Free Kiwi Wars by Garry Douglas Kilworth

the wound?’
    ‘Man who gave it to me.’
    ‘Funny chaps, these Maoris. Bash you one minute, arm around your shoulder the next.’ The surgeon looked wistfully at his range of saws, one or two of them with rusting teeth. ‘They don’t like you taking off anything, either.’
    Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Do any of us?’
    The surgeon, a young man of about twenty, laughed at this.
    ‘I suppose not. But you know, the rot will creep up a limb until it stops your heart. Better to have no hand –’ he indicated Jack’s left wrist – ‘than a stopped heart, eh? Who did that for you, by the way?’
    ‘A Frenchman.’
    Without invitation, the young surgeon inspected Jack’s stump.
    ‘Nice cross-grain action,’ he said. ‘Obviously an experienced sawyer. Some of these Frenchies are artists with a saw. I’ve seen ’em in Paris, practising on mahogany table legs. Mahogany, you know, has about the same density as human thigh bone? Not so, my colleagues. I’ve seen chums hack ’em off while discussing last night’s rum-swilling. Leave a stump looking like a tree with its branch torn off in the wind. What you want is your nice rounded smooth stump – bit like the end of a scullery maid’s copper stick, if you know what I mean. Nice white bump of a thing.’
    ‘Yes, well, I can’t stay here all day discussing amputations,’ Jack said, wryly. ‘Have you finished with me?’
    ‘For now, Captain, for now. But don’t be a stranger. You may need my services again soon.’
    I damn well hope not, thought Jack as he fled the hut.

Five
     
    O ver the next few weeks Jack Crossman’s men continued to survey areas indicated by Colonel Gold. The triangulation methods King had begun using were abandoned in favour of rougher results due to the inordinate amount of time needed for precise mapping. Gold had told them he simply wanted an aid to finding their way through the wilderness, not pinpoint a particular two-by-four rock to within twelve inches. All they had to do was pathfind their way to the enemy and provide the journey back again. Sergeant King fell back on his old standby, the linear route map, which he sketched on a yard-long pad showing a ribbon-like route with reference points either side. For the army this type of map was often good enough: they got the troops to the point where their commanders wanted them – and back again.
    Jack’s ankle mended relatively quickly, but his headaches gave him problems for a long time. During the worst he would go for long slow walks seeking solitude and quiet. He became, as many men did, enamoured of the scenery and landscape. Some of it reminded him of the Lake District of Northern England. Other parts, of Devon and the West Country. It truly was a wonderful island. After a month of convalescing he was convinced that New Zealand was the place to settle with his wife Jane. Here in this land of contrasts they could happily raise a family. He wrote to Jane, telling her to take a ship out to Australia, and thence to the farther-off New Zealand shores.
Go to Auckland,
he wrote,
and I will meet you there.
    The thought of being reunited with his beloved Jane after so many years apart filled him with joy. The flora and fauna of New Zealand looked like Eden to him once he had dispatched the letter. In the meantime he could apply to become a resident army officer. If that was unacceptable to the government then they could keep their commission and he would find employment elsewhere.
    It was on one of his walks that he met Abraham Wynter again, as that man came up against him on a bridge. Abe Wynter was surrounded by a gang of friendly Maoris, all well armed. Jack guessed he paid these men to protect him against hostiles. As before, Abe Wynter was dressed in expensive clothes, including a shiny black stovepipe hat. This he doffed as Jack stood aside to let the men pass him. As Jack stared down into the tumbling waters of a braided stream below him, a thought came to him. He called after