Oh, my gentle tourist friend, you who buckle on a pretty, light knapsack, and tramp for a few hours on a summer’s day along the shady lanes of Old England, and after a bounteous repast sleep in the lavender-scented sheets of some picturesque old-fashioned country inn, and fancy you have earned your repose, picture us, who had to hump our swags over what is perhaps the very roughest country in the world, perform our marches in torrents of cold rain or icy sleet, and sleep covered by a tattered blanket on the sodden ground, soon to be frozen hard by the bitter frosts of the New Zealand winter, for the months of May, June and July are the coldest in the year; and at the same time bear in mind we had to do all that living on foul, putrid bacon and mouldy lumps of what had at one time been the commonest of ship’s biscuits. I have previously stated I was delighted at having been told off to join Colonel St John’s column, and that for more reasons than one, as he was universally loved and respected by every officer and man who had the honour and pleasure of serving under him. Colonel St John was at this time past middle age, tall and handsome, a gentleman to the tips of his fingers, and a thorough good sportsman. He had seen much service, had distinguished himself greatly both in the Crimea and in India, and although perhaps he lacked the great tactical skill possessed by Colonel Whitmore, still he could get more out of the men, as they loved the one and hated the other. He was, moreover, just and considerate in his dealings with his junior officers, who regarded him more as a father than as a colonel. To me individually he was always most kind and friendly, and as he knew my father and family well I was only too pleased to serve under him. It was on the morning of the 4th of May, Colonel St John’s column commenced its march into the Uriwera country, the scouts having left the night before, my orders being to enter the Whakatane River, proceed up its bed, keep a bright lookout for ambuscades and fall back to the Colonel every night. The first day’s march was a very bad one, as it necessitated the column crossing the river twenty-eight times during the twenty miles that brought the tired men to a deserted kainga called Tunanui, where we bivouacked with fair comfort, this being the jumping-off spot into the unknown. The next day the same sort of thing had to be gone through again. The river-bed did not improve, while during the day heavy showers of sleet and rain soaked us through. Moreover, as we were now in the enemy’s country we dare not light fires when we bivouacked, so that we had to get what rest we could during the bitter cold night, deprived of any warmth and without the pannikin of miserable tea we all so greedily looked forward to after a cold and fatiguing day.