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20-year-old Merv Addenbrooke was
a top-notch shot
with a rifle, a keen pig-hunter, and the key
witness
in the 1921 Mangamahu 'murder.'
Old
Mervyn's voice
And
nothing happened until the very last. I thought, oh,
King Dick's not about, he must be somewhere else. He's
probably in the bush somewhere. And the last thing, on
the opposite side, here he comes. I could hear the dogs
barking in the distance, but he came over, and down the
side he came — he had a great long bushy tail. And as he
came down the hill, his tail was going like this. He
looked a huge pig.
1.  Young
Merv burst through the whare door, his eyes were all agleam.
"There's pigs galore on Baker's Ridge,
an' the biggest boar I've ever seen."
Well, old George dropped the firewood axe and
grabbed a whisky quick.
"So you saw that big black
tusker boy,
watch out, that's old King
Dick
It is.
Watch out, that's old King Dick."
2. Old King Dick leads his mob to feed
in the Mangamahu Hills,
Where old George toils to clear the scrub
in the rain and winter chill.
And where Mervin on his ridgetop
watches tuskers grub and root 
In the gullies of a facing slope,
too far off to shoot
They were.
They were too far off to shoot.
3. Now Merv plays his accordion,
while George and his mate Jack
Get stuck into their monthly binge
with a dozen Sandy Mac.
"Play Maggie Mae again," cries George,
his arms wave in the air.
He tries to rise and dance a jig,
falls sideways off his chair.
He does.
Falls sideways off his chair.
4. Well the boy picks up the old man 
and helps him to his bed.
"Wa'sh out boy, here comes King Dick,
with tusks all bloody red
He got ol' Scott and Digger,
the besht dogs in me pack...."
The boy straps on his Bowie knife
and he heads out up the track
He does.
He heads out up the track.
5. Back of Bakers' he finds hoofprints,
follows King Dick's mighty mark
To a pig run in the bracken,
a tunnel close and dark. 
He's halfway up the tunnel
when King Dick charges down.
A six-inch tusk rips Mervin's leg
he crashes to the ground
He does,
He crashes to the ground.
6. But he's back next day with men
and dogs who hool the pigs along
To a rock outcrop where Merv now waits
with his .303 Long Tom.
He fires Long Tom a dozen times,
a dozen boars fall down.
Not one of them the great King Dick;
Black Richard's gone to ground
He has. 
Black Richard's gone to ground.
7. But a dozen red-eyed tuskers
are whirling round the room,
Where a dozen empty bottles,
Sandy MacDonald wishky eh?
sing a dead man's tune.
Old George is lying on the floor,
eyes full of fear and pain,
"It's King Dick Jack; quick, swing your axe.
He's gouging out my brain,
He is.
He's gouging out my brain."
Back on the rock, the boy still waits,
the dogs now barking loud.
His Majesty bursts forth at last,
running strong and proud. 
One shot at a hundred yards,
the old King falls down dead.
The boy pulls out his Bowie knife
and he hacks off King Dick's head.
He does.
He hacks off King Dick's head.
And it's many a mile that the hunter walks,
he arrives in the dead dark night.
And from old George's whare,
well, there comes ne'r sound nor light.
Mervyn stops to strike a match
and steps in through the door.
And he finds old George
with his head lopped off,
lying on the floor.
Old Mervyn's voice
He
had done the deed because George his old cobber had
asked him to do it "He asked me to cut his head
off, he lay on the floor and asked me to cut his head
off, and I did it."
I got out post
haste, tore down to tell my cousin that there had been a
murder.
King Dick, the Biggest Boar Ever
An Extra Large Boar
Across the river from Cecil's, on a holding called
Wharemata, there was amongst the many wild pigs an extra
large boar. The boar's refuge was a two thousand-acre
block of bush reserve which was situated between the
Whangaehu valley and the Mangawhero valley. Although the
bush was his refuge, he came out to feed in the bracken
fern, second growth and scrubby valleys. He was known to
be in the vicinity for many years.
This pig went by the name of King Dick, and was a great
fighter, especially amongst the pig dogs, a few dogs
being killed by him. I remember one young fellow who had
made up his mind to get this pig, going out several
times during the year with his two holding dogs. One of
his dogs got badly ripped along the stomach, which
allowed his intestines to come out and drag on the
ground.
I had been eager to get this pig for about two years,
but he was too clever for me, even when I carried a
rifle, for he seemed to make for the dense cover while I
was out or range every time. My dogs were sheep dogs,
which usually stood off to bark and bail him, and even
one of them got ripped, but I usually carried a needle
and thread and something to use as a muzzle in case of
being bitten while operating. Twice I had to carry a dog
on my horse in front of me, but a sick dog seems to know
it is for the best.
The Fatal Day
It seemed impossible to get this boar, but I finally
arranged with two other shepherds to make a big noise
mustering the block, while I stationed myself on a high
rock which emerged from a low saddle leading into the
main bush, where I had noticed the main lot of pigs used
to make for. Numbers of pigs of all sizes came past me,
but I was not firing a shot except only at the big
boars. I waited for about three hours in the one place,
where I estimated at least a hundred pigs passed me.
I shot three fair-size boars, but no King Dick. I could
hear the shepherds' dogs in the distance, and thought
King Dick has beaten me again, but on viewing a steep
sidling opposite me, I saw my quarry coming full tilt
down the steep sidling with his  long
brushy tail (typical on old boars) swinging from side to
side.
When he got to the valley bottom just below me, he
stopped for a breather, only about a hundred yards below
me. He received a fatal shot. Eventually the shepherds
arrived on the scene after I had cut the head and
trotters off.
We made for home and found, when we arrived, that Cecil
had visitors. We took the trotters in to show them, but
they wouldn't believe us. They thought the trotters were
the legs of a cattle-beast until they went out to see
the head.
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The Mangamahu Murder, 1921
George Gordon
George Gordon was a man about in his forties, and had
been a bushman in past years. While I was at Cecil's he
mainly worked on the road with the permanent roadman,
besides doing a few jobs for local farmers. George and I
shared a whare that was about five hundred yards from
the homestead, and was close to the road. George used
the big room with the fireplace at one end, while I
slept in a small room at the back. George had his bouts
of drinking,  usually
every six weeks or two months, which normally went on
for a week or more with his mates helping him out, then
ordering more grog from the Mangamahu Hotel.
This time drinking had been going on for nearly a
fortnight, while I was having very little sleep night
after night, until one evening I remonstrated with
Jack Kinsella, his drinking mate, for his persistent
playing of my accordion and keeping me awake. I had to
calm down, for he offered to bash my brains out, so I
was not too happy about his idea.
The Fatal Day
In the morning when I left to got to work, George was
sober enough to be sharpening his axe with a file. I had
told Cecil I thought something drastic might happen
later, by the way things were shaping. Also I owned a
long-bladed pig-sticking knife which Kinsella had taken
from my cupboard to threaten George. He drew the back of
the blade across George's throat, then George said "You
made a bloody bad job of that, Jack."
On July 22nd, 1921,
on returning from work at about five thirty-five pm, I
went for the cows, and on my return Cecil asked me to
bring my bed clothes down to the house, so as I could
get some sleep, because the drinking bout still seemed
to be in progress. On going into the whare to get
cleaned up and changed for the evening meal at
Cecil's, I walked into the dark room through the open
door, then felt myself walking in something sticky.
On striking a match I was horrified to see George with
his head severed except for a thin piece of neck skin
still intact and his head lying sideways from his
shoulder. He was a big fattish man and must had bled
profusely, for half the floor was covered in blood.
While I was there, Kinsella and another man were very
intoxicated, sitting on a  form
nearby, Kinsella telling the other man that he,
Kinsella, had done the deed, because George his old
bushmate cobber had asked him to do it. "He asked me
to cut his head off. He lay on the floor and asked me
to cut his head off, and I did it."
I got out post-haste, tore down to my cousin to tell
Cecil there had been a murder and that George had lost
his head. Cecil then asked me to run around to Jim
Campbell to tell him to come quickly, because Cecil
feared for his family. Jim was having his dinner when
I went in hastily to tell them, but he insisted on
finishing his meal in a casual way, while I stood on
one foot then another, waiting in suspense.
Working With The Police
We went back in time to intercept Kinsella and the other
man on their way to the house, where they said they
wanted Cecil to ring the police. While waiting for about
three hours for the police to arrive from Wanganui,
Kinsella was at times very restless, groping around the
wool-press where we thought he might make a break for
freedom, using the iron bale clips, so a good double tot
of whisky calmed him.
When the police car was arriving, with lights
showing in the distance, someone yelled "Here come the
police" and Kinsella made a flying leap off the high
steps of the doorway, but one of the neighbours caught
his foot and tripped him, then we grabbed him before
he could escape. He was taken away in the police car,
leaving one policeman Constable McMullen,to clean up
and bring the body to Wanganui.
The next morning  McMullen
and I went up to the whare to clean up the mess. First
he sewed the head back onto the neck with baling twine
so as to hold it rigid. Then after cleaning up
everything in the frosty morning, we wrapped the corpse
in its own blankets, which did not cover its full
length, for a bare foot was left protruding from the
blankets. My cousin those days had a yellow Maxwell
five-seater car, and the back seat was taken by the
corpse, while three of us sat in the front for the
six-mile journey to Mangamahu.
When we arrived at the hotel, the constable pulled the
corpse out of the car, got it on his shoulder and
carried it over to the pub, where he leaned it against
the wall near the bar entrance while we went for a few
spots. Some children came home for lunch and were
scrutinising this unwieldy parcel, when the constable
told them they better run home. As the news had
travelled through the grape vine, the children got an
idea of what it was and went home for their lives.
At last the Royal Mail arrived, a big Hudson service
car, the driver going in to dine before leaving for the
return journey to Wanganui. The corpse was placed in the
very back compartment, ready for the journey, no
passengers excepting the constable boarding at
Mangamahu. About halfway to Fordell the bus stopped at
Kaungaroa to pick up some Maoris from that quite big pa.
One Maori carrying a big portmanteau asked the policeman
"Where I put my bag?" and the constable, taking it from
him, put the bag inside the very back door. On arriving
at Fordell, where most of the passengers alighted for
drinks at the hotel, the owner of the portmanteau asked,
"Where you put my bag?" The constable said "Just inside
that back door." The Maori opened the door, gripped the
big case by the handle, at the same time seeing the
protruding foot. He held onto the case, but got out of
range quickly, making a bee-line to get on the train,
which was leaving for Wanganui. After this episode the
Maoris never rode again in that particular bus.
Chief Witness
Large crowds turned up to hear the inquest later on, and
I, being only twenty years of age, never been in a Court
House before, felt very nervous and embarrassed. As I
was the chief witness, I was kept in the witness box for
what seemed hours with questions thrown at me right and
left. I was asked why I had a premonition that something
drastic  might
happen and how did Kinsella come to threaten the
deceased with your knife. I found these questions hard
to answer, but stuck to what I truthfully knew. George
was a man that had no relations in New Zealand and was a
real hermit.
I had no doubt in my mind that George Gordon asked
Kinsella to do him in, because I had several experiences
of George asking me to shoot him when I was cleaning my
rifle after coming from pig hunting, and this only
happened when he was drunk. Kinsella was a man whose
physical actions, when drunk, were as good as a sober
man, and he would be able to wield an axe with accuracy.
The other man who drank found it an effort to stand, let
alone walk, and he would be a poor axeman when drunk.
Kinsella was granted 14 years in prison, but I was told
he got off with eight years for good conduct. At the
time of this execution, Sandy McDonald was the brand of
whisky George Gordon had been drinking. It was taken off
the market after the murder trial and not sold again in
New Zealand for 66 years. I believe it only just came
back on the new Zealand market again recently, in 1988.
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Mervyn Addenbrooke
Merv Addenbrooke was born at Mangamahu in 1901. He worked
as a bushman/fencer /shearer on local farms there until 1930. In
1930 Merv married and bought a run-down dairy farm at Putaruru.
He died in 1993.
He was 88 years old when he showed me a biscuit-tin full of his
stories written on scrap paper .
"Could you help me put all this into a book? A hard-bound book
with gold lettering? I want to give copies of it to guests at
my 90th birthday party."
Merv's 1991 autobiography has detailed stories about his
childhood and farm-working days in Mangamahu between 1901 to
1930.You can now find the book in most New Zealand libraries. Or
you can read those Mangamahu stories here.
Other Mangamahu songs
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I
wrote these ballads in Palmerston North between 1979
and 1990. I had just left teaching in Catholic schools
as a Marist Brother, and after 20 years of isolation
in that big-city monastic teaching lifestyle, I was
learning how to live normally again. These songs
chased away demons, and helped reunite me to my rural
Mangamahu community.
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1910
- Here's to the girl who delivers our mail
1948
- We're off to Mangamahu!
1953
- They brought 40 bodies to our shed
1967
- With razor teeth they wait beneath
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Wet
Dag Crutching Blues
1979
- But I loved working as a rousie.
Ite Missa Est
1981
- Farewell to that lonely life
My Tractor
1983
- My br-in-law was obsessed with cropping
Postholes
1984
- Computerised railway chaos
Aunty
May
1985
- She forgot to forget her 1936 baby.
The Lady Loader-Driver
1990
- A topdressing strip romance
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