LOLÓMA,
OR
_Two Years in Cannibal-land_:
A STORY OF OLD FIJI.
BY
HENRY BRITTON,
_Author of “Fiji in 1870.”_
MELBOURNE:
SAMUEL MULLEN.
LONDON: 48, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1884.
THIS STORY
IS
Respectfully Dedicated
TO THE HON. J. B. THURSTON, C.M.G.,
AN OLD SETTLER,
AND
THE FIRST COLONIAL SECRETARY OF FIJI,
In Memory of
PLEASANT RECOLLECTIONS OF OLD TIMES.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
[Illustration]
The object of this romance is to preserve in a readable form some record
of the ancient manners and customs, traditions and superstitions of the
Fijians, the most numerous and the most interesting race of savages in
the South Pacific, who are rapidly disappearing before the terrible push
and civilisation of the white man. The opportunity of acquiring
information on these subjects is fast slipping away with the older
aboriginal inhabitants, and if not now seized upon it will be gone for
ever. I have endeavoured to bring before the reader a picture of life in
Fiji as it was before that portion of the New World “stretched its dusk
hand to the Old.” To be of any value to the ethnologist, it is the first
requisite of such a work that its details, so far as they relate to the
country and its people, should be strictly accurate. In this respect the
sources from which I derived my information render the book, I believe,
thoroughly trustworthy. I desire to acknowledge my obligations to the
Rev. Jesse Carey, for many years a missionary in the Fiji Islands, for
his valuable assistance in translating legends and songs, and in placing
at my disposal a quantity of other important material. Hearing of the
progress of the story, Mr Carey furnished me with a bundle of
manuscript, accompanied by the following remarks:—
With a view to the more intelligent discharge of my daily duties in
Fiji, I added to other necessary studies the antiquities of that
country. The more I examined the subject, the more I was assured
that it was one of greater extent and interest than had been
supposed. This belief led me to issue circular letters, addressed to
the most intelligent native men in the islands. These letters put
forth a long list of questions bearing on Fiji’s past, and concluded
with an offer of prizes for the three best works thereon by native
authors. Twelve months afterwards this call was nobly responded to
by fifty competitors, and the result was as many essays, some of
which were remarkably able and exhaustive, besides a large number of
papers from non-competing writers. I now forward to you the pith of
this cannibal literature, a literature which it was possible to
secure only while the oldest inhabitants were still on this side of
the spirit-world.
In the construction of this tale I have made use of the interesting
manuscript here referred to, though of course a very large portion of it
was not suited to my purposes. For the rest I have relied upon my own
acquaintance with the scenery of the country, and my own recollections
of the manners and customs of its people, which I had opportunities of
observing during my residence among them.
Some portions of the first half of this book have appeared in the
“_Australasian_” in the form of short stories.
YORICK CLUB,
_Melbourne, 30th November, 1883_.
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAP. PAGE.
I. OLD SYDNEY 9
II. AT SEA 13
III. AN INHOSPITABLE RECEPTION 22
IV. A RACE FOR LIFE 32
V. THE ISLAND-WORLD 36
VI. THE PRINCESS LOLÓMA 42
VII. FAIRY FOLK 48
VIII. THE VALLEY OF TIVOLI 52
IX. CANNIBAL CHIEFS 61
X. WISDOM OF CANNIBAL-LAND 67
XI. THE WONDER OF CANNIBAL-LAND 75
XII. CAPTURE OF THE “EBBTIDE” 89
XIII. ELOPEMENT OF A GODDESS 95
XIV. A RIVAL’S STRATEGY 100
XV. ORDEAL BY SMOKE 105
XVI. OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES 108
XVII. A CANOE VOYAGE 117
XVIII. THE TEMPLE IS SET IN ORDER 127
XIX. GRIM-VISAGED WAR 132
XX. THE CANNIBAL BANQUET 137
XXI. A FISHING ADVENTURE 147
XXII. THE BIG FISH 154
XXIII. THE DEATH OF HOT-WATER 157
XXIV. A DISEMBODIED SPIRIT 161
XXV. THE SPIRIT-WORLD 165
XXVI. A TREACHEROUS CHIEF 176
XXVII. FAREWELL TO CANNIBAL-LAND 181
APPENDIX.
THE RELIGION OF OLD FIJI.
I. GODS AND THEIR SHRINES 186
II. CHIEF OF GODS AND MEN 195
INTRODUCTION.
[Illustration]
It has often occurred to me that I ought to write the story of my
adventures in Fiji in the old times, when, to the great bulk of the
inhabitants, the white man was little more than a myth; when the people
were as yet uncontaminated by contact with civilized races, many of
whose vices they have since acquired; when they were dutifully following
their long established customs, and faithfully adhering to the religions
of their fathers. My acquaintance with kings, chiefs, priests, poets,
ambassadors, soldiers, artisans, turtle-fishermen, and other classes of
Fijians, made me familiar with many legends in prose and verse,
containing ideas and pictures which must vanish for ever if not now
preserved, for they belong to times which have long since faded into the
thick darkness of the past.
If, in my old age, I can place on record some facts which may be
received as a historical memento of the most numerous and interesting
race of men in the South Pacific—a race which is rapidly disappearing
under the dominion of the white man—I may not only afford some food for
the speculation of ethnologists, but even amuse the present generation.
To look into the mind and heart of the cannibal as that mind and heart
thought and beat within him—while he lived his tropical life in his own
land, climbing his own hills, sailing his own canoes, fighting his own
battles with his own weapons, building and planting, courting and
marrying in his own way, training up his children to tread in his own
steps, and, finally, after a few dreamy yet not inactive years, passing
away by the blue light of his own religion to his own Heaven—shall be
the object of these reminiscences of a strange experience in my life,
which seems to me now, as the events crowd upon me, like a dream; but
not a half-forgotten one; for in early life the mind is highly
receptive, and there are no impressions so deep and lasting as those of
our youth.
CAMERON, LAING AND CO.
PRINTERS.
112 FLINDERS LANE EAST.
LOLÓMA:
OR, TWO YEARS IN CANNIBAL-LAND.
CHAPTER I.
OLD SYDNEY.
I was a boy in Sydney, the son of a Commissariat officer of the Imperial
establishment, when New South Wales was a penal colony, during the time
of the despotic rule of the military governors. We had as an assigned
servant a young man, Joe Whitley, who, at 18 years of age, was
transported from his native English village for poaching. He was but two
years my senior, and we were great friends. On Saturday afternoons we
often set forth on pleasant bush excursions of our own arranging, and we
even contemplated exploring the Blue Mountains, beyond which the
ignorant people said China lay, and in whose picturesque ravines there
were whitening in the sun the bones of many an unhappy bondsman who had
escaped his chains to perish of hunger and thirst while vainly hoping to
be able to tramp to the Flowery Land.
Sometimes we went boating in the romantic coves of Port Jackson, which,
with the same attractive natural scenery they now possess, had then the
additional charm of solitude. It was a pleasure to get away from the
rum-shanties of the infant city of Sydney, and the foul language of a
large part of its brutalised convict population, to the calm waters of
the harbour with its numerous prospects of wood-crowned heights, and the
soft airs perfumed by the wild bush flowers of the virgin forest or
untilled plain. One could not see the procession of stately ships which
are now for ever passing under the windows of one half of Sydney,
calling to the mind’s eye of him who has learned to read in their
appearance the varied businesses of these white-winged messengers of
commerce, something like a panorama of the world. Nor was there a fleet
of yachts to glide past with graceful sweep. But there were the same
charming points and eminences on which villa residences have since been
built, commanding views which on bright sunny mornings were of rare
beauty. And we had the romance of the sea to ourselves. We listened to
its many voices alone. There were none to interrupt our contemplation of
its sublime mystery, and we never tired of its fascinating
companionship.
These pleasant trips had an abrupt termination. My companion had the
misfortune to gain the ill-will of a fellow servant, who made interest
with the police, and had him unjustly sent back to prison for an alleged
breach of one of the regulations controlling the bond servants.
In those days even free persons were subject to the lash for very
trivial offences. What chance had a man, opposed to the false swearing
of convict constables, with an offended officer of the law for his
judge? Flogging was administered to the extent of 1,000 lashes, and
sometimes a magistrate would order a witness to be taken out of court
and subjected to the shameful indignity of a public flagellation, in the
hope of getting more satisfactory information out of him.
Whitley, in addition to a term of imprisonment, was sentenced to undergo
the lash for an offence of which he was not guilty. I was incensed. It
was the period of my hot youth, in which I had more enterprise than
discretion. I determined to procure his escape at all hazards.
The old Sydney prison in which Whitley was confined was situated near
Hospital Creek, in which private vessels unloaded their cargoes, and
where a barque, whose owner I was well acquainted with, was moored. The
gaol was surrounded by a strong high wall, and a numerous guard was
mounted day and night. By bribing a turnkey I gained access to my
friend’s cell one cloudy night, and forced open the lock with implements
I had brought for the purpose, for the turnkey had only bargained to
admit me and raise no alarm. A wheelbarrow and a couple of tubs piled on
top of each other brought me near enough to the iron _chevaux-de-frise_
of the wall to fasten a stout rope to one of the spikes. We were soon
astride of the awkward obstruction, and then, casting the rope on the
other side, we slid down to the ground, and congratulated ourselves that
we were out of danger. The whizz of a bullet over our heads, followed
immediately by the sharp report of a musket, soon undeceived us on that
point. A treacherous cloud had for a moment disclosed the previously
hidden moon. We were observed by the guard, a shot was fired, and chase
was immediately given. We soon outran our pursuers, and all would have
been well, but I was unfortunately recognised by the serjeant of the
guard, for, immediately after the report of his weapon, he called upon
Whitley and myself by name to stand.
The boom of a cannon from the signal battery at the north point of
Sydney Cove announced to the sleeping town that a prisoner had escaped.
The tramp of feet and the flickering of lights from point to point told
us that we must be away. As I had previously arranged, we made straight
for my friend’s barque in Hospital Creek. He had promised a place of
concealment in the hold; but, thinking the pursuit would be too hot for
that, he put us in a dingy, and we rowed over to Pinchgut, a small islet
a mile and a half from Sydney. This place was a mere rock, whose clefts
Joe and I had often searched for oysters (which grew abundantly there)
during our holiday rambles. It was occasionally used by the Government
for drying powder, but the place was avoided by the townspeople, because
upon the summit there stood a gibbet, on which a miscreant who had
murdered a colonist in return for half a pint of rum had paid the
penalty of his crime. The island was named Pinchgut by some
irreclaimable convicts who had been put there on short commons as a
punishment. Yet this place of sinister renown was sheeted with the
fragrant gold of the feathery mimosa, and was garlanded with bright red
creepers, as though nature mutely protested against the vileness of man.
Aided by our friends, it was easy for us to remain in concealment until
a good opportunity for getting away from the officers of the law
presented itself. I had succeeded in securing my companion’s liberty,
but I had not only broken the law and made myself liable to the same
cruel punishment from which I had saved him—I had compromised my father,
whose name I had used in the transaction with the turnkey. I determined
that, if possible, I would leave the colony. Whitely preferred making
his way to a relation in the country.
As luck would have it, while I was in concealment a sandalwood
trafficker from the South Seas put into Port Jackson to refit and
provision. I met her captain one night at a well-known locality of
dubious reputation called The Rocks, and had no difficulty in shipping
under the name of Thomas Whimpey as a common seaman before the mast.
Great was my grief that I could not take with me the sharer of my
youthful frolics. He was in hiding 20 miles inland from Sydney, and was
in a fair way to become a bushranger.
As I shall not have occasion to refer to my friend again, I may as well
state here what befell him. There came a time when so many prisoners
were at large, and the means of getting them in were so utterly
inadequate, that the Governor issued a proclamation _inviting_ them to
return before a certain date, with the assurance that all who had not
been guilty of murder or highway robbery should receive free pardons. My
escapee accepted a free pardon, and going into business not long
afterwards, became a highly-prosperous man.