus of my charge carried me in, and lashing out with my left I struck him full on the throat. Down he went, astonished by this novel mode of attack, and in another moment the head of my tomahawk was buried up to the eye in his brains. When I looked round the fight was over, the only unwounded Maori falling an easy prey to the combined attack of my two desperadoes. Pierre, a splendid cook, was already looking into the pot that was on the fire, and, declaring the contents to be good pork, not long pig, we were soon enjoying it. To get rid of the bodies did not take long. The marks of the struggle were obliterated, and we were off. Two days more and we reached Opepe; and, true to his word, my colonel met us with a strong patrol. We were thin, footsore, our legs torn, our kit in rags; but what mattered that? We had done our duty and had got back with valuable information, and as we swallowed some hot tea we did not care for the past--it was past. My wound was nothing--Pierre had stitched it up--and as I once more donned my breeches and boots, a clean shirt, and threw my leg over my dear old horse, I was as happy as the day was wet. CHAPTER XI THE COLONEL'S FIERY TOT (_Told by the old Kai Tongata_) During the east coast war the division in which I was serving landed on the beach to seize a "pah," or native stronghold, two days' march inland. As usual we carried four days' rations, including rum. We were led by a fine old colonel, a distinguished Crimean officer, who was much liked by the men. He was one of the old "two-bottle men"--or, rather, he was contented with two bottles when he could not get three. At that time I had not acquired a liking for ration rum--raw, fiery stuff--but by the end of the second day's march the colonel had consumed his own allowance and mine too. At daylight on the third day, when we had fallen in beside a creek, and were preparing to attack, he said to me: "Give me a tot" (calling me by a nickname I acquired early and retained throughout my active career). "I haven't any rum, sir; you finished mine last night." He bubbled like a furious turkey-cock, and swore I'd drunk more than my share. As I had not tasted a drop, I thought this unfair, but wisely said nothing. It is bad policy to argue with a liverish colonel, when he is two days' march from the nearest drink.