CHAPTER XII ~ MY FRIENDS, THE ANTHROPOPHAGI
Mr. Rudyard Kipling has spoken of what he terms “the Great American Pie Belt,” which runs through certain parts of the United States, the people of which live largely on pumpkin pie; in the South Pacific there is what may be vulgarly termed the Great “Long Pork” Belt, running through many groups of islands, the savage inhabitants of which are notorious cannibals. This belt extends from the New Hebrides north-westerly to the Solomon Archipelago, thence more westerly to New Ireland and New Britain, the coasts of Dutch, German, and British New Guinea; and then, turning south, embraces a considerable portion of the coast line of Northern Australia. Forty years ago Fiji could have been included, but cannibalism in that group had long since ceased; as also in New Caledonia and the Loyalty Islands.
The British, French and German Governments are doing their best to stamp out the practice. Ships of war patrol the various groups, and wherever possible, headhunting and man-eating excursions are suppressed; but some of the islands are of such a vast extent that only the coastal tribes are affected. In the interior—practically unknown to any white man—there is a very numerous population of mountaineer tribes, who are all cannibals, and will remain so for perhaps another fifty years, unless, as was done in Fiji by Sir Arthur Gordon (now Lord Stanmore), a large armed force is sent to subdue these people, destroy their towns, and bring them to settle on the coast, where they may be subjected to missionary (and police) influence.
During my trading and “blackbirding” voyages, I made the acquaintance, and indeed in some cases the friendship, of many cannibals, and at one time, when I was doing shore duty, I lived for six months in a large cannibal village on the north coast of the great island of New Britain, or Tombara, as the natives call it I had not the slightest fear of being converted into “Long Pig” (puaka kumi) for the chief, a hideous, but yet not bad-natured savage, named Bobâran, in consideration for certain gifts of muskets, powder, bullets, etc, and tobacco, became responsible for my safety with his own people during my stay, but would not, of course, guarantee to protect me from the people of other districts (even though he might not be at enmity with them) if I ventured into their territory.
This was the usual agreement made by white traders who established themselves on shore under the ægis of a native ruler. Very rarely was this confidence abused. Generally the white men, sailors or traders who have been (and are even now) killed and eaten, have been cut off by savages other than those among whom they lived—very often by mountaineers.
Bobâran and all his people were noted cannibals. He was continually at war with his neighbours on the opposite side of the bay, where there were three populous towns, and there was much fighting, and losses on both sides. During my stay there were over thirty people eaten at, or in the immediate vicinity of, my village. Some of these were taken alive, and then slaughtered on being brought in; others had been killed in battle. But about eighteen months before I came to live at this place, Bobâran had had a party of twenty of his people cut off by the enemy—and every one of these were eaten.
I parted from Bobâran on very friendly terms. I should have stayed longer, but was suffering from malarial fever.
After recruiting my health in New Zealand, I joined a labour vessel, sailing out of Samoa, and during the ten months I served on her as recruiter I had some exceedingly exciting adventures with cannibals among the islands off the coast of German New Guinea, and on the mainland.
On our way to the “blackbirding grounds” we sighted the lofty Rossel Island—the scene of one of the most awful cannibal tragedies ever known. It is one of the Louisiade Archipelago, and is at the extreme south end of British New Guinea. It presents a most enchanting appearance, owing to its verdured mountains (9,000 feet), countless cataracts, and beautiful bays fringed with coco-palms and other tropical trees, amidst which stand the thatched-roofed houses of the natives. I will tell the story of Rossel Island in as few words as possible:—
In 1852 a Peruvian barque, carrying 325 Chinese coolies for Tahiti, was wrecked on the island; the captain and crew took to the four boats, and left the Chinamen to shift for themselves. Hundreds of savage natives rushed the vessel, killed a few of the coolies, and drove the rest on shore, where for some days they were not molested, the natives being too busy in plundering the ship. But after this was completed they turned their attention to their captives, marshalled them together, made them enter canoes and carried them off to a small, but fertile island. Here they were told to occupy a deserted village, and do as they pleased, but not to attempt to leave the island. The poor Chinamen were overjoyed, little dreaming of what was to befal them. The island abounded with vegetables and fruit, and the shipwrecked men found no lack of food. But they discovered that they were prisoners—every canoe had been removed. This at first caused them no alarm, but when at the end of a week their jailers appeared and carried off ten of their number, they became restless. And then almost every day, two, three or more were taken away, and never returned. Then the poor wretches discovered that their comrades were being killed and eaten day by day!
To escape from the island was impossible, for it was four miles from the mainland, and they had no canoes, and the water was literally alive with sharks. Some of them, wild with terror, built a raft out of dead timber, and tried to put to sea. They were seen by the Rossel Islanders, pursued and captured, and slaughtered for the cannibal ovens, which were now never idle. Some poor creatures, who could swim, tried to cross to another little island two miles away, but were devoured by sharks. Without arms to defend their lives, they saw themselves decimated week by week, for whenever the natives came to seize some of their number for their ovens they came in force.
Six or seven months passed, and then one day the French corvette Phoque (if I am not mistaken in the name) appeared off the island. She had been sent by the Governor of New Caledonia to ascertain if any of the Chinamen were still on the island, or if all had escaped. Two only survived. They were seen running along the beach to meet the boats from the corvette, and were taken on board half-demented—all the rest had gone into the stomach of the cannibals or the sharks.
At the present time the natives of Rossel Island are subjects of King Edward VII., and are included in the government of the Possession of British New Guinea; have, I believe, a resident missionary, and several traders, and are well behaved They would cast up their eyes in pious horror if any visitor now suggested that they had once been addicted to “long pig “.
Ten days after passing Rossel Island, we were among the islands of Dampier and Vitiaz Straits, which separate the western end of New Britain from the east coast of New Guinea. It was an absolutely new ground for recruiting “blackbirds” and our voyage was in reality but an experiment. We (the officers and I) knew that the natives were a dangerous lot of savage cannibals, speaking many dialects, and had hitherto only been in communication with an occasional whaleship, or a trading, pearling, or, in the “old” colonial days, a sandal-wood-seeking vessel. But we had no fear of being cut off. We had a fine craft, with a high freeboard, so that if we were rushed by canoes, the boarders would find some trouble in clambering on deck; on the main deck we carried four six-pounders, which were always kept in good order and could be loaded with grape in a few minutes. Then our double crew were all well armed with Sharp’s carbines and the latest pattern of Colt’s revolvers; and, above all, the captain had confidence in his crew and officers, and they in him. I, the recruiter, had with me as interpreter a very smart native of Ysabel Island (Solomon Group) who, five years before, had been wrecked on Rook Island, in Vitiaz Straits, had lived among the cannibal natives for a year, and then been rescued by an Austrian man-of-war engaged on an exploration voyage. He said that he could make himself well understood by the natives—and this I found to be correct.
We anchored in a charming little bay on Rook Island (Baga), and at once some hundreds of natives came off and boarded us in the most fearless manner. They at once recognised my interpreter, and danced about him and yelled their delight at seeing him again. Every one of these savages was armed with half a dozen spears, a jade-headed club, or powerful bows and arrows, and a wooden shield. They were a much finer type of savage than the natives of New Britain, lighter in colour, and had not so many repulsive characteristics. Neither were they absolutely nude—each man wearing a girdle of dracaena leaves, and although they were betel-nut chewers, and carried their baskets of areca nuts and leaves and powdered lime around their necks, they did not expectorate the disgusting scarlet juice all over our decks as the New Britain natives would have done.
We noticed that many of them had recently inflicted wounds, and learned from them that a few days previously they had had a great fight with the natives of Tupinier Island (twenty miles to the east) and had been badly beaten, losing sixteen men. But, they proudly added, they had been able to carry off eleven of the enemy’s dead, and had only just finished eating them. The chiefs brother, they said, had been badly wounded by a bullet in the thigh (the Tupinier natives had a few muskets) and was suffering great pain, as the “doctors” could not get it out.
Now here was a chance for me—something which would perhaps lead to our getting a number of these cannibals to recruit for Samoa. I considered myself a good amateur surgeon (I had had plenty of practice) and at once volunteered to go on shore, look at the injured gentleman and see what I could do. My friend Bobâran in New Britain I had cured of an eczemic disorder by a very simple remedy, and he had been a grateful patient. Here was another chance, and possibly another grateful patient; and this being a case of a gunshot wound, I was rather keen on attending to it, for the Polynesians and Melanesians will stand any amount of cutting about and never flinch (and there are no coroners in the South Seas to ask silly questions if the patient dies from a mistake of the operator).
Morel (the captain), the interpreter and myself went on shore. The beach was crowded with women and children, as well as men—a sure sign that no treachery was intended—and nearly all of them tried to embrace my interpreter. The clamour these cannibals made was terrific, the children being especially vociferous. Several of them seized my hands, and literally dragged me along to the house of the wounded man; others possessed themselves of Morel and the interpreter, and in a few minutes the whole lot of us tumbled, or rather fell, into the house. Then, in an instant, there was silence—the excited women and children withdrew and left the captain, the interpreter, some male cannibals and myself with my patient, who was sitting up, placidly chewing betel-nut.
In ten minutes Morel and I got out the bullet, then dressed and bandaged the wound, and gave the man a powerful opiate. Leaving him with his friends, Morel and I went for a walk through the village. Everywhere the natives were very civil, offering us coco-nuts and food, and even the women and children did not show much fear at our presence.
Returning to the house, we found our wounded friend was awake, and sitting up on his mat He smiled affably at us, and rubbed noses with me—a practice I have never before seen among the Melanesians of this part of the Pacific. Then he told us that his womenfolk were preparing us a meal which would soon be ready. I asked him gravely (through the interpreter) not to serve us any human flesh. He replied quite calmly that there was none left—the last had been eaten five days before.
Presently the meal was carried in—baked pork, an immense fish of the mullet kind, yams, taro, and an enormous quantity of sugar-cane and pineapples. The women did not eat with us, but sat apart. Our friend, whose name was Dârro, had six wives, four of whom were present He had also a number of female slaves, taken from an island in Vitiaz Straits. These were rather light-skinned, and some quite good-looking, and all wore girdles of dracaena leaves. Neither Dârro nor his people smoked, though they knew the use of pipe and tobacco, and at one time had been given both by a sandal-wooding ship. I promised to give them a present of a ten pound case of plug tobacco, and a gross of clay pipes—I was thinking of “recruits”. I sent off to the brig for the present, and when it arrived, and I had given nearly one hundred and fifty cannibals a pipe and a plug of tobacco each, the interpreter and I got to work on Dârro on the subject of our mission.
Alas! He would not entertain the idea of any of his fighting men going to an unknown land for three years. We could have perhaps a score or so of women—widows or slaves. Would that suit us? No, I said. We did not want single women or widows. There must be a man to each woman.
Dârro was “very sorry” (so was I). But perhaps I and the captain would accept two of the youngest of his female slaves as a token of his regard for us?
Morel and I consulted, and then we asked Dârro if he could not give us two slave couples—two men and two women who would be willing to marry, and also willing to go to a country and work, a country where they would be well treated, and paid for their labour. And at the end of three years they would be brought back to Dârro, if they so desired.
Dârro smiled and gave some orders, and two strapping young men and two pleasant-faced young women were brought for my inspection. All were smiling, and I felt that a bishop and a brass band or surpliced choristers ought to have been present.
These were the only “blackbirds” we secured on that voyage from Rook Island; but three and a half years later, when these two couples returned to Dârro, with a “vast” wealth of trade goods, estimated at “trade” prices at seventy-two pounds, Dârro never refused to let some of his young men “recruit” for Fiji or Samoa.
I never saw him again, but he sent messages to me by other “blackbirding” vessels, saying that he would like me to come and stay with him.
And, although he had told me that he had personally partaken of the flesh of over ninety men, I shall always remember him as a very gentlemanly man, courteous, hospitable and friendly, and who was horror-struck when my interpreter told him that in England cousins intermarried.
“That is a horrid, an unutterable thing. It is inconceivable to us. It is vile, wicked and shameless. How can you clever white men do such disgusting things?”
Dârro and his savage people knew the terrors of the abuse of the laws of consanguinity.
CHAPTER XIII ~ ON THE “JOYS” OF RECRUITING “BLACKBIRDS”
A few years ago I was written to by an English lady, living in the Midlands, asking me if I could assist her nephew—a young man of three and twenty years of age—towards obtaining a berth as Government agent or as “recruiter” on a Queensland vessel employed in the Kanaka labour trade.
“I am told that it is a very gentlemanly employment, that many of those engaged in it are, or have been, naval officers and have a recognised status in society. Also that the work is really nothing—merely the supervision of coloured men going to the Queensland plantations. The climate is, I am told, delightful, and would suit Walter, whose lungs, as you know, are weak. Is the salary large?” etc.
I had to write and disillusionise the lady, and as I wrote I recalled one of my experiences in the Kanaka labour trade.
Early in the seventies, I was in Nouméa, New Caledonia, looking for a berth as recruiter in the Kanaka labour trade; but there were many older and much more experienced men than myself engaged on the same quest, and my efforts were in vain.
One morning, however, I met a Captain Poore, who was the owner and master of a small vessel, just about to leave Nouméa on a trading voyage along the east coast of New Guinea, and among the islands between Astrolabe Bay and the West Cape of New Britain. He did not want a supercargo; but said that he would be very glad if I would join him, and if the voyage was a success he would pay me for such help as I might be able to render him. I accepted his offer, and in a few days we left Nouméa.
Poore and I were soon on very friendly terms. He was a man of vast experience in the South Seas, and, except that he was subject to occasional violent outbursts of temper when anything went wrong, was an easy man to get on with, and a pleasant comrade.
The mate was the only other European on board, besides the captain and myself, all the crew, including the boatswain, being either Polynesians or Melanesians. The whole ten of them were fairly good seamen and worked well.
A few days after leaving Nouméa, Poore took me into his confidence, and told me that, although he certainly intended to make a trading and recruiting voyage, he had another object in view, and that was to satisfy himself as to the location of some immense copper deposits that had been discovered on Rook Island—midway between New Britain and New Guinea—by some shipwrecked seamen.
Twenty-two days out from Nouméa, the Samana, as the schooner was named, anchored in a well-sheltered and densely-wooded little bay on the east side of Rook Island. The place was uninhabited, though, far back, from the lofty mountains of the interior, we could see several columns of smoke arising, showing the position of mountaineer villages.
It was then ten o’clock in the morning, and Poore, feeling certain that in this part of the coast there were no native villages, determined to go ashore, and do a little prospecting. (I must mention that, owing to light weather and calms, we had been obliged to anchor where we had to avoid being drifted on shore by the fierce currents, which everywhere sweep and eddy around Rook Island, and that we were quite twenty miles from the place where the copper lode had been discovered.)
Taking with us two of the native seamen, Poore and I set off on shore shortly after ten o’clock, and landed on a rough, shingly beach. The extent of littoral on this part of the island was very small, a bold lofty chain of mountains coming down to within a mile of the sea, and running parallel with the coast as far as we could see. The vegetation was dense, and in some places came down to the water’s edge, and although the country showed a tropical luxuriance of beauty about the seashore, the dark, gloomy, and silent mountain valleys which everywhere opened up from the coast, gave it a repellent appearance in general.
Leaving the natives (who were armed with rifles and tomahawks) in charge of the boat, and telling them to pull along the shore and stop when we stopped, Poore and I set out to walk.
My companion was armed with a Henry-Winchester carbine, and I with a sixteen-bore breech-loading shotgun and a tomahawk. I had brought the gun instead of a rifle, feeling sure that I could get some cockatoos or pigeons on our way back, for we had heard and seen many flying about as soon as we had anchored. At the last moment I put into my canvas game bag four round bullet cartridges, as Poore said there were many wild pigs on the island.
On rounding the eastern point of the bay we were delighted to come across a beautiful beach of hard white sand, fringed with coco-nut palms, and beyond was a considerable stretch of open park-like country. Just as Poore and I were setting off inland to examine the base of a spur about a mile distant, one of the men said he could see the mouth of a river farther on along the beach.
This changed our plans, and sending the boat on ahead, we kept to the beach, and soon reached the river—or rather creek. It was narrow but deep, the boat entered it easily and went up it for a mile, we walking along the bank, which was free of undergrowth, but covered with high, coarse, reed-like grass. Then the boat’s progress was barred by a huge fallen tree, which spanned the stream. Here we spelled for half an hour, and had something to eat, and then again Poore and I set out, following the upward course of the creek. Finding it was leading us away from the spur we wished to examine, we stopped to decide what to do, and then heard the sound of two gun-shots in quick succession, coming from the direction of the place in which the boat was lying. We were at once filled with alarm, knowing that the men must be in danger of some sort, and that neither of them could have fired at a wild pig, no matter how tempting a shot it offered, for we had told them not to do so.
“Perhaps they have fallen foul of an alligator,” said Poore, “all the creeks on Rook Island are full of them. Come along, and let us see what is wrong.”
Running through the open, timber country, and then through the long grass on the banks of the stream, we had reached about half-way to the boat when we heard a savage yell—or rather yells—for it seemed to come from a hundred throats, and in an instant we both felt sure that the boat had been attacked.
Madly forcing our way through the infernal reed-like grass, which every now and then caused us to trip and fall, we had just reached a bend of the creek, which gave us a clear sight of its course for about three hundred yards, when Poore tripped over a fallen tree branch; I fell on the top of him, and my face struck his upturned right foot with such violence that the blood poured from my nose in a torrent, and for half a minute I was stunned.
“Good God, look at that!” cried Poore, pointing down stream.
Crossing a shallow part of the creek were a party of sixty or seventy savages, all armed with spears and clubs. Four of them who were leading were carrying on poles from their shoulders the naked and headless bodies of our two unfortunate sailors, and the decapitated heads were in either hand of an enormously fat man, who from his many shell armlets and other adornments was evidently the leader. So close were they—less than fifty yards—that we easily recognised one of the bodies by its light yellow skin as that of Anteru (Andrew), a native of Rotumah, and one of the best men we had on the Samana.
Before I could stay his hand and point out the folly of it, Poore stood up and shot the fat savage through the stomach, and I saw the blood spurt from his side, as the heavy, flat-nosed bullet ploughed its way clean through the man, who, still clutching the two heads in his ensanguined hands, stood upright for a few seconds, and then fell with a splash into the stream.
Yells of rage and astonishment came from the savages, as Poore, now wild with fury, began to fire at them indiscriminately, until the magazine of his rifle was emptied; but he was so excited that only two or three of them were hit. Then his senses came back to him.
“Quick, into the creek, and over to the other side, or they’ll cut us off.”
We clambered down the bank into the water, and then, by some mischance, Poore, who was a bad swimmer, dropped his rifle, and began uttering the most fearful oaths, when I told him that it was no use my trying to dive for it, unless he could hold my shot gun, which I was carrying in my left hand. We had scarcely reached the opposite bank, when thin, slender spears began to whizz about us, and one, no thicker than a lead pencil, caught Poore in the cheek, obliquely, and its point came out quite a yard from where it had entered, and literally pinned him to the ground.
I have heard some very strong language in the South Seas, but I have never heard anything so awful as that of Poore when I drew out the spear, and we started to run for our lives down the opposite bank of the creek.
For some minutes we panted along through the long grass, hearing nothing; and then, as we came to an open spot and stopped to gain breath, we were assailed by a shower of spears from the other side of the creek, and Poore was again hit—a spear ripping open the flesh between the forefinger and thumb of his left hand. He seized my gun, and fired both barrels into the long grass on the other side, and wild yells showed that some of our pursuers were at least damaged by the heavy No. I shot intended for cockatoos.
Then all became silent, and we again started, taking all available cover, and hoping we were not pursued.
We were mistaken, for presently we caught sight of a score of our enemies a hundred yards ahead, running at top speed, evidently intending to cross lower down and cut us off, or else secure the boat Poore took two quick shots at them, but they were too far off, and gave us a yell of derision. Putting my hand into the game bag to get out two cartridges, I was horrified to find it empty, every one had fallen out; my companion used more lurid language, and we pressed on. At last we reached the boat, and found her floating bottom up—the natives had been too quick for us.
To have attempted to right her would have meant our being speared by the savages, who, of course, were watching our every movement. There was nothing else to do but to keep on, cross the mouth of the creek, and make for the ship.
Scarcely had we run fifty yards when we saw the grass on the other side move—the natives were keeping up the chase. Another ten minutes brought us to the mouth of the stream, and then to our great joy we saw that the tide had ebbed, and that right before us was a stretch of bare sand, extending out half a mile. As we emerged into the open we saw our pursuers standing on the opposite bank. Poore pointed his empty gun at them, and they at once vanished.
We stopped five minutes to gain breath, and then kept straight on across the sand, till we sighted the schooner. We were seen almost at once, and a boat was quickly manned and sent to us, and in a quarter of an hour we were on board again.
That was one of the joys of the “gentlemanly” employment of “recruiting” in the South Seas.