Part 10

Did they weep? No; they dared not weep, for Butho, the fearless, who led us, told them that she who first wept aloud should die; and thereafter, when Ina, the daughter of Naikele, lifted up her voice, he struck her on the mouth with his short throwing-club. Ah! she was never called “Ina the beautiful” more, for her teeth were all broken, and her nose crushed, so that no man desired her as before, and she became a kitchen-woman, and carried firewood for the chief’s kitchen all her days. So the women feared to weep aloud lest Ina’s fate should befall them.

Ah, it was a great victory! Nothing now remains of Korolamalama but the name and a few mounds. Therefore the Vunisalevu was very glad, knowing that the right was triumphant, and that vengeance could never come again from Korolamalama. The white man? Oh, he was very grateful to them of course, for they had helped him out of their great love for him, and they asked for no reward, nor would they take one when it was offered to them--neither oil, nor mats, nor timber, nor anything of value. The captain was a good man, not like the white men of this day, who will cheat their own fathers for the sake of gain, but a generous man and a right-doer. His crew, perhaps, were wicked men, for they swore much and fought among themselves, so that we all feared them. What? How many times must I tell you that the captain wanted no reward? Nay, more, for as the women of Korolamalama were many, and food was scarce at the time, he offered to take some away; and the chief bade him come and choose from among them, and he came at night with four of his sailors. And all the women were brought to the chief’s house trembling, for they thought that evil was to befall them as the others. And the captain took a lantern and held it in the face of each in turn, taking hold of any that shrank back. And when he had seen all, he pointed to Sili and to Manana and to Latia, as the three whom he had chosen. And we were all surprised, for we thought that he would have chosen strong women who would work; but those he had pointed to were young maidens, children, and useless for work. The first two were the daughters of the woman Kurulawa, who stood by, and of low rank, but Latia was a chief’s daughter, and beautiful. But when the Vunisalevu told them they were to go with the white man, and the sailors came to take them, they cried aloud to the men to save them, and the other women caught them in their arms and wept, so that there was a very great uproar. But the sailors shook them all off except the woman Kurulawa, and her they struck, so that she fell upon the mats. Then they bound the hands of the three girls with ropes, and put pieces of wood in their mouths, and so stopped their cries--for one could not hear the other speak for the noise they made when they knew that the white men would take them.

* * * * * * *

I wonder where those women are now, if they be still alive! They were not on board when Captain Aneli came back the next year, and I forgot to ask him about them.

II.

Ah, the white men of that day were braver than the white men who live among us now--be not angry, sir, if I say this--and Captain Aneli was the bravest of them all! Many great deeds he did in these seas besides the burning of Korolamalama and the slaughter of its people. I sailed eighteen months with him, and saw much fighting, not only upon the land but upon the sea also--among ourselves who sailed together. But Captain Aneli was fearless, and we all dreaded him after he slew the big white man and the Portugee who rebelled against him, and had flogged the Indian who prepared the food until he died. He loved me well, and gave me great gifts, teaching me to shoot with the little gun, and bidding me be always near him lest the evil-minded among the crew should again rebel against him. But when we reached New Zealand, and had been at anchor but two days, a man came from the shore and seized my captain, binding his wrists with iron fastenings that snapped to like the lock of a musket; and he was led away, shouting many evil words, and I saw him no more. I know not why this was done, but the man must have been one of the captain’s enemies and evil-minded, for he was a just man and brave.

And yet not all the captains of those days were like him, for there were some who were faint-hearted, like the white men of to-day, who think more of the love of women than of war, and whose hearts are weakened like a missionary’s. With such a one did I sail as I will relate.

After the captain was taken away we left the ship and dispersed, each going his own way; and I, with Tom the Manila man and others, drank white men’s _yangona_ in a house by the shore till we were intoxicated, and there was fighting and much anger. I do not know what we did until I awoke in the prison-house. Then I was taken before a chief, who judged me and awarded my punishment. But a man who stood by asked me whether I would sail with him if he released me from punishment, and I, not knowing what would be my punishment by the laws of these white men, and fearing to be flogged, besought him to set me free. So he paid money to the judge, who thereupon looked with favour on him and ordered me to be set at liberty. He was the captain of a two-masted ship, about to sail to the lands of these seas to exchange cloth and knives and axes for oil and the weapons of the place. And on the day we hove the anchor a white woman came on board, who was his wife, and sailed with him. He was a good man, this captain, but his mind was like a missionary’s, and he was not skilled in the ways of the sea. He had a large Bible which he was always reading in the cabin, while the woman lay sick in her bunk; and he often said to me--for by this time I had begun to understand his talk--“This is my compass and my anchor.” And once when he said this the mate was near, who, being a godless man but a good sailor, said, so that the captain might hear, “It would be better for the ship if he steered by the compass on board.”

Now the crew were like other white sailors, evil-minded, and lovers of forbidden words and strong drink. And even when there was no drink they would fight among themselves, but they all feared the mate, who, when giving orders, spoke but once, and instead of a second word smote, sometimes with a belaying-pin but oftenest with his naked fist, and that was the worst, for his arm was thick and knotted as yon _dilo_-tree, and with his fist he could have split this rock. But me he did not smite, because I honoured him and did his bidding cheerfully; nay, he even loved me, both for this and because my skin was black and I was a stranger, helpless, and without friends. He was a good sailor this mate, and often in the night when I was in his watch he would tell me stories of his cruises in the whale-ships, and I would tell him tales of blood from my own land. But he never spoke of the sea without contemptuous words towards the captain, whom he held to be no sailor but a missionary, accursed among sailors, and less than a man. He despised him, too, that he sailed with a woman, not being like the mate and other good sailors, who held women as fit only for the shore, and had a wife at every port to which they sailed. And I, too, hearing this, despised the captain in my heart, most of all when I saw how he subjected himself to the woman, as no man should do, and tended her as only slaves and low-born do, and they unwillingly. But for all this he was kind to me and did me many services, giving me from the cabin food in tin boxes, such as none other in the ship might taste but he and the woman.

All this time we were sailing northwards, the wind being south-east but light. And the air grew warm, and the spirit-light flashed in our wake at night, and the flying-fish, the birds of Nukuloa, took wing under our bows, and my heart grew light in the warm air, for I knew we were approaching my own land where only it is fit for man to live. We had left behind us the bitter winds that chill the marrow, and the sterile palmless shores, where men hurry ceaselessly to and fro, never resting but toiling ever, and the heart is filled with darkness and disgust of life and a great longing for rest. But though my heart was glad because I should soon be in that sweet land and see the green yam-vines, graceful as fair women in the dance, the captain became sorrowful, for the woman whom he tended was now sick, and for many days we had not seen her face, though we knew by his looks day by day that she grew worse.

And on the day when the sea-birds first circled the ship, the wind being still fair but falling light, the mate ordered the sailor they called Bill--him with the red beard--to go aloft and shake out the topsail, which was furled; but he not moving quickly, but with murmurs and unwillingly, the mate spoke angrily to him, saying, “Goddam!” many times, and other evil words. Then the sailor turned back and struck the mate, calling upon the others to come and help him; for he was a sort of leader among them, through his quarrelsome nature and unwillingness to render due obedience to his chiefs. But the others stood as if uncertain, wishing to slay the mate, and yet afraid. And as he continued calling upon them, two of the crew joined him, and drove the mate against the cook-house, where he stood striking at them, for he was very strong. Then Bill took the cook’s axe that stood near and lifted it to strike, and I ran to help the mate, whom I loved. But before I could reach him another passed me very swiftly and flung himself upon Bill, as a falcon seizes a _sese_, and strove with him a moment till both fell heavily upon the deck and rolled, so that Bill was underneath straining for breath, as the other had him by the throat. Then I wondered greatly, for I saw that he who had done this was the captain, whose body was thin and light like the body of a cat, and Bill was like a _bulumokau_ for bulk. And when the two others saw what had befallen Bill they retreated towards the forecastle; but the mate followed them, striking them with his fists so that they went down the hatchway as a man who dives for turtle, their feet following them. But when we turned back the captain was gone to his cabin, and Bill was still lying on the deck gasping for breath. And that night when it was my watch the mate came and sat with me near the wheel, for the night was clear and calm, and I was steering. He did not speak contemptuously of the captain, but wonderingly, as if he had suddenly become another whom he did not know. And while we still talked a sound came through the cabin skylight near us as of a woman’s voice, and of a man weeping. And then the weeping of the man drowned the voice of the woman, which was weak, and we both knew it for the captain’s voice, and the mate got up and went forward saying no word. But my heart was filled with a great contempt for the captain, since I hold it great shame for a man to weep. And a little later the wind died away, and the sails struck the mast with a noise like musketry, and then filled and struck again with the breath of the dying wind, and then hung loose from the yards as dead vines hang from the limbs of the _damanu_-tree; for even the swell was calm, so that both the air and the restless sea were dead, and the ship lay under the stars as still as a canoe left on the sands by the ebbing tide. And when the bell had struck one, and the dawn was near, I lay upon the hatchway wishing for sleep. And suddenly there was a terrible cry, so that we all started up asking ourselves whence it came and what it meant, for it was not the voice of a man but of some fierce animal. Then it came again, and we knew that it came from the cabin, and was the captain’s voice, but changed as the voice of a man whose senses have left him. And when it came a third time the mate said that the woman must be dead, for the captain’s voice was changed by grief, and he was calling the name of the woman, who would never answer him more. But after the third time the cry did not come again, but only a low moaning, continuously, as I have heard a man make after the battle when he has been clubbed, but his senses have returned to him, and he knows that they who are taking him are heating the oven for his body. And when the sun rose no wind came to fill the sails and cool the air. And beside the ship lay her image, complete to the last rope, as clear as in those glasses the traders sell to the women. And as the sun rose higher the sky turned to iron, and the sea threw back the brightness so that it burned the eyes; and the pitch grew wet in the seams and scorched the bare feet, gluing them to the deck. And we lay under the shadow of the masts and sails panting for breath. Only the sailmaker worked, making a hammock for the body of the woman. And all the while the moaning in the cabin never ceased, even for a moment. And when the sun was overhead, all things being prepared, the mate went to the cabin with the sailmaker. And we heard blows upon the cabin-door, and the captain was loudly called; but however loudly they knocked or called, when they ceased they still heard the moaning, mingled with broken words. So the mate came to us again, saying that he would wait until eight bells, and then force the door, for the weather was hot and the matter could not be delayed. But when eight bells were struck, the moaning still continuing, the mate called me, and I took the hammock and followed him down the companion. And the mate called loudly and struck upon the door. Then we listened and heard the voice as of one who sleeps and dreams evil dreams. Then stepping back, the mate ran upon the door, striking it heavily with his shoulder, and the door burst in, and the mate fell forward with the door into the cabin. And I, looking in, saw a foolish sight, for the captain was sitting on the floor of the cabin and had the body of the woman clasped in his arms as a mother holds her suckling child. And the woman was an ill sight, for she was axe-faced, like all the white women, and the flesh had left her face in her sickness, and being dead the eyes stared upward and the jaw had fallen. Yet for all this the captain, not seeing us, kissed the dead face as is the white man’s fashion with the lips, and moaned unceasingly. Then the mate touched him and spoke, but he seemed not to know him, and his eyes became fierce, and he cried to us to leave him. Seeing that we could do nothing without using force, we left him for that night. But when the morning came and there was still no wind, the mate again bade me follow him, and called to him also the carpenter and the boatswain, and we four entered the cabin and found him sitting as before, only quieter, but the woman’s face was much changed. And the mate spoke brave words to the captain, bidding him have courage and allow the woman’s body to be buried. And when he understood why we had come, and saw the hammock, he became like a wild sow who is wounded with a spear and turns to protect her young ones. Even so he turned to defend the body of the woman. But the mate seized him, and, with the help of the carpenter, held him fast, while we dragged the body from him. But so changed was it that it would not go into the hammock. So we carried it on deck out of his sight, while he struggled with the others, and the sailmaker ripped the hammock and sewed it up in haste, enclosing a shot at the feet. And when all was ready we carried it amidships and laid it on a grating, with a flag over it, and the mate nailed up the captain’s door lest he should do some fearful thing. Then the mate said some sacred words,--not many, for he could remember only a few,--and the men, being impatient lest ill-luck should befall the ship, threw up the grating and the body splashed into the sea, breaking the image of the ship into a thousand pieces. But scarcely had it sunk when it sprang up again as if alive, and most of the sailors fled in fear thinking it to be alive. But the mate, knowing the cause, cried that the shot was not heavy enough seeing that the body was much swollen. He shouted to us to pierce the hammock quickly to make the body sink. So a boat was lowered, and as no other would do it, I was sent with a sharp boat-hook to pierce the hammock. Now the body had drifted a few fathoms from the ship, and still danced up and down upright and immersed from the waist downwards. And as the boat drew near, and I stood up in the bows, I thought I saw the axe-face grinning at me through the canvas, and drawing away from me, so that I almost feared to strike lest it still lived. Then one of the sailors in the boat cried, “It is alive and will drown us!” and I held my hand in terror lest I should strike a live woman. But the mate cried from the ship, “Strike!” and I turned and saw that the ship was turning so that we were nearly opposite the cabin window, and the mate and all the sailors were beckoning to me to strike quickly. Then courage came to me, and standing up in the boat I struck at the woman with the boat-hook as a man strikes at his enemy with a spear, but as I struck, the woman only danced up and down the more, rocking to and fro, so that I could not strike hard to pierce the canvas. Then one of the men in the boat laughed to see the woman dance up and down so, and I laughed too, so that my arm became weak. But the mate cried to me again, and I balanced myself as a harpooner does before he strikes the whale, and as I balanced the boat-hook I turned and saw that the ship had swung so that we were opposite the cabin windows. Then with all my force I threw the boat-hook into the soft body and drew it out again....

But as I struck there came a great and terrible cry from the ship, and I turned and saw the captain’s face at the window waving bleeding hands to me; for with his hands he had beaten out the thick glass, and he strove to force his body through but could not. Then he cried aloud again, such a cry as once I heard a man utter at Serua whom we had trapped in a cave whence there was no escape, and then his head fell forward and he was still. And the woman’s body which I had pierced sank slowly beneath the sea. But when they lifted the captain they found that he was dead, though his body had sustained no hurt.

Now I think that this white man was the most foolish of all the white men in the world, for though white men commit great foolishness for the sake of women, because of their beauty, yet none are so foolish as to desire their dead bodies, and this woman was not beautiful even when she lived, for she was axe-faced.

THE FIERY FURNACE.

Of the ancient Fijian ceremonies few now survive. The early missionaries are unjustly charged with bigotry and Philistinism, in having waged war on all native ceremonial connected, however remotely, with their heathen creeds. But the Wesleyan missionaries were before all things practical, and knew that if Christianity was to take root at all it must have bare soil, from which every weed had been carefully torn up; for savage converts have an easy-going tendency towards engrafting Christianity upon their old beliefs,--in discovering that Jehovah is only another name for Krishna or Ndengei, and that the ritual that pleased the one cannot be unacceptable to the other.

But in one corner of Fiji, the island of Mbengga, a curious observance of mythological origin has escaped the general destruction, probably because the worthy iconoclasts had never heard of it. Once every year the _masáwe_, a dracæna that grows in profusion on the grassy hillsides of the island, becomes fit to yield the sugar of which its fibrous root is full. To render it fit to eat, the roots must be baked among hot stones for four days. A great pit is dug, and filled with large stones and blazing logs, and when these have burned down, and the stones are at white heat, the oven is ready for the _masáwe_. It is at this stage that the clan Na Ivilankata, favoured of the gods, is called on to “leap into the oven” (_rikata na lovo_), and walk unharmed upon the hot stones that would scorch and wither the feet of any but the descendants of the dauntless Tui Nkualita. Twice only had Europeans been fortunate enough to see the _masáwe_ cooked, and so marvellous had been the tales they told, and so cynical the scepticism with which they had been received, that nothing short of another performance before witnesses and the photographic camera would have satisfied the average “old hand.”

As we steamed up to the chief’s village of Waisoma, a cloud of blue smoke rolling up among the palms told us that the fire was newly lighted. We found a shallow pit, nineteen feet wide, dug in the sandy soil, a stone’s throw from high-water mark, in a small clearing among the cocoa-nuts between the beach and the dense forest. The pit was piled high with great blazing logs and round stones the size of a man’s head. Mingled with the crackling roar of the fire were loud reports as splinters flew off from the stones, warning us to guard our eyes. A number of men were dragging up more logs and rolling them into the blaze, while, above all, on the very brink of the fiery pit, stood Jonathan Dambea, directing the proceedings with an air of noble calm. As the stones would not be hot enough for four hours, there was ample time to hear the tradition that warrants the observance of the strange ceremony we were to see; and so seated on the spotless mats in Jonathan’s house, I listened while a grey-headed elder told me the story, pausing only to ask his fellows to corroborate, or to supply some incident that had slipped his memory.

“On an evening,” he said, “very long ago, the men of Navakaisese had collected in their sleeping-house for the night. Now the name of that house was Nakauyema. And they were telling stories, each trying to surpass the other in the story that he told. And one of them, whose name I have forgotten, called upon each to name the reward (_nambu_) he would give him for the story he was about to tell; for it is our custom thus to encourage a good story-teller, each one bringing to him on the morrow the _nambu_ he has promised. And some promised one thing and some another. But Tui Nkualita, a chief and warrior of the Na Ivilankata clan, cried ‘My _nambu_ shall be an eel!’ Then the story was told, and the night passed. And on the morrow Tui Nkualita remembered the spring called Namoliwai, that he had seen a large eel in it. And when he came to it, and, kneeling on the brink, plunged his hand into it, he could not feel the bottom though the water reached his shoulder, for the pool was deeper than formerly; and he reached yet farther down, following the rocky hole with his hand, and he touched something. He drew it out, and saw that it was a child’s cradle-mat. Then, wondering greatly, he plunged his arm into the pool, and reached yet farther down, and touched something. And as he felt it, he knew it for the fingers of a man. ‘Whoever this may be,’ he said within himself, ‘he shall be my _nambu_.’ And he plunged half his body into the water, feeling with his hand until he touched a man’s head. Then grasping the hair he dragged it upwards, and planting his feet firmly, he drew forth the body of a man, and held it fast on the brink of the spring.

“‘Whoever you are,’ he cried, ‘you shall be my _nambu_.’

“‘You must save me,’ answered the man, ‘for I am a chief, and have a village of my own, and many others who pay tribute to me.’

“‘What is your name?’

“‘Tui na Moliwai (chief of Moliwai).’

“‘I know all the chiefs of Mbengga, and many also on the mainland, but I never heard of Tui na Moliwai. I only know that you must come with me and be my _nambu_.’

“‘Have pity on me, and let me live.’