The Call Of The South

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 MAOTÂ

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 Lepâ 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 Lepâ 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 Maotâ, 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 Maotâ,” 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,8 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 Noatâ) 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.”

When I first saw the dreadful Tito (pit) of Moatâ, 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 débris, 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 ~ VANÂKI, 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 employés 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 nui9 (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.”

“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.10 My name is Vanàki. 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 Tafito11 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.”

“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 Nouméa. 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.

“Vanâki,” 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?” 12

“That is true. And Miti knows us two papalagi13 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?”

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 Vanâki, up on deck, and over you go.”

Vanâki 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 Vanâki 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. Vanâki 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.”

Vanâki 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—£3 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 Vanâki was greatly pleased when I told him that he should have a place in my boat, instead of being put in the “covering"14 boat.

We made a splendid run down to the Solomons from Samoa, and when in sight of San Cristoval, spoke a French labour vessel from Nouméa, 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 Vanâki saw their faces, he gave a weird yell of delight, and rubbed noses with them the moment they stepped on deck.

“Hallo, Vanâki, my lad,” said the skipper of La Metise, shaking his hand, “how are you?” Then turning to us he said: “Vanâki was with me when I was mate with Captain Macleod, in the old Aurore of Nouméa. 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 Vanâki’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 Vanâki, and wished him good luck.

It was some days before the captain and I had time to hear Vanâki’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 Vanâki 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.