CHAPTER XIII

A TROOPER'S REGARD FOR HIS TRUST AND HORSE

Years ago on the Taupo line (the road running from Napier to Lake Taupo) everything used by the men garrisoning the forts on the line had to be carried on pack-horses from the town of Napier up to the headquarters (Opepe), and this necessitated hard work and required hard language on the part of the troopers escorting the pack train, which consisted of some sixty horses and mules.

Of course the men were held responsible for the goods or valuables entrusted to them, and they regarded this trust as a point of honour that must be guarded even with life.

Now why a pack-mule or a transport ox won't go without the strongest language I don't know; but they won't; and in making this assertion I am only stating a well-known and proven fact. No matter how good a man may be with a stock-whip, or a waggon-whip, he will not get a journey or trek out of his beasts unless he beguiles them with the most powerful and sultry talk.

I have never known a man to love a pack-mule, nor to caress one, and although you will find a trooper fond of and kind to most animals, yet somehow he draws the line at a mule. For his horse he will do anything--beg for it, lie for it, steal for it, halve his last bit of bread with it, and willingly risk his life for it--but not for a pack-mule. No, a pack-mule has few friends, and though men do their duty by them they don't give up their only blanket to them on a bitter cold night; and I have known many a trooper do that for his horse. However, I am getting off the right spoor, so must try back for the yarn.

On the Taupo line, at the time I mention, about 1872---the exact date I forget, and is of no consequence---the forces were rationed by a firm of contractors who had the right to run a canteen at each of the forts.

The rations were good, but the liquor was bad; and when an old campaigner calls liquor bad, it must be very bad indeed. There were plenty of rows about it, and changes were promised, but somehow it never improved. This being so, it was the usual thing, when the pack train went down-country, for two or three of us who could not face the filth supplied by the contractors to send down a private horse and get up a couple of cases of spirits fit to drink.

I was quartered at the time at an outlying station that the pack train did not pass, and one day received a note telling me to come to Fort Tarawera and get my share of two cases of brandy that had reached there.

This I did, and rode over next day, accompanied by a very smart trooper named Steve--at least that name will do for him, as he left the Lost Legion and has been for years a parson in the Church of England. Good luck to him!

Now the road, or rather the bridle-track, was a sinful one, partly through bush and partly along the bank of the Waipunga River. At one place the path had been scraped out of a very steep hill of loose shale sloping down to the river, which ran about eighty to one hundred feet below it, and it was so narrow that, once on it, you could not turn your horse, nor even dismount.

The length of this very bad bit was not more than two hundred yards, but there was a nasty turn half-way, so that it was necessary for you before you entered on it to give a loud shout in case anyone was approaching from the other end; and altogether it was not the sort of road to entice a nervous old gentleman to ride a restive horse along for a constitutional.

We reached Fort Tarawera in safety, and I put in a very pleasant afternoon, hearing the news and yarning with my pals there. Towards evening we left with my share of the plunder, which consisted of four bottles of brandy, to ride back the fourteen miles to my station. These bottles we carried in our wallets in front of our saddles, and after a parting drink and cheery good-night we rode gaily away.

It was quite dark when we reached the worst part of the road; but in those days neither of us cared for anything, so that after a loud coo-ee we filed on to the bad track, myself leading.

Previous to our quitting the firm ground, I had said to my companion, in a joking manner: "Take care you don't tumble over, Steve; remember you are carrying precious brandy."

He answered: "All right, I'll look after it." And we started the crossing.

Just as we got to the very worst part of the road I heard a scuffle, an oath, a rattling crash, and knew in a moment that Steve with his horse had gone over the cliff, and rolled down the slope into the river.

I was close to the end of the bad part; so, pressing my horse on to the firm ground, dismounted, and led him back to the place of the catastrophe. Peering over, I could see nothing, so shouted: "Steve, are you much hurt?"

The answer came back and there was an exultant ring in the voice: "The brandy is quite safe."

"D--- the brandy! Are you much hurt?"

A mournful reply came back: "Poor Darkie [his horse] is dead."

"But yourself?"

"Oh, I've only broken my leg," was the answer, given in a tone of the most utter indifference; "I'm all right."

"Is your head well above water, and can you hang on till I get help from the fort?"

"Oh yes; I'm all right."

So I told him to open one of the bottles and have a nip when he felt he required it, then led my horse to the firm ground, mounted and rode back to Tarawera at a gallop.

On my return with a party of troopers, ropes and torches, it took us a long time to extricate the poor fellow from his dangerous position, and he must have suffered great agony in being hauled up the steep bank of shifting shale; but at last we managed it, and got him back to the fort, where he soon become convalescent, his only regret, which was very deep--viz. the loss of his horse--being tempered by the fact that he had saved the brandy which had been entrusted to him. As for his own severe and painful injury, he cared nothing: it was certainly a nuisance; but it came in the day's march, and, as there was no fighting going on at the time, was not to be grumbled at.

Well, as I said before, good luck to him. If he is half as good in the pulpit as he was in the pigskin, the Church gained what the Legion lost, by his exchange of regiments.