Grandfather’s Yarns

Southern Cross, Volume 2, Issue 2, 14 April 1894, Page 7

Grandfather’s Yarns

TUTUEAKIPAWA. A TRUE NEW ZEALAND STORY. [Written for the Southern Cross.] “Tell us a story, grandfather? please,” shouted a chorus of boyish voices one wintry afternoon. “All right, ray lads,” said my grandfather, an old sailor, very good at spinning yarns, and only too pleased to have a listener. “ What is it to be about to-day ? “ Oh, something true,” said we, “ something about when you first came to New Zealand.” “ When I first came to New Zealand ? Well, let me see, that was in ’3l. Well, I’ll tell a yarn about a Maori chap I knew, called Tuturakipawa. He was one of my boat’s crew when I was on board the Lucy Ann, in about ’3B, I think. It was at Dunedin —Dunedin, not as it is now, but very rough country, all high flax and manuka, a perfect maze of pig tracks, and very hard to find your way about in.

“ Well, you see, Tuturakipawa had been married (after the Maori fashion) when a baby to a girl called Ikino. Time passed, and she grew into a beautiful and graceful maiden, and he, at the time of which I tell you, -was in the prime of his young manhood. All went well till a white man named Jim Brown, quite an elderly man, an old sealer, fell in love with the youthful Ikino, though she gave him no encouragement, for she was devoted to her Maori lover.

“ But jealousy —that passion which is said to be ‘ cruel as the grave ’ — stepped in, and one evening- towards dark, in Brown’s hut, the two men the Maori and the white —both a little groggy, came to blows about the girl. Tuturakipawa, hitting, in his anger, at random, smashed a window and cut his head with the broken glass. How, a Maori particularly dislikes to have his blood drawn (or did in those days), especially about the head ; and now the fierce unreasoning passion of the native was fairly roused, for he blamed Brown for the accident to his head, and rushed from the hut to fetch a musket. [Having obtained one, he hurried back to the hut, but a wellmeaning Yankee carpenter, who did not realise the awful depth of the Maori’s rage, would not let him enter, but stood in the doorway, thinking to prevent the man doing anything in the heat of his anger for which he might be sorry afterwards. “ Tuturakipawa could see his rival passing backwards and forwards in the hut behind the Yankee, and, watching his chance, fired ; but, missing his intended mark, he shot the carpenter dead. “ At once a hue and cry was raised for the Maori murderer, who had escaped into the bush. But no trace could be found of him—the undergrowth was so dense that none but a native could find his way about with a great amount of ease, and if any of his tribe did know of his whereabouts they kept it well to themselves. Bor some time this went on, the white people in a great state for the capture, but all in vain. “At that time there was a French whaler in the harbour—Captain Le Bas in charge, and when all attempts to catch Tuturakipawa had failed, the French captain told the whites that he’d get their man for them without even leaving his ship. They were a trifle astonished at that, and wondered how the old man would manage it.

“ The old chief Taiaroa was in the habit of going aboard the whaler on friendly visits, to dinner, etc. One day he went as usual to see the French captain. After dinner, the captain ordered his mate to bring the “ bracelets ” and fasten them on Taiaroa. Of course the old warrior, as became his blood, objected to this strange and

unexpected behaviour on the part of the captain, but some of the crew being called, the old fellow was quickly reduced to order—and to irons.

“ ‘ Now, Taiaroa,’ said the captain, ‘Do you see my yardarm there P Well, I’ll take you out to sea and hang you there, and then hand you over to the hungry fishes, unless you tell your people to bring in the Maori who killed the white man, for I’m sure they know where he is hiding.’

“Of course the new's that old Taiaroa was a prisoner on board the French whaler travelled quickly ashore. The Maories did not like the idea of his suffering for the guilty man’s sin, so they brought Tuturakipawa in—not that they had any difficulty in doing that, for he gave himself up quite willingly when he heard of the state of affairs.

“ They brought him to Captain Le Bas, thinking he wanted him, but he told them to hand the prisoner over to the whites, as it was their affair, and nothing remained for him to do but release Taiaroa —which he did.

“ Tuturakipawa was put in a room in the house of Mr Weller with a sentry on guard, till convenient to hand him over to the law at Port Nicholson. One day the sentry, Steve Murphy, was pacing up and down in front of the room where Tuturakipawa was confined, when he saw approaching a beautiful Maori girl, whom he instantly recognised as Ikino.

“ Tuturakipawa begged that his ‘ wienna ’ might be allowed to come in to see him, and Steve, seeing no harm, consented. They talked in loving whispers for some time, and seemed extremely sorrowful and affectionate, so Steve left them to themselves.

“ Presently the Maori called out to him, ‘ Steve, lend me your gun.’ “ ‘ Oh no, my hearty,' said Steve, ‘you’d shcotme.’ “ ‘ I swear I won’t, and you know I won’t, Steve,’ answered the Maori. “ ‘ All right,’ said the good-natured but careless Irishman, and he handed him the weapon. “ Steve continued his walk, and had almost forgotten the gun incident, when he heard a loud report, and rushing into the room he saw a sight which froze his blood. “ The Maori girl sat against the wall, with her arms tight clasped round the waist of her lover. He held the gun with the muzzle close pressed to his breast, and had fixed the trigger with his toe. The ball passed through his heart and hers; and there were the murderer Tuturakipawa and his faithful Ikino—dead.

“ Well, I think he was a wicked man, grandfather,” said gentle, little Bertie, the youngest of the group, after a thoughtful silence of some seconds.

“ He certainly was not a good man, my son, answered my grandfather, “ but you must remember that he had never been taught to control his naturally violent temper in the least, and he loved the girl so. All love is selfish, lad, and the wild passionate heart could not bear to think anyone else loved his Ikino. I was a young chap at the time myself, and there was not one amongst us who did not think he died game, and the noble devotion of the Mrori girl touched the heart of many an old salt.”