Ho Kitaika.

it was the River Hokatika which we had come down; we were very hungry, but in good spirits; our sufferings ought now soon to cease. We made a large fire and dried ourselves; we also dried the blankets for the first time in thirteen days—the time it took us to reach the sea after leaving the Ra- kaia. We had been soaking wet all that time. During the whole journey we had not caught a single thing, but we had not lost any time in trying. I had formerly learned from the Maoris how to make a sharp noise with a grass leaf, resembling the cry of a wood-hen, and while with Mr. Drake had enticed and caught many by this means, but here no wood-hens were to be seen or heard; we saw many tracks of dogs in the sand. I asked the Maoris afterwards what tracks these were; they said they were those of wild dogs, which had caught all the wood-hens in the neighbourhood. We got everything dry about midnight, and, as we were annoyed by a very strong wind, we went to an old Maori hut we found there, and slept in it.

Next day we followed the beach to the Brummer River, about six miles off. How different it was, walking on a firm sandy beach, in the warm sunshine. We soon arrived at the river. I knew we could not cross till the tide was at the lowest, which would not occur till nightfall. We came to a Maori pah, but our hopes were disappointed—the hut of the friendly Maori was burnt down, and he had gone away. There was one other hut standing, in which were a number of odds and ends, tools, &c. We searched carefully for something to eat, but in vain—the Maoris had not left a morsel. I then took an old spade, and went to the potato garden, searched the whole plot, digging everywhere, but found only a handful of very small potatoes, and another handful of Maori cabbage. I had spent nearly two hours in this manner. Mr. Whitcombe had lain down in the sun, and fell asleep; when he woke up, I showed him the result. He said it was not much, but better than none. I made a fire on the spot where the old hut had been burnt down, and where the most wood was to be found, and cooked the potatoes and cabbage. While they were boiling, I sat down by his side. He began to speak, looked in my face, and said, “You have lost a good deal of flesh, Jacob; how do I look? I feel very weak and hungry!” I looked at him, but did not tell him the truth, saying he did not look so very bad; but, in reality, he could not be recognised—his eyes were sunk deep in his head, his lips were white, and his face as yellow as a wax figure; you could, so to speak, almost see his teeth through his cheeks. He said he would soon improve. We ate the potatoes and cabbage, the last little meal we ever took together.

I told him afterwards that I knew a spot where, at dead low water, we could get as many muscles as we liked, but it was impossible to reach them before night. I proposed we should remain here to gather shell-fish at night, but Mr. Whitcombe opposed it; he wished to try and cross the river at once, and the same evening go on to the Teramakau, which was nine miles off. The rain commenced again; Mr. Whitcombe was very restless, so we gathered our things together, and tried to cross; but, as I told him, it was much too early; the backwater had not yet run out, and was everywhere over six feet deep. We sat down in the drenching rain, and waited about an hour, when he asked me to try again, but still no use. I tried in two different places in vain. This annoyed him very much, and he said to me, “Jacob, we must do our very best to get over; I am harassed through hunger, cold, wet, sand-flies, and fleas; we must get out of this misery as soon as possible.” Half an hour later we tried again, going up to the arm-pits in the water; it was not very rapid, so we accomplished it after much trouble. He held fast to the stick in my hands, otherwise he could not have got across.

It was nearly night, so we stepped out quick along the strand; presently it became very dark, but we could not stop; the beach was solid and level, making good travelling ground. We arrived shortly after midnight at the Teramakau. I succeeded, notwithstanding the heavy rain, in making a fire—a large one— as there was abundance of drift-wood. We lay down, and slept a little. Next morning was fine. We stood up and looked round, but neither saw nor heard anyone. We could see the Maori pah distinctly on the opposite side, but no smoke ascended from it—a proof that no one was living there; neither was there any sign of Captain Dixon’s ship—all seemed deserted. Numbers of pigeons flew about the forest, and Mr. Whitcombe repented bitterly that we had not brought a gun with us, which I had so strongly advised him to do. After looking about us for an hour, he said to me, “You perceive, Jacob, there is no one here to give us any assistance; we must get across somehow, or we shall be starved to death.” I told him it was quite impossible to cross; the only thing we could do was to follow up the river through the bush; we might surely catch enough wood-hens or other birds to keep us alive. He replied, “I cannot possibly go through the bush any more; I am too weak.” He sat down, and continued: “I shall not take to the bush again; if I do not find Dixon’s ship at the Grey, I shall take a Maori with me to the Buller; there vessels arrive frequently; I shall then go to Nelson, and buy as much provisions for you as you like; you can then go to the Teramakau saddle, and return with the two men and horses, who are waiting for us there to take us back to Christchurch.” Then, rising up, he said, “We must try and find something to take us over on; I think two good dry logs tied together with flax will answer well enough.” “No,” I said, “it will not answer; I have crossed this river twice when there were five of us and a Maori, and we had nevertheless the greatest difficulty. The river is rapid, broad, and deep, and once in the stream, the current will take us out among the breakers, when we are lost. It is better for you to remain by the fire while I