Lands of Red and Gold #106: King of Blades
“Proper deeds are better than wisdom.”
“Only the wise know what is proper.”
- Reported exchange between the Hunter and Pinjarra
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From “Incredible Life: Immortal Clements”
By C Ashkettle (1916). Cumberland [Geelong, VIC]: Smith & Weston.
Clements provided many vivid descriptions of his life across Aururia, of events great and small, of times joyful and sorrow. Nothing, though, is more etched in my memory than his account of his rides alongside the Hunter. His countenance and voice came alive, with the memory of a time two centuries past, but intense still. When Clements spoke of the Hunter, he made that long-dead visionary come alive again.
Clements told how he adopted the name Kullerin and then rode alongside the Hunter. He served in nearly every major campaign, from the first great crusade against the Kiyungu League until the last crusade against…
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16 November 1709
Mount Natingara [Mt Coot-tha]
Near Nyandra [Indooroopilly, QLD], Kiyungu League
The locals called Natingara a mountain. Compared to the highlands of the Neeburra, never mind the true highlands further south, Natingara barely rated mention as a bump in the ground.
Despite that, it offered broad views of the lowlands of these strange League men. The city of Nyandra was not far below them, with the thin blue line of a creek running down Natingara’s tree-clad slopes, then winding in the flatlands below, passing through the city’s walls, and then emerging on the far side to run down into the river. A great, winding river, emerging somewhere from the south-west and continuing its jagged course to the east.
Far to the east, the green-brown of cultivated lands turned to blue, to an expanse of water, almost water without end. That prospect made Kullerin feel uneasy; he preferred by far to have solid land beneath his feet, and mountains for preference. He did his best to ignore it, and focused on the closer ground below. He was not expected to know how to command a battle here, only to know which ways he would need to ride when conveying messages, but the Hunter had honoured him by letting him study the terrain and then listen to the battle conference which would soon follow.
The city of Nyandra had stout walls, high and of solid stone. None of the Riders had tried to storm those walls. Perhaps they would do better to have foot-men for it, as men fought in the true highlands further south, but that was not the Riders’ way. They fought on foot at need, but they travelled to and fro on horseback. They did not want to approach Nyandra’s walls too closely. The League-men had few bows and fewer muskets, but they had enough to make the walls dangerous.
Instead, the Riders had surrounded the city. Nyandra was not built on the river, but above it, with docks at the riverside and a narrow road leading up the slopes to the city proper. Kullerin had been present at the questioning of several captive Kiyungu, and they had said that the walls were so high because of floods. A choice which Kullerin could not fault, in normal times, but it meant that the Riders could cut off the city. No food entered Nyandra’s walls now, as the Hunter had decreed. And what the Hunter wanted to happen, happened. So it had been, from everything which Kullerin had seen. The Hunter was a man who bent nations to his will, if not the entire world.
The people of Nyandra cowered behind their walls. They had water, from the creek and from rain, but they did not have food. Whatever stores they had could not last forever. Whenever that failed, they would have to submit to the Hunter’s rule. They had ample flat land around their city, which in normal times would have fed them well with the wealth-trees, yams and kumera [sweet potato] that flourished in these lowlands. Now, though, some of those had been taken to feed the Riders, and the rest had been ravaged. The flatlands were clear for battle, but of the kind which the Hunter wanted.
The League had sent soldiers to lift the siege. Kullerin was no good judge of numbers, but there looked to be several thousand of them encamped to the north-east of the city. These League-men had come from the northern cities to relieve their compatriots. Scouts reported another force coming from the southern cities, but that was at least two days march away, across the great river. Kullerin was no battle commander, but he expected that the northern League-men would be dealt with before then.
Intent in his study, Kullerin did not realise who had come up beside him until a calm voice asked, “What do you see?”
Kullerin automatically started to drop to one knee, in the manner which befit a true leader back in his homeland. The Hunter waved him to rise. As always, the greatest Warego [hero] demanded the least signs of status.
“What do you see, my friend?”
Kullerin knew little of warfare yet, but then the Hunter knew that too. He had an uncanny ability to remember the names, faces and backgrounds of every man under his command. “Lots of men. Men who can carry many spears into battle against us.”
The Hunter smiled. “Yes. So my Warego have told me, those who have come to these lands before. These Kiyungu like to fight behind shields, and use spears against any who would close with them. An interesting challenge, when compared to riders, yes?”
“Dangerous?” Kullerin asked.
“Dangerous if fought on their terms.” The warleader’s grin widened. “Unfortunate for them that we will fight them on ours.”
The Hunter clapped Kullerin companionably on the shoulder, then moved on. Kullerin watched, as he liked doing. However little he knew of battles, he would never find a better man to teach him more.
The Hunter said, “Warego, attend!” The commanders turned from their study of the terrain, and gathered close to the great leader.
The Hunter said, “Tomorrow, we will bring battle to these Kiyungu.” The commanders cheered, and he waited for them to subside. “The ground is as we want it. No rain for four days, and no clouds appearing hence. We will meet the Kiyungu, and we will break them. The main field of battle will be as we expected even before we watched from the hill.” The Hunter extended his arm to point and then sweep across a flat expanse of ground, past Nyandra to the northeast, but closer than the League-men’s encampment.
“Three warbands will be down there on our ground. The largest will be under my command. Yongalla and Kyulibah, you will lead your warbands there, too. On the morrow, I will hold my men ready in the centre, watching and ready, and being seen. You will lead your warbands, with musket-men and archers, around each side of the foe, but not to their rear. Shoot at them, harry them, frighten them, but do not close with them. If they break formation to attack you, lead them away. I want them scattered and fearful. Then our riders can truly cut them down. A spearman on his own is merely a target.”
The Hunter gestured to another Warego. “Jowarra, you will bring your warband around the Kiyungu this evening, out of their sight. Use the paths there, through the trees on this hill. Tomorrow morning, you will take up a position to their rear, out of arrow and musket range from our flankers, but within the Kiyungu’s sight. I want you there to worry them. Strike at them if the opportunity arises, but only if they have started to scatter.
“If you are forced to flee, then keep going north for a day’s ride, and then return here as seems best to you. Our messengers” – he nodded to Kullerin and the four men standing around him – “can find you again to tell you of any new plans, if needed.”
The Hunter said, “I think they will be more worried about the riders with me. My warband is the largest. If I lead the charge in, to cut them down, then everyone can follow as seems best to them. If we cannot strike all of them, kill those which you can, and drive away the rest. Let those who we do not kill spread tales of fear about our prowess.”
The commanders continued talking to the Hunter and each other, discussing details of the plan. The strange thing, to Kullerin’s eyes, was that no-one showed the least signs of fear. The scouts reported that the army to the north outnumbered the Riders, and that matched what he had seen with his own eyes. But no-one doubted that tomorrow would bring victory.
How can we fail, when we are led by the Hunter?
* * *
17 November 1709
Near Nyandra, Kiyungu League
Sunshine above, broken by occasional clouds to keep off the worst of the heat. Flat ground around, perfect terrain to manoeuvre the shield-wall. No mud or trenches.
A perfect battlefield, or near enough. Munya son of Nyambih had seen many of those during his life. In his earliest youth he had fought in the bloody battles when Māori raiders had reddened the waters of Quanda Bay [Moreton Bay] [1]. Since then, he had fought against League rivals on many battlefields, from Tukka Nyukka [Maryborough] to Butjira [Nerang]. He had survived all of those battles, in large part because he had learned to trust the men on either side of him. Such was the grind of battle: hold your shield firmly, your spear willingly, and your comrade-faith absolutely.
This battle promised a grand chance to demonstrate the same lesson. The Yalatji had come over the mountains many times that he had heard of, though only once had he stood against them himself. They loved their strange horses, and were bold in raiding, but when confronted by the strength of the shield-wall, they inevitably fled. So long as the shield-wall held firm, their horse-men could not break it, and they could be driven from the field.
The Yalatji had formed up on their side of the battlefield, plainly visible if too far away to make out details. They did not care what the Kiyungu saw or did, but arranged their horsemen as they saw fit. In time, they advanced in three bands, one straight up the centre, the others spread out to left and right.
“Hold for charge!” the call went up and down the line. Few here had fought the Yalatji, but many had seen their demonstrations during their great ride through the League’s lands. They knew what the Yalatji could do on their horses.
The central band halted their horses nearby, but did not charge. The other bands advanced, but obliquely past the shield-wall, not into it.
“Why don’t they close?” asked the soldier on Munya’s right. He did not dare answer aloud, for he had a sudden premonition of what these Yalatji planned. Naming it might only produce it.
Small puffs of smoke rose along the flanking Yalatji’s ranks, then came a rumble as of distant thunder, then came the sound of men screaming, close along the shield-wall.
Muskets. Or some kind of firearm. Munya did not know all of the kinds, but he knew that many varieties existed. He had little trust for muskets. They were wonderful when they worked, but they often failed, and a man alone with a musket was even worse off than a man with a spear. He trusted himself, his spear and his comrades more than muskets. The Māori had carried many when they raided Quanda Bay, so many years ago, but they had been beaten off.
This time... this time, Munya felt fear. The Yalatji rode as they willed along the shield-wall’s flanks, passing back and forth, ever closer. Most fired muskets, and many of those bullets missed. A few, though, struck men who went down screaming or without even the chance to scream. The bullets kept coming, in volley after volley. Some of the Yalatji fired arrows too, at which they seemed skilled from horseback.
Munya could only hold his shield in front of him, to block what he could. He knew that it had some chance of stopping an arrow, but he had no illusions that it could stop a bullet. Men fell around him, slowly, steadily. The shield-wall gradually contracted, as the soldiers could do naught but remain together and hope that the barrage would end.
The Yalatji riders passed closer still, in another wave, firing again with their accursed muskets. Tragically, but inevitably, men started fleeing. Munya could not see them directly, being too busy watching the riders, but he heard the shouts of panic, and of a couple of shields being thrown on the ground.
“Hold!” he called. Other voices took up the cry, but it was of no use. The shield-wall was broken, and men were running. Some held firm, including those to his immediate left and right, but they could not stop the ebbing of the tide.
Munya looked up to another rumbling, to see the central band of Yalatji was finally moving. Lined up, charging, holding a forest of long spears above them. And now, with that vision, Munya saw death approaching.
* * *
20 November 1709
Near Nyandra, Kiyungu League
How long had he been lying in this tent? Munya could not say; there had been a time of pain, blurring into a time without easy judging of day or night passing. At least two days, he thought, perhaps several more. He had been fed and watered in that time, by Yalatji who moved around the tent without speaking to the wounded. Only Kiyungu wounded, from what he could see and hear. If the Yalatji had taken casualties, they kept them apart.
The break in the blur came when a new man stepped into the tent. His ornate armour marked him as someone of high status, not the plainly dressed, unarmoured men who attended to the wounded. The man had impressive height, and he came directly to Munya’s bed-roll.
“You speak Nuttana, I am told,” the man said, in that language.
Munya shook his head slowly. “Some. I have dealt with traders over the years.”
“As have I.” The man’s grin showed gleaming teeth. “With perhaps a better bargaining position to yours.”
“Your people have good fortune to find gems,” Munya said.
“Fortune? No such thing exists. There are actions, and there are consequences. So it has always been.”
“A commander who argues like a priest,” Munya said.
“You had not expected the like amongst us wild, hairy Horse-men?” the commander said.
“In truth, I did not know what to expect,” Munya said. Including what to expect with this conversation. This was not how he would have thought to be spoken to by an enemy officer.
“A good place to begin. Where knowledge is lacking, expectation should not be forthcoming.”
That phrase took Munya a long moment to comprehend; he was not as fluent in the Nuttana tongue as this strange enemy commander. And while his mind was clearer than he had realised, he was not inclined for a long conversation about philosophy or religion or whatever this Yalatji called his beliefs. “Better to begin with why you are here,” he said.
“A proper answer to that would take longer than a wounded man would likely want to hear,” the Yalatji said. “But, in brief, I wanted to pay my respects to valiant opponents. And, perhaps, to understand why they fought.”
“You respect us?” That prospect sounded unfathomably unlikely. Munya doubted he would ever forget the sight of the Yalatji cavalry charging down. He had stood his ground, along with his neighbours, and thought that he might even have wounded one of the riders, but the battle had ended with the League forces scattering in wild retreat. He remembered that much before unconsciousness from his wounds had claimed him. “You won the battle, or I would not be here. Why do you respect us?”
“I respect those who fought with valour, if not those who led them. You, I am told, have been a soldier for many years, and you even struck down one of my comrades before you were brought down.”
“Much good courage did me. We failed. Has Nyandra surrendered?”
“Not yet. Though the citizens must fear for their future now, with no relief coming.”
“One battle does not mean victory,” Munya said.
“That rather depends on the battle,” the Yalatji said. “Your compatriots are dead, prisoner or scattered. The other relief force across the river waits, and shows no interest in crossing. If they come over, do you think their prospects any better than those who fought in this battle?”
“Have you come here merely to gloat in victory?” Munya asked.
“Not at all. You asked what passed, so I answered. I came for the reasons I named. I did not come to mistreat those who opposed me. If I had wanted that, I could have left you for dead. You, in particular, I wanted to live. I saw how you fought. I had our best physician – from the Five Rivers, originally – attend to you. He applied some preparation of his to your wounds. To purify it, he said. He thinks that while you will suffer still for a time, you will live.”
“Live how? Where?”
“Those are indeed good questions,” the Yalatji said. “There will be changes here, once the conquest is complete. Which brings me to some questions of my own. Why do you fight? What for?”
“I fight for my king and my city,” Munya said.
“And if you had a poor king?” the Yalatji said.
Munya remained silent. Kings could be fools, as could any men, but they were still kings. He had no desire to argue that with this enemy commander, whoever he was.
“I do not ask you to answer yet, but I ask you to consider. Is it a king that you fight for, or a cause?”
“And who are you, to pose such questions?”
The man’s grin returned. “I am Tjuwagga. Or the Hunter, in the Nuttana tongue.”
“You are the warleader who has come to ravage the lands of the League?”
“Not at all. Your people are misguided, it is true, but I do not come to inflict suffering. Or not more than is necessary. I want your people to know the proper rule, one which can bring your lands to the right harmony.”
“And why do you tell me this?”
“For your consideration, since you ask it.” The Hunter bowed. “And as a mark of respect. Sincere respect. You have valour, something which I have always admired.”
“You want me to serve with your forces, then,” Munya said.
“If you choose to do so willingly,” the Hunter said. “I have brought many men of valour to my banner, many who were once my opponents. But I only want men who are willing to serve.” He bowed again. “Think on this, Munya son of Nyambih. You need not answer yet.”
The Hunter gave him a parting smile, then turned and strode from the tent.
* * *
“What are your nation’s objectives in this war?”
“To secure France’s natural borders.”
“It is a curious thing that a nation’s natural borders are always larger than its current borders.”
- Exchange between Bamindee Dalwal, Tjibarri envoy to France, and Philippe de Bourbon, duc d’Mercœur [2], 1743, when discussing French aims after the outbreak of the Nine Year’s War (also known in Europe as the Fourth Bohemian War or the War of the Austrian Succession)
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[1] This was a Compagnie d’Orient attempt to conquer the Kiyungu League in 1692. They used a force of mercenaries in an attempt to subdue the Kiyungu and force them to trade spices purely to the CDO. The mercenaries were mostly Māori, with a smattering of troops and officers from other CDO stations. The conquest attempt failed, due in part to Nuttana ships cutting off their supplies.
[2] Not the historical Philippe de Bourbon, Duke of Mercœur and later Duke of Vendôme (1655-1727), but an allohistorical nephew who rose to be one of France’s leading marshals and diplomats, and who was the de facto chief minister of France during the late 1730s and early 1740s, before choosing to return to the battlefield during the Nine Years’ War.
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Thoughts?