“Presently a party of soldiers came to the trench in which I lay, and finding that I was the only one there to whom life still clung they lifted me carefully out and bore me on a blanket to their medicine-man, who bandaged my wounds, and after many weeks I was made whole. This was the last fight I had with the white man. No, I did not join Te Kooti, nor did I fight against you, my friend, up at Taupo, for I remained in my kainga, my wounds giving me much trouble. And now, my friend, I have told you all things and will again moisten my throat with the good rum. “And oh, you boys, this is my word to you: think not of utu against the white men for the slaying of your fathers; the war is past, the soldiers have gone, and we now are all children of the Great White Queen. We must be friends with the white settlers, and, like them, obedient to the Queen’s law, and perchance when you boys are full-grown she, when she sends her soldiers to war, may in her great kindness remember that she has brown children as well as white, and she may send and say: ‘Come, ye Maoris, and fight my battles for me beside my white soldiers.’ Augh! that will be great honour, for perchance in those days many descendants of Maori warriors will charge side by side with the White Queen’s soldiers. Yes, and perchance the spirits of your ancestors may be permitted to see those of their blood cut their way deeper into the ranks of the White Queen’s enemies than even the soldiers can go. Stand up, you boys, raise your tomahawks on high and cry with loud voices: ‘Hip, hip, hip, hurrah for Queen Wikitoria.’ No, hold not out your pannikins; rum befits old warriors, not boys. You shall shout for her and perchance may fight for her; I who am old will drink her health. But what is this? Lo, I can see two bottles, two white friends and many Maori boys. Surely this is caused by eating too freely the flesh of pigeons, or talking of my old wounds makes my head go round, or perchance it is witchcraft. It is meet for me to retire to rest, as the whole earth and stars spin round. I spin also. God bless Queen Wikitoria. The bottle is empty, but Kiora, Kiora, Kiora.” And the old warrior, chock-full of rum and loyalty, tried to get up, but pitched head first on his soft bed of fern, where the rising generation of Ngaiterangi carefully covered him up with blankets and he slept the sleep of the brave and just. Now the trouble caused by the defeat at the Gate Pah did not end when the troops retreated to Tauranga, for recriminations, charges and countercharges flew like hail, while the New Zealand press wrote the usual twaddle that ignorant editors generally do write on matters of war; but there was one paper in Auckland that went too far, as it accused the Naval Brigade of cowardice, an accusation as untrue as it was unjust, and the gallant Ngati Jacks swore they would take utu.