There could be no idea of attacking it from the
front. That would have been a funeral march for Sir George's handful of
men. He devised the capture of a rough spur of ground which commanded the
pa. The Maoris built square to a hostile world, and forgot this height
behind them. If it should be attained, they were out-manoeuvred and
helpless. The British fighting men, with Maori allies, marched off to
break in upon the rear of the Wereroa. They filed past the Governor,
shaking hands with him; the moment was tense.
'Assuredly,' Sir George remarked, 'the mission was not without danger, as
what venture can be in war? Only, my people must have felt that I would
not put them to it, unless there was every hope of success. That little
parade brought up thoughts in all of us, and was very touching.'
The vital spur was captured, and with it a cohort of Maoris who were
marching to relieve the pa. The garrison of Wereroa were beaten by
tactics, the most deadly of weapons, and they accepted the verdict. The
victory was the more complete, in that the Governor lost never a man of
his tiny army. It would be hard to aver that he did not, even as the
grave Pro-Consul, love such an adventure for itself. That tune sang in
the blood.
Here a signpost is reached. Thirty years had passed, since Sir George
Grey waded into the surf where savagery and civilisation meet, stilling
it for the latter.
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