Black
Murray, who once made his boatmen row across Cook's Straits at night
and in a gale because they were drunk, and only by making them put out
to sea could he prevent them from becoming more drunk. A congener of
his, Evans--"Old Man Evans"--boasted of a boat which was as spick and
span as a post-captain's gig, and of a crew who wore uniform. Nor must
the best of Maori whalers be forgotten--the chief Tuhawaiki--brave in
war, shrewd and businesslike in peace, who could sail a schooner as
cleverly as any white skipper, and who has been most unfairly damned
to everlasting fame--local fame--by his whaler's nickname of "Bloody
Jack!" These, and the "hands" whom they ordered about, knocked down,
caroused with, and steered, were the men who, between 1810 and 1845,
taught the outside world to take its way along the hitherto dreaded
shores of New Zealand as a matter of course and of business. Half
heroes, half ruffians, they did their work, and unconsciously brought
the islands a stage nearer civilization. Odd precursors of English
law, nineteenth-century culture, and the peace of our lady the Queen,
were these knights of the harpoon and companions of the rum-barrel.
But the isolated coasts and savage men among whom their lot was cast
did not as yet call for refinement and reflection. Such as their time
wanted, such they were. They played a part and fulfilled a purpose,
and then moved off the stage. It so happened that within a few years
after the advent of the regular colonists whaling ceased to pay,
and the rough crew who followed it, and their coarse, manly life,
disappeared together.

Chapter VII

THE MUSKETS OF HONGI

"He sang of battles, and the breath
Of stormy war and violent death."

Marsden's notes help us to picture his first night in New Zealand. The
son of the Yorkshire blacksmith, the voyager in convict-ships, the
chaplain of New South Wales in the days of rum and chain-gangs, was
not the man to be troubled by nerves. But even Marsden was wakeful on
that night. Thinking of many things--thoughts not to be expressed--the
missionary paced up and down on the sea beach by which a tribe was
encamped. The air was pleasant, the stars shone brightly, in front of
him the sea spread smoothly, peacefully folded among the wooded hills.
At the head of the harbour the ripple tapped lightly upon the charred
timbers of the _Boyd_. Around lay the Maori warriors sleeping, wrapped
in their dyed mantles and with th