his people upon some militia holding a tumble-down
redoubt--an attack so desperate that out of twenty-three in the work,
only six remained unwounded when help came, after two hours' manful
resistance. Colonel McDonnell, then in command on the coast, had
proved his dash and bravery in a score of bush-fights. In his various
encounters he killed ten Maoris with his own hand. He was an expert
bushman, and a capital manager of the friendly natives. But during
the eighteen months of quiet the trained militia which had done such
excellent work in 1865 and 1866, had been in part dispersed. The force
which in July McDonnell led into the bush to attempt Titokowaru's
_pa_, at Ngutu-o-te-manu (Beak-of-the-bird) was to a large extent raw
material. The Hau-Haus were found fully prepared. Skilfully posted,
they poured in a hot cross-fire, both from the _pa_ and from an ambush
in the neighbouring thickets. Broken into two bodies, McDonnell's men
were driven to make a long and painful retreat, during which two died
of exhaustion. They lost twenty-four killed and twenty-six wounded.
McDonnell resigned in disgust. Whitmore, who replaced him, demanded
better men, and got them, but to meet no better success. At Moturoa
his assault on another forest stockade failed under a withering fire;
the native contingent held back sulkily; and again our men retreated,
with a loss this time of forty-seven, of which twenty-one were killed.
This was on November 5th. Before Whitmore could try again he was
called to the other side of the island by evil tidings from Poverty
Bay.

These had their cause in the strangest story of the Maori wars.
Amongst the many blunders in these, some of the oddest were the
displays of rank carelessness which repeatedly led to the escape of
Maori prisoners. Three times did large bodies get away and rejoin
their tribes--once from Sir George Grey's island estate at Kawau,
where they had been turned loose on parole; once from a hulk in
Wellington Harbour, through one of the port-holes of which they
slipped into the sea on a stormy night; the third time from the
Chatham Islands. This last escape, which was in July, 1868, was
fraught with grave mischief.

Fruitlessly the officer in charge of prisoners there had protested
against being left with twenty men to control three hundred and thirty
captives. The leader of these, Te Kooti, one of the ablest as well
as most ferocious partisans the colonists ever had to face, had been
dep