In the quiet little harbour of Mulifanua, situated at the western end of
the island of Upolu, a fine-looking brigantine was lying at anchor, and
the captain and supercargo were pacing the deck together enjoying their
after-breakfast pipes.
The brigantine was the _Maori Maid_ of Auckland, Captain Heselton,
and the supercargo was young Robert Flemming. The vessel had run into
Mulifanua Harbour owing to her having struck on a reef a few days
previously whilst beating up against the south-east trades from Wallis
Island to Leone Bay, a port on the island of Tutuila, one of the Samoan
Group, and as she was leaking rather seriously her captain decided to
run into Mulifanua, put her on the beach, and get at the leak or leaks.
“There is no need for you to stay on board, Bob,” said Heselton
presently to his young supercargo. “Go ashore and stay ashore until we
are ready for sea again. All going well we'll find out where the damage
is by this time to-morrow, and be afloat again in a few days. But there
is nothing to keep you aboard, and you might as well put in your time
shooting or otherwise enjoying yourself; why not go and have a look at
Goddeffroy's big plantation? It's only about a couple of miles away.”
“Thank you, captain, I think I shall. As you know for years past I have
always been hoping that during one of our cruises, I might come across
some native or other on one of these plantations who might be able to
tell me something about those four poor fellows who were collared by
that Peruvian barque ten years ago. And this plantation of Goddeffroy's
is one of the biggest in the South Seas--there are over seven hundred
labourers, Line Islanders, Solomon Islanders, New Britain niggers and
heaven knows what else.”
“Well, you'll have a good chance now. And look here, Bob--take your
time, a day or two more or less doesn't matter to us. I shall have
plenty to do even after I get at this confounded leak. The rigging wants
setting up badly, so we may be here any time under a week.”
“Right. I'll go and have a look at the plantation; and if the manager is
a decent sort of a Dutchman he might put me up. If he's a hog--which
he probably is--I'll go to the native village, sleep there to-night and
have a day's pigeon-shooting to-morrow.”
Just then a boat was seen putting off from the shore, manned by Samoans,
but steered by a white man, who as soon as he came on deck introduced
himself as the local trader. He was a quiet, good-natured old fellow--an
Englishman--and as soon as he learned of the mishap to the brigantine,
at once offered to get a gang of natives to assist in beaching her; and
then pressed Flemming to make his house his home during the stay of the
vessel.
“Thank you,” replied the young man, “I shall be very pleased. I want to
have a look at the big plantation here and try to have a yarn with some
of the Eingsmill Island labourers.” Then he told the trader, who was
much interested, the object he had in view.
“I'm sure that the manager will let you talk to any of the labourers,”
he said, “for he's one of the 'White men' kind of Dutchmen. His name
is Knorr. He succeeded a regular brute of a man who used to flog the
plantation hands right and left. A lot of them have run away during the
past six or seven years and have taken to the mountains. They are all
armed, and sometimes, when they are in want of food, will lay the Samoan
villages under tribute, and if any resistance is shown, they set fire to
the houses. The Samoans are terribly afraid of them, for there are two
or three cannibal Solomon Islanders among them, and a Samoan has a holy
terror of a man-eater.”
“Why don't the Dutchmen capture the beggars?” asked the captain. “There
are enough of them in Samoa.”
The old trader laughed--“Ay, too many, sir; too many for us poor English
traders. But they have tried, time and time again, to capture these
fellows, but only got badly mauled in two or three fights. There is a
standing reward of two hundred dollars for every one of them, dead or
alive, and about a year ago ten flash young Samoan _manaias_{*} set out,
well armed and well primed with grog, to surprise the escapees, who were
known to be living in an almost inaccessible part of the mountains. Only
four of the ten came back; the other six were shot down one by one as
they were climbing the side of a mountain, and these four were made
prisoners by the outlaws, who gave them such a fright that they will
never get over it. It was as good as any novel to hear them talk about
it, I can assure you.”
* Warriors or rather would-be warriors--young men whom the
local white men usually speak of as “bucks,”--i.e., flashy,
saucy fellows.
“Go on, tell us the whole yarn,” said the skipper of the _Maori Maid_,
as he pushed a decanter of brandy towards his visitor, and take a cigar.
“It's pleasant to meet an Englishman in these Dutchman-infested islands,
especially when he has a good yarn to spin.”
“The yarn isn't a pleasant one, captain,” said the trader. “It's a
d------d unpleasant one, but it's true, sir.”
He lit a cigar and then resumed: “Well, after six of these flash young
fellows were shot down, the other four dropped their rifles and cried
out, _Fia ola! Fia ola!_ (Quarter! Quarter!) and in a few minutes about
a dozen of the escapees made their appearance, took away their rifles
and cartridges, and tying their arms behind their backs made them march
in front of them up the mountain-side till they came to a bit of a
thicket in which were four or five small huts. Telling their prisoners
to sit down, half of their number went away, returning in half an hour
with the six heads of the men who had been shot.
“Take these heads back with you,” said one of the outlaws, who could
speak Samoan, “and tell all Mulifanua that we are strong men. We fear
no one, for we have plenty of guns and cartridges, and five hundred men
such as you cannot take us. And say to the chief of the village, that on
every fourth day, food for us must be brought to the foot of the eastern
spur of the mountain. If this be not done, then shall we kill all whom
we meet--men, women or children. Now go and tell the man who flogged
us that some day we shall cook and eat his head, for we are very strong
men.'
“Well, the four poor trembling beggars were liberated, and carrying
the six heads of their comrades, they went back, and their story so
terrified the people of Mulifanua that no further attempt was ever made
to capture the outlaws. And although the Germans don't know of it, the
villagers are to this very day, gentlemen, supplying these dangerous
devils with food, and I know for a fact that sometimes two or three of
them come down from the mountains and sleep in the village without fear.
They have never troubled me; but very often a native boy or girl will
come to me and buy a 28-lb. bag of shot, caps and powder, and I know
perfectly well that it is for the 'wild men,' as the people here call
the escaped men. Every one of them has not only a rifle, but a shot-gun
as well, for they one night broke into the plantation store and carried
off all the rifles and guns they could find.”
“Take care, Bob, that they don't take some pot shots at you,” said the
captain, with a laugh, as his supercargo rose to get ready to go ashore
with the trader.
“They would if they thought Mr. Hemming was a German from the
plantation,” said the trader, seriously, “so you had better not go too
far away when you are shooting, unless you take a native guide with you.
For, as I have said before, these men and the people of the village
are now, I really believe, in secret friendship, or rather alliance--an
alliance born out of terror on one side and savage desperation on the
other.”
A few minutes later young Flemming and the trader were being pulled
ashore.