"War to the Knife;" or, Tangata MaoriBoldrewood, Rolf
General
"War to the Knife;" or, Tangata Maori
Boldrewood, Rolf
Māori (New Zealand people) -- Fiction; New Zealand -- Fiction
Many of the women, too, were handsome, and among the half-caste girls
and young men were forms and faces which would have compared favourably
with the finest models of ancient Greece. One young man of that colour
attracted his attention. He had been reading on board ship that
wonderful romance of Michael Scott's, wherein the spacious times of
old, and the planter-life of the West Indian Islands, are limned with
such prodigality of colour, such wealth of humorous perception, such
power of pathos. As this young man came swinging along with a companion
down the street, cigar in mouth, he could not help saying to himself,
"There's the young pirate captain out of 'Tom Cringle's Log.'" He was
taller even than that fascinating Spanish desperado, but there was a
strong family likeness.
"What a man he is!" thought Massinger. "Six feet three or four, if
an inch, broad-shouldered, deep-chested--a wondrous combination of
strength and activity; supple as a panther, with the muscle of a
Farnese Hercules. As to his features, the eyes and teeth are splendid,
the complexion a clear bronze, hardly darker than that of Southern
Europe."
Altogether he doubted if he had ever seen such a remarkable masculine
specimen of personal grace and beauty. "This is truly a remarkable
country," he soliloquized. "If the climate and soil can raise men like
this, what may not be hoped from the introduction of a purely British
race, with all the modern advantages of civilization?"
Thus pondering, he managed to discover his hotel, where he set himself
resolutely to sketch out a plan of future operation, before completing
which, he deemed it advisable to deliver some of the letters of
introduction with which he had been plentifully supplied. One of the
more immediate effects of this action was the outflow of an inordinate
quantity of advice, from the recipients of which, as a newly arrived
Englishman, he was deemed to be in urgent need.
These exhortations were compendious and exhaustive, but failed in
effect upon him from their very affluence, so much of the suggestive
information being in direct contrast to that which immediately preceded
it.
Having admitted that he intended to purchase a large block of land for
farm and grazing purposes, it was astonishing how much interest he
excited among the mercantile or pastoral magnates to whom he had been
accredited.
"Have nothing to do with that infernal New Zealand Company," said one
grizzled colonist, "or you'll never cease to regret it. They're all in
the same boat with certain British members of Parliament and the local
political gang, to rob these poor devils of natives of their tribal
lands. Title? They haven't a rag. Some artful devil of a Maori--and
they are not behindhand in that line--pretends to sell the lands of
his tribe, for a few barrels of gunpowder or cases of Yankee axes--of
course signs a bogus deed."
"But isn't he their accredited agent?" queried our hero. "They would be
bound by his act."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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