Most of us vanish from public scrutiny following our deaths, but a few lucky ones get to hit the spotlight long after they’re gone.

That’s the case for Yorkshireman John Rushton, of Ōpōtiki.

John’s is an old-time Ōpōtiki love story.

He was a lieutenant and eventually a captain in the militia which fought Te Kooti circa 1869/1870, and during that time married the beautiful Maro Taporangi, of Ngāti Kareke hapū.

Jonathan was Maro’s second choice . . . a well-aimed sniper bullet moving her from one husband to the next.

In a perfect world, NZ On Air would fund Warner Bros or Great Southern Television to make a film of this story, but for now a few lines in the Ōpōtiki News will have to do.

Jonathon and Maro came to light after we ran a July 17 article about another officer who served in the NZ Wars, NZ Cross winner Captain Angus Smith.  

Today, like Rushton, Smith lies in an unmarked grave in the town cemetery.

In July, Ōpōtiki veterans’ advocate Gavin Nicol pointed out that the NZ Cross was given out only 23 times to Māori and Pākehā soldiers and officers, making it one of the rarest military decorations in the world.

Because of this, Mr Nicol suggested we make more of Captain Smith’s final resting place, and that it would be a good idea to fundraise for a gravestone.

This drew a stinging response from retired Army major Simon Strombom of the NZ Remembrance Army. He wrote to the paper accusing Mr Nicol of trying to steal his group’s thunder, saying he and his colleagues had fundraised 16 memorials for NZ Cross winners, and one for Captain Smith was planned.

“The irony is we will still be the people who put the headstone in. Nicol’s self-promotion is why younger veterans walk away from the RSA. He wants a legacy on the backs of others. He is not the values of the NZDF,” Mr Strombom said.

This attack on a respected local veterans’ advocate left most of us scratching our heads. But as all efforts to memorialise local military heroes are to be encouraged, the Ōpōtiki News has reached out to Mr Strombom’s group for more information on its plans. No word so far.

Meanwhile, we were challenged to research the life and times of Captain Smith’s contemporary, John Rushton.

He is mentioned in the book entitled Pathways to Paradise, by Ōpōtiki returnee Neil Ericksen.

The book centres on the family of John Parkinson, who started a soft drink factory at Ōpōtiki in 1867, painting a tense picture of those times.

Māori and Pākehā alike were kept on edge by the prospect of invasion following Te Kooti’s escape from Chatham Islands in 1868.  

During this stormy period Jonathon Rushton and his friend, David White, fell in love with Maro, who loved them both but could take only one as a husband.

After much contemplation, Maro drew them together explaining whoever she chose, the two men must promise to remain friends.

And they must promise that if one of them dies the other will look after her. The promise made, she chose David.

A year later, with battles being fought up and down the East Coast and far into the hills, the men’s promises would be tested.

David, a scout for one of the three bands chasing Te Kooti at the time, was shot and mortally wounded while crossing the Horomunga River in the Urewera range.

He had stepped out of bush cover and onto a shingle bank ready to wade across when a volley of shots rang out from a terrace on the other side, cutting him down in the shallows.

His comrades returned covering fire so that he could be carried to safety, and Alfred Parkinson (son of Bert John Parkinson) cradled his friend’s head in his lap as he died.

David’s last whispered word was “promise”, then his grip slackened, and his eyes stared up into nothingness.

After hours of heavy skirmishing David was buried on the mānuka-covered riverbed, with Major Mair reading the service under continued firing from rebels.

The so-called three-pronged attack on Te Kooti continued, with many civilians caught up in the mayhem, but ultimately the rebel prophet escaped into the King’s Country.

Please note that in this era – as Neil points out – the region was called, “The King’s Country”.

Within weeks, John was having a difficult conversation telling Maro her husband David was dead.

She wailed long into the night. As promised, John continued giving her support for days which spread to weeks. Maro’s family was upset by this. They had never really approved of her marrying David and said to John: “We do not want you here. Either marry Maro or leave her alone.”

And so it was that John made good on his friend’s dying wish that he would look after her. He married Maro in late December 1869 in Tauranga and they went back to live in Ōpōtiki.  

Neil Ericksen’s book has much more to tell of Jonathan Rushton’s service in the military, for example, his diplomatic efforts to dissuade Ōpape Māori from joining in an attack on Ōpōtiki by Te Kooti’s men.

At a boat shed on the banks of the Waiaua River, John Rushton and Matiu, a longtime member of his scouting party, were greeted with normal protocols before John, in fluent Māori, told those assembled that he knew the whereabouts of Te Kooti and that he was stirring up trouble for Ōpōtiki.

He implored them to stay loyal, saying in effect: “Nothing but heartbreak and further loss will surely follow if you heed Te Kooti’s impossible dreams and prophecies.”

To put this account into perspective it is mostly a guess at what happened at the meeting.

An astonishing amount of direct speech still exists from around the 1860s, words taken down by newspaper reporters of the day using shorthand.

For example, in 1857, ahead of the invasion of the Waikato, there was a decisive meeting of Ngāti Maniapoto at Haurua, a location named Te Puna o te Roimata, or “The Wellspring of Tears”.

It was at this meeting that Ngāti Maniapoto confirmed their support for Pōtatau Te Wherowhero as the first Māori King, and we know what people said at this meeting as journalists present took it all down in shorthand.  

Several years ago, the real words spoken at this and other important political meetings of the 1860s were made into a play called “Wellspring of Tears”, by Hamilton academic Russell Armitage, who worked on the project alongside Maniapoto elders.

Neil’s book has no such resources to work with. He uses letters written by people at the time and, as he says in the foreword, he has made up dialogue and conversations to flesh out accounts mentioned in letters and other written records.

With that in mind, here’s how the author describes John Rushton’s and Matiu’s meeting at Ōpape:

A chief in support of John’s words arose, saying: “The scabby sheep Kereopa is with Te Kooti. Touch not that which brought us profound loss and shame.”

Another passionate chief arose saying: “Surely trying is better than being trapped like scavenging kiore in this bleak reservation.”

As the gathering became increasingly agitated and fractious, Matiu tugged on John’s sleeve and whispered: “Go now, lest we leave tied to our horses in a beheaded state”.

With Te Kooti eventually confined to the Māori King’s Country, Ōpōtiki was granted peace. John applied but was rejected as commanding officer of the local militia, though he did receive a promotion from Lieutenant to Captain.

John Rushton was granted Lot 139 in the Ōpōtiki Township, near the east end of Ford St.

Much later he and Maro built a home on a pohutukawa-covered headland on the eastern shore of the Ōhiwa Harbour. John and Maro lived happily together for 60 years.

In a strange twist of fate, six years after Te Kooti was pardoned in 1883, the Government gave the old prophet land to settle along the Wainui Track on the shores of Ōhiwa Harbour and therefore not far from John and Maro’s place.

In 1925, after losing Maro, John moved to Ōpōtiki’s Masonic Hotel and soon after died himself. There are no further details to explain why he received no grave marker.

But his biographer, W.T. Parham asked, “Does not this gallant man deserve a headstone”?