The young man we picked up two days ago is better. He takes more to me
than to any one else, yet he is reserved even to me. His name is, he
says, Joseph Bent, and the brig was the _Wanderer_. I suspect that he
is one of those castaways who have fled from the restraints of parents,
or pastors and masters, and that he has been reaping the fruits of his
folly, and found them bitter. The brig undoubtedly visited the island
of which we have heard, and her crew were the men who committed those
black deeds of which I have spoken, but do not here again describe.
How soon are they all sent to their dread accounts except this youth!
Great is his astonishment when I speak to him of what was done, and of
the poor natives so barbarously carried away.
"The vengeance of a pure and just God quickly finds out the doers of
such deeds," I remark. "And, Joseph, my friend, where would you now
have been had you not been rescued by the hand of mercy from the jaws of
death?"
"In torment--in torment!" he shrieks out; "in everlasting torments!
Rightly condemned--rightly condemned!"
"But, think you not, that the same loving hand which saved your life
from destruction will preserve your far more precious soul from death
eternal if you will but believe in His power and will to save you? Do
not have any doubts on the subject. The most guilty are entreated to
repent and to come to Jesus--the loving Saviour--the Friend of sinners."
"These are strange words you speak, mate," said the young man sitting up
and looking earnestly at me.
"Not strange, friend," say I. "Thousands and thousands of times have
they been spoken before to the saving of many a perishing soul. Let
them not be spoken to you in vain."
Thus do I continue for some time, till I see tears starting into the
eyes of the young man. The knowledge of a Saviour's love softens his
heart, while his sins still make him afraid.
"I remember to have heard words like those you have been speaking, mate,
long, long ago," he observes. "I forgot them till now. They sound
sweetly to my ears."
"Never forget them again, friend," I answered, having now to go on deck
to keep my watch.
Joseph Bent lives, and is gaining strength, but as he does so he seems
to be hardening his heart, and avoids religious subjects; yet he speaks
of the doings of his late shipmates at Raratonga. What must have been
their feelings when their ship was going down, and the thoughts of their
late evil deeds came rushing on their minds. If people would but
reflect each morning as they rise, and say to themselves, "For what I do
this day I must most assuredly account before the judgment-seat of the
Almighty," how many a sin might be avoided; and yet, surely, the love of
Jesus, the dread of grieving our blessed Master, will do more than that.
With me love is the constraining power--with some men the fear of
judgment may have more effect; fear may prevent sin, but love surely
advances more the honour and glory of Christ's kingdom. It is love to
his blessed Master which will make a man give up home and country, and
go forth to preach the unsearchable riches of Christ to the perishing
heathen; fear will keep him strictly observant of his religious duties
at home: fear rules where the law exists; love reigns through the
liberty of the gospel. Yes, I am sure, that love, and love alone, will
make a man a persevering missionary of the truth.
We bring up at length on the north shore of Tongatabu, at the same spot
where, many years back, Captain Cook anchored his ships, when he called
the island Amsterdam. It is the largest by far of all the Friendly
Islands, being some twenty miles long and twelve broad, and it is very
beautiful, though not rising anywhere more that sixty feet above the
level of the sea. Its beauty consists in the great variety of trees and
shrubs with which it is covered, while few spots on the earth's surface
are more productive; added to this there is a clearness and brightness
in the atmosphere which is in itself lovely. Captain Cook bestowed the
name of the Friendly Islands on this group, on account of the friendly
way in which the natives received him. Captain Fuller says that he has
heard certain reports which make him doubt as to the friendliness of the
natives. They come off to us in large double canoes, unlike any we have
before seen. They consist of two canoes secured side by side, though at
some distance apart, by a strong platform, which serves as a deck. In
the centre is a house with a flat roof on which the chiefs stand. The
sail is triangular, and formed of matting, and long oars are also used,
worked on either side. These canoes carry a hundred men or more, and
make long voyages, often to Fiji, on the east, and lo! the Navigators
Islands, on the north. When sailing forth for war covered with armed
men, blowing conch-shells and flourishing their clubs and spears, they
have a very formidable appearance. Many smaller single canoes came off
to us ringing fruits and fowl of all sorts. They are a very fine race
of men, taller than most Englishmen, and well formed and of a light
healthy brown colour. They come on board in great numbers, and laugh,
and appear to be well disposed. The Captain's suspicions are soon
lulled, and so are Golding's. He wishes to trade with them for
cocoa-nut oil and other articles. Several of our men ask leave to go on
shore, and the captain allows them.
Just as they have gone off, Joseph Bent comes on deck. He has, he tells
me, been living on shore here for some time, and knows the people.
Notwithstanding their pleasant manners and handsome figures and
countenances, they are treacherous in the extreme. He tells that of
which I have not before heard, that missionaries have already been sent
out to these seas; that some were landed on this very island, of whom
three were killed, and the rest driven away. Some, strange to say, were
in King George's Islands while we were there, but we heard not of them
nor they of us. Indeed, I fear that our captain would have taken but
little interest in the matter, though he might have shown those poor
banished ones, as countrymen, some of the courtesies of life. Thus I
see that people may visit a place, and fancy that they know all about
it, and yet be very ignorant of what is going on within. Other
missionaries have gone, so says Bent, to the Marquesas Islands. We
heard nothing of them; indeed, our captain laughs at the notion of such
savages being turned into Christians.
"Who can this Bent really be?" I have asked myself more than once. For
one so young he knows much about these seas, and what has taken place
here. While I have been thinking how good a thing it would be to have
missionaries sent out among them, I find that people at home have
already done so, though as yet to no purpose, as far as man can see.
The people seem everywhere sunk in heathen darkness. When Bent sees
that some of our men are going on shore, he urges that they may be at
once recalled; but Captain Fuller says that the supercargo, Taro, and
Tony Hinks, will take care they do not get into mischief. The
half-naked chiefs, with their clubs in their hands, and many other
people are wandering about the deck, examining everything they see, and
now and then standing and talking, as if expressing their wonder. I
observe Bent moving quietly among them. Soon afterwards he comes up to
me.
"Mate," he says, in an ordinary tone, as if there was nothing the
matter, "These men are plotting to take the ship. The fellows on shore
will all be murdered, and so shall we unless we manage well. My advice
is to get the chiefs into the cabin on pretence of giving them a feast,
and then seize them and hold them as hostages. Directly that is done,
run the after-guns inboard and clear the decks. It will be better to
knock away the bulwarks than to be clubbed."
The captain seems unwilling to believe this.
"I have little to thank you for in saving my life if you do not now take
my advice," says Bent, earnestly. "You, and I, and all on board may be
numbered with the dead before many minutes are over. Look at those
men's arms, and at their heavy clubs. Whose head would stand a single
blow from one of them?"
I urge the point with the captain, for I am convinced that Bent is
right. He is still irresolute, when we see some more canoes coming off
from the shore. This decides him. Fortunately the men's dinner is
ready. The captain sends for it into the cabin, and the steward covers
the table with all other food he has at hand. We then fix upon four of
the leading chiefs whom Bent points out, and by signs invite them to
feast below. They look suspicious, and, we are afraid, will not come.
Bent stands by to hear what they say. He whispers to me that one of
them proposes coming, as it will throw us more off our guard. Again, by
signs, we press them to come below. When at length they comply, we
endeavour not to show too much satisfaction. We treat them with great
courtesy seemingly, keeping our eyes, however, constantly fixed on them.
We have the steward and two other men concealed with ropes ready to
spring out and secure them. The captain, Festing, and Bent, go below,
while I remain in charge of the deck, and Festing hands me up a brace of
pistols and a cutlass, through the companion hatch. The crew have been
prepared, and stand ready to run in the after-guns and to slew them
round the instant the chiefs are secured. I listen for the signal,
anxiously watching the proceedings of the savages. Now I see them
talking together; now they handle their clubs, and look towards the
cabin, as if waiting for the return of their chiefs to begin the work of
death. They eye our men askance. It is clear that both parties
mistrust each other. The suspense is painful in the extreme. There is
a sound of struggling, and shouts from the cabin; the savage warriors
press aft. Just then the captain cries out that the chiefs are secured.
I order the guns to be slewed round, and sign to the natives to keep
back. They are about to make a rush, when Bent springs on deck, and
shouts to them in their own language, warning them that if they move our
war-fire will burst forth on them, and that their chiefs will be killed.
The men, looking grim and fierce, stand match in hand at the guns.
Bent now orders the savages to return to their canoes. Sulkily, and
with many a glance of defiance at us, they stand, unwilling to obey,
till Captain Fuller brings on deck, bound, one of their chiefs, holding
a pistol to his ear. The chief speaks to them, and one by one they go
down the ship's side. Bent now tells them that unless all our
companions return in safety the lives of the chiefs will be taken. I
bethink me of writing a note to the supercargo, telling him what has
occurred, and urging him to return instantly. I give it to the last
savage who leaves the deck, and Bent explains to whom the paper is to be
delivered. We now use all haste to get ready for sailing. We have for
the present escaped a great danger, but we tremble for the fate of our
shipmates, and we are convinced that fear alone will keep these savages
in order. The chiefs, finding that Bent can speak their language,
endeavour to persuade him to let them go. "When our friends return you
will be set at liberty," is his answer. It seems at present very
doubtful whether they ever will return. Bent says that these people are
treacherous in the extreme, worshippers of devils, offerers up of human
sacrifices, and cannibals, though not so bad as the people of Fiji, the
next islands we are to visit. The chiefs all this time are kept in
durance below. I have seldom seen four finer men in figure and feature.
The children, Bent says, are often quite white, like English children,
but as heathens they are born, and as heathens they die, without hope.
A boat is now reported coming off from the shore. A large canoe
follows. In the boat are fewer men than left the ship. What has been
the fate of the rest? They come alongside, and we order the big canoe
to keep off. The supercargo and Taro make their appearance on deck.
Their escape has been most miraculous. Already had the clubs of the
natives begun to play on the heads of their companions, and five had
fallen. Golding tells me that he expected every moment to be his last.
The man next him had been struck down, and lay writhing on the ground,
when a cry was raised, and the canoes were seen hurrying away from the
ship, the savages refrained from letting drop their uplifted clubs, and
watched the approaching canoes.
When the messenger with the note arrived there was a long consultation.
Golding says he never felt so uneasy. It was handed to Tony Hinks, who,
unable to read, gave it to Golding. He assumed a tone of authority, and
through Taro told the savages that if all the survivors were not
released their chiefs would be carried away captives. They seemed to
hesitate. Golding believed that they were balancing in their minds
whether they loved their chiefs or the blood of the white strangers
most. At last they decided to let Golding and Taro with three other men
go, and to keep Tony Hinks, whom they take to be a chief, as a hostage.
Tony was very unhappy at being left, and tried to escape, but the
savages held him fast, and Taro, it seems, who owes him a grudge, would
not help him. Thus we are placed in a difficulty to know how to get
Tony back without first liberating the chiefs. If it were not for the
boatswain, the captain says he would hang all four at the yard-arm. At
last it is decided that one alone shall go, and Bent is instructed to
tell him, that unless the boatswain instantly returns alive and unhurt,
the other three shall be hung up. I put him on board a canoe, which
comes out to meet our boat as we pull in.
Some time passes, and at length Tony appears on the beach. We make
signals that he must be brought off in a canoe. As he steps into the
boat, stout-hearted fellow as he generally is, he sinks down, overcome
with the terror he has been in. Several of the crew cry out that now we
have got him back, we must hang the savages we have in our power in
revenge for our shipmates who have been clubbed. The captain says that
we are bound to let one go. I plead that all should be let go, that on
the faith of this Tony was returned to us, and that it is both our duty,
and wise as a Christian and civilised people, to show clemency to the
savages. With difficulty, however, I prevail, and Bent tells the chiefs
that they may order a canoe to come alongside, and may go free. They
appear very much astonished, and doubtful whether we are in earnest. I
watch their eyes when they fully understand that they are free to go.
Savages though they may be, there is human sympathy between us; they are
grateful for the way we have treated them; and I feel sure that we
should be far safer on shore should we return, than if we had hanged
them as proposed. "We are well quit of these savages," observes
Golding, as we get free of the reefs, and stand out to sea.
There is another group to the north of the Tongas called Samoa, or
Navigators Islands. The people, Bent tells me, are very like those of
the Tonga group. Of this Tonga group which we are leaving there are
numerous islands--the first collection to the north, called the Haabai
group, while further north is that of Vavau--all governed by different
chiefs, who spend their time in fighting with each other.
While I am on deck in charge of the watch that night I see a bright
light burst forth to the north-east, rising out of the sea and reaching
to the sky. There is a noise at the same time as if there was distant
thunder. I fancy at first that some hapless ship has caught fire, and I
send below to ask leave of the captain that we may steer towards her to
pick up any of the crew who may have escaped. The captain bids me come
and examine the chart, and I see several islands with burning mountains
on them marked down. The fire we see proceeds undoubtedly from one of
them--Koa, perhaps. The matter is settled by finding our deck covered
with fine ashes fallen from the sky.
Four days after leaving Tonga we find ourselves among islands of every
size and shape and height, many of them having lofty mountains in their
centres, while coral reefs are in all directions. Never has my eye
rested on scenes of greater loveliness than these islands present; they
are apparently fertile in the extreme, green gems dotting the blue
ocean. If men could be perfectly happy and gentle and contented, loving
each other and being loved, it would, I should think, be here. Each
island looks like a paradise--the abode of peace and innocence. We are
standing in towards a secure harbour formed by a coral reef, a native
town appearing on the beach, with a hill covered with graceful trees
rising above it, down which a waterfall tumbles and glitters in the
sunbeams, forming a clear pool, from which we expect to fill our casks.
I remark on its beauty to Bent.
"No doubt about that, Mr Harvey," he answers. "But we have more need
to be on our guard against the natives here than in any islands of the
Pacific. A more treacherous, fierce, and determined race of cannibals
is not to be found. Of all the islands we see scattered around, and of
many score more, the inhabitants of one dare not visit their nearest
neighbours, for fear of being entrapped and killed and eaten. Their
great chiefs and warriors boast of the number of people they have killed
and devoured; and if they have no captives in their hands when they wish
to make a feast, they will kill some of their own slaves, or will send a
party of their warriors to any small island near, to knock as many
people on the head as they may require."
I fancy that Bent is joking, though it is not a lively subject to joke
about. The captain, however, says that he will be on his guard, and a
strong party, well armed, will alone be allowed to go on shore. Still,
as we require water and fuel and fresh meat and vegetables, we must put
in here to obtain them.
We drop our anchor in a calm bay, with scarce a ripple on the surface of
the clear blue waters, while against the outer edge of the coral reef
the sea rolls in and breaks in masses of white foam. There is a town in
sight, surrounded by a ditch and bank, and bamboo stockades, and full of
cottages with high-thatched roofs. Above the town, on the hill, is a
separate tall building with an exceedingly high-pitched roof, also
thatched, the ridge-pole extending out on either side. It is a temple,
Bent says, where human sacrifices are offered, and many other abominable
things done. The god may be a whale's tooth, or a piece of cloth, or a
hideous wooden idol. Soon after we have furled sails, two large double
canoes make their appearance inside the reef, running for the town.
They have vast mat sails, and on the deck of each are fully a hundred
black warriors armed with clubs and spears and bows. They are painted
hideously. Several have huge heads of hair, and all are gesticulating
violently, as if recounting their deeds of valour. They pass close to
our vessel, but do not seem to heed us much. We have our guns run out
and the crew at quarters ready for them.
As I look through my glass I see in the bows of each some twenty dead
bodies arranged in rows--men, women, and children. "Alas! were these
taken in war?" I ask. The canoes reach the beach, and crowds come down
with loud shouting and wild leaps, and the canoes are hauled on shore,
and then the dead bodies are dragged up the hill towards the temple, all
the men shouting and shrieking louder than ever. They appear truly like
a horde of evil spirits let loose on earth. I accompany the captain and
supercargo with Bent, Taro, and a boat's crew, all well armed, on shore.
Taro explains that we come as friends, and as the people see that we
are well prepared for war, no opposition is offered. We enter the house
of a chief who has just died; his body lies at one end of a long hall
full of people. Among them are some twenty women, most of them young
and fine-looking persons. Their hair is adorned with flowers, and their
bodies are oiled. Some look dull and indifferent to what is taking
place, others are weeping, and others look well pleased. Taro tells us
that they are the wives of the king. Several men stand near them; ropes
are cast round their necks, and suddenly, before we have time to rescue
them, as we feel inclined to do, five of them are strangled, and fall
dead corpses on the ground. Their bodies are quickly carried off, with
that of the chief, and all are buried in one common grave. The new king
now appears, and the crowd come to do him honour. He is a tall, stout
young man--every inch a savage. We look with horror at what we
witness--the bodies are dragged up the hill, and thrust into huge ovens.
Some of the captives not yet dead are blackened and bound in a sitting
posture, and thus, horrible to relate, are placed _in the ovens to be
baked alive_.
It is too sickening to write what afterwards follows. None of us can
longer doubt that these people are the most terrible of cannibals. I
feel inclined to charge forward to rescue them, but the captain orders
us all to stand fast, or we may chance to be treated in the same way
ourselves.
We now, through Taro, tell the chief that we require water and fruit and
vegetables and hogs and fowls, and that we will pay for all. He
receives the message somewhat haughtily, and informs us with the air of
an emperor, that though he is one of the greatest sovereigns on earth,
and that all men bow down to and fear him, he will grant our request.
There he sits, a naked black savage, benighted and ignorant in the
extreme; and yet such is his opinion of himself. I cannot help
thinking, as I look at him, that I have seen civilised men almost as
well contented with themselves with as little cause. We do not find any
of our men inclined to straggle, after what they have seen. We hurry
down to the beach. The boat has been left hauled off at some distance,
under charge of three men, well armed. They pull in when they see us,
and say that they are not a little glad to find us safe, for that many
canoes with fierce-looking savages have been paddling round and round
them, the cannibals showing their white teeth, and making signs that
they would like to eat them. Whether this is only the fancy of our men
I cannot say. Even Golding, when we get on board, looks pale and says
little. It seems to me as if Satan had truly taken possession of the
people of these islands, for Bent tells me that the scenes we have
witnessed are only such as occur constantly.
We keep a watchful look-out all night, ready for action at a moment's
notice. Again we visit the shore, armed as yesterday. Preparations are
making to build a house for the new chief. The four uprights for the
corners are already placed in large holes dug deep into the earth. In
each hole stands a living man bound to the post, with upturned eyes
gazing at the light of day. What is our horror to see parties of
savages begin to throw in the earth upon them. It covers their breasts,
their shoulders, and rises up, the hapless wretches still breathing,
till the tops of their heads are concealed, and then with eager haste
the murderous wretches stamp down the ground over them. Taro tells us
the savages say that the spirits of the dead men will guard the house,
so that no evil will befall its inmates. Truly I shall be glad to be
clear of this land of horrors, yet it is a fruitful land, and one
producing a variety of articles for barter. With cocoa-nut oil alone we
could quickly load our vessel, and with the population these islands
possess, what numberless other tropical productions might they not
furnish, if means could be found to civilise the people!