the principal pieces of the raft were ready. They were then joined
to the fragments of the foremast and the whole was fastened securely
together. John took the precaution to place in the interstices half a
dozen empty barrels, which would raise the structure above the level
of the water. On this strong foundation, Wilson laid a kind of floor in
open work, made of the gratings off the hatches. The spray could then
dash on the raft without staying there, and the passengers would be kept
dry. In addition to this, the hose-pipes firmly lashed together formed a
kind of circular barrier which protected the deck from the waves.
That morning, John seeing that the wind was in their favor, rigged up
the royal-yard in the middle of the raft as a mast. It was stayed with
shrouds, and carried a makeshift sail. A large broad-bladed oar was
fixed behind to act as a rudder in case the wind was sufficient to
require it. The greatest pains had been expended on strengthening
the raft to resist the force of the waves, but the question remained
whether, in the event of a change of wind, they could steer, or indeed,
whether they could hope ever to reach the land.
At nine o’clock they began to load. First came the provisions, in
quantity sufficient to last till they should reach Auckland, for they
could not count on the productions of this barren region.
Olbinett’s stores furnished some preserved meat which remained of the
purchase made for their voyage in the MACQUARIE. This was but a scanty
resource. They had to fall back on the coarse viands of the ship; sea
biscuits of inferior quality, and two casks of salt fish. The steward
was quite crestfallen.
These provisions were put in hermetically sealed cases, staunch and safe
from sea water, and then lowered on to the raft and strongly lashed
to the foot of the mast. The arms and ammunition were piled in a dry
corner. Fortunately the travelers were well armed with carbines and
revolvers.
A holding anchor was also put on board in case John should be unable to
make the land in one tide, and would have to seek moorings.
At ten o’clock the tide turned. The breeze blew gently from the
northwest, and a slight swell rocked the frail craft.
“Are we ready?” asked John.
“All ready, captain,” answered Wilson.
“All aboard!” cried John.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant descended by a rope ladder, and took their
station at the foot of the mast on the cases of provisions, their
companions near them. Wilson took the helm. John stood by the tackle,
and Mulrady cut the line which held the raft to the ship’s side.
The sail was spread, and the frail structure commenced its progress
toward the land, aided by wind and tide. The coast was about nine miles
off, a distance that a boat with good oars would have accomplished in
three hours. But with a raft allowance must be made. If the wind held,
they might reach the land in one tide. But if the breeze died away, the
ebb would carry them away from the shore, and they would be compelled to
anchor and wait for the next tide, a serious consideration, and one that
filled John Mangles with anxiety.
Still he hoped to succeed. The wind freshened. The tide had turned at
ten o’clock, and by three they must either make the land or anchor to
save themselves from being carried out to sea. They made a good start.
Little by little the black line of the reefs and the yellow banks of
sand disappeared under the swelling tide. Extreme watchfulness and
perfect skill were necessary to avoid these submerged rocks, and steer a
bark that did not readily answer to the helm, and that constantly broke
off.
At noon they were still five miles from shore. A tolerably clear sky
allowed them to make out the principal features of the land. In the
northeast rose a mountain about 2,300 feet high, whose sharply defined
outline was exactly like the grinning face of a monkey turned toward
the sky. It was Pirongia, which the map gave as exactly on the 38th
parallel.
At half-past twelve, Paganel remarked that all the rocks had disappeared
under the rising tide.
“All but one,” answered Lady Helena.
“Which, Madam?” asked Paganel.
“There,” replied she, pointing to a black speck a mile off.
“Yes, indeed,” said Paganel. “Let us try to ascertain its position, so
as not to get too near it, for the sea will soon conceal it.”
“It is exactly in a line with the northern slope of the mountain,” said
John Mangles. “Wilson, mind you give it a wide berth.”
“Yes, captain,” answered the sailor, throwing his whole weight on the
great oar that steered the raft.
In half an hour they had made half a mile. But, strange to say, the
black point still rose above the waves.
John looked attentively, and in order to make it out, borrowed Paganel’s
telescope.
“That is no reef,” said he, after a moment; “it is something floating,
which rises and falls with the swell.”
“Is it part of the mast of the MACQUARIE?” asked Lady Helena.
“No,” said Glenarvan, “none of her timbers could have come so far.”
“Stay!” said John Mangles; “I know it! It is the boat.”
“The ship’s boat?” exclaimed Glenarvan.
“Yes, my lord. The ship’s boat, keel up.”
“The unfortunate creatures,” cried Lady Helena, “they have perished!”
“Yes, Madam,” replied John Mangles, “they must have perished, for in the
midst of these breakers in a heavy swell on that pitchy night, they ran
to certain death.”
For a few minutes the passengers were silent. They gazed at the frail
craft as they drew near it. It must evidently have capsized about four
miles from the shore, and not one of the crew could have escaped.
“But this boat may be of use to us,” said Glenarvan.
“That is true,” answered John Mangles. “Keep her up, Wilson.”
The direction was slightly changed, but the breeze fell gradually, and
it was two hours before they reached the boat.
Mulrady, stationed forward, fended off the blow, and the yawl was drawn
alongside.
“Empty?” asked John Mangles.
“Yes, captain,” answered the sailor, “the boat is empty, and all its
seams are open. It is of no use to us.”
“No use at all?” said McNabbs.
“None at all,” said John Mangles.
“It is good for nothing but to burn.”
“I regret it,” said Paganel, “for the yawl might have taken us to
Auckland.”
“We must bear our fate, Monsieur Paganel,” replied John Mangles. “But,
for my part, in such a stormy sea I prefer our raft to that crazy boat.
A very slight shock would be enough to break her up. Therefore, my lord,
we have nothing to detain us further.”
“As you think best, John.”
“On then, Wilson,” said John, “and bear straight for the land.”
There was still an hour before the turn of the tide. In that time they
might make two miles. But the wind soon fell almost entirely, and the
raft became nearly motionless, and soon began to drift to seaward under
the influence of the ebb-tide.
John did not hesitate a moment.
“Let go the anchor,” said he.
Mulrady, who stood to execute this order, let go the anchor in five
fathoms water. The raft backed about two fathoms on the line, which was
then at full stretch. The sail was taken in, and everything made snug
for a tedious period of inaction.
The returning tide would not occur till nine o’clock in the evening; and
as John Mangles did not care to go on in the dark, the anchorage was for
the night, or at least till five o’clock in the morning, land being in
sight at a distance of less than three miles.
A considerable swell raised the waves, and seemed to set in continuously
toward the coast, and perceiving this, Glenarvan asked John why he did
not take advantage of this swell to get nearer to the land.
“Your Lordship is deceived by an optical illusion,” said the young
captain. “Although the swell seems to carry the waves landward, it does
not really move at all. It is mere undulating molecular motion, nothing
more. Throw a piece of wood overboard and you will see that it will
remain quite stationary except as the tide affects it. There is nothing
for it but patience.”
“And dinner,” said the Major.
Olbinett unpacked some dried meat and a dozen biscuits. The steward
blushed as he proffered the meager bill of fare. But it was received
with a good grace, even by the ladies, who, however, had not much
appetite, owing to the violent motion.
This motion, produced by the jerking of the raft on the cable, while she
lay head on to the sea, was very severe and fatiguing. The blows of the
short, tumbling seas were as severe as if she had been striking on
a submerged rock. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she was not
aground. The cable strained violently, and every half hour John had to
take in a fathom to ease it. Without this precaution it would certainly
have given way, and the raft must have drifted to destruction.
John’s anxiety may easily be understood. His cable might break, or his
anchor lose its hold, and in either case the danger was imminent.
Night drew on; the sun’s disc, enlarged by refraction, was dipping
blood-red below the horizon. The distant waves glittered in the west,
and sparkled like sheets of liquid silver. Nothing was to be seen in
that direction but sky and water, except one sharply-defined object, the
hull of the MACQUARIE motionless on her rocky bed.
The short twilight postponed the darkness only by a few minutes, and
soon the coast outline, which bounded the view on the east and north,
was lost in darkness.
The shipwrecked party were in an agonizing situation on their narrow
raft, and overtaken by the shades of night.
Some of the party fell into a troubled sleep, a prey to evil dreams;
others could not close an eye. When the day dawned, the whole party were
worn out with fatigue.
With the rising tide the wind blew again toward the land. It was six
o’clock in the morning, and there was no time to lose. John arranged
everything for resuming their voyage, and then he ordered the anchor to
be weighed. But the anchor flukes had been so imbedded in the sand
by the repeated jerks of the cable, that without a windlass it
was impossible to detach it, even with the tackle which Wilson had
improvised.
Half an hour was lost in vain efforts. John, impatient of delay, cut the
rope, thus sacrificing his anchor, and also the possibility of anchoring
again if this tide failed to carry them to land. But he decided that
further delay was not to be thought of, and an ax-blow committed the
raft to the mercy of the wind, assisted by a current of two knots an
hour.
The sail was spread. They drifted slowly toward the land, which rose in
gray, hazy masses, on a background of sky illumined by the rising sun.
The reef was dexterously avoided and doubled, but with the fitful breeze
the raft could not get near the shore. What toil and pain to reach a
coast so full of danger when attained.
At nine o’clock, the land was less than a mile off. It was a
steeply-shelving shore, fringed with breakers; a practicable
landing-place had to be discovered.
Gradually the breeze grew fainter, and then ceased entirely. The sail
flapped idly against the mast, and John had it furled. The tide alone
carried the raft to the shore, but steering had become impossible, and
its passage was impeded by immense bands of FUCUS.
At ten o’clock John found himself almost at a stand-still, not three
cables’ lengths from the shore. Having lost their anchor, they were at
the mercy of the ebb-tide.
John clenched his hands; he was racked with anxiety, and cast frenzied
glances toward this inaccessible shore.
In the midst of his perplexities, a shock was felt. The raft stood
still. It had landed on a sand-bank, twenty-five fathoms from the coast.
Glenarvan, Robert, Wilson, and Mulrady, jumped into the water. The raft
was firmly moored to the nearest rocks. The ladies were carried to land
without wetting a fold of their dresses, and soon the whole party, with
their arms and provisions, were finally landed on these much dreaded New
Zealand shores.
CHAPTER VII THE MAORI WAR
GLENARVAN would have liked to start without an hour’s delay, and follow
the coast to Auckland. But since the morning heavy clouds had been
gathering, and toward eleven o’clock, after the landing was effected,
the vapors condensed into violent rain, so that instead of starting they
had to look for shelter.
Wilson was fortunate enough to discover what just suited their wants: a
grotto hollowed out by the sea in the basaltic rocks. Here the travelers
took shelter with their arms and provisions. In the cave they found a
ready-garnered store of dried sea-weed, which formed a convenient couch;
for fire, they lighted some wood near the mouth of the cavern, and dried
themselves as well as they could.
John hoped that the duration of this deluge of rain would be in an
inverse ratio to its violence, but he was doomed to disappointment.
Hours passed without any abatement of its fury. Toward noon the wind
freshened, and increased the force of the storm. The most patient of
men would have rebelled at such an untoward incident; but what could
be done; without any vehicle, they could not brave such a tempest; and,
after all, unless the natives appeared on the scene, a delay of twelve
hours was not so much consequence, as the journey to Auckland was only
a matter of a few days. During this involuntary halt, the conversation
turned on the incidents of the New Zealand war. But to understand and
appreciate the critical position into which these MACQUARIE passengers
were thrown, something ought to be known of the history of the struggle
which had deluged the island of Ika-na-Mani with blood.
Since the arrival of Abel Tasman in Cook’s Strait, on the 16th of
December, 1642, though the New Zealanders had often been visited by
European vessels, they had maintained their liberty in their several
islands. No European power had thought of taking possession of this
archipelago, which commands the whole Pacific Ocean. The missionaries
stationed at various points were the sole channels of Christian
civilization. Some of them, especially the Anglicans, prepared the minds
of the New Zealand chiefs for submitting to the English yoke. It was
cleverly managed, and these chiefs were influenced to sign a letter
addressed to Queen Victoria to ask her protection. But the most
clearsighted of them saw the folly of this step; and one of them,
after having affixed his tattoo-mark to the letter by way of signature,
uttered these prophetic words: “We have lost our country! henceforth it
is not ours; soon the stranger will come and take it, and we shall be
his slaves.”
And so it was; on January 29, 1840, the English corvette HERALD arrived
to claim possession.
From the year 1840, till the day the DUNCAN left the Clyde, nothing had
happened here that Paganel did not know and he was ready to impart his
information to his companions.
“Madam,” said he, in answer to Lady Helena’s questions, “I must repeat
what I had occasion to remark before, that the New Zealanders are a
courageous people, who yielded for a moment, but afterward fought foot
to foot against the English invaders. The Maori tribes are organized
like the old clans of Scotland. They are so many great families owning a
chief, who is very jealous of his prerogative. The men of this race are
proud and brave, one tribe tall, with straight hair, like the Maltese,
or the Jews of Bagdad; the other smaller, thickset like mulattoes, but
robust, haughty, and warlike. They had a famous chief, named Hihi, a
real Vercingetorix, so that you need not be astonished that the war with
the English has become chronic in the Northern Island, for in it is
the famous tribe of the Waikatos, who defend their lands under the
leadership of William Thompson.”
“But,” said John Mangles, “are not the English in possession of the
principal points in New Zealand?”
“Certainly, dear John,” replied Paganel. “After Captain Hobson took
formal possession, and became governor, nine colonies were founded at
various times between 1840 and 1862, in the most favorable situations.
These formed the nucleus of nine provinces, four in the North Island
and five in the southern island, with a total population of 184,346
inhabitants on the 30th of June, 1864.”
“But what about this interminable war?” asked John Mangles.
“Well,” said Paganel, “six long months have gone by since we left
Europe, and I cannot say what may have happened during that time, with
the exception of a few facts which I gathered from the newspapers of
Maryborough and Seymour during our Australian journey. At that time the
fighting was very lively in the Northern Island.”
“And when did the war commence?” asked Mary Grant.
“Recommence, you mean, my dear young lady,” replied Paganel; “for there
was an insurrection so far back as 1845. The present war began toward
the close of 1863; but long before that date the Maories were occupied
in making preparations to shake off the English yoke. The national party
among the natives carried on an active propaganda for the election of a
Maori ruler. The object was to make old Potatau king, and to fix as the
capital of the new kingdom his village, which lay between the Waikato
and Waipa Rivers. Potatau was an old man, remarkable rather for cunning
than bravery; but he had a Prime Minister who was both intelligent and
energetic, a descendant of the Ngatihahuas, who occupied the isthmus
before the arrival of the strangers. This minister, William Thompson,
became the soul of the War of Independence, and organized the Maori
troops, with great skill. Under this guidance a Taranaki chief gathered
the scattered tribes around the same flag; a Waikato chief formed a
‘Land League,’ intended to prevent the natives from selling their land
to the English Government, and warlike feasts were held just as in
civilized countries on the verge of revolution. The English newspapers
began to notice these alarming symptoms, and the government became
seriously disturbed at these ‘Land League’ proceedings. In short, the
train was laid, and the mine was ready to explode. Nothing was wanted
but the spark, or rather the shock of rival interests to produce the
spark.
“This shock took place in 1860, in the Taranaki province on the
southwest coast of Ika-na-Mani. A native had six hundred acres of
land in the neighborhood of New Plymouth. He sold them to the English
Government; but when the surveyor came to measure the purchased land,
the chief Kingi protested, and by the month of March he had made the six
hundred acres in question into a fortified camp, surrounded with high
palisades. Some days after Colonel Gold carried this fortress at the
head of his troops, and that day heard the first shot fired of the
native war.”
“Have the rebels been successful up to this time?”
“Yes, Madam, and the English themselves have often been compelled to
admire the courage and bravery of the New Zealanders. Their mode of
warfare is of the guerilla type; they form skirmishing parties, come
down in small detachments, and pillage the colonists’ homes. General
Cameron had no easy time in the campaigns, during which every bush
had to be searched. In 1863, after a long and sanguinary struggle, the
Maories were entrenched in strong and fortified position on the Upper
Waikato, at the end of a chain of steep hills, and covered by three
miles of forts. The native prophets called on all the Maori population
to defend the soil, and promised the extermination of the pakekas,
or white men. General Cameron had three thousand volunteers at his
disposal, and they gave no quarter to the Maories after the barbarous
murder of Captain Sprent. Several bloody engagements took place; in some
instances the fighting lasted twelve hours before the Maories yielded
to the English cannonade. The heart of the army was the fierce Waikato
tribe under William Thompson. This native general commanded at the
outset 2,500 warriors, afterward increased to 8,000. The men of Shongi
and Heki, two powerful chiefs, came to his assistance. The women took
their part in the most trying labors of this patriotic war. But right
has not always might. After severe struggles General Cameron succeeded
in subduing the Waikato district, but empty and depopulated, for the
Maories escaped in all directions. Some wonderful exploits were related.
Four hundred Maories who were shut up in the fortress of Orakau,
besieged by 1,000 English, under Brigadier-General Carey, without water
or provisions, refused to surrender, but one day at noon cut their way
through the then decimated 40th Regiment, and escaped to the marshes.”
“But,” asked John Mangles, “did the submission of the Waikato district
put an end to this sanguinary war?”
“No, my friend,” replied Paganel. “The English resolved to march on
Taranaki province and besiege Mataitawa, William Thompson’s fortress.
But they did not carry it without great loss. Just as I was leaving
Paris, I heard that the Governor and the General had accepted the
submission of the Tauranga tribes, and left them in possession of
three-fourths of their lands. It was also rumored that the principal
chief of the rebellion, William Thompson, was inclined to surrender, but
the Australian papers have not confirmed this, but rather the contrary,
and I should not be surprised to find that at this moment the war is
going on with renewed vigor.”
“Then, according to you, Paganel,” said Glenarvan, “this struggle is
still going on in the provinces of Auckland and Taranaki?”
“I think so.”
“This very province where the MACQUARIE’S wreck has deposited us.”
“Exactly. We have landed a few miles above Kawhia harbor, where the
Maori flag is probably still floating.”
“Then our most prudent course would be to keep toward the north,”
remarked Glenarvan.
“By far the most prudent,” said Paganel. “The New Zealanders are
incensed against Europeans, and especially against the English.
Therefore let us avoid falling into their hands.”
“We might have the good fortune to fall in with a detachment of European
troops,” said Lady Helena.
“We may, Madam,” replied the geographer; “but I do not expect it.
Detached parties do not like to go far into the country, where the
smallest tussock, the thinnest brushwood, may conceal an accomplished
marksman. I don’t fancy we shall pick up an escort of the 40th Regiment.
But there are mission-stations on this west coast, and we shall be able
to make them our halting-places till we get to Auckland.”
CHAPTER VIII ON THE ROAD TO AUCKLAND
ON the 7th of February, at six o’clock in the morning, the signal for
departure was given by Glenarvan. During the night the rain had ceased.
The sky was veiled with light gray clouds, which moderated the heat of
the sun, and allowed the travelers to venture on a journey by day.
Paganel had measured on the map a distance of eighty miles between Point
Kawhia and Auckland; it was an eight days’ journey if they made ten
miles a day. But instead of following the windings of the coast,
he thought it better to make for a point thirty miles off, at the
confluence of the Waikato and the Waipa, at the village of Ngarnavahia.
The “overland track” passes that point, and is rather a path than a
road, practicable for the vehicles which go almost across the island,
from Napier, in Hawke’s Bay, to Auckland. From this village it would be
easy to reach Drury, and there they could rest in an excellent hotel,
highly recommended by Dr. Hochstetter.
The travelers, each carrying a share of the provisions, commenced to
follow the shore of Aotea Bay. From prudential motives they did not
allow themselves to straggle, and by instinct they kept a look-out over
the undulating plains to the eastward, ready with their loaded carbines.
Paganel, map in hand, took a professional pleasure in verifying the
minutest details.
The country looked like an immense prairie which faded into distance,
and promised an easy walk. But the travelers were undeceived when they
came to the edge of this verdant plain. The grass gave way to a low
scrub of small bushes bearing little white flowers, mixed with those
innumerable tall ferns with which the lands of New Zealand abound. They
had to cut a path across the plain, through these woody stems, and this
was a matter of some difficulty, but at eight o’clock in the evening the
first slopes of the Hakarihoata Ranges were turned, and the party camped
immediately. After a fourteen miles’ march, they might well think of
resting.
Neither wagon or tent being available, they sought repose beneath some
magnificent Norfolk Island pines. They had plenty of rugs which make
good beds. Glenarvan took every possible precaution for the night. His
companions and he, well armed, were to watch in turns, two and two,
till daybreak. No fires were lighted. Barriers of fire are a potent
preservation from wild beasts, but New Zealand has neither tiger, nor
lion, nor bear, nor any wild animal, but the Maori adequately fills
their place, and a fire would only have served to attract this
two-footed jaguar.
The night passed pleasantly with the exception of the attack of the
sand-flies, called by the natives, “ngamu,” and the visit of the
audacious family of rats, who exercised their teeth on the provisions.
Next day, on the 8th of February, Paganel rose more sanguine, and almost
reconciled to the country. The Maories, whom he particularly dreaded,
had not yet appeared, and these ferocious cannibals had not molested him
even in his dreams. “I begin to think that our little journey will end
favorably. This evening we shall reach the confluence of the Waipa and
Waikato, and after that there is not much chance of meeting natives on
the way to Auckland.”
“How far is it now,” said Glenarvan, “to the confluence of the Waipa and
Waikato?”
“Fifteen miles; just about what we did yesterday.”
“But we shall be terribly delayed if this interminable scrub continues
to obstruct our path.”
“No,” said Paganel, “we shall follow the banks of the Waipa, and then we
shall have no obstacle, but on the contrary, a very easy road.”
“Well, then,” said Glenarvan, seeing the ladies ready, “let us make a
start.”
During the early part of the day, the thick brushwood seriously impeded
their progress. Neither wagon nor horses could have passed where
travelers passed, so that their Australian vehicle was but slightly
regretted. Until practicable wagon roads are cut through these forests
of scrub, New Zealand will only be accessible to foot passengers.
The ferns, whose name is legion, concur with the Maories in keeping
strangers off the lands.
The little party overcame many obstacles in crossing the plains in which
the Hakarihoata Ranges rise. But before noon they reached the banks of
the Waipa, and followed the northward course of the river.
The Major and Robert, without leaving their companions, shot some snipe
and partridge under the low shrubs of the plain. Olbinett, to save time,
plucked the birds as he went along.
Paganel was less absorbed by the culinary importance of the game than by
the desire of obtaining some bird peculiar to New Zealand. His curiosity
as a naturalist overcame his hunger as a traveler. He called to mind
the peculiarities of the “tui” of the natives, sometimes called the
mocking-bird from its incessant chuckle, and sometimes “the parson,”
in allusion to the white cravat it wears over its black, cassock-like
plumage.
“The tui,” said Paganel to the Major, “grows so fat during the Winter
that it makes him ill, and prevents him from flying. Then he tears his
breast with his beak, to relieve himself of his fat, and so becomes
lighter. Does not that seem to you singular, McNabbs?”
“So singular that I don’t believe a word of it,” replied the Major.
Paganel, to his great regret, could not find a single specimen, or he
might have shown the incredulous Major the bloody scars on the breast.
But he was more fortunate with a strange animal which, hunted by men,
cats and dogs, has fled toward the unoccupied country, and is fast
disappearing from the fauna of New Zealand. Robert, searching like a
ferret, came upon a nest made of interwoven roots, and in it a pair of
birds destitute of wings and tail, with four toes, a long snipe-like
beak, and a covering of white feathers over the whole body, singular
creatures, which seemed to connect the oviparous tribes with the
mammifers.
It was the New Zealand “kiwi,” the _Apteryx australis_ of naturalists,
which lives with equal satisfaction on larvae, insects, worms or seeds.
This bird is peculiar to the country. It has been introduced into very
few of the zoological collections of Europe. Its graceless shape and
comical motions have always attracted the notice of travelers, and
during the great exploration of the Astrolabe and the Zelee, Dumont
d’Urville was principally charged by the Academy of Sciences to bring
back a specimen of these singular birds. But in spite of rewards offered
to the natives, he could not obtain a single specimen.
Paganel, who was elated at such a piece of luck, tied the two birds
together, and carried them along with the intention of presenting them
to the Jardin des Plantes, in Paris. “Presented by M. Jacques Paganel.”
He mentally saw the flattering inscription on the handsomest cage in the
gardens. Sanguine geographer!
The party pursued their way without fatigue along the banks of the
Waipa. The country was quite deserted; not a trace of natives, nor any
track that could betray the existence of man. The stream was fringed
with tall bushes, or glided along sloping banks, so that nothing
obstructed the view of the low range of hills which closed the eastern
end of the valley. With their grotesque shapes, and their outlines
lost in a deceptive haze, they brought to mind giant animals, worthy
of antediluvian times. They might have been a herd of enormous whales,
suddenly turned to stone. These disrupted masses proclaimed their
essentially volcanic character. New Zealand is, in fact, a formation
of recent plutonic origin. Its emergence from the sea is constantly
increasing. Some points are known to have risen six feet in twenty
years. Fire still runs across its center, shakes it, convulses it, and
finds an outlet in many places by the mouths of geysers and the craters
of volcanoes.
At four in the afternoon, nine miles had been easily accomplished.
According to the map which Paganel constantly referred to, the
confluence of the Waipa and Waikato ought to be reached about five miles
further on, and there the night halt could be made. Two or three days
would then suffice for the fifty miles which lay between them and the
capital; and if Glenarvan happened to fall in with the mail coach that
plies between Hawkes’ Bay and Auckland twice a month, eight hours would
be sufficient.
“Therefore,” said Glenarvan, “we shall be obliged to camp during the
night once more.”
“Yes,” said Paganel, “but I hope for the last time.”
“I am very glad to think so, for it is very trying for Lady Helena and
Mary Grant.”
“And they never utter a murmur,” added John Mangles. “But I think I
heard you mention a village at the confluence of these rivers.”
“Yes,” said the geographer, “here it is, marked on Johnston’s map. It is
Ngarnavahia, two miles below the junction.”
“Well, could we not stay there for the night? Lady Helena and Miss
Grant would not grudge two miles more to find a hotel even of a humble
character.”
“A hotel!” cried Paganel, “a hotel in a Maori village! you would not
find an inn, not a tavern! This village will be a mere cluster of huts,
and so far from seeking rest there, my advice is that you give it a wide
berth.”
“Your old fears, Paganel!” retorted Glenarvan.
“My dear Lord, where Maories are concerned, distrust is safer than
confidence. I do not know on what terms they are with the English,
whether the insurrection is suppressed or successful, or whether indeed
the war may not be going on with full vigor. Modesty apart, people like
us would be a prize, and I must say, I would rather forego a taste
of Maori hospitality. I think it certainly more prudent to avoid this
village of Ngarnavahia, to skirt it at a distance, so as to avoid all
encounters with the natives. When we reach Drury it will be another
thing, and there our brave ladies will be able to recruit their strength
at their leisure.”
This advice prevailed. Lady Helena preferred to pass another night in
the open air, and not to expose her companions to danger. Neither Mary
Grant or she wished to halt, and they continued their march along the
river.
Two hours later, the first shades of evening began to fall. The sun,
before disappearing below the western horizon, darted some bright rays
through an opening in the clouds. The distant eastern summits were
empurpled with the parting glories of the day. It was like a flying
salute addressed to the way-worn travelers.
Glenarvan and his friends hastened their steps, they knew how short the
twilight is in this high latitude, and how quickly the night follows it.
They were very anxious to reach the confluence of the two rivers before
the darkness overtook them. But a thick fog rose from the ground, and
made it very difficult to see the way.
Fortunately hearing stood them in the stead of sight; shortly a nearer
sound of water indicated that the confluence was at hand. At eight
o’clock the little troop arrived at the point where the Waipa loses
itself in the Waikato, with a moaning sound of meeting waves.
“There is the Waikato!” cried Paganel, “and the road to Auckland is
along its right bank.”
“We shall see that to-morrow,” said the Major, “Let us camp here. It
seems to me that that dark shadow is that of a little clump of trees
grown expressly to shelter us. Let us have supper and then get some
sleep.”
“Supper by all means,” said Paganel, “but no fire; nothing but biscuit
and dried meat. We have reached this spot incognito, let us try and get
away in the same manner. By good luck, the fog is in our favor.”
The clump of trees was reached and all concurred in the wish of the
geographer. The cold supper was eaten without a sound, and presently a
profound sleep overcame the travelers, who were tolerably fatigued with
their fifteen miles’ march.
CHAPTER IX INTRODUCTION TO THE CANNIBALS
THE next morning at daybreak a thick fog was clinging to the surface of
the river. A portion of the vapors that saturated the air were condensed
by the cold, and lay as a dense cloud on the water. But the rays of the
sun soon broke through the watery mass and melted it away.
A tongue of land, sharply pointed and bristling with bushes, projected
into the uniting streams. The swifter waters of the Waipa rushed against
the current of the Waikato for a quarter of a mile before they mingled
with it; but the calm and majestic river soon quieted the noisy stream
and carried it off quietly in its course to the Pacific Ocean.
When the vapor disappeared, a boat was seen ascending the current of the
Waikato. It was a canoe seventy feet long, five broad, and three deep;
the prow raised like that of a Venetian gondola, and the whole hollowed
out of a trunk of a kahikatea. A bed of dry fern was laid at the bottom.
It was swiftly rowed by eight oars, and steered with a paddle by a man
seated in the stern.
This man was a tall Maori, about forty-five years of age, broad-chested,
muscular, with powerfully developed hands and feet. His prominent and
deeply-furrowed brow, his fierce look, and sinister expression, gave him
a formidable aspect.
Tattooing, or “moko,” as the New Zealanders call it, is a mark of
great distinction. None is worthy of these honorary lines, who has not
distinguished himself in repeated fights. The slaves and the lower class
can not obtain this decoration. Chiefs of high position may be known by
the finish and precision and truth of the design, which sometimes
covers their whole bodies with the figures of animals. Some are found
to undergo the painful operation of “moko” five times. The more
illustrious, the more illustrated, is the rule of New Zealand.
Dumont D’Urville has given some curious details as to this custom. He
justly observes that “moko” is the counterpart of the armorial bearings
of which many families in Europe are so vain. But he remarks that there
is this difference: the armorial bearings of Europe are frequently
a proof only of the merits of the first who bore them, and are no
certificate of the merits of his descendants; while the individual
coat-of-arms of the Maori is an irrefragible proof that it was earned by
the display of extraordinary personal courage.
The practice of tattooing, independently of the consideration it
procures, has also a useful aspect. It gives the cutaneous system an
increased thickness, enabling it to resist the inclemency of the season
and the incessant attacks of the mosquito.
As to the chief who was steering the canoe, there could be no mistake.
The sharpened albatross bone used by the Maori tattooer, had five times
scored his countenance. He was in his fifth edition, and betrayed it in
his haughty bearing.
His figure, draped in a large mat woven of “phormium” trimmed with
dogskins, was clothed with a pair of cotton drawers, blood-stained from
recent combats. From the pendant lobe of his ears hung earrings of green
jade, and round his neck a quivering necklace of “pounamous,” a kind of
jade stone sacred among the New Zealanders. At his side lay an English
rifle, and a “patou-patou,” a kind of two-headed ax of an emerald color,
and eighteen inches long. Beside him sat nine armed warriors of inferior
rank, ferocious-looking fellows, some of them suffering from recent
wounds. They sat quite motionless, wrapped in their flax mantles. Three
savage-looking dogs lay at their feet. The eight rowers in the prow
seemed to be servants or slaves of the chief. They rowed vigorously, and
propelled the boat against the not very rapid current of the Waikato,
with extraordinary velocity.
In the center of this long canoe, with their feet tied together, sat ten
European prisoners closely packed together.
It was Glenarvan and Lady Helena, Mary Grant, Robert, Paganel, the
Major, John Mangles, the steward, and the two sailors.
The night before, the little band had unwittingly, owing to the mist,
encamped in the midst of a numerous party of natives. Toward the middle
of the night they were surprised in their sleep, were made prisoners,
and carried on board the canoe. They had not been ill-treated, so far,
but all attempts at resistance had been vain. Their arms and ammunition
were in the hands of the savages, and they would soon have been targets
for their own balls.
They were soon aware, from a few English words used by the natives,
that they were a retreating party of the tribe who had been beaten and
decimated by the English troops, and were on their way back to the Upper
Waikato. The Maori chief, whose principal warriors had been picked off
by the soldiers of the 42nd Regiment, was returning to make a final
appeal to the tribes of the Waikato district, so that he might go to the
aid of the indomitable William Thompson, who was still holding his own
against the conquerors. The chief’s name was “Kai-Koumou,” a name of
evil boding in the native language, meaning “He who eats the limbs
of his enemy.” He was bold and brave, but his cruelty was equally
remarkable. No pity was to be expected at his hands. His name was well
known to the English soldiers, and a price had been set on his head by
the governor of New Zealand.
This terrible blow befell Glenarvan at the very moment when he was
about to reach the long-desired haven of Auckland, and so regain his own
country; but no one who looked at his cool, calm features, could
have guessed the anguish he endured. Glenarvan always rose to his
misfortunes. He felt that his part was to be the strength and the
example of his wife and companions; that he was the head and chief;
ready to die for the rest if circumstances required it. He was of a
deeply religious turn of mind, and never lost his trust in Providence
nor his belief in the sacred character of his enterprise. In the midst
of this crowning peril he did not give way to any feeling of regret at
having been induced to venture into this country of savages.
His companions were worthy of him; they entered into his lofty views;
and judging by their haughty demeanor, it would scarcely have been
supposed that they were hurrying to the final catastrophe. With one
accord, and by Glenarvan’s advice, they resolved to affect utter
indifference before the natives. It was the only way to impress these
ferocious natures. Savages in general, and particularly the Maories,
have a notion of dignity from which they never derogate. They respect,
above all things, coolness and courage. Glenarvan was aware that by this
mode of procedure, he and his companions would spare themselves needless
humiliation.
From the moment of embarking, the natives, who were very taciturn, like
all savages, had scarcely exchanged a word, but from the few sentences
they did utter, Glenarvan felt certain that the English language was
familiar to them. He therefore made up his mind to question the chief on
the fate that awaited them. Addressing himself to Kai-Koumou, he said in
a perfectly unconcerned voice:
“Where are we going, chief?”
Kai-Koumou looked coolly at him and made no answer.
“What are you going to do with us?” pursued Glenarvan.
A sudden gleam flashed into the eyes of Kai-Koumou, and he said in a
deep voice:
“Exchange you, if your own people care to have you; eat you if they
don’t.”
Glenarvan asked no further questions; but hope revived in his heart.
He concluded that some Maori chiefs had fallen into the hands of the
English, and that the natives would try to get them exchanged. So they
had a chance of salvation, and the case was not quite so desperate.
The canoe was speeding rapidly up the river. Paganel, whose excitable
temperament always rebounded from one extreme to the other, had quite
regained his spirits. He consoled himself that the natives were saving
them the trouble of the journey to the English outposts, and that was
so much gain. So he took it quite quietly and followed on the map the
course of the Waikato across the plains and valleys of the province.
Lady Helena and Mary Grant, concealing their alarm, conversed in a low
voice with Glenarvan, and the keenest physiognomists would have failed
to see any anxiety in their faces.
The Waikato is the national river in New Zealand. It is to the Maories
what the Rhine is to the Germans, and the Danube to the Slavs. In its
course of 200 miles it waters the finest lands of the North Island, from
the province of Wellington to the province of Auckland. It gave its name
to all those indomitable tribes of the river district, which rose _en
masse_ against the invaders.
The waters of this river are still almost strangers to any craft but the
native canoe. The most audacious tourist will scarcely venture to
invade these sacred shores; in fact, the Upper Waikato is sealed against
profane Europeans.
Paganel was aware of the feelings of veneration with which the natives
regard this great arterial stream. He knew that the English and German
naturalists had never penetrated further than its junction with the
Waipa. He wondered how far the good pleasure of Kai-Koumou would carry
his captives? He could not have guessed, but for hearing the word
“Taupo” repeatedly uttered between the chief and his warriors. He
consulted his map and saw that “Taupo” was the name of a lake celebrated
in geographical annals, and lying in the most mountainous part of the
island, at the southern extremity of Auckland province. The Waikato
passes through this lake and then flows on for 120 miles.
CHAPTER X A MOMENTOUS INTERVIEW
AN unfathomable gulf twenty-five miles long, and twenty miles broad was
produced, but long before historic times, by the falling in of caverns
among the trachytic lavas of the center of the island. And these waters
falling from the surrounding heights have taken possession of this
vast basin. The gulf has become a lake, but it is also an abyss, and no
lead-line has yet sounded its depths.
Such is the wondrous lake of Taupo, lying 1,250 feet above the level of
the sea, and in view of an amphitheater of mountains 2,400 feet high.
On the west are rocky peaks of great size; on the north lofty summits
clothed with low trees; on the east a broad beach with a road track, and
covered with pumice stones, which shimmer through the leafy screen of
the bushes; on the southern side rise volcanic cones behind a forest
flat. Such is the majestic frame that incloses this vast sheet of water
whose roaring tempests rival the cyclones of Ocean.
The whole region boils like an immense cauldron hung over subterranean
fires. The ground vibrates from the agitation of the central furnace.
Hot springs filter out everywhere. The crust of the earth cracks in
great rifts like a cake, too quickly baked.
About a quarter of a mile off, on a craggy spur of the mountain stood
a “pah,” or Maori fortress. The prisoners, whose feet and hands
were liberated, were landed one by one, and conducted into it by the
warriors. The path which led up to the intrenchment, lay across fields
of “phormium” and a grove of beautiful trees, the “kai-kateas” with
persistent leaves and red berries; “dracaenas australis,” the
“ti-trees” of the natives, whose crown is a graceful counterpart of the
cabbage-palm, and “huious,” which are used to give a black dye to
cloth. Large doves with metallic sheen on their plumage, and a world
of starlings with reddish carmeles, flew away at the approach of the
natives.
After a rather circuitous walk, Glenarvan and his party arrived at the
“pah.”
The fortress was defended by an outer inclosure of strong palisades,
fifteen feet high; a second line of stakes; then a fence composed of
osiers, with loop-holes, inclosed Verne the inner space, that is the
plateau of the “pah,” on which were erected the Maori buildings, and
about forty huts arranged symmetrically.
When the captives approached they were horror-struck at the sight of the
heads which adorned the posts of the inner circle. Lady Helena and Mary
Grant turned away their eyes more with disgust than with terror. These
heads were those of hostile chiefs who had fallen in battle, and whose
bodies had served to feed the conquerors. The geographer recognized
that it was so, from their eye sockets being hollow and deprived of
eye-balls.
Glenarvan and his companions had taken in all this scene at a glance.
They stood near an empty house, waiting the pleasure of the chief, and
exposed to the abuse of a crowd of old crones. This troop of harpies
surrounded them, shaking their fists, howling and vociferating. Some
English words that escaped their coarse mouths left no doubt that they
were clamoring for immediate vengeance.
In the midst of all these cries and threats, Lady Helena, tranquil to
all outward seeming, affected an indifference she was far from feeling.
This courageous woman made heroic efforts to restrain herself, lest she
should disturb Glenarvan’s coolness. Poor Mary Grant felt her heart sink
within her, and John Mangles stood by ready to die in her behalf.
His companions bore the deluge of invectives each according to
his disposition; the Major with utter indifference, Paganel with
exasperation that increased every moment.
Glenarvan, to spare Lady Helena the attacks of these witches, walked
straight up to Kai-Koumou, and pointing to the hideous group:
“Send them away,” said he.
The Maori chief stared fixedly at his prisoner without speaking; and
then, with a nod, he silenced the noisy horde. Glenarvan bowed, as a
sign of thanks, and went slowly back to his place.
At this moment a hundred Maories were assembled in the “pah,” old men,
full grown men, youths; the former were calm, but gloomy, awaiting the
orders of Kai-Koumou; the others gave themselves up to the most violent
sorrow, bewailing their parents and friends who had fallen in the late
engagements.
Kai-Koumou was the only one of all the chiefs that obeyed the call of
William Thompson, who had returned to the lake district, and he was the
first to announce to his tribe the defeat of the national insurrection,
beaten on the plains of the lower Waikato. Of the two hundred warriors
who, under his orders, hastened to the defence of the soil, one hundred
and fifty were missing on his return. Allowing for a number being
made prisoners by the invaders, how many must be lying on the field of
battle, never to return to the country of their ancestors!
This was the secret of the outburst of grief with which the tribe
saluted the arrival of Kai-Koumou. Up to that moment nothing had been
known of the last defeat, and the fatal news fell on them like a thunder
clap.
Among the savages, sorrow is always manifested by physical signs;
the parents and friends of deceased warriors, the women especially,
lacerated their faces and shoulders with sharpened shells. The blood
spurted out and blended with their tears. Deep wounds denoted great
despair. The unhappy Maories, bleeding and excited, were hideous to look
upon.
There was another serious element in their grief. Not only had they lost
the relative or friend they mourned, but his bones would be missing
in the family mausoleum. In the Maori religion the possession of these
relics is regarded as indispensable to the destinies of the future life;
not the perishable flesh, but the bones, which are collected with the
greatest care, cleaned, scraped, polished, even varnished, and then
deposited in the “oudoupa,” that is the “house of glory.” These tombs
are adorned with wooden statues, representing with perfect exactness
the tattoo of the deceased. But now their tombs would be left empty, the
religious rites would be unsolemnized, and the bones that escaped
the teeth of the wild dog would whiten without burial on the field of
battle.
Then the sorrowful chorus redoubled. The menaces of the women were
intensified by the imprecations of the men against the Europeans.
Abusive epithets were lavished, the accompanying gestures became more
violent. The howl was about to end in brutal action.
Kai-Koumou, fearing that he might be overpowered by the fanatics of his
tribe, conducted his prisoners to a sacred place, on an abruptly raised
plateau at the other end of the “pah.” This hut rested against a mound
elevated a hundred feet above it, which formed the steep outer buttress
of the entrenchment. In this “Ware-Atoua,” sacred house, the priests or
arikis taught the Maories about a Triune God, father, son, and bird, or
spirit. The large, well constructed hut, contained the sacred and choice
food which Maoui-Ranga-Rangui eats by the mouths of his priests.
In this place, and safe for the moment from the frenzied natives, the
captives lay down on the flax mats. Lady Helena was quite exhausted, her
moral energies prostrate, and she fell helpless into her husband’s arms.
Glenarvan pressed her to his bosom and said:
“Courage, my dear Helena; Heaven will not forsake us!”
Robert was scarcely in when he jumped on Wilson’s shoulders, and
squeezed his head through a crevice left between the roof and the walls,
from which chaplets of amulets were hung. From that elevation he could
see the whole extent of the “pah,” and as far as Kai-Koumou’s house.
“They are all crowding round the chief,” said he softly. “They are
throwing their arms about. . . . They are howling. . . . . Kai-Koumou is
trying to speak.”
Then he was silent for a few minutes.
“Kai-Koumou is speaking. . . . The savages are quieter. . . . . They are
listening. . . . .”
“Evidently,” said the Major, “this chief has a personal interest in
protecting us. He wants to exchange his prisoners for some chiefs of his
tribe! But will his warriors consent?”
“Yes! . . . They are listening. . . . . They have dispersed, some are
gone into their huts. . . . The others have left the intrenchment.”
“Are you sure?” said the Major.
“Yes, Mr. McNabbs,” replied Robert, “Kai-Koumou is left alone with the
warriors of his canoe. . . . . Oh! one of them is coming up here. . . .
.”
“Come down, Robert,” said Glenarvan.
At this moment, Lady Helena who had risen, seized her husband’s arm.
“Edward,” she said in a resolute tone, “neither Mary Grant nor I must
fall into the hands of these savages alive!”
And so saying, she handed Glenarvan a loaded revolver.
“Fire-arm!” exclaimed Glenarvan, with flashing eyes.
“Yes! the Maories do not search their prisoners. But, Edward, this is
for us, not for them.”
Glenarvan slipped the revolver under his coat; at the same moment the
mat at the entrance was raised, and a native entered.
He motioned to the prisoners to follow him. Glenarvan and the rest
walked across the “pah” and stopped before Kai-Koumou. He was surrounded
by the principal warriors of his tribe, and among them the Maori whose
canoe joined that of the Kai-Koumou at the confluence of Pohain-henna,
on the Waikato. He was a man about forty years of age, powerfully built
and of fierce and cruel aspect. His name was Kara-Tete, meaning “the
irascible” in the native tongue. Kai-Koumou treated him with a certain
tone of respect, and by the fineness of his tattoo, it was easy to
perceive that Kara-Tete held a lofty position in the tribe, but a keen
observer would have guessed the feeling of rivalry that existed between
these two chiefs. The Major observed that the influence of Kara-Tete
gave umbrage to Kai-Koumou. They both ruled the Waikato tribes, and were
equal in authority. During this interview Kai-Koumou smiled, but his
eyes betrayed a deep-seated enmity.
Kai-Koumou interrogated Glenarvan.
“You are English?” said he.
“Yes,” replied Glenarvan, unhesitatingly, as his nationality would
facilitate the exchange.
“And your companions?” said Kai-Koumou.
“My companions are English like myself. We are shipwrecked travelers,
but it may be important to state that we have taken no part in the war.”
“That matters little!” was the brutal answer of Kara-Tete. “Every
Englishman is an enemy. Your people invaded our island! They robbed our
fields! they burned our villages!”
“They were wrong!” said Glenarvan, quietly. “I say so, because I think
it, not because I am in your power.”
“Listen,” said Kai-Koumou, “the Tohonga, the chief priest of Noui-Atoua
has fallen into the hands of your brethren; he is a prisoner among the
Pakekas. Our deity has commanded us to ransom him. For my own part, I
would rather have torn out your heart, I would have stuck your head, and
those of your companions, on the posts of that palisade. But Noui-Atoua
has spoken.”
As he uttered these words, Kai-Koumou, who till now had been quite
unmoved, trembled with rage, and his features expressed intense
ferocity.
Then after a few minutes’ interval he proceeded more calmly.
“Do you think the English will exchange you for our Tohonga?”
Glenarvan hesitated, all the while watching the Maori chief.
“I do not know,” said he, after a moment of silence.
“Speak,” returned Kai-Koumou, “is your life worth that of our Tohonga?”
“No,” replied Glenarvan. “I am neither a chief nor a priest among my own
people.”
Paganel, petrified at this reply, looked at Glenarvan in amazement.
Kai-Koumou appeared equally astonished.
“You doubt it then?” said he.
“I do not know,” replied Glenarvan.
“Your people will not accept you as an exchange for Tohonga?”
“Me alone? no,” repeated Glenarvan. “All of us perhaps they might.”
“Our Maori custom,” replied Kai-Koumou, “is head for head.”
“Offer first these ladies in exchange for your priest,” said Glenarvan,
pointing to Lady Helena and Mary Grant.
Lady Helena was about to interrupt him. But the Major held her back.
“Those two ladies,” continued Glenarvan, bowing respectfully toward Lady
Helena and Mary Grant, “are personages of rank in their own country.”
The warrior gazed coldly at his prisoner. An evil smile relaxed his
lips for a moment; then he controlled himself, and in a voice of
ill-concealed anger:
“Do you hope to deceive Kai-Koumou with lying words, accursed Pakeka?
Can not the eyes of Kai-Koumou read hearts?”
And pointing to Lady Helena: “That is your wife?” he said.
“No! mine!” exclaimed Kara-Tete.
And then pushing his prisoners aside, he laid his hand on the shoulder
of Lady Helena, who turned pale at his touch.
“Edward!” cried the unfortunate woman in terror.
Glenarvan, without a word, raised his arm, a shot! and Kara-Tete fell at
his feet.
The sound brought a crowd of natives to the spot. A hundred arms were
ready, and Glenarvan’s revolver was snatched from him.
Kai-Koumou glanced at Glenarvan with a curious expression: then with
one hand protecting Glenarvan, with the other he waved off the crowd who
were rushing on the party.
At last his voice was heard above the tumult.
“Taboo! Taboo!” he shouted.
At that word the crowd stood still before Glenarvan and his companions,
who for the time were preserved by a supernatural influence.
A few minutes after they were re-conducted to Ware-Atoua, which was
their prison. But Robert Grant and Paganel were not with them.
CHAPTER XI THE CHIEF’S FUNERAL
KAI-KOUMOU, as frequently happens among the Maories, joined the title
of ariki to that of tribal chief. He was invested with the dignity of
priest, and, as such, he had the power to throw over persons or things
the superstitious protection of the “taboo.”
The “taboo,” which is common to all the Polynesian races, has the
primary effect of isolating the “tabooed” person and preventing the use
of “tabooed” things. According to the Maori doctrine, anyone who laid
sacrilegious hands on what had been declared “taboo,” would be punished
with death by the insulted deity, and even if the god delayed the
vindication of his power, the priests took care to accelerate his
vengeance.
By the chiefs, the “taboo” is made a political engine, except in some
cases, for domestic reasons. For instance, a native is tabooed for
several days when his hair is cut; when he is tattooed; when he is
building a canoe, or a house; when he is seriously ill, and when he is
dead. If excessive consumption threatens to exterminate the fish of a
river, or ruin the early crop of sweet potatoes, these things are put
under the protection of the taboo. If a chief wishes to clear his house
of hangers-on, he taboos it; if an English trader displeases him he is
tabooed. His interdict has the effect of the old royal “veto.”
If an object is tabooed, no one can touch it with impunity. When a
native is under the interdict, certain aliments are denied him for a
prescribed period. If he is relieved, as regards the severe diet, his
slaves feed him with the viands he is forbidden to touch with his hands;
if he is poor and has no slaves, he has to take up the food with his
mouth, like an animal.
In short, the most trifling acts of the Maories are directed and
modified by this singular custom, the deity is brought into constant
contact with their daily life. The taboo has the same weight as a law;
or rather, the code of the Maories, indisputable and undisputed, is
comprised in the frequent applications of the taboo.
As to the prisoners confined in the Ware-Atoua, it was an arbitrary
taboo which had saved them from the fury of the tribe. Some of the
natives, friends and partisans of Kai-Koumou, desisted at once on
hearing their chief’s voice, and protected the captives from the rest.
Glenarvan cherished no illusive hopes as to his own fate; nothing but
his death could atone for the murder of a chief, and among these people
death was only the concluding act of a martyrdom of torture. Glenarvan,
therefore, was fully prepared to pay the penalty of the righteous
indignation that nerved his arm, but he hoped that the wrath of
Kai-Koumou would not extend beyond himself.
What a night he and his companions passed! Who could picture their
agonies or measure their sufferings? Robert and Paganel had not been
restored to them, but their fate was no doubtful matter. They were too
surely the first victims of the frenzied natives. Even McNabbs, who was
always sanguine, had abandoned hope. John Mangles was nearly frantic at
the sight of Mary Grant’s despair at being separated from her brother.
Glenarvan pondered over the terrible request of Lady Helena, who
preferred dying by his hand to submitting to torture and slavery. How
was he to summon the terrible courage!
“And Mary? who has a right to strike her dead?” thought John, whose
heart was broken.
Escape was clearly impossible. Ten warriors, armed to the teeth, kept
watch at the door of Ware-Atoua.
The morning of February 13th arrived. No communication had taken place
between the natives and the “tabooed” prisoners. A limited supply of
provisions was in the house, which the unhappy inmates scarcely touched.
Misery deadened the pangs of hunger. The day passed without change, and
without hope; the funeral ceremonies of the dead chief would doubtless
be the signal for their execution.
Although Glenarvan did not conceal from himself the probability that
Kai-Koumou had given up all idea of exchange, the Major still cherished
a spark of hope.
“Who knows,” said he, as he reminded Glenarvan of the effect produced on
the chief by the death of Kara-Tete--“who knows but that Kai-Koumou, in
his heart, is very much obliged to you?”
But even McNabbs’ remarks failed to awaken hope in Glenarvan’s mind.
The next day passed without any appearance of preparation for their
punishment; and this was the reason of the delay.
The Maories believe that for three days after death the soul inhabits
the body, and therefore, for three times twenty-four hours, the corpse
remains unburied. This custom was rigorously observed. Till February
15th the “pah” was deserted.
John Mangles, hoisted on Wilson’s shoulders, frequently reconnoitered
the outer defences. Not a single native was visible; only the watchful
sentinels relieving guard at the door of the Ware-Atoua.
But on the third day the huts opened; all the savages, men, women, and
children, in all several hundred Maories, assembled in the “pah,” silent
and calm.
Kai-Koumou came out of his house, and surrounded by the principal chiefs
of his tribe, he took his stand on a mound some feet above the level,
in the center of the enclosure. The crowd of natives formed in a half
circle some distance off, in dead silence.
At a sign from Kai-Koumou, a warrior bent his steps toward Ware-Atoua.
“Remember,” said Lady Helena to her husband. Glenarvan pressed her
to his heart, and Mary Grant went closer to John Mangles, and said
hurriedly:
“Lord and Lady Glenarvan cannot but think if a wife may claim death at
her husband’s hands, to escape a shameful life, a betrothed wife may
claim death at the hands of her betrothed husband, to escape the
same fate. John! at this last moment I ask you, have we not long been
betrothed to each other in our secret hearts? May I rely on you, as Lady
Helena relies on Lord Glenarvan?”
“Mary!” cried the young captain in his despair. “Ah! dear Mary--”
The mat was lifted, and the captives led to Kai-Koumou; the two women
were resigned to their fate; the men dissembled their sufferings with
superhuman effort.
They arrived in the presence of the Maori chief.
“You killed Kara-Tete,” said he to Glenarvan.
“I did,” answered Glenarvan.
“You die to-morrow at sunrise.”
“Alone?” asked Glenarvan, with a beating heart.
“Oh! if our Tohonga’s life was not more precious than yours!” exclaimed
Kai-Koumou, with a ferocious expression of regret.
At this moment there was a commotion among the natives. Glenarvan looked
quickly around; the crowd made way, and a warrior appeared heated by
running, and sinking with fatigue.
Kai-Koumou, as soon as he saw him, said in English, evidently for the
benefit of the captives:
“You come from the camp of the Pakekas?”
“Yes,” answered the Maori.
“You have seen the prisoner, our Tohonga?”
“I have seen him.”
“Alive?”
“Dead! English have shot him.”
It was all over with Glenarvan and his companions.
“All!” cried Kai-Koumou; “you all die to-morrow at daybreak.”
Punishment fell on all indiscriminately. Lady Helena and Mary Grant were
grateful to Heaven for the boon.
The captives were not taken back to Ware-Atoua. They were destined to
attend the obsequies of the chief and the bloody rites that accompanied
them. A guard of natives conducted them to the foot of an immense kauri,
and then stood on guard without taking their eyes off the prisoners.
The three prescribed days had elapsed since the death of Kara-Tete, and
the soul of the dead warrior had finally departed; so the ceremonies
commenced.
The body was laid on a small mound in the central enclosure. It was
clothed in a rich dress, and wrapped in a magnificent flax mat. His
head, adorned with feathers, was encircled with a crown of green leaves.
His face, arms, and chest had been rubbed with oil, and did not show any
sign of decay.
The parents and friends arrived at the foot of the mound, and at a
certain moment, as if the leader of an orchestra were leading a funeral
chant, there arose a great wail of tears, sighs, and sobs. They lamented
the deceased with a plaintive rhythm and doleful cadence. The kinsmen
beat their heads; the kinswomen tore their faces with their nails
and lavished more blood than tears. But these demonstrations were not
sufficient to propitiate the soul of the deceased, whose wrath might
strike the survivors of his tribe; and his warriors, as they could not
recall him to life, were anxious that he should have nothing to wish for
in the other world. The wife of Kara-Tete was not to be parted from him;
indeed, she would have refused to survive him. It was a custom, as well
as a duty, and Maori history has no lack of such sacrifices.
This woman came on the scene; she was still young. Her disheveled hair
flowed over her shoulders. Her sobs and cries filled the air. Incoherent
words, regrets, sobs, broken phrases in which she extolled the virtues
of the dead, alternated with her moans, and in a crowning paroxysm of
sorrow, she threw herself at the foot of the mound and beat her head on
the earth.
The Kai-Koumou drew near; suddenly the wretched victim rose; but a
violent blow from a “MERE,” a kind of club brandished by the chief,
struck her to the ground; she fell senseless.
Horrible yells followed; a hundred arms threatened the terror-stricken
captives. But no one moved, for the funeral ceremonies were not yet
over.
The wife of Kara-Tete had joined her husband. The two bodies lay
stretched side by side. But in the future life, even the presence of his
faithful companion was not enough. Who would attend on them in the realm
of Noui-Atoua, if their slaves did not follow them into the other world.
Six unfortunate fellows were brought to the mound. They were attendants
whom the pitiless usages of war had reduced to slavery. During the
chief’s lifetime they had borne the severest privations, and been
subjected to all kinds of ill-usage; they had been scantily fed, and
incessantly occupied like beasts of burden, and now, according to Maori
ideas, they were to resume to all eternity this life of bondage.
These poor creatures appeared quite resigned to their destiny. They were
not taken by surprise. Their unbound hands showed that they met their
fate without resistance.
Their death was speedy and not aggravated by tedious suffering; torture
was reserved for the authors of the murder, who, only twenty paces off,
averted their eyes from the horrible scene which was to grow yet more
horrible.
Six blows of the MERE, delivered by the hands of six powerful warriors,
felled the victims in the midst of a sea of blood.
This was the signal for a fearful scene of cannibalism. The bodies of
slaves are not protected by taboo like those of their masters. They
belong to the tribe; they were a sort of small change thrown among
the mourners, and the moment the sacrifice was over, the whole crowd,
chiefs, warriors, old men, women, children, without distinction of age,
or sex, fell upon the senseless remains with brutal appetite. Faster
than a rapid pen could describe it, the bodies, still reeking, were
dismembered, divided, cut up, not into morsels, but into crumbs. Of the
two hundred Maories present everyone obtained a share. They fought, they
struggled, they quarreled over the smallest fragment. The drops of
hot blood splashed over these festive monsters, and the whole of
this detestable crew groveled under a rain of blood. It was like the
delirious fury of tigers fighting over their prey, or like a circus
where the wild beasts devour the deer. This scene ended, a score of
fires were lit at various points of the “pah”; the smell of charred
flesh polluted the air; and but for the fearful tumult of the festival,
but for the cries that emanated from these flesh-sated throats, the
captives might have heard the bones crunching under the teeth of the
cannibals.
Glenarvan and his companions, breathless with horror, tried to conceal
this fearful scene from the eyes of the two poor ladies. They understood
then what fate awaited them next day at dawn, and also with what cruel
torture this death would be preceded. They were dumb with horror.
The funeral dances commenced. Strong liquors distilled from the “piper
excelsum” animated the intoxication of the natives. They had nothing
human left. It seemed possible that the “taboo” might be forgotten, and
they might rush upon the prisoners, who were already terrified at their
delirious gestures.
But Kai-Koumou had kept his own senses amidst the general delirium. He
allowed an hour for this orgy of blood to attain its maximum and then
cease, and the final scene of the obsequies was performed with the
accustomed ceremonial.
The corpses of Kara-Tete and his wife were raised, the limbs were bent,
and laid against the stomach according to the Maori usage; then came the
funeral, not the final interment, but a burial until the moment when the
earth had destroyed the flesh and nothing remained but the skeleton.
The place of “oudoupa,” or the tomb, had been chosen outside the
fortress, about two miles off at the top of a low hill called
Maunganamu, situated on the right bank of the lake, and to this spot
the body was to be taken. Two palanquins of a very primitive kind,
hand-barrows, in fact, were brought to the foot of the mound, and the
corpses doubled up so that they were sitting rather than lying, and
their garments kept in place by a band of hanes, were placed on them.
Four warriors took up the litters on their shoulders, and the whole
tribe, repeating their funeral chant, followed in procession to the
place of sepulture.
The captives, still strictly guarded, saw the funeral cortege leave the
inner inclosure of the “pah”; then the chants and cries grew fainter.
For about half an hour the funeral procession remained out of sight, in
the hollow valley, and then came in sight again winding up the mountain
side; the distance gave a fantastic effect to the undulating movement of
this long serpentine column.
The tribe stopped at an elevation of about 800 feet, on the summit of
Maunganamu, where the burial place of Kara-Tete had been prepared. An
ordinary Maori would have had nothing but a hole and a heap of earth.
But a powerful and formidable chief destined to speedy deification, was
honored with a tomb worthy of his exploits.
The “oudoupa” had been fenced round, and posts, surmounted with faces
painted in red ochre, stood near the grave where the bodies were to lie.
The relatives had not forgotten that the “Waidoua,” the spirit of the
dead, lives on mortal food, as the body did in this life. Therefore,
food was deposited in the inclosure as well as the arms and clothing of
the deceased. Nothing was omitted for comfort. The husband and wife
were laid side by side, then covered with earth and grass, after another
series of laments.
Then the procession wound slowly down the mountain, and henceforth
none dare ascend the slope of Maunganamu on pain of death, for it was
“tabooed,” like Tongariro, where lie the ashes of a chief killed by an
earthquake in 1846.
CHAPTER XII STRANGELY LIBERATED
JUST as the sun was sinking beyond Lake Taupo, behind the peaks of
Tuhahua and Pukepapu, the captives were conducted back to their prison.
They were not to leave it again till the tops of the Wahiti Ranges were
lit with the first fires of day.
They had one night in which to prepare for death. Overcome as they were
with horror and fatigue, they took their last meal together.
“We shall need all our strength,” Glenarvan had said, “to look death in
the face. We must show these savages how Europeans can die.”
The meal ended. Lady Helena repeated the evening prayer aloud, her
companions, bare-headed, repeated it after her. Who does not turn his
thoughts toward God in the hour of death? This done, the prisoners
embraced each other. Mary Grant and Helena, in a corner of the hut, lay
down on a mat. Sleep, which keeps all sorrow in abeyance, soon weighed
down their eyelids; they slept in each other’s arms, overcome by
exhaustion and prolonged watching.
Then Glenarvan, taking his friends aside, said: “My dear friends, our
lives and the lives of these poor women are in God’s hands. If it is
decreed that we die to-morrow, let us die bravely, like Christian men,
ready to appear without terror before the Supreme Judge. God, who reads
our hearts, knows that we had a noble end in view. If death awaits us
instead of success, it is by His will. Stern as the decree may seem, I
will not repine. But death here, means not death only, it means torture,
insult, perhaps, and here are two ladies--”
Glenarvan’s voice, firm till now, faltered. He was silent a moment, and
having overcome his emotion, he said, addressing the young captain:
“John, you have promised Mary what I promised Lady Helena. What is your
plan?”
“I believe,” said John, “that in the sight of God I have a right to
fulfill that promise.”
“Yes, John; but we are unarmed.”
“No!” replied John, showing him a dagger. “I snatched it from Kara-Tete
when he fell at your feet. My Lord, whichever of us survives the other
will fulfill the wish of Lady Helena and Mary Grant.”
After these words were said, a profound silence ensued. At last the
Major said: “My friends, keep that to the last moment. I am not an
advocate of irremediable measures.”
“I did not speak for ourselves,” said Glenarvan. “Be it as it may, we
can face death! Had we been alone, I should ere now have cried, ‘My
friends, let us make an effort. Let us attack these wretches!’ But with
these poor girls--”
At this moment John raised the mat, and counted twenty-five natives
keeping guard on the Ware-Atoua. A great fire had been lighted, and its
lurid glow threw into strong relief the irregular outlines of the “pah.”
Some of the savages were sitting round the brazier; the others standing
motionless, their black outlines relieved against the clear background
of flame. But they all kept watchful guard on the hut confided to their
care.
It has been said that between a vigilant jailer and a prisoner who
wishes to escape, the chances are in favor of the prisoner; the fact is,
the interest of the one is keener than that of the other. The jailer
may forget that he is on guard; the prisoner never forgets that he
is guarded. The captive thinks oftener of escaping than the jailer
of preventing his flight, and hence we hear of frequent and wonderful
escapes.
But in the present instance hatred and revenge were the jailers--not
an indifferent warder; the prisoners were not bound, but it was because
bonds were useless when five-and-twenty men were watching the only
egress from the Ware-Atoua.
This house, with its back to the rock which closed the fortress, was
only accessible by a long, narrow promontory which joined it in front to
the plateau on which the “pah” was erected. On its two other sides rose
pointed rocks, which jutted out over an abyss a hundred feet deep. On
that side descent was impossible, and had it been possible, the bottom
was shut in by the enormous rock. The only outlet was the regular door
of the Ware-Atoua, and the Maories guarded the promontory which united
it to the “pah” like a drawbridge. All escape was thus hopeless, and
Glenarvan having tried the walls for the twentieth time, was compelled
to acknowledge that it was so.
The hours of this night, wretched as they were, slipped away. Thick
darkness had settled on the mountain. Neither moon nor stars pierced the
gloom. Some gusts of wind whistled by the sides of the “pah,” and the
posts of the house creaked: the fire outside revived with the puffs of
wind, and the flames sent fitful gleams into the interior of Ware-Atoua.
The group of prisoners was lit up for a moment; they were absorbed in
their last thoughts, and a deathlike silence reigned in the hut.
It might have been about four o’clock in the morning when the Major’s
attention was called to a slight noise which seemed to come from the
foundation of the posts in the wall of the hut which abutted on the
rock. McNabbs was at first indifferent, but finding the noise continue,
he listened; then his curiosity was aroused, and he put his ear to
the ground; it sounded as if someone was scraping or hollowing out the
ground outside.
As soon as he was sure of it, he crept over to Glenarvan and John
Mangles, and startling them from their melancholy thoughts, led them to
the end of the hut.
“Listen,” said he, motioning them to stoop.
The scratching became more and more audible; they could hear the little
stones grate on a hard body and roll away.
“Some animal in his burrow,” said John Mangles.
Glenarvan struck his forehead.
“Who knows?” said he, “it might be a man.”
“Animal or man,” answered the Major, “I will soon find out!”
Wilson and Olbinett joined their companions, and all united to dig
through the wall--John with his dagger, the others with stones taken
from the ground, or with their nails, while Mulrady, stretched along the
ground, watched the native guard through a crevice of the matting.
These savages sitting motionless around the fire, suspected nothing of
what was going on twenty feet off.
The soil was light and friable, and below lay a bed of silicious tufa;
therefore, even without tools, the aperture deepened quickly. It soon
became evident that a man, or men, clinging to the sides of the “pah,”
were cutting a passage into its exterior wall. What could be the object?
Did they know of the existence of the prisoners, or was it some private
enterprise that led to the undertaking?
The prisoners redoubled their efforts. Their fingers bled, but still
they worked on; after half an hour they had gone three feet deep; they
perceived by the increased sharpness of the sounds that only a thin
layer of earth prevented immediate communication.
Some minutes more passed, and the Major withdrew his hand from the
stroke of a sharp blade. He suppressed a cry.
John Mangles, inserting the blade of his poniard, avoided the knife
which now protruded above the soil, but seized the hand that wielded it.
It was the hand of a woman or child, a European! On neither side had a
word been uttered. It was evidently the cue of both sides to be silent.
“Is it Robert?” whispered Glenarvan.
But softly as the name was breathed, Mary Grant, already awakened by the
sounds in the hut, slipped over toward Glenarvan, and seizing the hand,
all stained with earth, she covered it with kisses.
“My darling Robert,” said she, never doubting, “it is you! it is you!”
“Yes, little sister,” said he, “it is I am here to save you all; but be
very silent.”
“Brave lad!” repeated Glenarvan.
“Watch the savages outside,” said Robert.
Mulrady, whose attention was distracted for a moment by the appearance
of the boy, resumed his post.
“It is all right,” said he. “There are only four awake; the rest are
asleep.”
A minute after, the hole was enlarged, and Robert passed from the arms
of his sister to those of Lady Helena. Round his body was rolled a long
coil of flax rope.
“My child, my child,” murmured Lady Helena, “the savages did not kill
you!”
“No, madam,” said he; “I do not know how it happened, but in the scuffle
I got away; I jumped the barrier; for two days I hid in the bushes, to
try and see you; while the tribe were busy with the chief’s funeral, I
came and reconnoitered this side of the path, and I saw that I could get
to you. I stole this knife and rope out of the desert hut. The tufts
of bush and the branches made me a ladder, and I found a kind of grotto
already hollowed out in the rock under this hut; I had only to bore some
feet in soft earth, and here I am.”
Twenty noiseless kisses were his reward.
“Let us be off!” said he, in a decided tone.
“Is Paganel below?” asked Glenarvan.
“Monsieur Paganel?” replied the boy, amazed.
“Yes; is he waiting for us?”
“No, my Lord; but is he not here?” inquired Robert.
“No, Robert!” answered Mary Grant.
“Why! have you not seen him?” asked Glenarvan. “Did you lose each other
in the confusion? Did you not get away together?”
“No, my Lord!” said Robert, taken aback by the disappearance of his
friend Paganel.
“Well, lose no more time,” said the Major. “Wherever Paganel is, he
cannot be in worse plight than ourselves. Let us go.”
Truly, the moments were precious. They had to fly. The escape was not
very difficult, except the twenty feet of perpendicular fall outside the
grotto.
After that the slope was practicable to the foot of the mountain. From
this point the prisoners could soon gain the lower valleys; while the
Maories, if they perceived the flight of the prisoners, would have to
make a long round to catch them, being unaware of the gallery between
the Ware-Atoua and the outer rock.
The escape was commenced, and every precaution was taken. The captives
passed one by one through the narrow passage into the grotto. John
Mangles, before leaving the hut, disposed of all the evidences of their
work, and in his turn slipped through the opening and let down over it
the mats of the house, so that the entrance to the gallery was quite
concealed.
The next thing was to descend the vertical wall to the slope below, and
this would have been impracticable, but that Robert had brought the flax
rope, which was now unrolled and fixed to a projecting point of rock,
the end hanging over.
John Mangles, before his friends trusted themselves to this flax rope,
tried it; he did not think it very strong; and it was of importance not
to risk themselves imprudently, as a fall would be fatal.
“This rope,” said he, “will only bear the weight of two persons;
therefore let us go in rotation. Lord and Lady Glenarvan first; when
they arrive at the bottom, three pulls at the rope will be a signal to
us to follow.”
“I will go first,” said Robert. “I discovered a deep hollow at the foot
of the slope where those who come down can conceal themselves and wait
for the rest.”
“Go, my boy,” said Glenarvan, pressing Robert’s hand.
Robert disappeared through the opening out of the grotto. A minute
after, the three pulls at the cord informed them the boy had alighted
safely.
Glenarvan and Lady Helena immediately ventured out of the grotto. The
darkness was still very great, though some grayish streaks were already
visible on the eastern summits.
The biting cold of the morning revived the poor young lady. She felt
stronger and commenced her perilous descent.
Glenarvan first, then Lady Helena, let themselves down along the rope,
till they came to the spot where the perpendicular wall met the top of
the slope. Then Glenarvan going first and supporting his wife, began to
descend backward.
He felt for the tufts and grass and shrubs able to afford a foothold;
tried them and then placed Lady Helena’s foot on them. Some birds,
suddenly awakened, flew away, uttering feeble cries, and the fugitives
trembled when a stone loosened from its bed rolled to the foot of the
mountain.
They had reached half-way down the slope, when a voice was heard from
the opening of the grotto.
“Stop!” whispered John Mangles.
Glenarvan, holding with one hand to a tuft of tetragonia, with the other
holding his wife, waited with breathless anxiety.
Wilson had had an alarm. Having heard some unusual noise outside the
Ware-Atoua, he went back into the hut and watched the Maories from
behind the mat. At a sign from him, John stopped Glenarvan.
One of the warriors on guard, startled by an unusual sound, rose and
drew nearer to the Ware-Atoua. He stood still about two paces from
the hut and listened with his head bent forward. He remained in that
attitude for a minute that seemed an hour, his ear intent, his eye
peering into the darkness. Then shaking his head like one who sees he is
mistaken, he went back to his companions, took an armful of dead wood,
and threw it into the smouldering fire, which immediately revived. His
face was lighted up by the flame, and was free from any look of doubt,
and after having glanced to where the first light of dawn whitened
the eastern sky, stretched himself near the fire to warm his stiffened
limbs.
“All’s well!” whispered Wilson.
John signaled to Glenarvan to resume his descent.
Glenarvan let himself gently down the slope; soon Lady Helena and he
landed on the narrow track where Robert waited for them.
The rope was shaken three times, and in his turn John Mangles, preceding
Mary Grant, followed in the dangerous route.
He arrived safely; he rejoined Lord and Lady Glenarvan in the hollow
mentioned by Robert.
Five minutes after, all the fugitives had safely escaped from the
Ware-Atoua, left their retreat, and keeping away from the inhabited
shores of the lakes, they plunged by narrow paths into the recesses of
the mountains.
They walked quickly, trying to avoid the points where they might be seen
from the pah. They were quite silent, and glided among the bushes like
shadows. Whither? Where chance led them, but at any rate they were free.
Toward five o’clock, the day began to dawn, bluish clouds marbled the
upper stratum of clouds. The misty summits began to pierce the morning
mists. The orb of day was soon to appear, and instead of giving the
signal for their execution, would, on the contrary, announce their
flight.
It was of vital importance that before the decisive moment arrived they
should put themselves beyond the reach of the savages, so as to put them
off their track. But their progress was slow, for the paths were steep.
Lady Glenarvan climbed the slopes, supported, not to say carried, by
Glenarvan, and Mary Grant leaned on the arm of John Mangles; Robert,
radiant with joy, triumphant at his success, led the march, and the two
sailors brought up the rear.
Another half an hour and the glorious sun would rise out of the mists
of the horizon. For half an hour the fugitives walked on as chance led
them. Paganel was not there to take the lead. He was now the object of
their anxiety, and whose absence was a black shadow between them and
their happiness. But they bore steadily eastward, as much as possible,
and faced the gorgeous morning light. Soon they had reached a height of
500 feet above Lake Taupo, and the cold of the morning, increased by the
altitude, was very keen. Dim outlines of hills and mountains rose behind
one another; but Glenarvan only thought how best to get lost among them.
Time enough by and by to see about escaping from the labyrinth.
At last the sun appeared and sent his first rays on their path.
Suddenly a terrific yell from a hundred throats rent the air. It came
from the pah, whose direction Glenarvan did not know. Besides, a thick
veil of fog, which, spread at his feet, prevented any distinct view of
the valleys below.
But the fugitives could not doubt that their escape had been discovered;
and now the question was, would they be able to elude pursuit? Had they
been seen? Would not their track betray them?
At this moment the fog in the valley lifted, and enveloped them for a
moment in a damp mist, and at three hundred feet below they perceived
the swarming mass of frantic natives.
While they looked they were seen. Renewed howls broke forth, mingled
with the barking of dogs, and the whole tribe, after vainly trying to
scale the rock of Ware-Atoua, rushed out of the pah, and hastened by the
shortest paths in pursuit of the prisoners who were flying from their
vengeance.
CHAPTER XIII THE SACRED MOUNTAIN
THE summit of the mountain was still a hundred feet above them. The
fugitives were anxious to reach it that they might continue their flight
on the eastern slope out of the view of their pursuers. They hoped then
to find some practicable ridge that would allow of a passage to the
neighboring peaks that were thrown together in an orographic maze, to
which poor Paganel’s genius would doubtless have found the clew.
They hastened up the slope, spurred on by the loud cries that drew
nearer and nearer. The avenging crowd had already reached the foot of
the mountain.
“Courage! my friends,” cried Glenarvan, urging his companions by voice
and look.
In less than five minutes they were at the top of the mountain, and then
they turned to judge of their position, and decide on a route that would
baffle their pursuers.
From their elevated position they could see over Lake Taupo, which
stretched toward the west in its setting of picturesque mountains. On
the north the peaks of Pirongia; on the south the burning crater of
Tongariro. But eastward nothing but the rocky barrier of peaks and
ridges that formed the Wahiti ranges, the great chain whose unbroken
links stretch from the East Cape to Cook’s Straits. They had no
alternative but to descend the opposite slope and enter the narrow
gorges, uncertain whether any outlet existed.
Glenarvan could not prolong the halt for a moment. Wearied as they might
be, they must fly or be discovered.
“Let us go down!” cried he, “before our passage is cut off.”
But just as the ladies had risen with a despairing effort, McNabbs
stopped them and said:
“Glenarvan, it is useless. Look!”
And then they all perceived the inexplicable change that had taken place
in the movements of the Maories.
Their pursuit had suddenly stopped. The ascent of the mountain had
ceased by an imperious command. The natives had paused in their career,
and surged like the sea waves against an opposing rock. All the crowd,
thirsting for blood, stood at the foot of the mountain yelling and
gesticulating, brandishing guns and hatchets, but not advancing a foot.
Their dogs, rooted to the spot like themselves, barked with rage.
What stayed them? What occult power controlled these savages? The
fugitives looked without understanding, fearing lest the charm that
enchained Kai-Koumou’s tribe should be broken.
Suddenly John Mangles uttered an exclamation which attracted the
attention of his companions. He pointed to a little inclosure on the
summit of the cone.
“The tomb of Kara-Tete!” said Robert.
“Are you sure, Robert?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, my Lord, it is the tomb; I recognize it.”
Robert was right. Fifty feet above, at the extreme peak of the mountain,
freshly painted posts formed a small palisaded inclosure, and Glenarvan
too was convinced that it was the chief’s burial place. The chances of
their flight had led them to the crest of Maunganamu.
Glenarvan, followed by the rest, climbed to the foot of the tomb. A
large opening, covered with mats, led into it. Glenarvan was about to
invade the sanctity of the “oudoupa,” when he reeled backward.
“A savage!” said he.
“In the tomb?” inquired the Major.
“Yes, McNabbs.”
“No matter; go in.”
Glenarvan, the Major, Robert and John Mangles entered. There sat a
Maori, wrapped in a large flax mat; the darkness of the “oudoupa”
preventing them from distinguishing his features. He was very quiet, and
was eating his breakfast quite coolly.
Glenarvan was about to speak to him when the native forestalled him by
saying gayly and in good English:
“Sit down, my Lord; breakfast is ready.”
It was Paganel. At the sound of his voice they all rushed into the
“oudoupa,” and he was cordially embraced all round. Paganel was found
again. He was their salvation. They wanted to question him; to know how
and why he was here on the summit of Maunganamu; but Glenarvan stopped
this misplaced curiosity.
“The savages?” said he.
“The savages,” said Paganel, shrugging his shoulders. “I have a contempt
for those people! Come and look at them.”
They all followed Paganel out of the “oudoupa.” The Maories were still
in the same position round the base of the mountain, uttering fearful
cries.
“Shout! yell! till your lungs are gone, stupid wretches!” said Paganel.
“I dare you to come here!”
“But why?” said Glenarvan.
“Because the chief is buried here, and the tomb protects us, because the
mountain is tabooed.”
“Tabooed?”
“Yes, my friends! and that is why I took refuge here, as the malefactors
used to flee to the sanctuaries in the middle ages.”
“God be praised!” said Lady Helena, lifting her hands to heaven.
The fugitives were not yet out of danger, but they had a moment’s
respite, which was very welcome in their exhausted state.
Glenarvan was too much overcome to speak, and the Major nodded his head
with an air of perfect content.
“And now, my friends,” said Paganel, “if these brutes think to exercise
their patience on us, they are mistaken. In two days we shall be out of
their reach.”
“By flight!” said Glenarvan. “But how?”
“That I do not know,” answered Paganel, “but we shall manage it.”
And now everybody wanted to know about their friend’s adventures. They
were puzzled by the reserve of a man generally so talkative; on this
occasion they had to drag the words out of his mouth; usually he was a
ready story-teller, now he gave only evasive answers to the questions of
the rest.
“Paganel is another man!” thought McNabbs.
His face was really altered. He wrapped himself closely in his great
flax mat and seemed to deprecate observation. Everyone noticed his
embarrassment, when he was the subject of conversation, though nobody
appeared to remark it; when other topics were under discussion, Paganel
resumed his usual gayety.
Of his adventures all that could be extracted from him at this time was
as follows:
After the murder of Kara-Tete, Paganel took advantage, like Robert, of
the commotion among the natives, and got out of the inclosure. But less
fortunate than young Grant, he walked straight into a Maori camp, where
he met a tall, intelligent-looking chief, evidently of higher rank than
all the warriors of his tribe. The chief spoke excellent English, and he
saluted the new-comer by rubbing the end of his nose against the end of
the geographer’s nose.
Paganel wondered whether he was to consider himself a prisoner or not.
But perceiving that he could not stir without the polite escort of the
chief, he soon made up his mind on that point.
This chief, Hihi, or Sunbeam, was not a bad fellow. Paganel’s spectacles
and telescope seemed to give him a great idea of Paganel’s importance,
and he manifested great attachment to him, not only by kindness, but by
a strong flax rope, especially at night.
This lasted for three days; to the inquiry whether he was well treated,
he said “Yes and no!” without further answer; he was a prisoner, and
except that he expected immediate execution, his state seemed to him no
better than that in which he had left his unfortunate friends.
One night, however, he managed to break his rope and escape. He had seen
from afar the burial of the chief, and knew that he was buried on the
top of Maunganamu, and he was well acquainted with the fact that the
mountain would be therefore tabooed. He resolved to take refuge there,
being unwilling to leave the region where his companions were in
durance. He succeeded in his dangerous attempt, and had arrived the
previous night at the tomb of Kara-Tete, and there proposed to recruit
his strength while he waited in the hope that his friends might, by
Divine mercy, find the means of escape.
Such was Paganel’s story. Did he designedly conceal some incident of his
captivity? More than once his embarrassment led them to that conclusion.
But however that might be, he was heartily congratulated on all sides.
And then the present emergency came on for serious discussion. The
natives dare not climb Maunganamu, but they, of course, calculated that
hunger and thirst would restore them their prey. It was only a question
of time, and patience is one of the virtues of all savages. Glenarvan
was fully alive to the difficulty, but made up his mind to watch for
an opportunity, or make one. First of all he made a thorough survey of
Maunganamu, their present fortress; not for the purpose of defence, but
of escape. The Major, John, Robert, Paganel, and himself, made an exact
map of the mountain. They noted the direction, outlet and inclination of
the paths. The ridge, a mile in length, which united Maunganamu to the
Wahiti chain had a downward inclination. Its slope, narrow and jagged
though it was, appeared the only practicable route, if they made good
their escape at all. If they could do this without observation, under
cover of night, they might possibly reach the deep valleys of the Range
and put the Maories off the scent.
But there were dangers in this route; the last part of it was within
pistol shot of natives posted on the lower slopes. Already when they
ventured on the exposed part of the crest, they were saluted with a hail
of shot which did not reach them. Some gun wads, carried by the wind,
fell beside them; they were made of printed paper, which Paganel picked
up out of curiosity, and with some trouble deciphered.
“That is a good idea! My friends, do you know what those creatures use
for wads?”
“No, Paganel!” said Glenarvan.
“Pages of the Bible! If that is the use they make of the Holy Book, I
pity the missionaries! It will be rather difficult to establish a Maori
library.”
“And what text of scripture did they aim at us?”
“A message from God Himself!” exclaimed John Mangles, who was in the
act of reading the scorched fragment of paper. “It bids us hope in Him,”
added the young captain, firm in the faith of his Scotch convictions.
“Read it, John!” said Glenarvan.
And John read what the powder had left visible: “I will deliver him, for
he hath trusted in me.”
“My friends,” said Glenarvan, “we must carry these words of hope to our
dear, brave ladies. The sound will bring comfort to their hearts.”
Glenarvan and his companions hastened up the steep path to the cone, and
went toward the tomb. As they climbed they were astonished to perceive
every few moments a kind of vibration in the soil. It was not a movement
like earthquake, but that peculiar tremor that affects the metal of
a boiler under high pressure. It was clear the mountain was the outer
covering of a body of vapor, the product of subterranean fires.
This phenomenon of course excited no surprise in those that had just
traveled among the hot springs of the Waikato. They knew that the
central region of the Ika-na-Mani is essentially volcanic. It is a
sieve, whose interstices furnish a passage for the earth’s vapors in the
shape of boiling geysers and solfataras.
Paganel, who had already noticed this, called the attention of his
friends to the volcanic nature of the mountain. The peak of Maunganamu
was only one of the many cones which bristle on this part of the island.
It was a volcano of the future. A slight mechanical change would produce
a crater of eruption in these slopes, which consisted merely of whitish
silicious tufa.
“That may be,” said Glenarvan, “but we are in no more danger here than
standing by the boiler of the DUNCAN; this solid crust is like sheet
iron.”
“I agree with you,” added the Major, “but however good a boiler may be,
it bursts at last after too long service.”
“McNabbs,” said Paganel, “I have no fancy for staying on the cone. When
Providence points out a way, I will go at once.”
“I wish,” remarked John, “that Maunganamu could carry us himself, with
all the motive power that he has inside. It is too bad that millions
of horse-power should lie under our feet unavailable for our needs. Our
DUNCAN would carry us to the end of the world with the thousandth part
of it.”
The recollections of the DUNCAN evoked by John Mangles turned
Glenarvan’s thoughts into their saddest channel; for desperate as his
own case was he often forgot it, in vain regret at the fate of his crew.
His mind still dwelt on it when he reached the summit of Maunganamu and
met his companions in misfortune.
Lady Helena, when she saw Glenarvan, came forward to meet him.
“Dear Edward,” said she, “you have made up your mind? Are we to hope or
fear?”
“Hope, my dear Helena,” replied Glenarvan. “The natives will never
set foot on the mountain, and we shall have time to devise a plan of
escape.”
“More than that, madam, God himself has encouraged us to hope.”
And so saying, John Mangles handed to Lady Helena the fragment of paper
on which was legible the sacred words; and these young women, whose
trusting hearts were always open to observe Providential interpositions,
read in these words an indisputable sign of salvation.
“And now let us go to the ‘oudoupa!’” cried Paganel, in his gayest mood.
“It is our castle, our dining-room, our study! None can meddle with us
there! Ladies! allow me to do the honors of this charming abode.”
They followed Paganel, and when the savages saw them profaning anew the
tabooed burial place, they renewed their fire and their fearful yells,
the one as loud as the other. But fortunately the balls fell short of
our friends, though the cries reached them.
Lady Helena, Mary Grant, and their companions were quite relieved to
find that the Maories were more dominated by superstition than by anger,
and they entered the monument.
It was a palisade made of red-painted posts. Symbolic figures, tattooed
on the wood, set forth the rank and achievements of the deceased.
Strings of amulets, made of shells or cut stones, hung from one part to
another. In the interior, the ground was carpeted with green leaves,
and in the middle, a slight mound betokened the place of the newly made
grave. There lay the chief’s weapons, his guns loaded and capped, his
spear, his splendid ax of green jade, with a supply of powder and ball
for the happy hunting grounds.
“Quite an arsenal!” said Paganel, “of which we shall make a better use.
What ideas they have! Fancy carrying arms in the other world!”
“Well!” said the Major, “but these are English firearms.”
“No doubt,” replied Glenarvan, “and it is a very unwise practice to
give firearms to savages! They turn them against the invaders, naturally
enough. But at any rate, they will be very valuable to us.”
“Yes,” said Paganel, “but what is more useful still is the food and
water provided for Kara-Tete.”
Things had been handsomely done for the deceased chief; the amount of
provisions denoted their esteem for the departed. There was food enough
to sustain ten persons for fifteen days, or the dead man forever.
The vegetable aliments consisted of edible ferns, sweet potatoes, the
“convolvulus batatas,” which was indigenous, and the potato which had
been imported long before by the Europeans. Large jars contained pure
water, and a dozen baskets artistically plaited contained tablets of an
unknown green gum.
The fugitives were therefore provided for some days against hunger
and thirst, and they needed no persuasion to begin their attack on the
deceased chief’s stores. Glenarvan brought out the necessary quantity
and put them into Olbinett’s hands. The steward, who never could forget
his routine ideas, even in the most exceptional circumstances, thought
the meal a slender one. He did not know how to prepare the roots, and,
besides, had no fire.
But Paganel soon solved the difficulty by recommending him to bury
his fern roots and sweet potatoes in the soil. The temperature of the
surface stratum was very high, and a thermometer plunged into the soil
would have marked from 160 to 170 degrees; in fact, Olbinett narrowly
missed being scalded, for just as he had scooped a hole for the roots,
a jet of vapor sprang up and with a whistling sound rose six feet above
the ground.
The steward fell back in terror.
“Shut off steam!” cried the Major, running to close the hole with the
loose drift, while Paganel pondering on the singular phenomenon muttered
to himself:
“Let me see! ha! ha! Why not?”
“Are you hurt?” inquired McNabbs of Olbinett.
“No, Major,” said the steward, “but I did not expect--”
“That Providence would send you fire,” interrupted Paganel in a jovial
tone. “First the larder of Kara-Tete and then fire out of the ground!
Upon my word, this mountain is a paradise! I propose that we found a
colony, and cultivate the soil and settle here for life! We shall be the
Robinsons of Maunganamu. We should want for nothing.”
“If it is solid ground,” said John Mangles.
“Well! it is not a thing of yesterday,” said Paganel. “It has stood
against the internal fire for many a day, and will do so till we leave
it, at any rate.”
“Breakfast is ready,” announced Olbinett with as much dignity as if he
was in Malcolm Castle.
Without delay, the fugitives sat down near the palisade, and began one
of the many meals with which Providence had supplied them in critical
circumstances. Nobody was inclined to be fastidious, but opinions were
divided as regarded the edible fern. Some thought the flavor sweet and
agreeable, others pronounced it leathery, insipid, and resembling the
taste of gum. The sweet potatoes, cooked in the burning soil, were
excellent. The geographer remarked that Kara-Tete was not badly off
after all.
And now that their hunger was appeased, it was time to decide on their
plan of escape.
“So soon!” exclaimed Paganel in a piteous tone. “Would you quit the home
of delight so soon?”
“But, Monsieur Paganel,” interposed Lady Helena, “if this be Capua, you
dare not intend to imitate Hannibal!”
“Madam, I dare not contradict you, and if discussion is the order of the
day, let it proceed.”
“First,” said Glenarvan, “I think we ought to start before we are driven
to it by hunger. We are revived now, and ought to take advantage of it.
To-night we will try to reach the eastern valleys by crossing the cordon
of natives under cover of the darkness.”
“Excellent,” answered Paganel, “if the Maories allow us to pass.”
“And if not?” asked John Mangles.
“Then we will use our great resources,” said Paganel.
“But have we great resources?” inquired the Major.
“More than we can use!” replied Paganel, without any further
explanation.
And then they waited for the night.
The natives had not stirred. Their numbers seemed even greater, perhaps
owing to the influx of the stragglers of the tribe. Fires lighted at
intervals formed a girdle of flame round the base of the mountain, so
that when darkness fell, Maunganamu appeared to rise out of a great
brasier, and to hide its head in the thick darkness. Five hundred feet
below they could hear the hum and the cries of the enemy’s camp.
At nine o’clock the darkness being very intense, Glenarvan and John
Mangles went out to reconnoiter before embarking the whole party on this
critical journey. They made the descent noiselessly, and after about
ten minutes, arrived on the narrow ridge that crossed the native lines,
fifty feet above the camp.
All went well so far. The Maories, stretched beside the fires, did
not appear to observe the two fugitives. But in an instant a double
fusillade burst forth from both sides of the ridge.
“Back,” exclaimed Glenarvan; “those wretches have the eyes of cats and
the guns of riflemen!”
And they turned, and once more climbed the steep slope of the mountain,
and then hastened to their friends who had been alarmed at the firing.
Glenarvan’s hat was pierced by two balls, and they concluded that it was
out of the question to venture again on the ridge between two lines of
marksmen.
“Wait till to-morrow,” said Paganel, “and as we cannot elude their
vigilance, let me try my hand on them.”
The night was cold; but happily Kara-Tete had been furnished with his
best night gear, and the party wrapped themselves each in a warm flax
mantle, and protected by native superstition, slept quietly inside the
inclosure, on the warm ground, still violating with the violence of the
internal ebullition.
CHAPTER XIV A BOLD STRATAGEM
NEXT day, February 17th, the sun’s first rays awoke the sleepers of the
Maunganamu. The Maories had long since been astir, coming and going at
the foot of the mountain, without leaving their line of observation.
Furious clamor broke out when they saw the Europeans leave the sacred
place they had profaned.
Each of the party glanced first at the neighboring mountains, and at
the deep valleys still drowned in mist, and over Lake Taupo, which the
morning breeze ruffled slightly. And then all clustered round Paganel
eager to hear his project.
Paganel soon satisfied their curiosity. “My friends,” said he, “my
plan has one great recommendation; if it does not accomplish all that
I anticipate, we shall be no worse off than we are at present. But it
must, it will succeed.”
“And what is it?” asked McNabbs.
“It is this,” replied Paganel, “the superstition of the natives has
made this mountain a refuge for us, and we must take advantage of
their superstition to escape. If I can persuade Kai-Koumou that we have
expiated our profanation, that the wrath of the Deity has fallen on
us: in a word, that we have died a terrible death, do you think he will
leave the plateau of Maunganamu to return to his village?”
“Not a doubt of it,” said Glenarvan.
“And what is the horrible death you refer to?” asked Lady Helena.
“The death of the sacrilegious, my friends,” replied Paganel. “The
avenging flames are under our feet. Let us open a way for them!”
“What! make a volcano!” cried John Mangles.
“Yes, an impromptu volcano, whose fury we can regulate. There are plenty
of vapors ready to hand, and subterranean fires ready to issue forth. We
can have an eruption ready to order.”
“An excellent idea, Paganel; well conceived,” said the Major.
“You understand,” replied the geographer, “we are to pretend to fall
victims to the flames of the Maori Pluto, and to disappear spiritually
into the tomb of Kara-Tete. And stay there three, four, even five days
if necessary--that is to say, till the savages are convinced that we
have perished, and abandon their watch.”
“But,” said Miss Grant, “suppose they wish to be sure of our punishment,
and climb up here to see?”
“No, my dear Mary,” returned Paganel. “They will not do that. The
mountain is tabooed, and if it devoured its sacrilegious intruders, it
would only be more inviolably tabooed.”
“It is really a very clever plan,” said Glenarvan. “There is only one
chance against it; that is, if the savages prolong their watch at the
foot of Maunganamu, we may run short of provisions. But if we play our
game well there is not much fear of that.”
“And when shall we try this last chance?” asked Lady Helena.
“To-night,” rejoined Paganel, “when the darkness is the deepest.”
“Agreed,” said McNabbs; “Paganel, you are a genius! and I, who seldom
get up an enthusiasm, I answer for the success of your plan. Oh! those
villains! They shall have a little miracle that will put off their
conversion for another century. I hope the missionaries will forgive
us.”
The project of Paganel was therefore adopted, and certainly with the
superstitious ideas of the Maories there seemed good ground for hope.
But brilliant as the idea might be, the difficulty was in the _modus
operandi_. The volcano might devour the bold schemers, who offered it
a crater. Could they control and direct the eruption when they had
succeeded in letting loose its vapor and flames, and lava streams? The
entire cone might be engulfed. It was meddling with phenomena of which
nature herself has the absolute monopoly.
Paganel had thought of all this; but he intended to act prudently and
without pushing things to extremes. An appearance would be enough to
dupe the Maories, and there was no need for the terrible realities of an
eruption.
How long that day seemed. Each one of the party inwardly counted the
hours. All was made ready for flight. The oudoupa provisions were
divided and formed very portable packets. Some mats and firearms
completed their light equipment, all of which they took from the tomb
of the chief. It is needless to say that their preparations were made
within the inclosure, and that they were unseen by the savages.
At six o’clock the steward served up a refreshing meal. Where or when
they would eat in the valleys of the Ranges no one could foretell. So
that they had to take in supplies for the future. The principal dish was
composed of half a dozen rats, caught by Wilson and stewed. Lady Helena
and Mary Grant obstinately refused to taste this game, which is highly
esteemed by the natives; but the men enjoyed it like the real Maories.
The meat was excellent and savory, and the six devourers were devoured
down to the bones.
The evening twilight came on. The sun went down in a stormy-looking bank
of clouds. A few flashes of lightning glanced across the horizon and
distant thunder pealed through the darkened sky.
Paganel welcomed the storm, which was a valuable aid to his plans, and
completed his program. The savages are superstitiously affected by the
great phenomena of nature. The New Zealanders think that thunder is the
angry voice of Noui-Atoua, and lightning the fierce gleam of his eyes.
Thus their deity was coming personally to chastise the violators of the
taboo.
At eight o’clock, the summit of the Maunganamu was lost in portentous
darkness. The sky would supply a black background for the blaze which
Paganel was about to throw on it. The Maories could no longer see their
prisoners; and this was the moment for action. Speed was necessary.
Glenarvan, Paganel, McNabbs, Robert, the steward, and the two sailors,
all lent a hand.
The spot for the crater was chosen thirty paces from Kara-Tete’s tomb.
It was important to keep the oudoupa intact, for if it disappeared, the
taboo of the mountain would be nullified. At the spot mentioned Paganel
had noticed an enormous block of stone, round which the vapors played
with a certain degree of intensity. This block covered a small natural
crater hollowed in the cone, and by its own weight prevented the egress
of the subterranean fire. If they could move it from its socket, the
vapors and the lava would issue by the disencumbered opening.
The workers used as levers some posts taken from the interior of the
oudoupa, and they plied their tools vigorously against the rocky mass.
Under their united efforts the stone soon moved. They made a little
trench so that it might roll down the inclined plane. As they gradually
raised it, the vibrations under foot became more distinct. Dull roarings
of flame and the whistling sound of a furnace ran along under the thin
crust. The intrepid la-borers, veritable Cyclops handling Earth’s fires,
worked in silence; soon some fissures and jets of steam warned them that
their place was growing dangerous. But a crowning effort moved the mass
which rolled down and disappeared. Immediately the thin crust gave way.
A column of fire rushed to the sky with loud detonations, while streams
of boiling water and lava flowed toward the native camp and the lower
valleys.
All the cone trembled as if it was about to plunge into a fathomless
gulf.
Glenarvan and his companions had barely time to get out of the way; they
fled to the enclosure of the oudoupa, not without having been sprinkled
with water at 220 degrees. This water at first spread a smell like soup,
which soon changed into a strong odor of sulphur.
Then the mud, the lava, the volcanic stones, all spouted forth in
a torrent. Streams of fire furrowed the sides of Maunganamu. The
neighboring mountains were lit up by the glare; the dark valleys were
also filled with dazzling light.
All the savages had risen, howling under the pain inflicted by the
burning lava, which was bubbling and foaming in the midst of their camp.
Those whom the liquid fire had not touched fled to the surrounding
hills; then turned, and gazed in terror at this fearful phenomenon, this
volcano in which the anger of their deity would swallow up the profane
intruders on the sacred mountain. Now and then, when the roar of the
eruption became less violent, their cry was heard:
“Taboo! taboo! taboo!”
An enormous quantity of vapors, heated stones and lava was escaping
by this crater of Maunganamu. It was not a mere geyser like those that
girdle round Mount Hecla, in Iceland, it was itself a Hecla. All this
volcanic commotion was confined till then in the envelope of the cone,
because the safety valve of Tangariro was enough for its expansion; but
when this new issue was afforded, it rushed forth fiercely, and by the
laws of equilibrium, the other eruptions in the island must on that
night have lost their usual intensity.
An hour after this volcano burst upon the world, broad streams of lava
were running down its sides. Legions of rats came out of their holes,
and fled from the scene.
All night long, and fanned by the tempest in the upper sky, the crater
never ceased to pour forth its torrents with a violence that alarmed
Glenarvan. The eruption was breaking away the edges of the opening. The
prisoners, hidden behind the inclosure of stakes, watched the fearful
progress of the phenomenon.
Morning came. The fury of the volcano had not slackened. Thick yellowish
fumes were mixed with the flames; the lava torrents wound their
serpentine course in every direction.
Glenarvan watched with a beating heart, looking from all the interstices
of the palisaded enclosure, and observed the movements in the native
camp.
The Maories had fled to the neighboring ledges, out of the reach of the
volcano. Some corpses which lay at the foot of the cone, were charred by
the fire. Further off toward the “pah,” the lava had reached a group
of twenty huts, which were still smoking. The Maories, forming here
and there groups, contemplated the canopied summit of Maunganamu with
religious awe.
Kai-Koumou approached in the midst of his warriors, and Glenarvan
recognized him. The chief advanced to the foot of the hill, on the side
untouched by the lava, but he did not ascend the first ledge.
Standing there, with his arms stretched out like an exerciser, he made
some grimaces, whose meaning was obvious to the prisoners. As Paganel
had foreseen, Kai-Koumou launched on the avenging mountain a more
rigorous taboo.
Soon after the natives left their positions and followed the winding
paths that led toward the pah.
“They are going!” exclaimed Glenarvan. “They have left their posts! God
be praised! Our stratagem has succeeded! My dear Lady Helena, my brave
friends, we are all dead and buried! But this evening when night comes,
we shall rise and leave our tomb, and fly these barbarous tribes!”