The air is warm and balmy, the blue sea sparkles brightly, the lofty
mountains, glowing in the sunshine, rise up majestically into the clear
sky, the graceful palm-trees gently wave their boughs; all nature is
smiling with life, and health, and beauty, and all the perfections which
a bountiful Creator has spread over these regions. "What a paradise,"
exclaims the surgeon. "I agree with Golding, I should be well content
to remain here to end my days."
While watching for what is next to occur, we see four chief men, so they
seem by their dress and bearing, walking along the beach. Taro says
they are priests. There are several men in attendance. They stop, as
if waiting for some one. They are armed with clubs and knives. Among
the crowd comes a young man taller than his companions, and comely in
his appearance. He seems joyous and light of heart, for he sings and
laughs, regardless of coming ill. The priests, watching him
steadfastly, slowly approach. He stops and looks at them with an
inquiring expression on his youthful countenance. "We require one quick
of foot to bear a message to the Eatua," says the chief priest. The
youth starts. Before he can reply, a blow from the priest's club lays
him low on the sand. The others fall on him with their clubs, and drive
out any life remaining. The priests, surrounding the corpse, place it
with the feet towards the sea, and utter some long incantations, each
priest holding in his hand a bunch of red feathers. Then they rise and
place the body of their victim parallel with the line of the sea beach,
and more incantations are uttered. The king, meantime, and his
principal chiefs have assembled, and take their stand near the temple.
Hair is now plucked from the head of the victim, and one eye is taken
out and wrapped in leaves, and presented to the king. With drums
beating slowly the body is now borne up by the attendants of the
priests, and placed on one of the altars. The tufts of red feathers are
at the feet, and rolls of cloth at the head. After this, for a quarter
of an hour or more the chief priest addresses it, and pretends to give
the message it is to convey to the world of spirits. The surrounding
populace look on with stupid amazement, no one knowing whose turn it may
be next to be slaughtered as a sacrifice to their blood-loving deity.
While the priests are chanting round the corpse the attendants dig a
shallow grave, into which it is thrown with little ceremony, and covered
up with stones and earth. Fires are now lighted, and dogs and pigs are
slaughtered and roasted, and these being placed on the altars, the Eatua
is invited to partake of the feast prepared for him. When we left the
spot, I shuddering with a horror I had never before felt, the provisions
remained on the altars. Taro tells us that the priests, if angered with
a person, avenge themselves by selecting him as a victim, and that for
fear of offending them no one ventures to interfere. The priests have
thus gained more real power than the chiefs themselves. They generally,
however, select some of the poorer people as their victims.
We see arranged near the morai a pile of sixty skulls, and that of the
youth just slain is now added to it. They appear but little changed by
the air, and Taro says that they are those of victims who have all been
offered up within the last few months. He tells us that whenever one of
the chiefs is about to commence an undertaking, he selects some unhappy
victim, who is forthwith slaughtered and sacrificed. We have undoubted
evidence, too, that they often eat their enemies, and they do this
without shame or compunction. We see many of the chiefs and warriors
going about with human jawbones hanging as ornaments round their necks,
and we learn that they are those of enemies slain in war.
Sick at heart I accompany my shipmates. "Friend Golding, what do you
now say of these pleasant-mannered, happy islanders?" I ask.
"I knock under," says he. "England is a better place; but there are
thousands there who get on very well without religion, so I say religion
has nothing to do with it."
"Religion has everything to do with it," I answer, in a somewhat hasty
tone. "Religion influences those who have no religion themselves. The
heathen world of old, with all its civilisation, was not one jot better
than are these cannibals, equally given over to work all manner of
uncleanness. If it were not for the true faith of some, influencing
general opinion, many Englishmen would even yet be the same as these
savages. I may say, as said a pious minister of whom I have read, if it
were not for God's grace, we ourselves should be as are these poor
barbarians; we might well see ourselves in them."
"A truce with your preaching, John Harvey. You would make us all out
blacker than we are," says Phineas, walking on quickly.
"That were a hard matter," I say. "Be not offended, I include myself,
remember. It is only as we see ourselves in Christ Jesus that we are
otherwise than most black, guilty, and lost."
"I understand you not, John," he answers. "But you shall not force me
to acknowledge that I am not better than these half-naked savages."
"I did not say that; by God's grace, or in His providence, there are
great differences, but all are sinners in the sight of God's holy law.
But we will talk more of this another time."
This island of Tahiti, or Otaheite, is the largest of a group known as
the Society Islands. It is about fifty miles long, consisting of two
peninsulas joined by a narrow isthmus. It contains a mountain rising
twelve thousand feet above the level of the sea. The other islands of
the group are mostly lofty. They are Eimeo, Huaheine, Ulitea, Bolabola,
and others. They are volcanic, and mostly fertile in the extreme.
We visit Ulitea, a beautiful island where there is a vast morai.
Numbers of priests reside here, and it is looked on as the sacred island
of the group. In reality it is more given over to horrible wickedness
than any other. While on shore we witness another terrible human
sacrifice. Not a week passes but some unhappy people fall victims to
the bloodthirsty passions of the priests.
This my first introduction to savage life makes me feel doubly grateful
to God that I was born of Christian parents, and in a land where the law
of Christ, however imperfectly obeyed, is acknowledged in some sort as
the standard.
The wind being fair, we sail north-east towards the Marquesas.
We have been for ten days at the anchorage of Taogou, off the island of
Ohevahoa, the most fertile of the Marquesas. We have been engaged most
profitably in purchasing sandal-wood, and hogs, and fruits, and
vegetables of all sorts, and Phineas Golding is in high spirits, and
declares that these are a people truly after his own heart. Their
country certainly is beautiful, for though the mountains are not so
lofty as those of the islands we have lately left, they equally please
the eye, as do the groves, the valleys, and the waterfalls. The men are
tall, handsome, and athletic, and the women are scarcely inferior in
beauty to those of Tahiti. Alas, that I can say no more in their
praise. Both men and women are most depraved, of which we have constant
evidence. Hitherto we have been on good terms with these islanders. We
have a strict watch kept, and whatever may be their secret disposition,
they have had no opportunity of taking us at advantage. Taro warns us
to be on our guard. He tells us that they are treacherous, and that if
they thought they would gain by murdering every man of our crew they
would do so. Taro understands their language, which is much like that
of Tahiti and his own country. The men are much tattooed, their only
clothing being a piece of native cloth round their loins, but the women
wear a petticoat and a mantle over the shoulder. This cloth is made of
the fibre of a sort of mulberry tree--not woven, but beaten into a
consistency of paper. When torn the rent is mended by beating on a
fresh piece. It will bear washing only once. A garment thus lasts
about six weeks. The women are better treated than among most Indian
tribes. Their occupations are entirely domestic--they manufacture
cloth, cook, tend the house, and look after the children, but from all
we hear and see, their morals are degraded in the extreme.
Having completed refitting the ship as far as is necessary, I have been
able to go on shore. We form a strong body, twelve officers and men in
all, with muskets. Our chief object is to visit a valley where the
sandal-wood grows, to learn on what supply we can depend. High up the
valley we come suddenly on a platform on which grows a large grove of
bread-fruit, cocoa-nut, toa, and other trees. Amid them is a large idol
of hewn stone of a man in a squatting posture. The figure is not ill
sculptured. His mouth is wide, and his eyes and ears large, while his
arms and legs are short and out of proportion. There are numerous other
idols, of the same size and form, made out of the bread-fruit tree,
arranged on either side and behind him, as if they were his ministers
and attendants. To the right and left of these hideous idols are two
obelisks, about thirty-five feet in height, built very neatly of
bamboos, with the leaves of palm and cocoa-nut trees interwoven. At the
base are hung the heads of hogs and tortoises, offerings to the idols.
They are also ornamented with streamers of white cloth. A few paces to
the right of the grove we see four large war-canoes, furnished with
their out-riggers, and decorated with ornaments of human hair, coral,
shells, and white streamers. In the stern of each sits the figure of a
man steering with a paddle, and in full dress, with plumes, ear-rings
shaped like whale's teeth, and all the ornaments fashionable in the
country. These canoes are placed here to be blessed, we suppose, by the
priests. These priests have great power, for they are looked upon as
little inferior to the idols. We see this same stone idol represented
in a variety of ways, made of human bones, hung round their necks, or
carved on their clubs, or making handles to their fans and
walking-sticks.
We find that there is no lack of sandal-wood, which raises Golding's
spirits. Mine sink when I see the idolatry of these poor people, with
no hope that they may be taught better. On descending the valley we
pass a morai, or worshipping place, I may call it. On the ground is
seated the chief, with his sons, and a large number of his attendants,
or courtiers. In front of them are a number of little houses, or sheds,
made of bamboo, each about two feet long and rather less in height, and
ornamented with shreds of cloth. There are a dozen or more, forming a
cluster like a village. The chief and the rest are singing and clapping
their hands, and thus they go on for an hour or more. This they call
praying to their gods,--a fit homage to gods of wood and stone.
Sometimes they stop, and laugh and talk together, as if they have
forgotten what they are about. We have seen no human sacrifices, but we
have reason to believe that they take place, and from what we hear the
people are undoubtedly cannibals. There are several tribes on the
islands, in some instances two or more an the same island, who carry on
devastating wars with each other, and who all slaughter and eat the
captives taken in battle. Though they seem much attached to their
country, they firmly hold to the belief that there is a far better land
to the east, and numbers are seized with a strong desire to visit it.
Year after year the largest canoes are fitted out and provisioned, and
men, women, and children crowding on board, they set sail, and away they
glide, never to return. Strange to say, that although those who have
gone have not again been heard of, others are found equally ready to go
in the same direction, believing that their predecessors have reached
the happy land. The priests encourage this infatuation, as those who
embark leave their property to them. This is faith, but alas! sadly
misdirected. It shows a yearning for something better,--to escape from
cruel wars and practices and misgovernment, to attain peace and quiet
and rest. It is certain that almost all who thus embark perish horribly
at sea. A few may be thrown on coral islands,--probably to die,--
certainly never to return.
I must speak of the sandal-wood in which we are trading. It is a small
tree, with numerous irregular branches, and which with the trunk are
covered with a thick red-brown bark. The leaves, which turn inwards,
are of a very dark green colour. The flowers, growing in clusters, are
white, with a red exterior. The wood is of a light yellow colour, and
is very fragrant. It is sold to the Chinese, who burn it as incense in
their temples, and manufacture from it a variety of articles. Candles
are also made from it thus: a thin sheet of the wood forms a wick, which
is surrounded by a mixture of its sawdust and rice-paste.
Our traffic has continued without interruption. Tony Hinks, in command
of a boat with Golding, is embarking the sandal-wood, of which a pile
lies on the beach. I am watching from the deck through my glass what is
taking place. The vendor of the wood is a young chief: he has been
examining the articles given him in barter. Suddenly he seems
discontented with them, and refuses to put more wood into the boat
Golding, who is on shore, threatens him. He lifts his club, and I
believe that the last moment of the supercargo has arrived. Tony Hinks
is in the boat; he lifts his musket, and before the club can descend on
Golding's head a bullet is sent through the chiefs shoulder, and the
weapon drops powerless. Howling with rage, he retreats; but it is to
summon his countrymen, who with threatening gestures rush on. Golding
leaps into the boat amid showers of stones cast from the natives'
slings, followed by spears and darts. While some of the men shove off
others fire, and load again and fire. The boat is heavily laden, and
can with difficulty be moved. I fear that my shipmates will be cut off,
and share the fate of Captain Cook, and many others since his day. I
order another boat to be lowered, and cry out for volunteers. No lack
of them. I send down to the captain--there is not a moment to be lost.
I, with eight hands, leap into the boat. Away we pull. The captain
comes on deck and calls us back. He points to a fleet of war-canoes
coming round the point: he fears that we also shall be cut off, and that
the ship, with the loss of half her crew, may fall a prey to the
savages. Still I cannot without an effort see my shipmates destroyed.
We dash on,--the foam flies from our bows. Hinks has got his boat
afloat, but several of his men are wounded; yet they struggle bravely.
We open fire, and keep the savages at bay. The war-canoes, however,
approach,--Hinks' boat gets up to us. It is doubtful whether we or our
enemies will gain the ship first. We pull for our lives. Simon Fuller
will fight his ship to the last. Our shipmates are casting loose the
guns ready for action. The savages in the war-canoes stand up ready to
shower down their darts and stones at us.
"Give them a volley,--give them a volley," shouts Golding.
"It were lost time," I tell my men. "It were better get on board."
We keep ahead of the enemy, and gain the ship's side. The falls are
ready,--we hook on,--the boats are hoisted up, and we hasten to man the
guns. There is a favourable breeze out of the harbour, the anchor is
being hove up, the sails are loosed. The canoes gather round us; the
savages begin to assail us with all their weapons, shouting and
shrieking terribly. The ship gathers way; the savages, grown bold, are
climbing up the sides.
"Depress your guns, lads," says the captain. "Small-arm men, give it
them."
The shot goes crashing in among the canoes, knocking many to pieces.
Not a native clinging to the sides escapes the small-arm men. Again and
again we fire, leaving the natives terrified and amazed at the power of
our arms. Our guns loaded with langrage commit great havoc among them.
They lose courage,--the ship is clear of them.
"And so we bid you farewell," says Phineas Golding, firing his musket at
a chief with whom he had the day before been lodging. We sail out of
the bay, firing shot on either side.
"We have a good supply of sandal-wood, however," observes Phineas
Golding. "But we had a narrow escape from the savages."
Not a word does he say of his merciful preservation from death; and far
be it from me to hint that by my promptness I had a second time saved
him, and all with him, from destruction. Tony Hinks, however, when we
are clear away at sea, comes up to me and says--
"We owe our lives to you, Mr Harvey. If you hadn't come when you did,
it's my belief that not one of us would have escaped."