The War Court and Lap Pillow, Austria's Mandate of Heaven

Chapter 1621 Inviting Guests for a Ceremony, Beheading the Beast, and Taking Him as a Dog (Part 1)

"I'll send someone to inform the nearby Maori tribes that you want to negotiate with them. The negotiation should take place in a neutral area. Where do you think would be a good choice?"

Militia Commander George had begun to seriously consider how to cooperate with Palmerston, but his approach clearly failed to satisfy the diplomat who was eager to return to London.

In fact, George was only appointed as the militia commander because he was a retired low-ranking officer. The problem was that he bought that rank entirely to make his retirement look respectable.

Although George had been in the army for more than a decade, he had only ever temporarily commanded a maximum of ten men.

Sending him to war? Don't be ridiculous.
"Neutral zone? Why?"

The militia commander was completely baffled by Palmerston's question.

"This can avoid unnecessary misunderstandings."

"Misunderstanding? What do you mean by misunderstanding? Are the killing of our herdsmen and the injury of our tax officials also misunderstandings?"

George didn't want to cause any unnecessary trouble; he just wanted to farm and herd sheep in peace.

"Your Excellency, those Maori people see us as invaders."

George was interrupted by Palmerston before he could finish speaking.

"Invaders? Who are the invaders? We live and work on land we legally purchased in the UK, so why do they call us invaders?"
Is it because of their shortsightedness? Or because of the weapons in their hands?
Please remember, my friends, negotiation is not begging, it is a transaction. Concessions are only seen as weakness! We must take up arms to protect our homeland!
Bring along fine wine and sheep! You might also bring a few rifles; they can accept our goodwill, or perhaps taste our bullets!

As soon as Palmerston finished speaking, the crowd erupted in enthusiastic cheers. Militia Commander George did not say anything more; he knew that whatever he said would be in vain.

The people traversed the hills and walked along rugged roads, and soon they discovered a Maori village. From afar, they could see countless domed huts arranged in a circle, and behind rough fences, women were working with stone and wood tools.

"Their skin color is somewhat similar to that of Indians, and the village's organizational structure is also similar. I hope they can be as obedient as Indians."

"The natives here are very warlike, and they eat people."

George seemed to be very convinced that the other person was a cannibal and was deeply afraid of it.

Suddenly, gunshots rang out, and a militiaman fell from his horse.

"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"

Gunshots rang out one after another, and screams echoed from the militia ranks.

Palmerston had never experienced war firsthand, and he immediately hid behind a carriage, not daring to move an inch.

The militia commander, George, had also disappeared. Without a leader, the other militiamen hurriedly hid, afraid to show their faces and become the target of the attackers.

If the attack had continued any longer, these militiamen, who had never participated in a war before, would likely have surrendered, and Palmerston would have become the highest-ranking British official ever captured by the Maori.

However, as the horn sounded, war cries echoed through the jungle, and then dozens of Maori warriors rushed out of the jungle to perform the Maori war dance, stomping their feet, sticking out their tongues, and making provocative roars.

By this time, most of the Maori warriors were equipped with firearms, but most still used old flintlock muskets, while the rest mostly carried spears and axes.

These warriors, dressed in grass skirts and covered in dense tattoos, coupled with their furious battle cries, had already terrified many British militiamen to the point of wetting themselves on the spot.

"Invaders! Get out of our land!"

A young but clearly distinguished Maori warrior roared in English, and the surrounding Maori warriors roared in unison.

Palmerston's party was in a sorry state; wagons had overturned, bottles of wine had shattered and were emitting a strong aroma of alcohol, sheep had scattered and fled, and militiamen were huddled behind the wagons.

George crawled up to Palmerston.

"Your Excellency, I speak Maori, let's retreat!"

Palmerston, however, gradually calmed down. "Shoot the leader."

"Are you crazy?"

George looked at Palmerston in disbelief.

"Do as I say if you want to live!"

Palmerston shouted angrily and shoved a rifle into the militia commander's hand.

George stared at the gun in his hand, unsure what to do. He longed to go home and be with his wife and children.
"Soldiers! Return fire!"

Palmerston roared, for George had been a member of the Red Shirts, and countless training sessions had long since made obedience to orders instinctive.

He stood up, raised his gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger in one fluid motion.

The young tribal chief was caught off guard and shot in the shoulder, throwing the tribe into chaos.

Meanwhile, Palmerston kept shouting, "Fight back! Fight back! We have more people, don't be afraid!"

Encouraged by him, the militiamen rose up and fought back. The natives, caught in the chaos, had no will to fight and fled into the jungle, leaving behind seven or eight corpses.

Upon discovering that the Maori had left, the militiamen erupted in a burst of enthusiastic cheers, their joy at surviving the ordeal overwhelming their reason.

No one except Palmerston noticed that the other side had less than half their numbers. George was also excited and walked over to Palmerston to say something.

"Your Excellency, we have won. Can we go back now?"

"Where to? The negotiations have only just begun!"

Three days later, Palmerston finally met the Maori chief, the so-called Potatau chief.

Potatou's temples were already gray, but his eyes were still as sharp as a hawk's; one look at him and you knew he was no ordinary person.

"Hello, Chief Potatau."

"I'm not well. My nephew is dead."

"Oh, that's unfortunate. May I ask how he died?"

“Three days ago, he was shot by your bullet and died in high fever and pain.”

Faced with Potatau's answer, Palmerston remained calm and instead said...

"He did something stupid; that kid shouldn't have ambushed us."

After hearing this, Pottatou stared intently into Palmerston's eyes, then spat out a few words through gritted teeth.

"It was you invaders who invaded our land first!"

"Invasion? Would you like to see what's in our carriage? It's cloth and fine wine! Have you ever seen invaders arrive with flocks of sheep? We've brought gifts!"

Palmerston could not possibly consider himself an intruder, neither at the national level nor at the level of personal morality.

"What else have you brought besides blood? Your gifts always contain knives! This is not an attack, but self-defense."

Palmerston didn't answer directly; he simply stared coldly at the other man. Although the chieftain spoke of blood feuds and invaders, the fact that the other man had come at all proved that he wanted to negotiate.

There are only two possibilities for why the other party wants to negotiate: first, they don't have enough leverage; second, negotiation is more advantageous than war.