I told him.

"Ah, I have heard of you. You were with Kapitan Ebba (Captain Ever) in the Leota?"

He filled his pipe, lit it, and then extended his hand to me for the halt-plucked bird, and said he would finish it Then he looked at me inquiringly.

"You have the shaking sickness of the western islands. It is not good for you to lie here on the leaves. Come with me. I shall give you good food to eat, and coco-nut toddy to drink."

I asked him where he got his toddy from, as there were no coco-nut trees growing so high up in the mountains. He laughed.

"I have a sweetheart in Siumu. She brings it to me. You shall see her to-night. Come."

Stooping down, he lifted me up on his right shoulder as if I were a child, and then, with his own rifle and my gun and bag and the mountain cock tucked under his left arm, he set off at a rapid pace towards one of the higher spurs of the range. Nearly an hour later I found myself in a cave, overlooking the sea. On the floor were a number of fine Samoan mats and a well-carved aluga (bamboo pillow).

I stretched myself out upon the mats, again shivering with ague, and Te-bari covered me over with a thick tappa cloth. Then he lit a fire just outside the cave, and came back to me.

"You are hungry," he said, as he expanded his big mouth and grinned pleasantly. Then from the roof of the cave he took down a basket containing cold baked pigeons, fish and yams.

I ate greedily and soon after fell asleep. When I awoke it seemed to be daylight—in reality it was only a little past midnight, but a full bright moon was shining into the cave. Seated near me were my host and a young woman—the "sweetheart". I recognised her at once as Sa Laea, the widow of a man killed in the fighting a few months previously. She was about five and twenty years of age, very handsome, and quiet in her demeanour. As far as I knew she had an excellent reputation, and I was astonished at her consorting with an outlawed murderer. She came over and shook hands, asked if I felt better, and should she "lomi-lomi" (massage) me. I thanked her and gladly accepted her offer.

An hour before dawn she bade me good-bye, urging me to remain, and rest with her earless lover for a day or two, instead of coming on to Siumu, where there was an outbreak of measles.

"When I come to-morrow night," she said, "I will bring a piece of kava root and make kava for you."

The news about the measles decided me. I resolved to at least spend another day and night with my host. He was pleased.

Soon after breakfast he showed me around. His retreat was practically impregnable. One man with a supply of breech-loading ammunition could beat off a hundred foes. On the roof of the cave was a hole large enough to let a man pass through, and from the top itself there was a most glorious view. A mile away on the starboard hand, and showing through the forest green, was a curving streak of bright red—it was the road, or rather track, that led to Siumu. We filled our pipes, sat down and talked.

How long had he lived there? I asked. Five months. He had found the cave one day when in chase of a wild sow and her litter. Afraid of being shot by the Siumu people? No, he was on good terms with them. Very often he would shoot a wild pig and carry it to a certain spot on the road, and leave it for the villagers. But he could not go into the village itself. It was too risky—some one might be tempted to get those hundred Chile dollars from the Germans. Food? There was plenty. Hundreds of wild pigs in the mountains, and thousands of pigeons. The pigs he shot with his Snider, the pigeons he snared, for he had no shot gun, and would very much like to have one. Twice every week Sa Laea brought him food. Tobacco too, sometimes, when she could buy it or beg it from the trader at Siumu. Sometimes he would cross over to the northern watershed and catch a basketful of the big speckled trout which teem in the mountain pools. Some of these he would send by Sa Laea to the chief of Siumu, who would send him in return a piece of kava, and some young drinking coconuts as a token of good-will. Once when he went to fish he found a young Samoan and two girls about to net a pool. The man fired at him with his pigeon gun and the pellets struck him in the chest. Then he (Te-bari) shot the man through the chest with his Winchester. No, he did not harm the girls—he let them run away.

Sa Laea was a very good girl. Whenever he trapped a manu-mea (the rare Didunculus, or tooth-billed pigeon) she would take it to Apia and sell it for five dollars—sometimes ten. He was saving this money. When he had forty dollars he and Sa Laea were going to leave Samoa and go to Maiana. Kapitan Cameron had promised Sa Laea to take them there when they had forty dollars. Perhaps when his schooner next came to Siumu they would have enough money, etc.

During the day I shot a number of pigeons, and when Sa Laea appeared soon after sunset we had them cooked and ready. We made a delicious meal, but before eating the lady offered up the usual evening prayer in Samoan, and Te-bari the Earless sat with closed eyes like a saint, and gave forth a sonorous A-mene! when his ladylove ceased.

I left my outlaw friend next morning. Sa Laea came with me, for I had promised to buy him a pigeon gun (costing ten dollars), a bag of shot, powder and caps. I fulfilled my promise and the woman bade me farewell with protestations of gratitude.

A few months later Te-bari and Sa Laea left the island in Captain Cameron's schooner, the Manahiki. I trust they "lived happily ever afterwards".



CHAPTER XX ~ "THE DANDIEST BOY THAT EVER STOOD UP IN A BOAT"

Nine years had come and gone since I had last seen Nukutavake and its amiable brown^skinned people, and now as I again stepped on shore and scanned the faces of those assembled on the beach to meet me, I missed many that I had loved in the old, bright days when I was trading in the Paumotus. For Death, in the hideous shape of small-pox, had been busy, taking the young and strong and passing by the old and feeble.

It was a Sunday, and the little isle was quiet—as quiet as the ocean of shining silver on which our schooner lay becalmed, eight miles beyond the foaming surf of the barrier reef.

Teveiva, the old native pastor, was the first one to greet me, and the tears rolled down his cheeks as he spoke to me in his native Tahitian, bade me welcome, and asked me had I come to sojourn with "we of Nukutavake, for a little while".

"Would that it were so, old friend. But I have only come on shore for a few hours, whilst the ship is becalmed—to greet old friends dear to my heart, and never forgotten since the days I lived among ye, nigh upon a half-score years ago. But, alas, it grieves me that many are gone."

A low sob came from the people, as they pressed around their friend of bygone years, some clasping my hands and some pressing their faces to mine And so, hand in hand, and followed by the people, the old teacher and I walked slowly along the shady path of drooping palms, and came to and entered the quiet mission house, through the open windows of which came the sigh of the surf, and the faint call of sea-birds.

Some women, low-voiced and gentle, brought food, and young drinking nuts upon platters of leaf, and silently placed them before the White Man, who touched the food with his hand and drank a little of a coco-nut, and then turned to Teveiva and said:—

"O friend, I cannot eat because of the sorrow that hath come upon thee. Tell me how it befel."

Speaking slowly, and with many tears, the old teacher told of how a ship from Tahiti had brought the dread disease to the island, and how in a little less than two months one in every three of the three hundred and ten people had died, and of the long drought that followed upon the sickness, when for a whole year the sky was as brass, and the hot sun beat down upon the land, and withered up the coco-palms and pandanus trees; and only for the night dews all that was green would have perished. And now because of the long drought men were weak, and sickening, and women and children were feint from want of food.

"It is as if God hath deserted us," said the old man.

"Nay," I assured him, "have no fear. Rain is near. It will come from the westward as it has come to many islands which for a year have been eaten up with drought and hunger like this land of Nukutavake. Have no fear, I say. Wind and much heavy rain will soon come from the west."

Then I wrote a few lines to the skipper.

"Send this letter to the ship by my boat," I said to Teveiva, "and the captain will fill the boat with food. It is the ship's gift to the people."

And then for the first time since the island had been smitten, the poor women and children laughed joyously, and the men sprang to their feet, and with loud shouts ran to the boat with the messenger who carried the letter.

"Come, old friend," I said to the teacher, "walk with me round the island. I would once more look upon the lagoon and sit with you a little while as we have sat many times before, under the great toa tree that grows upon the point on the weather side."

And so we two passed out of the mission house, and hand in hand, like children, went into the quiet village and along the sandy path that wound through the vista of serried, grey-boled palms, till we came to the white, inner beach of the calm lagoon, which shone and glistened like burnished silver. On the beach were some canoes.

Half a cable length from the shore, a tiny, palm-clad islet floated on that shining lake, and the drooping fronds of the palms cast their shadows upon the crystal water. Between the red-brown boles of the trees there showed something white. The old man pointed to it and said:—

"Wilt come and look at the white man's grave? 'Tis well kept—as we promised his mother should be done."

Teveiva launched a canoe and we paddled gently over to the isle, which was barely half an acre in extent From the beach there ran a narrow path, neatly gravelled and bordered with many-hued crotons; it led to a low square enclosure of coral stone cemented with lime. Within the walls bright crotons grew thickly, and in the centre stood a plain slab of marble on which was carved:—

Walter Tallis, boat-steerer of the ship asia.

Died, December 25, 1869, aged 21. Erected by his Mother.



I sat on the wall, and looked thoughtfully at the marble slab.

"'Tis twelve years since, Teveiva."

"Aye, since last Christmas Day. And every year his mother sends a letter and asks, 'Is my boy's grave well kept?' and I write and say, 'It is well tended. One day in every week the women and girls come and weed the path, and see that the plants thrive. This have we always done since thou sent the marble slab.' She sends her letters to the English missionary at Papeite, and he sends mine to her in far away Beretania (Britain)."

"Poor fellow," I thought; "it was just such a day as this—hot and calm—when we laid him here under the palms."

*****

On that day, twelve years before, the Asia lay becalmed off the island, and the skipper lowered his boat and came on shore to buy some fresh provisions He was a cheery old fellow, with snow-white hair, and was brimming over with good spirits, for the Asia had had extraordinary good luck.

"Over a thousand barrels of sparm oil under hatches already, and the Asia not out nine months," he said to me, "and we haven't lost a boat, nor any whale we fastened to yet And this boy here," and he turned and clapped his hand on the shoulder of a young, handsome and stalwart youth, who had come with him, "is my boat-steerer, Walter Tallis, and the dandiest lad with an iron that ever stood up in a boat's bow. Forty-two years have I been fishin', and until Walter here shipped on the old Asia, thought that the Almighty never made a good boat-steerer or boat-header outer eny one but a Yankee or a Portugee—or maybe a Walker Injun. But Walter, though he is a Britisher, was born fer whale-killin'—and thet's a fact."

I shook hands with the young man, who laughed as he said:—

"Captain Allen is always buttering me up. But there are as good, and better men than me with an iron on board the Asia. But I certainly have had wonderful luck—for a Britisher," and he smiled slyly at his captain.

Suddenly, we were chatting and smoking on the verandah, there came a thrilling cry from the crew of the whaleboat, lying on the beach fifty yards away.

"Blo-o-w! bl-o-o-w!"

And from the throats of three hundred natives came a roar "Te folau! te folau!" ("A whale! a whale!")

The skipper and his boat-steerer sprang to their feet and looked seaward, and there, less than a mile from the shore, was a mighty bull cachalot, leisurely making his way through the glassy sea, swimming with head up, and lazily rolling from side to side as if his one hundred tons of bulk were as light as the weight of a flying-fish.

"Now, mister, you shall see what Walter and I can do with that fish," cried the skipper to me. "And when we've settled him, and the other boats are towing him off to the ship, Walter and I will come on shore again and hev something to eat—if you will invite us."

The boat flashed out from the beach, swept out of the passage through the reef, and in twenty minutes was within striking distance of the mighty cetacean. And, watching from the verandah, I saw the young harpooner stand up and bury his first harpoon to the socket, following it instantly with a second. Then slowly sank the huge head, and up came the vast flukes in the air, and Leviathan sounded into the ocean depths as the line spun through the stem notch, and the boat sped over the mirror-like sea. In ten minutes she was hidden from view by a point of land, and the last that we on the shore saw was "the dandiest lad that ever stood up in a boat's bow" going aft to the steer-oar, and the old white-headed skipper taking his place to use the deadly lance. And then at the same time that the captain's boat disappeared from view, I noticed that the Asia had lowered her four other boats, which were pulling with furious speed in the direction which the "fast" boat had taken.

"Something must have gone wrong with the captain's boat," I thought.

Something had gone wrong, for half an hour later one of the four "loose" boats pulled into the beach, and the old skipper, with tears streaming down his rugged cheeks, stepped out, trembling from head to foot.

"My dandy boy, my poor boatsteerer," he said huskily to me—"that darned whale fluked us, and near cut him in half. Poor lad, he didn't suffer; for death came sudden. An' he is the only son of his mother. Can I bring him to your house?"

Very tenderly and slowly the whaleboat's crew carried the crushed and mutilated form of the "dandiest boy" to the house, and whilst I helped the Asia's cooper make a coffin, Teveiva sat outside with the heartbroken old skipper, and spoke to him in his broken English of the Life Beyond. And so Walter Tallis, the last of an old Dorset family, was laid to rest in the little isle in the quiet lagoon.

For two days our schooner lay in sight of the island; and then, as midnight came, the blue sky became black, and the ship was snugged down for the coming storm. The skipper sent up a rocket so that it might be seen by the people on shore—to verify my prophecy about a change in the weather.

Came then the wind and the sweet, blessed rain, and as the schooner, under reefed canvas, plunged to the rising sea, the folk of Nukutavake, I felt certain, stood outside their houses, and let the cooling Heaven-sent streams drench their smooth, copper-coloured skins, whilst good old Teveiva gave thanks to God.



CHAPTER XXI ~ THE PIT OF MAOTA

For the Samoans I have always had a great admiration and affection. Practically I began my island career in Samoa. More than a score of years before Robert Louis Stevenson went to die on the verdured slopes of Vailima Mountain, where he now rests, I was gaining my living by running a small trading cutter between the beautiful islands of Upolu, Savai'i, and Tutuila, and the people ever had my strong sympathies in their struggle against Germany for independence. Even so far back as 1865, German agents were at work throughout the group, sowing the seeds of discord, encouraging the chiefs of King Malietoa to rebel, so that they could set up a German puppet in his place. And unfortunately they have succeeded only too well, and Samoa, with the exception of the Island of Tutuila, is now German territory. But it is as well, for the people are kindly treated by their new masters.

The Samoans were always a warlike race. When not unitedly repelling invasion by the all-conquering Tongans who sent fleet after fleet to subjugate the country, they were warring among themselves upon various pretexts—successions to chiefly titles, land disputes, abuse of neutral territory, and often upon the most trivial pretexts. In my own time I witnessed a sanguinary naval encounter between the people of the island of Manono, and a war-party of ten great canoes from the district of Lepa on the island of Upolu. I saw sixteen decapitated heads brought on shore, and personally attended many of the wounded. And all this occurred through the Lepa people having at a dance in their village sung a song in which a satirical allusion was made to the Manono people having once been reduced to eating shell-fish. The result was an immediate challenge from Manono, and in all nearly one hundred men lost their lives, villages were burnt, canoes destroyed, and thousands of coco-nut and bread-fruit trees cut down and plantations ruined.

Sometimes in battle the Samoans were extremely chivalrous, at others they were demons incarnate, as merciless, cold-blooded, and cruel as the Russian police who slaughter women and children in the streets of the capital of the Great White Czar, and I shall now endeavour to describe one such terrible act, which after many years is still spoken of with bated breath, and even amidst the suppressed sobs and falling tears of the descendants of those who suffered.

On the north coast of Upolu there is a populous town and district named Fasito'otai. It is part of the A'ana division of Upolu, and is noted, even in Samoa, a paradise of Nature, for its extraordinary fertility and beauty.

The A'ana people at this time were suffering from the tyranny of Manono, a small island which boasted of the fact of its being the birthplace and home of nearly all the ruling chiefs of Samoa, and the extraordinary respect with which people of chiefly lineage are treated by Samoans, generally led them to suffer the greatest indignities and oppressions by the haughty and warlike Manonoans, who exacted under threats a continuous tribute of food, fine mats and canoes. Finally, a valorous young chief named Tausaga—though himself connected with Manono—revolted, and he and his people refused to pay further tribute to Manono, and a bloody struggle was entered upon.

For some months the war continued. No mercy was shown on either side to the vanquished, and there is now a song which tells of how Palu, a girl of seventeen, with a spear thrust half through her bosom by her brother-in-law, a chief of Manono, shot him through the chest with a horse pistol, and then breaking off the spear, knelt beside the dying man, kissed him as her "brother" and then decapitated him, threw the head to her people with a cry of triumph—and died.

At first the A'ana people were victorious, and the haughty Manonoans were driven off into their fleets of war canoes time and time again. Then Manono made alliance with other powerful chiefs of Savai'i and Upolu against A'ana, and two thousand of them, after great slaughter, occupied the town of Fasito'otai, and the A'ana people retired to inland fortresses, resolved to fight to the very last Among the leaders of the defeated people were two white men—an Englishman and an American—whose valour was so much admired, even by the Manono people, that they were openly solicited to desert the A'ana people, and come over to the other side, where great honours and gifts of lands awaited them. To their credit, these two unknown men rejected the offer with scorn, and announced their intention to die with the people with whom they had lived for so many years. At their instance, many of the Manono warriors who had been captured had been spared, and kept prisoners, instead of being ruthlessly decapitated in the usual Samoan fashion, and their heads exhibited, with much ignominy, from one village to another, as trophies.

For two years the struggle continued, the Manonoans generally proving victorious in many bloody battles. Then Fasito'otai was surprised in the night, and two-thirds of its defenders, including many women and children, slaughtered. Among those who died were the two white men. They fell with thirty young men, who covered the retreat of the survivors of the defending force.

The extraordinary valour which the A'ana people had displayed, exasperated the Manono warriors to deeds of unnamable violence to whatever prisoners fell into their cruel hands. One man—an old Manono chief—who had taken part in the struggle, told me with shame that he saw babies impaled on bayonets and spears carried exultingly from one village to another.

Broken and disorganised, the beaten A'ana people dispersed in parties large and small. Some sought refuge in the mountain forests, others put to sea in frail canoes, and mostly all perished, but one party of seventeen in three canoes succeeded in reaching Uea (Wallis Island), three hundred miles to the westward of Samoa Among them was a boy of seven years of age, who afterwards sailed with me in a labour vessel. He well remembered the horrors of that awful voyage, and told me of his seeing his father "take a knife and open a vein in his arm so that a baby girl, who was dying of hunger, could drink".

Relentless in their hate of the vanquished foe, the Manono warriors established a cordon around them from the mountain range that traverses the centre of Upolu to the sea, and at last, after many engagements, drove them to the beach, where a final battle was fought. Exhausted, famine-stricken, and utterly disheartened by their continuous reverses, the unfortunate A'ana people were easily overcome, and the fighting survivors surrendered, appealing to their enemies to at least spare the lives of their women and children.

But no mercy was shown. As night began to fall, the Manonoans began to dig a huge pit at a village named Maota, a mile from the scene of the battle, and as some dug, others carried an enormous quantity of dead logs of timber to the spot. By midnight the dreadful funeral pyre was completed.

In case that it might be thought by my readers that I am exaggerating the horrors of "The Pit of Maota," I will not here relate what I, personally, was told by people who were present at the awful deed, but repeat the words of Mr. Stair, an English missionary of the London Missionary Society, whose book, entitled Old Samoa, tells the story in quiet, yet dramatic language, and although in regard to some minor details he was misinformed, his account on the whole is correct, and is the same as was told to me by men who had actually participated in the tragedy.

The awful preparations were completed, and then the victors, seizing those of their captives who were bound on account of their strength and had a few hours previously surrendered, hurried them to the fatal pit, in which the huge pile of timber had been lit. And as the flames roared and ascended, and the darkness of the surrounding forest was made as light as day, the first ten victims of four hundred and sixty-two were cast in to burn, amid the howls and yells of their savage captors.

Mr. Stair says: "This dreadful butchery was continued during one or two days and nights, fresh timber being heaped on from time to time, as it was with difficulty that the fire could be kept burning, from the number of victims who were ruthlessly sacrificed there.

"The captives from Fasito'otai were selected for the first offerings, and after them followed others in quick succession, night and day, early and late, until the last wretched victim had been consumed. Most heartrending were the descriptions I received from persons who had actually looked on the fearful scenes enacted there.

"Innocent children skipped joyfully along the pathway by the side of their conductors and murderers,{*} deceived by the cruel lie that they were to be spared, and were then on their way to bathe; when suddenly the blazing pile (in the Pit of Noata) with the horrid sight of their companions and friends being thrown alive into the midst, told them the dreadful truth; whilst their terror was increased by the yells of savage triumph of the murderers, or the fearful cries of the tortured victims which reached their ears."

* I was told that the poor children were led away as they thought to be given si mea ai vela—"something hot" (to eat).—[L.B.]

When I first saw the dreadful Tito (pit) of Moata, it was at the close of a calm, windless day. I had been pigeon-shooting in the mountain forest, and was accompanied by a stalwart young Samoan warrior. As we were returning to Fasito'otai, he asked me if I would come a little out of the way and look at the "Tito," a place he said "that is to our hearts, and is, holy ground". He spoke so reverently that I was much impressed.

Following a winding path we suddenly came in view of the pit. The sides were almost covered with many beautiful varieties of crotons, planted there by loving hands, and it was very evident to me that the place was indeed holy ground. At the bottom of the pit was a dreadful reminder of the past—a large circle of black charcoal running round the sides, and enclosing in the centre a large space which at first I thought was snow-white sand, but on descending into the pit with uncovered head, and looking closer, found it was composed of tiny white coral pebbles. Hardly a single leaf or twig marred the purity of the whiteness of the cover under which lay the ashes of nearly five hundred human beings. Every Saturday the women and children of Fasito'otai and the adjacent villages visited the place, and reverently removed every bit of debris, and the layer of stones, carefully selected of an equal size, was renewed two or three times a year as they became discoloured by the action of the rain. Encompassing the wooded margin of the pit were numbers of orange, lime and banana trees, all in full fruit. These were never touched—to do so would have been sacrilege, for they were sacred to the dead. All around us were hundreds of wood-doves and pigeons, and their peaceful notes filled the forest with saddening melody. "No one ever fires a gun here," said my companion softly, "it is forbidden. And it is to my mind that the birds know that it is a sacred place and holy ground."



CHAPTER XXII ~ VANAKI, THE STRONG SWIMMER

On the afternoon of the 4th of June, 1885, the Hawaiian labour schooner Mana, of which I was "recruiter" was beating through Apolima Straits, which divide the islands of Upolu and Savai'i. The south-east trade was blowing very strongly and a three-knot current setting against the wind had raised a short, confused sea, and our decks were continually flooded. But we had to thrash through it with all the sail we could possibly carry, for among the sixty-two Gilbert Islands "recruits" I had on board three had developed symptoms of what we feared was small-pox, and we were anxious to reach the anchorage off the town of Mulifanua at the west end of Upolu before dark. At Mulifanua there was a large German cotton plantation, employing four hundred "recruited" labourers, and on the staff of European employes was a resident doctor. In the ordinary course of things we should have gone on to Apia, which was twenty miles farther on, and our port of destination, and handed over my cargo of "recruits" to the manager of the German firm there; but as Mulifanua Plantation was also owned by them, and my "recruits" would probably be sent there eventually, the captain and I decided to land the entire lot at that place, instead of taking them to Apia, where the European community would be very rough upon us if the disease on board did turn out to be small-pox.

As the skipper and I were standing aft, watching the showers of spray that flew over the schooner every time a head sea smacked her in the face, one of the hands shouted out that there was a man in the water, close to on the weather bow. Hauling our head sheets to windward we head-reached towards him, and in a few minutes the man, who was swimming in the most gallant fashion, was alongside, and clambered on board. He was a rather dark-skinned Polynesian, young, and of extremely powerful physique.

"Thanks, good friends," he said, speaking in halting Samoan. "'Tis a high sea in which to swim. Yet," and here he glanced around him at the land on both sides, "I was half-way across."

"Come below," I said, "and take food and drink, and I will give you a lava-lava (waistcloth)." (He was nude.)

He thanked me, and then again his keen dark eyes were fixed upon Savai'i—three miles distant.

"Art bound to Savai'i?" he asked quickly.

"Nay. We beat against the wind. To-night we anchor at Mulifanua."

"Ah!" and his face changed, "then I must leave, for it is to Savai'i I go," and he was about to go over the rail when we held him back.

"Wait, friend. In a little time the ship will be close in to the passage through the reef at Saleleloga" (a town of Savai'i), "and then as we put the ship about, thou canst go on thy way. Why swim two leagues and tempt the sharks when there is no need. Come below and eat and drink, and have no fear. We shall take thee as near to the passage as we can."

The skipper came below with us, and after providing our visitor with a navy blue waistcloth, we gave him a stiff tumbler of rum, and some bread and meat. He ate quickly and then asked for a smoke, and in a few minutes more we asked him who he was, and why he was swimming across the straits. We spoke in Samoan. "Friends," he said, "I will tell the truth. I am one of the kau galuega (labourers) on Mulifanua Plantation. Yesterday being the Sabbath, and there being no work, I went into the lands of the Samoan village to steal young nuts and taro. I had thrown down and husked a score, and was creeping back to my quarters by a side path through the grove, when I was set upon by three young Samoan manaia (bloods) who began beating me with clubs—seeking to murder me. We fought, and I, knowing that death was upon me, killed one man with a blow of my tori nui{*} (husking stick) of iron-wood, and then drove it deep into the chest of another. Then I fled, and gaining the beach, ran into the sea so that I might swim to Savai'i, for there will I be safe from pursuit" "'Tis a long swim, man—'tis five leagues." He laughed and expanded his brawny chest "What is that to me? I have swam ten leagues many times."

* A heavy, pointed stick of hardwood, used for husking coco- nuts.

"Where do you belong?" asked the skipper in English.

He answered partly in the same language and partly in his curious Samoan.

"I am of Anuda.{*} My name is Vanaki. Two years ago I came to Samoa in a German labour ship to work on the plantations, for I wanted to see other places and earn money, and then return to Anuda and speak of the things I had seen. It was a foolish thing of me. The German suis (overseers) are harsh men. I worked very hard on little food. It was for that I had to steal. And I am but one man from Anuda, and there are four hundred others from many islands—black-skinned, man-eating, woolly-haired pigs from the Solomon and New Hebrides, and fierce fellows like these Tafito{**} men from the Gilbert Islands such as I now see here on this ship. No one of them can speak my tongue of Anuda. And now I am a free man."

* Anuda or Cherry Island is an outlier of the Santa Cruz Group, in the South Pacific. The natives are more of the Polynesian than the Melanesian type, and are a fine, stalwart race.

** Tafitos—natives of the Pacific Equatorial Islands such as the Gilbert Group.

"You are a plucky fellow," said the captain, "and deserve good luck. Here, take this dollar, and tie it up in the corner of your waistcloth. You can buy yourself some tobacco from the white trader at Salelelogo."

"Ah, yes, indeed. But" (and here he dropped into Samoan again, and turned to me) "I would that the good captain would take me as a sailor for his next voyage. I was for five years with Captain Macleod of Noumea. And I am a good man—honest, and no boaster."

I shook my head. "It cannot be. From Mulifanua we go to Apia And there will be news there of what thou hast done yesterday, and we cannot hide a man on this small ship." And then I asked the captain what he thought of the request.

"We ought to try and work it," said the skipper. "If he was five years with Jock Macleod he's all right."

We questioned him further, and he satisfied us as to his bona-fides, giving us the names of many men—captains and traders—known to us intimately.

"Vanaki," I said, "this is what may be done, but you must be quick, for presently we shall be close to the passage off Saleleloga, and must go about When you land, go to Miti-loa the chief, and talk to him privately. There is bad blood between his people and those of Mulifanua——"

"I know it It has been so for two years past."

"Now, listen. Miti-loa and the captain here and I are good friends. Tell him that you have seen us. Hide nothing from him of yesterday. He is a strong man."

"I know it Who does not, in this part of Samoa know of Miti-loa?" {*}

"That is true. And Miti knows us two papalagi{**} well. Stay with him, work for him, and do all that he may ask. He will ask but little—perhaps nothing. In twenty days from now, this ship will be at Apia ready for sea again. We go to the Tokelaus" (Gilbert Islands) "or else to the Solomons, and if thou comest on board in the night who is to know of it but Miti-loa and thyself?"

* Miti-loa—"Long Dream ".

** White men—foreigners.

The mate put his head under the flap of the skylight "Close on to the reef, sir. Time to go about."

"All right, Carey. Put her round Now Vanaki, up on deck, and over you go."

Vanaki nodded and smiled, and followed us. Then quickly he took off his lava-lava, deftly wrapped it about his head like an Indian turban, and held out his hand in farewell, and every one on board cheered as he I leapt over the side, and began his swim to the land.

From the cross-trees I watched him through my glasses, saw him enter the passage into smooth water, and disdaining to rest on any of the exposed and isolated projections of reef which lined the passage, continue his course towards the village. Then a rain squall hid him from view, but we knew that he was safe.

That evening we landed our "recruits" at Mulifanua, and after thoroughly disinfecting the ship, we sailed a few days later for Apia. Here we were again chartered to proceed to the New Hebrides and Solomon Islands for another cruise.

As we were refitting, I received a letter from Miti-loa, telling me that Vanaki was safe, and would be with us in a few days. When he did arrive, he came with Miti-loa himself in his taumalua (native boat) and a score of his people. Vanaki was so well made-up as a Samoan that when he stepped on deck the skipper and I did not recognise him. We sent him below, and told him to keep quiet until we were well under way.

"Ah," said Miti-loa to us, "what a man is he! Such a swimmer was never before seen. My young men have made much of him, and I would he would stay with me."

Vanaki turned out an acquisition to our ship's company, and soon became a favourite with every one. He was highly delighted when he was placed on the articles at the usual rate of wages paid to native seamen—L3 per month. Our crew were natives from all parts of Polynesia, but English was the language used by them generally to each other. Like all vessels in the labour trade we carried a double crew—one to man the boats when recruiting, and one to work the ship when lying "off and on" at any island where we could not anchor, and Vanaki was greatly pleased when I told him that he should have a place in my boat, instead of being put in the "covering"{*} boat.

* The "covering" boat is that which stands by to open fire if the "landing" boat is attacked.

We made a splendid run down to the Solomons from Samoa, and when in sight of San Cristoval, spoke a French labour vessel from Noumea, recruiting for the French New Hebrides Company. Her captain and his "recruiter" (both Englishmen) paid us a visit. They were old acquaintances of our captain and myself, and as they came alongside in their smart whaleboat and Vanaki saw their faces, he gave a weird yell of delight, and rubbed noses with them the moment they stepped on deck.

"Hallo, Vanaki, my lad," said the skipper of La Metise, shaking his hand, "how are you?" Then turning to us he said: "Vanaki was with me when I was mate with Captain Macleod, in the old Aurore of Noumea. He's a rattling good fellow for a native, and I wish I had him with me now. Wherever did you pick him up?"

We told him, and Houston laughed when I narrated the story of Vanaki's swim.

"Oh, that's nothing for him to do. Why, the beggar once swam from the Banks Group across to the Torres Islands. Has he never told you about it?"

"No. And I would hardly believe him if he did. Why, the two groups are fifty miles apart."

"No, from Tog in the Torres Islands to Ureparapara in the Banks Group is a little over forty miles. But you must wheedle the yarn out of him. He's a bit sensitive of talking about it, on account of his at first being told he was a liar by several people. But Macleod, two traders who were passengers with us, and all the crew of the Aurore know the story to be true. We sent an account of it to the Sydney papers."

"I'll get him to tell me some day," I said "I once heard of a native woman swimming from Nanomaga in the Ellice Group to Nanomea—thirty-five miles—but never believed it for a long time."

After spending half an hour with us, our friends went back to their ship, each having shaken hands warmly with Vanaki, and wished him good luck.

It was some days before the captain and I had time to hear Vanaki's story, which I relate as nearly as possible in his own words.

First of all, however, I must mention that Ureparapara or Bligh Island is a well-wooded, fertile spot, about sixteen miles in circumference, and is an extinct crater. It is now the seat of a successful mission. Tog is much smaller, well-wooded, and inhabited, and about nine hundred feet high. At certain times of the year a strong current sets in a northerly and westerly direction, and it is due to this fact that Vanaki accomplished his swim. Now for his story.

"I was in the port watch of the Aurore. We came to Ureparapara in the month of June to 'recruit' and got four men. Whilst we were there, Captain Houston (who was then mate of the Aurore) asked me if I would dive under the ship and look at her copper; for a week before we had touched a reef. So I dived, and found that five sheets of copper were gone from the port side about half a fathom from the keel. So the captain took five new sheets of copper, and punched the nail holes, and gave me one sheet at a time, and I nailed them on securely. In three hours it was done, for the ship was in quiet, clear water, and I knew what to do. The captain then said to me laughingly that he feared I had but tacked on the sheets loosely, and that they would come off. My heart was sore at this, and so I asked Mr. Houston, who is a good diver, to go and look. And he dived and looked, and then five other of the crew—natives—dived and looked, and they all said that the work was well and truly done—all the nails driven home, and the sheets smooth, and without a crinkle. This pleased the captain greatly, and he gave me a small gold piece, and told me that I could go on shore, and spend it at the white trader's store.

"Now I did a foolish thing. I bought from the trader two bottles of strange grog called arrak. It was very strong—stronger than rum—and soon I and two others who drank it became very drunk, and lay on the ground like pigs. Mr. Houston came and found me, and brought me on board, and I was laid on the after-deck under the awning.

"At sunset the ship sailed. I was still asleep, and heard nothing, though in a little while it began to blow, and much rain fell The captain let me lie on the lee side, so that the rain might beat upon me, and bring me to life again.

"When four bells struck I awoke. I was ashamed. Waiting until the wheel was relieved, I crept along the deck unseen, for it was very dark, and goy up on the top of the top-gallant fo'c'stle, and again lay down. The ship was running before the wind under close-reefed sails, and the sea was so great that she pitched heavily every now and then, and much water came over the bows. This did me good, and I soon began to feel able to go below and turn in in my bunk. Then presently, as I was about to rise, the ship made a great plunge, and a mighty sea fell upon her, and I was swept away. No one saw me go, for no one knew that I was there, and the night was very, very dark.

"When I came to the surface, I could see the ship's lights, and cried out, but no one heard me, for the wind and sea made a great noise; and then, too, there was sweeping rain In a little while the lights were gone, and I was alone.

"'Now,' I said to myself, 'Vanaki, thou art a fool, and will go into the belly of a shark because of becoming drunk.' And then my heart came back to me, and I swam on easily over the sea, hoping that I would be missed, and the ship heave-to, and send a boat. But I looked in vain.

"By-and-by the sky cleared, and the stars came out, but the wind still blew fiercely, and the seas swept me along so quickly that I knew it would be folly for me to try and face them, and try to swim back to Ureparapara.

"'I will swim to Tog,' I said; 'if the sharks spare me I can do it.' For now that the sky was clear, and I could see the stars my fear died away; and so I turned a little, and swam to the west a little by the north.

"There was a strong current with me, and hour by hour as I swam the wind became less, and the sea died away.

"When daylight came I was not tired, and rested on my back. And as I rested, two green turtle rose near me. They looked at me, and I was glad, for I knew that where turtle were there would be no sharks. I am not afraid of sharks, but what is a man to do with a shark in the open sea without a knife?

"Towards noon there came rain I lay on my back and put my hollowed hands together, and caught enough to satisfy my great thirst. The rain did not last long.

"A little after noon I saw the land—the island of Tog. It was but three leagues away.

"Then I swam into a great and swift tide-rip, which carried me to the eastward. It was so strong that I feared it would take me away from the island, but soon it turned and swept me to the westward. And then I saw the land becoming nearer and nearer.

"When the sun was nearly touching the sea-rim, I was so close to the south-end of Tog, that I could see the spars of a ship lying at anchor in the bay called Pio. And then when the sun had set I could see the lights of many canoes catching flying-fish by torchlight.

"I swam on and came to the ship. It was the Aurore.

"I clambered up the side-ladder, and stood on deck, and the man who was on anchor watch—an ignorant Tokelau—shouted out in fear, and ran to tell the captain, and Mr. Houston.

"They brought me below and made much of me, and gave me something to drink which made me sleep for many hours.

"When I awakened I was strong and well, but my eyes were malai (bloodshot). That is all."



CHAPTER XXIII ~ TWO PACIFIC ISLANDS BIRDS: THE SOUTH SEA CORNCRAKE AND THE TOOTH-BILLED PIGEON



THE SOUTH SEA CORNCRAKE

Although I had often heard of the "corncrake" or landrail of the British Isles, I did not see one until a few years ago, on my first visit to Ireland, when a field labourer in County Louth brought me a couple, which he had killed in a field of oats. I looked at them with interest, and at once recognised a striking likeness in shape, markings and plumage to an old acquaintance—the shy and rather rare "banana-bird" of some of the Polynesian and Melanesian Islands. I had frequently when in Ireland heard at night, during the summer months, the repeated and harsh "crake, crake," of many of these birds, issuing from the fields of growing corn, and was very curious to see one, for the unmelodious cry was exactly like that of the kili vao, or "banana-bird" of the Pacific Islands. And when I saw the two corncrakes I found them to be practically the same bird, though but half the size of the kili vao.

Kili vao in native means bush-snipe, as distinct from kili fusi, swamp snipe. It feeds upon ripe bananas, and papaws (mamee apples), and such other sweet fruit, that when over-ripe fall to the ground. It is very seldom seen in the day-time, when the sun is strong, though its hoarse frog-like note may often be heard in cultivated banana plantations, or on the mountain sides, where the wild banana thrives. At early dawn, or towards sunset, however, they come out from their retreats, and search for fallen bananas, papaws or guavas, and I have spent many a delightful half-hour watching them from my own hiding-place. Although they have such thick, long and clumsy legs, and coarse splay feet they run to and fro with marvelous speed, continually uttering their insistent croak. Usually they were in pairs, male and female, although I once saw a male and three female birds together. The former can easily be recognised, for it is considerably larger than its mate, and the coloration of the plumage on the back and about the eyes is more pronounced, and the beautiful quail-like semi-circular belly markings are more clearly defined. When disturbed, and if unable to run into hiding among the dead banana leaves, they rise and present a ludicrous appearance, for their legs hang down almost straight, and their flight is slow, clumsy and laborious, and seldom extends more than fifty yards.

The natives of the Banks and Santa Cruz Groups (north of the New Hebrides) assert that the kili is a ventriloquist, and delights to "fool" any one attempting to capture it. "If you hear it call from the right, it is hiding to the left; and its mate is perhaps only two fathoms away from you, hiding under the fallen banana leaves, and pretending to be dead. And you will never find either, unless it is a dark night, and you suddenly light a big torch of dried coco-nut leaves; then they become dazed and stupid, and will let you catch them with your hand."

Whilst one cannot accept the ventriloquial theory, there can be no doubt of the extraordinary cunning in hiding, and noiseless speed on foot of these birds when disturbed. One afternoon, near sunset, I was returning from pigeon-shooting on Ureparapara (Banks Group) when in walking along the margin of a taro-swamp, which was surrounded by banana trees, a big kili rose right in front of me, and before I could bring my gun to shoulder, my native boy hurled his shoulder-stick at it and brought it down, dead. Then he called to me to be ready for a shot at the mate, which, he said, was close by in hiding.

Walking very gently, he carefully scanned the dead leaves at the foot of the banana trees, and silently pointed to a heap which was soddened by rain.

"It is underneath there," he whispered, then flung himself upon the heap of leaves, and in a few seconds dragged out the prize—a fine full-grown female bird, beautifully marked. I put her in my game-bag. During our two-mile walk to the village she behaved in a disgusting manner, and so befouled herself (after the manner of a young Australian curlew when captured) that she presented a repellent appearance, and had such a disgusting odour that I was at first inclined to throw her—game-bag and all—away. However, my native boy washed her, and then we put her in a native pigeon cage. In the morning she was quite clean and dry, but persistently hid her head when any one approached, refused to take food and died two days later, although I kept the cage in a dark place.

These birds are excellent eating when not too fat; but when the papaws are ripe they become grossly unwieldy, and the whole body is covered with thick yellow fat, and the flesh has the strong sweet taste of the papaw. At this time, so the natives say, they are actually unable to rise for flight, and are easily captured by the women and children at work in the banana and taro plantations.

(Apropos of this common tendency of the flesh of birds to acquire the taste of their principal article of food, I may mention that in those Melanesian Islands where the small Chili pepper grows wild, the pigeons at certain times of the year feed almost exclusively upon the ripe berries, and their flesh is so pungent as to be almost uneatable. At one place on the littoral of New Britain, there is a patch of country covered with pepper trees, and it is visited by thousands of pigeons, who devour the berries, although their ordinary food of sweet berries was available in profusion in the mountain forests.)

On some of the Melanesian islands there is a variety of the banana-bird which frequents the yam and sweet potato plantation, digs into the hillocks with its power-fill feet, and feeds upon the tubers, as does the rare toothed-billed pigeon.

One day, when I was residing in the Caroline Islands, a pair of live birds were brought to me by the natives, who had snared them. They were in beautiful plumage, and I determined to try and keep them.

The natives quickly made me an enclosure about twenty feet square of bamboo slats about an inch or two apart, driving them into the ground, and making a "roof" of the same material, sufficiently high to permit of three young banana trees being planted therein. Then we quickly covered the ground with dead banana leaves, small sticks and other debris, and after making it as "natural" as possible, laid down some ripe bananas, and turned the birds into the enclosure. In ten seconds they had disappeared under the heap of leaves as silently as a beaver or a platypus takes to the water.

During the night I listened carefully outside the enclosure, but the captives made neither sound nor appearance. They were still "foxing," or as my Samoan servant called it, le toga-fiti e mate (pretending to be dead).

All the following day there was not the slightest movement of the leaves, but an hour after sunset, when I was on my verandah, smoking and chatting with a fellow trader, a native boy came to us, grinning with pleasure, and told us that the birds were feeding. I had a torch of dried coco-nut leaves all in readiness. It was lit, and as the bright flame burst out, and illuminated the enclosure, I felt a thrill of delight—both birds were vigorously feeding upon a very ripe and "squashy" custard apple, disregarding the bananas. The light quite dazed them, and they at once ceased eating, and sat down in a terrified manner, with their necks outstretched, and their bills on the ground. We at once withdrew. In the morning, I was charmed to hear them "craking," and from that time forward they fed well, and afforded me many a happy hour in watching their antics. I was in great hopes of their breeding, for they had made a great pile of debris between the banana trees, into which in the day-time they would always scamper when any one passed, and my natives told me that the end of the rainy season was the incubating period. As it was within a few weeks of that time, I was filled with pleasurable anticipations, and counted the days. Alas, for my hopes! One night, a predatory village pig, smelling the fruit which was always placed in the enclosure daily, rooted a huge hole underneath the bambods, and in the morning my pets were gone, and nevermore did I hear their hoarse crake! crake!—ever pleasing to me during the night.

*****



THE TOOTH-BILLED PIGEON OF SAMOA—(Didunculus Strigirostris)

The recent volcanic outburst on the island of Savai'i in the Samoan Group, after a period of quiescence of about two hundred years, has, so a Californian paper states, revealed the fact that one of the rarest and most interesting birds in the world, and long supposed to be peculiar to the Samoan Islands, and all but extinct, is by no means so in the latter respect, for the convulsion in the centre of the island, where the volcanic mountain stands nearly 4,000 feet high, has driven quite a number of the birds to the littoral of the south coast. So at least it was reported to the San Francisco journal by a white trader residing on the south side of Savai'i during the outbreak.

For quite a week before the first tremors and groan-ings of the mountain were felt and heard, the natives said that they had seen Manu Mea (tooth-billed pigeons) making their way down to the coast. Several were killed and eaten by children.

Before entering into my own experiences and knowledge of this extraordinary bird, gained during a seven years' residence in Samoa, principally on the island of Upolu, I cannot do better than quote from Dr. Stair's book, Old Samoa, his description of the bird. Very happily, his work was sent to me some years ago, and I was delighted to find in it an account of the Manu Mea (red bird) and its habits. In some respects he was misinformed, notably in that in which he was told that the Didunculus was peculiar to the Samoan Islands; for the bird certainly is known in some of the Solomon Islands, and also in the Admiralty Group—two thousand miles to the north-west of Samoa. Here, however, is what Dr. Stair remarks:—

"One of the curiosities of Samoan natural history is Le Manu Mea, or red bird of the natives, the tooth-billed pigeon (Didunculus Strigirostris, Peale), and is peculiar to the Samoan Islands. This remarkable bird, so long a puzzle to the scientific world, is only found in Samoa, and even there it has become so scarce that it is rapidly becoming extinct, as it falls an easy prey to the numerous wild cats ranging the forests. It was first described and made known to the scientific world by Sir William Jardine, in 1845, under the name of Gnathodon Strigirostris, from a specimen purchased by Lady Hervey in Edinburgh, amongst a number of Australian skins. Its appearance excited great interest and curiosity, but its true habitat was unknown until some time after, when it was announced by Mr. Strickland before the British Association at York, that Mr. Titian Peale, of the United States Exploring Expedition, had discovered a new bird allied to the dodo, which he proposed to name Didunculus Strigirostris. From the specimen in Sir William Jardine's possession the bird was figured by Mr. Gould in his Birds of Australia, and its distinctive characteristics shown; but nothing was known of its habitat. At that time the only specimens known to exist out of Samoa were the two in the United States, taken there by Commodore Wilkes, and the one in the collection of Sir William Jardine, in Edinburgh. The history of this last bird is singular, and may be alluded to here.

"To residents in Samoa the Manu Mea, or red bird, was well known by repute, but as far as I know, no specimen had ever been obtained by any resident on the islands until the year 1843, when two fine birds, male and female, were brought to me by a native who had captured them on the nest I was delighted with my prize, and kept them carefully, but could get no information whatever as to what class they belonged. After a time one was unfortunately killed, and not being able to gain any knowledge respecting the bird, I sent the surviving one to Sydney, by a friend, in 1843, hoping it would be recognised and described; but nothing was known of it there, and my friend left it with a bird dealer in Sydney, and returned to report his want of success. It died in Sydney, and the skin was subsequently sent to England with other skins for sale, including the skin of an Apteryx, from Samoa. Later on the skin of the Manu Mea was purchased by Lady Hervey, and subsequently it came into the possession of Sir William Jar-dine, by whom it was described. Still nothing was known of its habitat—but this bird which I had originally sent to Sydney from Samoa was the means of bringing it under the notice of the scientific world, and thus in some indirect manner of obtaining the object I had in view.

"After my return to England, in 1846, the late Dr. Gray, of the British Museum, showed me a drawing of the bird, which I at once recognised; as also a drawing of a species of Apteryx which had been purchased in the same lot of skins. A native of Samoa, who was with me, at once recognised both birds. Dr. Gray and Mr. Mitchell (of the Zoological Gardens in London) were much interested in the descriptions I gave them, and urged that strong efforts should be made to procure living specimens. But no steps were taken to obtain the bird until fourteen years after, when, having returned to Australia, I was surprised to see a notice in the Melbourne Argus, of August 3, 1862, to the effect that the then Governor of Victoria, Sir Henry Barkley, had received a communication from the Zoological Society, London, soliciting his co-operation in endeavouring to ascertain further particulars as to the habitat of a bird they were desirous of obtaining; forwarding drawings and particulars as far as known at the same time; offering a large sum for living specimens or skins delivered in London. I at once recognised that the bird sought after was the Manu Mea, and gave the desired information and addresses of friends in Samoa, through whose instrumentality a living specimen was safely received in London, via Sydney, on April 10, 1864, the Secretary of the Zoological Society subsequently writing to Dr. Bennett of Sydney, saying, 'The La Hogue arrived on April 10, and I am delighted to be able to tell you that the Didunculus is now alive, and in good health in the gardens, and Mr. Bartlett assures me is likely to do well'.

"In appearance the bird may be described as about the size of a large wood-pigeon, with similar legs and feet, but the form of its body more nearly resembles that of the partridge. The remarkable feature of the bird is that whilst its legs are those of a pigeon, the beak is that of the parrot family, the upper mandible being hooked like the parrot's, the under one being deeply serrated; hence the name, tooth-billed pigeon. This peculiar formation of the beak very materially assists the bird in feeding on the potato-loke root, or rather fruit, of the soi, or wild yam, of which it is fond. The bird holds the tuber firmly with its feet, and then rasps it upwards with its parrot-like beak, the lower mandible of which is deeply grooved. It is a very shy bird, being seldom found except in the retired parts of the forest, away from the coast settlements. It has great power of wing, and when flying makes a noise, which, as heard in the distance, closely resembles distant thunder, for which I have on several occasions mistaken it. It both roosts and feeds on the ground, as also on stumps or low bushes, and hence becomes an easy prey to the wild cats of the forest. These birds also build their nests on low bushes or stumps, and are thus easily captured. During the breeding season the male and female relieve each other with great regularity, and guard their nests so carefully that they fall an easy prey to the fowler; as in the case of one bird being taken its companion is sure to be found there shortly after. They were also captured with birdlime, or shot with arrows, the fowler concealing himself near an open space, on which some soi, their favourite food, had been scattered.

"The plumage of the bird may be thus described. The head, neck, breast, and upper part of the back is of greenish black. The back, wings, tail, and under tail coverts of a chocolate red. The legs and feet are of bright scarlet; the mandibles, orange red, shaded off near the tips with bright yellow."

Less than twenty years ago I was residing on the eastern end of Upolu (Samoa), and during my shooting excursions on the range of mountains that traverses the island from east to west, saw several Didunculi, and, I regret to say, shot two. For I had no ornithological knowledge whatever, and although I knew that the Samoans regarded the Manu Mea as a rare bird, I had no idea that European savants and museums would be glad to obtain even a stuffed specimen. The late Earl of Pembroke, to whom I wrote on the subject from Australia, strongly urged me to endeavour to secure at least one living specimen; so also did Sir George Grey. But although I—like Mr. Stair—wrote to many native friends in Samoa, offering a high price for a bird, I had no success; civil war had broken out, and the people had other matters to think of beside bird-catching. I was, however, told a year later that two fine specimens had been taken on the north-west coast of Upolu, that one had been so injured in trapping that it died, and the other was liberated by a mischievous child.

I have never heard one of these birds sound a note, but a native teacher on Tutuila told me that in the mating season they utter a short, husky hoot, more like a cough than the cry of a bird.

A full month after I first landed in Samoa, I was shooting in the mountains at the back of the village of Tiavea in Upolu, when a large, and to me unknown, bird rose from the leaf-strewn ground quite near me, making almost as much noise in its flight as a hornbill. A native who was with me, fired at the same time as I did, and the bird fell. Scarcely had the native stooped to pick it up, exclaiming that it was a Manu Mea when a second appeared, half-running, half-flying along the ground. This, alas! I also killed They were male and female, and my companion and I made a search of an hour to discover their resting place (it was not the breeding season), but the native said that the Manu Mea scooped out a retreat in a rotten tree or among loose stones, covered with dry moss. But we searched in vain, nor did we even see any wild yams growing about, so evidently the pair were some distance from their home, or were making a journey in search of food.

During one of my trips on foot across Upolu, with a party of natives, we sat down to rest on the side of a steep mountain path leading to the village of Siumu. Some hundreds of feet below us was a comparatively open patch of ground—an abandoned yam plantation, and just as we were about to resume our journey, we saw two Manu Mea appear. Keeping perfectly quiet, we watched them moving about, scratching up the leaves, and picking at the ground in an aimless, perfunctory sort of manner with their heavy, thick bills. The natives told me that they were searching, not for yams, but for a sweet berry called masa'oi, upon which the wild pigeons feed.

In a few minutes the birds must have become aware of our presence, for they suddenly vanished.

I have always regretted in connection with the two birds I shot, that not only was I unaware of their value, even when dead, but that there was then living in Apia a Dr. Forbes, medical officer to the staff of the German factory. Had I sent them to him, he could have cured the skins at least, for he was, I believe, an ardent naturalist.



CHAPTER XXIV ~ A NIGHT RUN ACROSS FAGALOA BAY

When I was supercargo of the brig Palestine, we were one day beating along the eastern shore of the great island of Tombara (New Ireland) or, as it is now called by its German possessors, Neu Mecklenburg, when an accident happened to one of our hands—a smart young A.B. named Rogers. The brig was "going about" in a stiff squall, when the jib-sheet block caught poor Rogers in the side, and broke three of his ribs.

There were then no white men living on the east coast of New Ireland, or we should have landed him there to recover, and picked him up again on our return from the Caroline Islands, so we decided to run down to Gerrit Denys Island, where we had heard there was a German doctor living. He was a naturalist, and had been established there for over a year, although the natives were as savage and warlike a lot as could be found anywhere in Melanesia.

We reached the island, anchored, and the naturalist came on board. He was not a professional-looking man. Here is my description, of him, written fifteen years ago:—

"He was bootless, and his pants and many-pocketed jumper of coarse dungaree were exceedingly dirty, and looked as if they had been cut out with a knife and fork instead of scissors, they were so marvellously ill-fitting. His head-gear was an ancient Panama hat, which flopped about, and almost concealed his red-bearded face, as if trying to apologise for the rest of his apparel; and the thin gold-rimmed spectacles he wore made a curious contrast to his bare and sun-burnt feet, which were as brown as those of a native. His manner, however, was that of a man perfectly at ease with himself and his clear, steely blue eyes, showed an infinite courage and resolution."

At first he was very reluctant to have Rogers brought on shore, but finally yielded, being at heart a good-natured man. So we bade Rogers good-bye, made the doctor a present of some provisions, and a few cases of beer, and told him we should be back in six weeks.

When we returned, Rogers came on board with the German. He was quite recovered, and he and his host were evidently on very friendly terms, and bade farewell to each other with some show of feeling.

After we had left the island, Rogers came aft, and told us his experiences with the German doctor.

"He's a right good sort of a chap, and treated me well, and did all he could for me, sirs—but although he is a nice cove, I'm glad to get away from him, and be aboard the brig again. For I can hardly believe that I haven't had a horrid, blarsted nightmare for the past six weeks."

And then he shuddered.

"What was wrong with him, Rogers?" asked the skipper.

"Why, he ain't no naturalist—I mean like them butterfly-hunting coves like you see in the East Indies. He's a head-hunter—buys heads—fresh 'uns by preference, an' smokes an' cures 'em hisself, and sells 'em to the museums in Europe. So help me God, sirs, I've seen him put fresh human heads into a barrel of pickle, then he takes 'em out after a week or so, and cleans out the brains, and smokes the heads, and sorter varnishes and embalms 'em like. An' when he wasn't a picklin' or embalmin' or varnishin', he was a-writing in half a dozen log books. I never knew what he was a-doin' until one day I went into his workshop—as he called it—and saw him bargaining with some niggers for a fresh cut-off head, which he said was not worth much because the skull was badly fractured, and would not set up well.

"He was pretty mad with me at first for comin' in upon him, and surprisin' him like, but after a while he took me into his confidence, and said as how he was engaged in a perfeckly legitimate business, and as the heads was dead he was not hurtin' 'em by preparing 'em for museums and scientific purposes. And he says to me, 'You English peoples have got many peautiful preserved heads of the New Zealand Maories in your museums, but ach, Gott, there is not in England such peautiful heads as I haf mineself brebared here on dis islandt And already I haf send me away fifty-seven, and in two months I shall haf brebared sixteen more, for which I shall get me five hundred marks each.'"

Rogers told us that when he one day expressed his horror at his host's "business," the German retorted that it was only forty or fifty years since that many English officials in the Australian colonies did a remarkably good business in buying smoked Maori heads, and selling them to the Continental museums. (This was true enough.) Rogers furthermore told us that the doctor "cured" his heads in a smoke-box, and had "a regular chemist's shop" in which were a number of large bottles of pyroligneous acid, prepared by a London firm.

This distinguished savant left Gerrit Denys Island about a year later in a schooner bound for Singapore. She was found floating bottom up off the Admiralty Group, and a Hong-Kong newspaper, in recording the event, mentioned that "the unfortunate gentleman (Dr. Ludwig S———) had with him an interesting and extremely valuable ethnographical collection ".

Rogers's horrible story had a great interest for me; for it had been my lot to see many human heads just severed from the body, and I was always fascinated by the peculiar expression of the features of those unfortunates who had been decapitated suddenly by one swift blow. "Death," "Peace," "Immortality," say the closed eyelids and the calm, quiet lips to the beholder.

I little imagined that within two years I should have a rather similar experience to that of Rogers, though in my case it was a very brief one. Yet it was all too long for me, and I shall always remember it as the weirdest experience of my life.

I have elsewhere in this volume spoken of the affectionate regard I have always had for the Samoan people, with whom I passed some of the happiest years of my life. I have lived among them in peace and in war, have witnessed many chivalrous and heroic deeds, and yet have seen acts of the most terrible cruelty to the living, the mutilation and dishonouring of the dead killed in combat, and other deeds that filled me with horror and repulsion. And yet the perpetrators were all professing Christians—either Protestant or Roman Catholic—and would no more think of omitting daily morning and evening prayer, and attending service in church or chapel every Sunday, than they would their daily bathe in sea or river.

Always shall I remember one incident that occurred during the civil war between King Malietoa and his rebel subjects at the town of Saluafata. The olo or trenches, of the king's troops had been carried by the rebels, among whom was a young warrior who had often distinguished himself by his reckless bravery. At the time of the assault I was in the rebel lines, for I was on very friendly terms with both sides, and each knew that I would not betray the secrets of the other, and that my only object was to render aid to the wounded.

This young man, Tolu, told me, before joining in the assault, that he had a brother, a cousin, and an uncle in the enemy's trenches, and that he trusted he should not meet any one of them, for he feared that he might turn pala'ai (coward) and not "do his duty". He was a Roman Catholic, and had been educated by the Marist Brothers, but all his relatives, with the exception of one sister, were Protestants—members of the Church established by the London Missionary Society.

An American trader named Parter and I watched the assault, and saw the place carried by the rebels, and went in after them. Among the dead was Tolu, and we were told that he had shot himself in grief at having cut down his brother, whom he did not recognise.

Now as to my own weird experience.

There had been severe fighting in the Fagaloa district of the Island of Upolu, and many villages were in flames when I left the Port of Tiavea in my boat for Fagaloa Bay, a few miles along the shore. I was then engaged in making a trip along the north coast, visiting almost every village, and making arrangements for the purchase of the coming crop of copra (dried coco-nut). I was everywhere well received by both Malietoa's people and the rebels, but did but little business. The natives were too occupied in fighting to devote much time to husking and drying coco-nuts, except when they wanted to get money to buy arms and ammunition.

My boat's crew consisted of four natives of Savage Island (Niue), many of whom are settled in Samoa, where they have ample employment as boatmen and seamen. They did not at all relish the sound of bullets whizzing over the boat, as we sometimes could not help crossing the line of fire, and they had a horror of travelling at night-time, imploring me not to run the risk of being slaughtered by a volley from the shore—as how could the natives know in the darkness that we were not enemies.

Fagaloa Bay is deep, narrow and very beautiful. Small villages a few miles apart may be seen standing in the midst of groves of coco-nut palms, and orange, banana and bread-fruit trees, and everywhere bright mountain streams of crystal water debouch into the lovely bay.

On Sunday afternoon I sailed into the bay and landed at the village of Samamea on the east side, intending to remain for the night We found the people plunged in grief—a party of rebels had surprised a village two miles inland, and ruthlessly slaughtered all the inhabitants as well as a party of nearly a score of visitors from the town of Salimu, on the west side of the bay. So sudden was the onslaught of the rebels that no one in the doomed village escaped except a boy of ten years of age. After being decapitated, the bodies of the victims were thrown into the houses, and the village set on fire.

The people of Samamea hurriedly set out to pursue the raiding rebels, and an engagement ensued, in which the latter were badly beaten, and fled so hurriedly that they had to abandon all the heads they had taken the previous day in order to save their own.

The chief of Samamea, in whose house I had my supper, gave me many details of the fighting, and then afterwards asked me if I would come and look at the heads that had been recovered from the enemy. They were in the "town house" and were covered over with sheets of navy blue cloth, or matting. A number of natives were seated round the house, conversing in whispers, or weeping silently.

"These," said the chief to me, pointing to a number of heads placed apart from the others, "are the heads of the Salimu people—seventeen in all, men, women and three children. We have sent word to Salimu to the relatives to come for them. I cannot send them myself, for no men can be spared, and we have our own dead to attend to as well, and may ourselves be attacked at any time."'

A few hours later messengers arrived from Salimu. They had walked along the shore, for the bay was very rough—it had been blowing hard for two days—and, the wind being right ahead, they would not launch a canoe—it would only have been swamped.

Taken to see the heads of their relatives and friends, the messengers gave way to most uncontrollable grief, and their cries were so distressing that I went for a walk on the beach—to be out of hearing.

When I returned to the village I found the visitors from Salimu and the chief of Samamea awaiting to interview me. The chief, acting as their spokeman, asked me if I would lend them my boat to take the heads of their people to Salimu. He had not a single canoe he could spare, except very small ones, which would be useless in such weather, whereas my whaleboat would make nothing of it.

I could not refuse their request—it would have been ungracious of me, and it only meant a half-hour's run across the bay, for Salimu was exactly abreast of Samamea. So I said I would gladly sail them over in my boat at sunset, when I should be ready.

The heads were placed in baskets, and reverently carried down to the beach, and placed in the boat, and with our lug-sail close reefed we pushed off just after dark.

There were nine persons in the boat—the four Salimu people, my crew of four and myself. The night was starlight and rather cold, for every now and then a chilly rain squall would sweep down from the mountains.

As we spun along before the breeze no one spoke, except in low tones. Our dreadful cargo was amidships, each basket being covered from view, but every now and then the boat would ship some water, and when I told one of my men to bale out, he did so with shuddering horror, for the water was much blood-stained.

When we were more than half-way across, and could see the lights and fires of Salimu, a rain squall overtook us, and at the same moment the boat struck some floating object with a crash, and then slid over it, and as it passed astern I saw what was either a log or plank about twenty feet long.

"Boat is stove in, for'ard!" cried one of my men, and indeed that was very evident, for the water was pouring in—she had carried away her stem, and started all the forward timber ends.

To have attempted to stop the inrush of water effectually would have been waste, of time, but I called to my men to come aft as far as they could, so as to let the boat's head lift; and whilst two of them kept on baling, the others shook out the reef in our lug, and the boat went along at a great speed, half full of water as she was, and down by the stern. The water still rushed in, and I told the Samoans to move the baskets of heads farther aft, so that the men could bale out quicker.

"We'll be all right in ten minutes, boys," I cried to my men, as I steered; "I'll run her slap up on the beach by the church."

Presently one of the Samoans touched my arm, and said in a whisper that we were surrounded by a swarm of sharks. He had noticed them, he said, before the boat struck.

"They smell the bloodied water," he muttered.

A glance over the side filled me with terror. There were literally scores of sharks, racing along on both sides of the boat, some almost on the surface, others some feet down, and the phosphorescence of the water added to the horror of the scene. At first I was in hopes that they were harmless porpoises, but they were so close that some of them could have been touched with one's hand. Most fortunately I was steering with a rudder, and not a steer oar. The latter would have been torn out of my hands by the brutes—the boat have broached-to and we all have met with a horrible death. Presently one of the weeping women noticed them, and uttered a scream of terror.

"Le malie, le malic!" ("The sharks, the sharks!") she cried.

My crew then became terribly frightened, and urged me to let them throw the baskets of heads overboard, but the Samoans became frantic at the suggestion, all of them weeping.

So we kept on, the boat making good progress, although we could only keep her afloat by continuous baling of the ensanguined water. In five minutes more my heart leapt with joy—we were in shallow water, only a cable length from Salimu beach, and then in another blinding rain squall we ran on shore, and our broken bows ploughed into the sand, amid the cries of some hundreds of natives, many of whom held lighted torches.

All of us in the boat were so overwrought that for some minutes we were unable to speak, and it took a full bottle of brandy to steady the nerves of my crew and myself. I shall never forget that night run across Fagaloa Bay.



CHAPTER XXV ~ A BIT OF GOOD LUCK

Between the southern end of the great island of New Guinea and the Solomon Group there is a cluster of islands marked on the chart as "Woodlark Islands," but the native name is Mayu. Practically they were not discovered until 1836, when the master of the Sydney sandal-wooding barque Woodlark made a survey of the group. The southern part of the cluster consists of a number of small well-wooded islands, all inhabited by a race of Papuans, who, said Captain Grimes of the Woodlark, had certainly never before seen a white man, although they had long years before seen ships in the far distance.

It was on these islands that I met with the most profitable bit of trading that ever befel me during more than a quarter of a century's experience in the South Seas.

Nearly thirty years passed since Grimes's visit without the natives seeing more than half a dozen ships. These were American or Hobart Town whalers, and none of them came to an anchor—they laid off and on, and bartered with the natives for fresh provisions, but from the many inquiries I made, I am sure that no one from these ships put foot on shore; for the inhabitants were not to be trusted, being warlike, savage and treacherous.

The master of one of these ships was told by the natives—or rather made to understand, for no one of them knew a word of English—that about twelve months previously a large vessel had run on shore one wild night on the south side of the group and that all on board had perished. Fourteen bodies had been washed on shore at a little island named Elaue, all dreadfully battered about, and the ship herself had disappeared and nothing remained of her but pieces of wreckage. She had evidently struck on the reef near Elaue with tremendous violence, then slipped off and sunk. The natives asked the captain to come on shore and be shown the spot where the men had been buried, but he was too cautious a man to trust himself among them.

On his reporting the matter to the colonial shipping authorities at Sydney, he learned that two vessels were missing—one a Dutch barque of seven hundred tons which left Sydney for Dutch New Guinea, and the other a full-rigged English ship bound to Shanghai. No tidings had been heard of them for over eighteen months, and it was concluded that the vessel lost on Woodlark Island was one or the other, as that island lay in the course both would have taken.

In 1868-69 there was a great outburst of trading operations in the North-West Pacific Islands—then in most instances a terra incognita, and there was a keen rivalry between the English and German trading firms to get a footing on such new islands as promised them a lucrative return for their ventures. Scores of adventurous white men lost their lives in a few months, some by the deadly malarial fever, others by the treacherous and cannibalistic savages. But others quickly took their places—nothing daunted—for the coco-nut oil trade, the then staple industry of the North-West Pacific, was very profitable and men made fortunes rapidly. What mattered it if every returning ship brought news of some bloody tragedy—such and such a brig or schooner having been cut off and all hands murdered, cooked and eaten, the vessel plundered and then burnt? Such things occur in the North-West Pacific in the present times, but the outside world now hears of them through the press and also of the punitive expeditions by war-ships of England, France or Germany.

Then in those old days we traders would merely say to one another that "So-and-So 'had gone'". He and his ship's company had been cut off at such-and-such a place, and the matter, in the eager rush for wealth, would be forgotten.

At that time I was in Levuka—the old capital of Fiji—supercargo of a little topsail schooner of seventy-five tons. She was owned and sailed by a man named White, an extremely adventurous and daring fellow, though very quiet—almost solemn—in his manner.

We had been trading among the windward islands of the Fiji Group for six months and had not done at all well. White was greatly dissatisfied and wanted to break new ground. Every few weeks a vessel would sail into the little port of Levuka with a valuable cargo of coco-nut oil in casks, dunnaged with ivory-nuts, the latter worth in those days L40 a ton. And both oil and ivory-nuts had been secured from the wild savages of the North-West in exchange for rubbishy hoop-iron knives, old "Tower" muskets with ball and cheap powder, common beads and other worthless articles on which there was a profit of thousands per cent. (In fact, I well remember one instance in which the master of the Sydney brig E. K. Bateson, after four months' absence, returned with a cargo which was sold for L5,000. His expenses (including the value of the trade goods he had bartered) his crew's wages, provisions, and the wear and tear of the ship's gear, came to under L400.)

White, who was a very wide-awake energetic man, despite his solemnity, one day came on board and told me that he had made up his mind to join in the rush to the islands to the North-West between New Guinea and the Solomons.

"I have," he said, "just been talking to the skipper of that French missionary brig, the Anonyme. He has just come back from the North-West, and told me that he had landed a French priest{*} at Mayu (Woodlark Island). He—the priest—remained on shore some days to establish a mission, and told Rabalau, the skipper of the brig, that the natives were very friendly and said that they would be glad to have a resident missionary, but that they wanted a trader still more. Furthermore, they have been making oil for over a year in expectation of a ship coming, but none had come. And Rabalau says that they have over a hundred tuns of oil, and can't make any more as they have nothing to put it in. Some of it is in old canoes, some in thousands of big bamboos, and some in hollowed-out trees. And they have whips of ivory nuts and are just dying to get muskets, tobacco and beads. And not a soul in Levuka except Rabalau and I know it. You see, I lent him twenty bolts of canvas and a lot of running gear last year, and now he wants to do me a good turn. Now, I say that Woodlark is the place for us. Anyway, I've bought all the oil casks I could get, and a lot more in shooks, and so let us bustle and get ready to be out of this unholy Levuka at daylight."

* This was Monseigneur d'Anthipelles the head of the Marist Brothers in Oceania.

*****

We did "bustle". In twenty-four hours we were clear of Levuka reef and spinning along to the W.N. W. before the strong south-east trade, for our run of 1,600 miles. 'Day and night the little schooner raced over the seas at a great rate, and we made the passage in seven days, dropping anchor off the largest village in the island—Guasap.

In ten minutes our decks were literally packed with excited natives, all armed, but friendly. Had they chosen to kill us and seize the schooner, it would have been an easy task, for we numbered only eight persons—captain, mate, bos'un, four native seamen, and myself.

We learned from the natives that two months previously there had been a terrible hurricane which lasted for three days and devastated two-thirds of the islands. Thousands of coco-nut trees had been blown down, and the sea had swept away many villages on the coast. So violent was the surf that the wreck of the sunken ship on Elaue Island had been cast up in fragments on the reef, and the natives had secured a quantity of iron work, copper, and Muntz metal bolts. These articles I at once bargained for, after I had seen the collection, and for two old Tower muskets, value five shillings each, obtained the lot—worth L250.

I had arranged with the chief and his head men to buy their oil in the morning. And White and I found it hard to keep our countenances when they joyfully accepted to fill every cask we had on the ship each for twenty sticks of twist tobacco, a cupful of fine red beads and a fathom of red Turkey twill! Or for five casks I would give a musket, a tin of powder, twenty bullets, and twenty caps!

In ten minutes I had secured eighty tuns of oil (worth L30 a tun) for trade goods that cost White less than L20. And the beauty of it was that the natives were so impressed by the liberality of my terms that they said they would supply the ship with all the fresh provisions—pigs, fowls, turtle and vegetables that I asked for, without payment.

As White and I, after our palaver with the head men, were about to return on board, we noticed two children who were wearing a number of silver coins, strung on cinnet (coir) fibre, around their necks. We called them to us, looked at the coins and found that they were rupees and English five-shilling pieces.

I asked one of our Fijian seamen, who acted as interpreter, to ask the children from where they got the coins.

"On the reef," they replied, "there are thousands of them cast up with the wreckage of the ship that sank a long time ago. Most of them are like these"—showing a five-shilling piece; "but there are much more smaller ones like these,"—showing a rupee.

"Are there any sama sama (yellow) ones?" I asked.

No, they said, they had not found any sama sama ones. But they could bring me basketfuls of those like which they showed me.