Chapter 2

The results of trading with the foreigners were fatal to the natives. At first the trade was in axes, knives, and other edge-tools, beads, and ornaments, but in 1832 the Maoris would scarcely take anything but arms and ammunition, red woollen shirts, and tobacco. Every man in a native hapu had to procure a musket, or die. If the warriors of the hapu had no guns they would soon be all killed by some tribe that had them. The price of one gun, together with the requisite powder, was one ton of cleaned flax, prepared by the women and slaves in the sickly swamps. In the meantime the food crops were neglected, hunger and hard labour killed many, some fell victims to diseases introduced by the white men, and the children nearly all died.

And the Maoris are still dying out of the land, blighted by our civilization. They were willing to learn and to be taught, and they began to work with the white men. In 1853 I saw nearly one hundred of them, naked to the waist, sinking shafts for gold on Bendigo, and no Cousin Jacks worked harder. We could not, of course, make them Englishmen--the true Briton is born, not made; but could we not have kept them alive if we had used reasonable means to do so? Or is it true that in our inmost souls we wanted them to die, that we might possess their land in peace?

Besides flax, it was found that New Zealand produced most excellent timber--the kauri pine. The first visitors saw sea-going canoes beautifully carved by rude tools of stone, which had been hollowed out, each from a single tree, and so large that they were manned by one hundred warriors. The gum trees of New Holland are extremely hard, and their wood is so heavy that it sinks in water like iron. But the kauri, with a leaf like that of the gum tree, is the toughest of pines, though soft and easily worked--suitable for shipbuilding, and for masts and spars. In 1830 twenty-eight vessels made fifty-six voyages from Sydney to New Zealand, chiefly for flax; but they also left parties of men to prosecute the whale and seal fisheries, and to cut kauri pine logs. Two vessels were built by English mechanics, one of 140 tons, and the other of 370 tons burden, and the natives began to assist the new-comers in all their labours.

At this time most of the villages had at least one European resident called a Pakeha Maori, under the protection of a chief of rank and influence, and married to a relative of his, either legally or by native custom. It was through the resident that all the trading of the tribe was carried on. He bought and paid for the flax, and employed men to cut the pine logs and float them down the rivers to the ships.

Every whaling and trading vessel that returned to Sydney or Van Diemen's Land brought back accounts of the wonderful prospects which the islands afforded to men of enterprise, and New Zealand became the favourite refuge for criminals, runaway prisoners, and other lovers of freedom. When, therefore the crew of the schooner 'Industry' threw Captain Blogg overboard, it was a great comfort to them to know that they were going to an island in which there was no Government.

Captain Blogg had arrived from England with a bad character. He had been tried for murder. He had been ordered to pay five hundred pounds as damages to his mate, whom he had imprisoned at sea in a hencoop, and left to pick up his food with the fowls. He had been out-lawed, and forbidden to sail as officer in any British ship. These were facts made known to, and discussed by, all the whalers who entered the Tamar, when the whaling season was over in the year 1835. And yet the notorious Blogg found no difficulty in buying the schooner 'Industry', taking in a cargo, and obtaining a clearance for Hokianga, in New Zealand. He had shipped a crew consisting of a mate, four seamen, and a cook.

Black Ned Tomlins, Jim Parrish, and a few other friends interviewed the crew when the 'Industry' was getting ready for sea. Black Ned was a half-breed native of Kangaroo Island, and was looked upon as the best whaler in the colonies, and the smartest man ever seen in a boat. He was the principal speaker. He put the case to the crew in a friendly way, and asked them if they did not feel themselves to be a set of fools, to think of going to sea with a murdering villain like Blogg?

Dick Secker replied mildly but firmly. He reckoned the crew were, in a general way, able to take care of themselves. They could do their duty, whatever it was; and they were not afraid of sailing with any man that ever trod a deck.

After a few days at sea they were able to form a correct estimate of their master mariner. He never came on deck absolutely drunk, but he was saturated with rum to the very marrow of his bones. A devil of cruelty, hate, and murder glared from his eyes, and his blasphemies could come from no other place but the lowest depths of the bottomless pit. The mate was comparatively a gentle and inoffensive lamb. He did not curse and swear more than was considered decent and proper on board ship, did his duty, and avoided quarrels.

One day Blogg was rating the cook in his usual style when the latter made some reply, and the captain knocked him down. He then called the mate, and with his help stripped the cook to the waist and triced him up to the mast on the weather side. This gave the captain the advantage of a position in which he could deliver his blows downward with full effect. Then he selected a rope's end and began to flog the cook. At every blow he made a spring on his feet, swung the rope over his head, and brought it down on the bare back with the utmost force. It was evident that he was no 'prentice hand at the business, but a good master flogger. The cook writhed and screamed, as every stroke raised bloody ridges on his back; but Blogg enjoyed it. He was in no hurry. He was like a boy who had found a sweet morsel, and was turning it over in his mouth to enjoy it the longer. After each blow he looked at the three seamen standing near, and at the man at the helm, and made little speeches at them. "I'll show you who is master aboard this ship." Whack! "That's what every man Jack of you will get if you give me any of your jaw." Whack! "Maybe you'd like to mutiny, wouldn't you?" Whack! The blows came down with deliberate regularity; the cook's back was blue, black, and bleeding, but the captain showed no sign of any intention to stay his hand. The suffering victim's cries seemed to inflame his cruelty. He was a wild beast in the semblance of a man. At last, in his extreme agony, the cook made a piteous appeal to the seamen:

"Mates, are you men? Are you going to stand there all day, and watch me being flogged to death for nothing?"

Before the next stroke fell the three men had seized the captain; but he fought with so much strength and fury that they found it difficult to hold him. The helmsman steadied the tiller with two turns of the rope and ran forward to assist them. They laid Blogg flat on the deck, but he kept struggling, cursing, threatening, and calling on the mate to help him; but that officer took fright, ran to his cabin in the deckhouse, and began to barricade the door.

Then a difficulty arose. What was to be done with the prisoner? He was like a raving maniac. If they allowed him his liberty, he was sure to kill one or more of them. If they bound him he would get loose in some way--probably through the mate--and after what had occurred, it would be safer to turn loose a Bengal tiger on deck then the infuriated captain. There was but one way out of the trouble, and they all knew it. They looked at one another; nothing was wanting but the word, and it soon came. Secker had sailed from the Cove of Cork, and being an Irishman, he was by nature eloquent, first in speech, and first in action. He reflected afterwards, when he had leisure to do so.

"Short work is the best," he said, "over he goes; lift the devil." Each man seized an arm or leg, and Blogg was carried round the mast to the lee side. The men worked together from training and habit. They swung the body athwart the deck like a pendulum, and with a "one! two! three!" it cleared the bulwark, and the devil went head foremost into the deep sea. The cook, looking on from behind the mast, gave a deep sigh of relief.

Thus it was that a great breach of the peace was committed on the Pacific Ocean; and it was done, too, on a beautiful summer's evening, when the sun was low, a gentle breeze barely filled the sails, and everybody should have been happy and comfortable.

Captain Blogg rose to the surface directly and swam after his schooner. The fury of his soul did not abate all at once. He roared to the mate to bring the schooner to, but there was no responsive "Aye, aye, sir." He was now outside of his jurisdiction, and his power was gone. He swam with all his strength, and his bloated face still looked red as the foam passed by it. The helmsman had resumed his place, and steadied the tiller, keeping her full, while the other men looked over the stern. Secker said: "The old man will have a long swim."

But the "old man" swam a losing race. His vessel was gliding away from him: his face grew pale, and in an agony of fear and despair, he called to the men for God's sake to take him on board and he would forgive everything.

But his call came too late; he could find no sureties for his good behaviour in the future; he had never in his life shown any love for God or pity for man, and he found in his utmost need neither mercy nor pity now. He strained his eyes in vain over the crests of the restless billows, calling for the help that did not come. The receding sails never shivered; no land was near, no vessel in sight. The sun went down, and the hopeless sinner was left struggling alone on the black waste of waters.

The men released the cook and held a consultation about a troublesome point of law. Had they committed mutiny and murder, or only justifiable homicide? They felt that the point was a very important one to them--a matter of life and death--and they stood in a group near the tiller to discuss the difficulty, speaking low, while the cook was shivering in the forecastle, trying to ease the pain.

The conclusion of the seamen was, that they had done what was right, both in law and conscience. They had thrown Blogg overboard to prevent him from murdering the cook, and also for their own safety. After they had done their duty by seizing him, he would have killed them if he could. He was a drunken sweep. He was an outlaw, and the law would not protect him. Anybody could kill an outlaw without fear of consequences, so they had heard. But still there was some doubt about it, and there was nobody there to put the case for the captain. The law was, at that time, a terrible thing, especially in Van Diemen's Land, under Colonel Arthur. He governed by the gallows, to make everything orderly and peaceable, and men were peaceable enough after they were hanged.

So Secker and his mates decided that, although they had done nothing but what was right in throwing Blogg over the side, it would be extremely imprudent to trust their innocence to the uncertainty of the law and to the impartiality of Colonel Arthur.

Their first idea was to take the vessel to South America, but after some further discussion, they decided to continue the voyage to Hokianga, and to settle among the Maoris. Nobody had actually seen them throw Blogg overboard except the cook, and him they looked upon as a friend, because they had saved him from being flogged to death. They had some doubts about the best course to take with the mate, but as he was the only man on board who was able to take the schooner to port, they were obliged to make use of his services for the present, and at the end of the voyage they could deal with him in any way prudence might require, and they did not mean to run any unnecessary risks.

They went to the house on deck, and Secker called the mate, informing him that the captain had lost his balance, and had fallen overboard, and that it was his duty to take charge of the 'Industry', and navigate her to Hokianga. But the mate had been thoroughly frightened, and was loth to leave his entrenchment. He could not tell what might happen if he opened his cabin door: he might find himself in the sea in another minute. The men who had thrown the master overboard would not have much scruple about sending an inferior officer after him. If the mate resolved to show fight, it would be necessary for him to kill every man on board, even the cook, before he could feel safe; and then he would be left alone in mid-ocean with nobody to help him to navigate the vessel--a master and crew under one hat, at the mercy of the winds and the waves, with six murdered men on his conscience; and he had a conscience, too, as was soon to be proved.

The seamen swore most solemnly that they did not intend to do him the least harm, and at last the mate opened his door. While in his cabin, he had been spending what he believed to be the last minutes of his life in preparing for death; he did his best to make peace with heaven, and tried to pray. But his mouth was dry with fear, his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, his memory of sacred things failed him, and he could not pray for want of practice. He could remember only one short prayer, and he was unable to utter even that audibly. And how could a prayer ever reach heaven in time to be of any use to him, when he could not make it heard outside the deck-house? In his desperate straits he took a piece of chalk and began to write it; so when at last he opened the door of his cabin, the four seamen observed that he had nearly covered the boards with writing. It looked like a litany, but it was a litany of only three words--"Lord, have mercy"--which were repeated in lines one above the other.

That litany was never erased or touched by any man who subsequently sailed on board the 'Industry'. She was the first vessel that was piloted up the channel to Port Albert in Gippsland, to take in a cargo of fat cattle, and when she arrived there on August 3rd, 1842, the litany of the mate was still distinctly legible.

Nothing exalts a man so quickly in the estimation of his fellow creatures as killing them. Emperors and kings court the alliance of the conquering hero returning from fields of slaughter. Ladies in Melbourne forgot for a time the demands of fashion in their struggles to obtain an ecstatic glimpse of our modern Bluebeard, Deeming; and no one was prouder than the belle of the ball when she danced down the middle with the man who shot Sandy M'Gee.

And the reverence of the mate for his murdering crew was unfathomable. Their lightest word was a law to him. He wrote up the log in their presence, stating that Captain Blogg had been washed into the sea in a sudden squall on a dark night; vessel hove to, boat lowered, searched for captain all night, could see nothing of him; mate took charge, and bore away for Hokianga next morning. When these untruthful particulars had been entered and read over to the four seamen, they were satisfied for the present. They would settle among the Maoris, and lead a free and happy life. They could do what they liked with the schooner and her cargo, having disposed of the master and owner; and as for the mate, they would dispose of him, too, if he made himself in any way troublesome. What a wonderful piece of good luck it was that they were going to a new country in which there was no government!

The 'Industry' arrived off the bar at Hokianga on November 30th, 1835, and was boarded by a Captain Young, who had settled seven miles up the estuary, at One Tree Point, and acted as pilot of the nascent port. He inquired how much water the schooner drew, noted the state of the tide, and said he would remain on board all night, and go over the bar next morning with the first flood.

The mate had a secret and wanted to get rid of it. While looking round at the shore, and apparently talking about indifferent subjects, he said to the pilot: "Don't look at the men, and don't take any notice of them. They threw Blogg, the master, overboard, when he was flogging the cook, and they would murder me, too, if they knew I told you; so you must pretend not to take any notice of them. What their plans may be, I don't know; but you may be sure they won't go back to the Tamar, if they can help it."

If the pilot felt any surprise, he did not show it. After a short pause he said: "You go about your business, and don't speak to me again, except when the men can hear you. I will think about what is best to be done."

During the night Captain Young thought about it to some purpose. Being a master mariner himself he could imagine no circumstances which would justify a crew in throwing a master mariner overboard. It was the one crime which could not be pardoned either afloat or ashore. Next day he took the vessel up the estuary, and anchored her within two hundred yards of the shore, opposite the residence of Captain McDonnell.

It is true there was no government at that time at Hokianga, nor anywhere else in New Zealand; there were no judges, no magistrates, no courts, and no police. But the British Angel of Annexation was already hovering over the land, although she had not as yet alighted on it.

At this time the shores of New Zealand were infested with captains. There was a Captain Busby, who was called British Resident, and, unfortunately for our seamen, Captain McDonnell had been appointed Additional British Resident at Hokianga a few weeks previously. So far he had been officially idle; there was no business to do, no chance of his displaying his zeal and patriotism. Moreover, he had no pay, and apparently no power and no duties. He was neither a Governor nor a Government, but a kind of forerunner of approaching empire--one of those harmless and far-reaching tentacles which the British octopus extends into the recesses of ocean, searching for prey to satisfy the demands of her imperial appetite.

McDonnell was a naval lieutenant; had served under the East India Company; had smuggled opium to China; had explored the coasts of New Zealand; and on March 31st, 1831, had arrived at Hokianga from Sydney in the 'Sir George Murray', a vessel which he had purchased for 1,300 pounds. He brought with him his wife, two children, and a servant, but took them back on the return voyage. He was now engaged in the flax and kauri pine trade.

The 'Industry' had scarcely dropped her anchor before the Additional Resident boarded her. The pilot spoke to him and in a few words informed him that Blogg, the master, had been pitched into the sea, and explained in what manner he proposed to arrest the four seamen. McDonnell understood, and agreed to the plan at once. He called to the mate in a loud voice, and said: "I am sorry to hear that you have lost the master of this vessel. I live at that house you see on the rising ground, and I keep a list in a book of all vessels that come into the river, and the names of the crews. It is a mere formality, and won't take more than five minutes. So you will oblige me, mate, by coming ashore with your men at once, as I am in a hurry, and have other business to attend to." He then went ashore in his boat. The mate and seamen followed in the ship's boat, and waited in front of the Additional Resident's house. He had a visitor that morning, the Pakeha Maori, Laming.

The men had not to wait long, as it was not advisable to give them much time to think and grow suspicious. McDonnell came to the front door and called the mate, who went inside, signed his name, re-appeared directly, called Secker, and entered the house with him. The Additional Resident was sitting at a table with the signature book before him. He rose from the chair, told Secker to sit down, gave him a pen, and pointed out the place where his name was to be signed. Laming was sitting near the table. While Secker was signing his name McDonnell suddenly put a twisted handkerchief under his chin and tightened it round his neck. Laming presented a horse-pistol and said he would blow his brains out if he uttered a word, and the mate slipped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. He was then bundled out at the back door and put into a bullet-proof building at the rear. The other three seamen were then called in one after the other, garrotted, handcuffed, and imprisoned in the same way. The little formality of signing names was finished in a few minutes, according to promise.

If such things could be done in New Zealand, where there was neither law nor government, what might happen in Van Diemen's Land, where one man was both law and government, and that man was Colonel Arthur? The prisoners had plenty of time to make a forecast of their fate, while the mate engaged a fresh crew and took in a cargo of flax and timber. When he was ready to sail, he reshipped his old crew in irons, returned with them to the Tamar, and delivered them to the police to be dealt with according to law. For a long time the law was in a state of chaos. Major Abbott was sent from England in 1814 as the first judge. The proceedings in his court were conducted in the style of a drum-head court martial, the accusation, sentences, and execution following one another with military precision and rapidity.

He adjudicated in petty sessions as a magistrate, and dealt in a summary manner with capital offences, which were very numerous. To imprison a man who was already a prisoner for life was no punishment; the major's powers were, therefore, limited to the cat and the gallows. And as the first gallows had been built to carry only eight passengers, his daily death sentences were also limited to that number. For twenty years torture was used to extort confession-- even women were flogged if they refused to give evidence, and an order of the Governor was held to be equal to law. Major Abbott died in 1832.