Defended on one side by a creek, on another by the Waipa river, elsewhere by deep ditches and banks that were almost cliffs, the lofty stronghold was as difficult to escape from as to enter.  It was crowded with women and children:  ten thousand people were in it, says one account.  When the spear-men broke before the terrible musket-fire, the mass of the despairing on-lookers choked the ways of escape.  In their mad panic hundreds of the flying Waikatos were forced headlong over a cliff by the rush of their fellow-fugitives.  Hundreds more were smothered in one of the deep ditches of the defences, or were shot by the merciless Ngapuhi, who fired down upon the writhing mass till tired of reloading.  It was the greatest of Hongi’s victories, though not bloodless for the conquerors, like that of Totara, where only one Ngapuhi had been killed.  Famous fighting men, the Waikato chiefs had died bravely, despite the amazement caused by the mystery of firearms.  One had killed four Ngapuhi before he was shot.

Another of Hongi’s triumphs was at Rotorua in the Hot Lakes district—­the land of the Arawa tribe.  He began by defeating them on the Bay of Plenty, and thence turning inland found the tribe gathered in strength on the green island-hill of Mokoia, encircled by the Rotorua lake.  Hongi’s war-canoes were twenty-five miles away on the sea-beach, and the Mokoians ridiculed him as he lay encamped by the edge of their lake, unable to get at them.  Day after day they paddled to within hailing distance and insulted him with yells and gestures.  But the Ngapuhi general was not to be stopped.  Like Mahomet the second, he made his slaves drag their craft overland, and the astonished islanders saw his flotilla sweep across Rotorua bearing the irresistible musketeers.  On their exposed strand they were easily mown down.  Flying they were followed by the Ngapuhi, and few indeed were the survivors of the day.  Hongi’s ravages reached far to the south and east.  Even the Ngatiporou, who dwelt between Cape Runaway and Poverty Bay, felt his hand.  Their pas fell one after the other, and only those were not slaughtered who fled to the mountains.

For a while it seemed as though Hongi’s dream might come true, and all New Zealand hail him as sole king.  His race trembled at his name.  But his cruelty deprived him of allies, and the scanty numbers of his army gave breathing time to his foes.  He wisely made peace with the Waikatos, who, under Te Whero Whero, had rallied and cut off more than one Ngapuhi war-party.  In the Hauraki country he could neither crush nor entrap the chief Te Waharoa, as cunning a captain and as bloodthirsty a savage as himself.  His enemies, indeed, getting muskets and gaining courage, came once far north of the Auckland isthmus to meet him; and though he beat them there in a pitched battle, it cost him the life of his eldest son.  He became involved in feuds with his northern neighbours, and finally marched to attack our old