When I was supercargo of the brig _Palestine_, we were one day beating
along the eastern shore of the great island of Tombara (New Ireland) or,
as it is now called by its German possessors, _Neu Mecklenburg_, when an
accident happened to one of our hands--a smart young A.B. named Rogers.
The brig was “going about” in a stiff squall, when the jib-sheet block
caught poor Rogers in the side, and broke three of his ribs.
There were then no white men living on the east coast of New Ireland, or
we should have landed him there to recover, and picked him up again
on our return from the Caroline Islands, so we decided to run down
to Gerrit Denys Island, where we had heard there was a German doctor
living. He was a naturalist, and had been established there for over a
year, although the natives were as savage and warlike a lot as could be
found anywhere in Melanesia.
We reached the island, anchored, and the naturalist came on board. He
was not a professional-looking man. Here is my description, of him,
written fifteen years ago:--
“He was bootless, and his pants and many-pocketed jumper of coarse
dungaree were exceedingly dirty, and looked as if they had been cut out
with a knife and fork instead of scissors, they were so marvellously
ill-fitting. His head-gear was an ancient Panama hat, which flopped
about, and almost concealed his red-bearded face, as if trying to
apologise for the rest of his apparel; and the thin gold-rimmed
spectacles he wore made a curious contrast to his bare and sun-burnt
feet, which were as brown as those of a native. His manner, however, was
that of a man perfectly at ease with himself and his clear, steely blue
eyes, showed an infinite courage and resolution.”
At first he was very reluctant to have Rogers brought on shore, but
finally yielded, being at heart a good-natured man. So we bade Rogers
good-bye, made the doctor a present of some provisions, and a few cases
of beer, and told him we should be back in six weeks.
When we returned, Rogers came on board with the German. He was quite
recovered, and he and his host were evidently on very friendly terms,
and bade farewell to each other with some show of feeling.
After we had left the island, Rogers came aft, and told us his
experiences with the German doctor.
“He's a right good sort of a chap, and treated me well, and did all he
could for me, sirs--but although he is a nice cove, I'm glad to get away
from him, and be aboard the brig again. For I can hardly believe that I
haven't had a horrid, blarsted nightmare for the past six weeks.”
And then he shuddered.
“What was wrong with him, Rogers?” asked the skipper.
“Why, he ain't no naturalist--I mean like them butterfly-hunting coves
like you see in the East Indies. He's a head-hunter--buys heads--fresh
'uns by preference, an' smokes an' cures 'em hisself, and sells 'em to
the museums in Europe. So help me God, sirs, I've seen him put fresh
human heads into a barrel of pickle, then he takes 'em out after a
week or so, and cleans out the brains, and smokes the heads, and
sorter varnishes and embalms 'em like. An' when he wasn't a picklin' or
embalmin' or varnishin', he was a-writing in half a dozen log books.
I never knew what he was a-doin' until one day I went into his
workshop--as he called it--and saw him bargaining with some niggers for
a fresh cut-off head, which he said was not worth much because the skull
was badly fractured, and would not set up well.
“He was pretty mad with me at first for comin' in upon him, and
surprisin' him like, but after a while he took me into his confidence,
and said as how he was engaged in a perfeckly legitimate business,
and as the heads was dead he was not hurtin' 'em by preparing 'em for
museums and scientific purposes. And he says to me, 'You English peoples
have got many peautiful preserved heads of the New Zealand Maories in
your museums, but ach, Gott, there is not in England such peautiful
heads as I haf mineself brebared here on dis islandt. And already I haf
send me away fifty-seven, and in two months I shall haf brebared sixteen
more, for which I shall get me five hundred marks each.'”
Rogers told us that when he one day expressed his horror at his host's
“business,” the German retorted that it was only forty or fifty years
since that many English officials in the Australian colonies did a
remarkably good business in buying smoked Maori heads, and selling them
to the Continental museums. (This was true enough.) Rogers furthermore
told us that the doctor “cured” his heads in a smoke-box, and had “a
regular chemist's shop” in which were a number of large bottles of
pyroligneous acid, prepared by a London firm.
This distinguished savant left Gerrit Denys Island about a year later in
a schooner bound for Singapore. She was found floating bottom up off
the Admiralty Group, and a Hong-Kong newspaper, in recording the event,
mentioned that “the unfortunate gentleman (Dr. Ludwig S------) had with
him an interesting and extremely valuable ethnographical collection “.
Rogers's horrible story had a great interest for me; for it had been my
lot to see many human heads just severed from the body, and I was
always fascinated by the peculiar expression of the features of those
unfortunates who had been decapitated suddenly by one swift blow.
“Death,” “Peace,” “Immortality,” say the closed eyelids and the calm,
quiet lips to the beholder.
I little imagined that within two years I should have a rather similar
experience to that of Rogers, though in my case it was a very brief one.
Yet it was all too long for me, and I shall always remember it as the
weirdest experience of my life.
I have elsewhere in this volume spoken of the affectionate regard I
have always had for the Samoan people, with whom I passed some of the
happiest years of my life. I have lived among them in peace and in war,
have witnessed many chivalrous and heroic deeds, and yet have seen
acts of the most terrible cruelty to the living, the mutilation and
dishonouring of the dead killed in combat, and other deeds that
filled me with horror and repulsion. And yet the perpetrators were all
professing Christians--either Protestant or Roman Catholic--and would no
more think of omitting daily morning and evening prayer, and attending
service in church or chapel every Sunday, than they would their daily
bathe in sea or river.
Always shall I remember one incident that occurred during the civil war
between King Malietoa and his rebel subjects at the town of Saluafata.
The _olo_ or trenches, of the king's troops had been carried by the
rebels, among whom was a young warrior who had often distinguished
himself by his reckless bravery. At the time of the assault I was in the
rebel lines, for I was on very friendly terms with both sides, and each
knew that I would not betray the secrets of the other, and that my only
object was to render aid to the wounded.
This young man, Tolu, told me, before joining in the assault, that he
had a brother, a cousin, and an uncle in the enemy's trenches, and that
he trusted he should not meet any one of them, for he feared that he
might turn _pala'ai_ (coward) and not “do his duty”. He was a Roman
Catholic, and had been educated by the Marist Brothers, but all his
relatives, with the exception of one sister, were Protestants--members
of the Church established by the London Missionary Society.
An American trader named Parter and I watched the assault, and saw the
place carried by the rebels, and went in after them. Among the dead was
Tolu, and we were told that he had shot himself in grief at having cut
down his brother, whom he did not recognise.
Now as to my own weird experience.
There had been severe fighting in the Fâgaloa district of the Island of
Upolu, and many villages were in flames when I left the Port of Tiavea
in my boat for Fâgaloa Bay, a few miles along the shore. I was then
engaged in making a trip along the north coast, visiting almost every
village, and making arrangements for the purchase of the coming crop
of copra (dried coco-nut). I was everywhere well received by both
Malietoa's people and the rebels, but did but little business. The
natives were too occupied in fighting to devote much time to husking and
drying coco-nuts, except when they wanted to get money to buy arms and
ammunition.
My boat's crew consisted of four natives of Savage Island (Niué),
many of whom are settled in Samoa, where they have ample employment
as boatmen and seamen. They did not at all relish the sound of bullets
whizzing over the boat, as we sometimes could not help crossing the line
of fire, and they had a horror of travelling at night-time, imploring me
not to run the risk of being slaughtered by a volley from the shore--as
how could the natives know in the darkness that we were not enemies.
Fâgaloa Bay is deep, narrow and very beautiful. Small villages a few
miles apart may be seen standing in the midst of groves of coco-nut
palms, and orange, banana and bread-fruit trees, and everywhere bright
mountain streams of crystal water debouch into the lovely bay.
On Sunday afternoon I sailed into the bay and landed at the village of
Samamea on the east side, intending to remain for the night. We found the
people plunged in grief--a party of rebels had surprised a village two
miles inland, and ruthlessly slaughtered all the inhabitants as well as
a party of nearly a score of visitors from the town of Salimu, on the
west side of the bay. So sudden was the onslaught of the rebels that
no one in the doomed village escaped except a boy of ten years of age.
After being decapitated, the bodies of the victims were thrown into the
houses, and the village set on fire.
The people of Samamea hurriedly set out to pursue the raiding rebels,
and an engagement ensued, in which the latter were badly beaten, and
fled so hurriedly that they had to abandon all the heads they had taken
the previous day in order to save their own.
The chief of Samamea, in whose house I had my supper, gave me many
details of the fighting, and then afterwards asked me if I would come
and look at the heads that had been recovered from the enemy. They
were in the “town house” and were covered over with sheets of navy blue
cloth, or matting. A number of natives were seated round the house,
conversing in whispers, or weeping silently.
“These,” said the chief to me, pointing to a number of heads placed
apart from the others, “are the heads of the Salimu people--seventeen in
all, men, women and three children. We have sent word to Salimu to the
relatives to come for them. I cannot send them myself, for no men can be
spared, and we have our own dead to attend to as well, and may ourselves
be attacked at any time.”'
A few hours later messengers arrived from Salimu. They had walked along
the shore, for the bay was very rough--it had been blowing hard for two
days--and, the wind being right ahead, they would not launch a canoe--it
would only have been swamped.
Taken to see the heads of their relatives and friends, the messengers
gave way to most uncontrollable grief, and their cries were so
distressing that I went for a walk on the beach--to be out of hearing.
When I returned to the village I found the visitors from Salimu and the
chief of Samamea awaiting to interview me. The chief, acting as their
spokeman, asked me if I would lend them my boat to take the heads of
their people to Salimu. He had not a single canoe he could spare, except
very small ones, which would be useless in such weather, whereas my
whaleboat would make nothing of it.
I could not refuse their request--it would have been ungracious of
me, and it only meant a half-hour's run across the bay, for Salimu was
exactly abreast of Samamea. So I said I would gladly sail them over in
my boat at sunset, when I should be ready.
The heads were placed in baskets, and reverently carried down to the
beach, and placed in the boat, and with our lug-sail close reefed we
pushed off just after dark.
There were nine persons in the boat--the four Salimu people, my crew of
four and myself. The night was starlight and rather cold, for every now
and then a chilly rain squall would sweep down from the mountains.
As we spun along before the breeze no one spoke, except in low tones.
Our dreadful cargo was amidships, each basket being covered from view,
but every now and then the boat would ship some water, and when I told
one of my men to bale out, he did so with shuddering horror, for the
water was much blood-stained.
When we were more than half-way across, and could see the lights and
fires of Salimu, a rain squall overtook us, and at the same moment the
boat struck some floating object with a crash, and then slid over it,
and as it passed astern I saw what was either a log or plank about
twenty feet long.
“Boat is stove in, for'ard!” cried one of my men, and indeed that was
very evident, for the water was pouring in--she had carried away her
stem, and started all the forward timber ends.
To have attempted to stop the inrush of water effectually would have
been waste, of time, but I called to my men to come aft as far as they
could, so as to let the boat's head lift; and whilst two of them kept
on baling, the others shook out the reef in our lug, and the boat went
along at a great speed, half full of water as she was, and down by the
stern. The water still rushed in, and I told the Samoans to move the
baskets of heads farther aft, so that the men could bale out quicker.
“We'll be all right in ten minutes, boys,” I cried to my men, as I
steered; “I'll run her slap up on the beach by the church.”
Presently one of the Samoans touched my arm, and said in a whisper that
we were surrounded by a swarm of sharks. He had noticed them, he said,
before the boat struck.
“They smell the bloodied water,” he muttered.
A glance over the side filled me with terror. There were literally
scores of sharks, racing along on both sides of the boat, some almost on
the surface, others some feet down, and the phosphorescence of the water
added to the horror of the scene. At first I was in hopes that they were
harmless porpoises, but they were so close that some of them could have
been touched with one's hand. Most fortunately I was steering with a
rudder, and not a steer oar. The latter would have been torn out of my
hands by the brutes--the boat have broached-to and we all have met with
a horrible death. Presently one of the weeping women noticed them, and
uttered a scream of terror.
“_Le malie, le malic!_” (“The sharks, the sharks!”) she cried.
My crew then became terribly frightened, and urged me to let them throw
the baskets of heads overboard, but the Samoans became frantic at the
suggestion, all of them weeping.
So we kept on, the boat making good progress, although we could only
keep her afloat by continuous baling of the ensanguined water. In five
minutes more my heart leapt with joy--we were in shallow water, only a
cable length from Salimu beach, and then in another blinding rain squall
we ran on shore, and our broken bows ploughed into the sand, amid the
cries of some hundreds of natives, many of whom held lighted torches.
All of us in the boat were so overwrought that for some minutes we
were unable to speak, and it took a full bottle of brandy to steady the
nerves of my crew and myself. I shall never forget that night run across
Fâgaloa Bay.