In Search of the Castaways; or the Children of Captain Grant

CHAPTER X A MOMENTOUS INTERVIEW

AN un­fath­omable gulf twen­ty-​five miles long, and twen­ty miles broad was pro­duced, but long be­fore his­toric times, by the falling in of cav­erns among the tra­chyt­ic lavas of the cen­ter of the is­land. And these wa­ters falling from the sur­round­ing heights have tak­en pos­ses­sion of this vast basin. The gulf has be­come a lake, but it is al­so an abyss, and no lead-​line has yet sound­ed its depths.

Such is the won­drous lake of Taupo, ly­ing 1,250 feet above the lev­el of the sea, and in view of an am­phithe­ater of moun­tains 2,400 feet high. On the west are rocky peaks of great size; on the north lofty sum­mits clothed with low trees; on the east a broad beach with a road track, and cov­ered with pumice stones, which shim­mer through the leafy screen of the bush­es; on the south­ern side rise vol­canic cones be­hind a for­est flat. Such is the ma­jes­tic frame that in­clos­es this vast sheet of wa­ter whose roar­ing tem­pests ri­val the cy­clones of Ocean.

The whole re­gion boils like an im­mense caul­dron hung over sub­ter­ranean fires. The ground vi­brates from the ag­ita­tion of the cen­tral fur­nace. Hot springs fil­ter out ev­ery­where. The crust of the earth cracks in great rifts like a cake, too quick­ly baked.

About a quar­ter of a mile off, on a crag­gy spur of the moun­tain stood a “pah,” or Maori fortress. The pris­on­ers, whose feet and hands were lib­er­at­ed, were land­ed one by one, and con­duct­ed in­to it by the war­riors. The path which led up to the in­trench­ment, lay across fields of “phormi­um” and a grove of beau­ti­ful trees, the “kai-​kateas” with per­sis­tent leaves and red berries; “dra­cae­nas aus­tralis,” the “ti-​trees” of the na­tives, whose crown is a grace­ful coun­ter­part of the cab­bage-​palm, and “huious,” which are used to give a black dye to cloth. Large doves with metal­lic sheen on their plumage, and a world of star­lings with red­dish carme­les, flew away at the ap­proach of the na­tives.

Af­ter a rather cir­cuitous walk, Gle­nar­van and his par­ty ar­rived at the “pah.”

The fortress was de­fend­ed by an out­er in­clo­sure of strong pal­isades, fif­teen feet high; a sec­ond line of stakes; then a fence com­posed of osiers, with loop-​holes, in­closed

V. IV. Verne the in­ner space, that is the plateau of the “pah,” on which were erect­ed the Maori build­ings, and about forty huts ar­ranged sym­met­ri­cal­ly.

When the cap­tives ap­proached they were hor­ror-​struck at the sight of the heads which adorned the posts of the in­ner cir­cle. La­dy He­le­na and Mary Grant turned away their eyes more with dis­gust than with ter­ror. These heads were those of hos­tile chiefs who had fall­en in bat­tle, and whose bod­ies had served to feed the con­querors. The ge­og­ra­pher rec­og­nized that it was so, from their eye sock­ets be­ing hol­low and de­prived of eye-​balls.

Gle­nar­van and his com­pan­ions had tak­en in all this scene at a glance. They stood near an emp­ty house, wait­ing the plea­sure of the chief, and ex­posed to the abuse of a crowd of old crones. This troop of harpies sur­round­ed them, shak­ing their fists, howl­ing and vo­cif­er­at­ing. Some En­glish words that es­caped their coarse mouths left no doubt that they were clam­or­ing for im­me­di­ate vengeance.

In the midst of all these cries and threats, La­dy He­le­na, tran­quil to all out­ward seem­ing, af­fect­ed an in­dif­fer­ence she was far from feel­ing. This coura­geous wom­an made hero­ic ef­forts to re­strain her­self, lest she should dis­turb Gle­nar­van’s cool­ness. Poor Mary Grant felt her heart sink with­in her, and John Man­gles stood by ready to die in her be­half. His com­pan­ions bore the del­uge of in­vec­tives each ac­cord­ing to his dis­po­si­tion; the Ma­jor with ut­ter in­dif­fer­ence, Pa­ganel with ex­as­per­ation that in­creased ev­ery mo­ment.

Gle­nar­van, to spare La­dy He­le­na the at­tacks of these witch­es, walked straight up to Kai-​Koumou, and point­ing to the hideous group:

“Send them away,” said he.

The Maori chief stared fixed­ly at his pris­on­er with­out speak­ing; and then, with a nod, he si­lenced the noisy horde. Gle­nar­van bowed, as a sign of thanks, and went slow­ly back to his place.

At this mo­ment a hun­dred Maories were as­sem­bled in the “pah,” old men, full grown men, youths; the for­mer were calm, but gloomy, await­ing the or­ders of Kai-​Koumou; the oth­ers gave them­selves up to the most vi­olent sor­row, be­wail­ing their par­ents and friends who had fall­en in the late en­gage­ments.

Kai-​Koumou was the on­ly one of all the chiefs that obeyed the call of William Thomp­son, who had re­turned to the lake dis­trict, and he was the first to an­nounce to his tribe the de­feat of the na­tion­al in­sur­rec­tion, beat­en on the plains of the low­er Waika­to. Of the two hun­dred war­riors who, un­der his or­ders, has­tened to the de­fence of the soil, one hun­dred and fifty were miss­ing on his re­turn. Al­low­ing for a num­ber be­ing made pris­on­ers by the in­vaders, how many must be ly­ing on the field of bat­tle, nev­er to re­turn to the coun­try of their an­ces­tors!

This was the se­cret of the out­burst of grief with which the tribe salut­ed the ar­rival of Kai-​Koumou. Up to that mo­ment noth­ing had been known of the last de­feat, and the fa­tal news fell on them like a thun­der clap.

Among the sav­ages, sor­row is al­ways man­ifest­ed by phys­ical signs; the par­ents and friends of de­ceased war­riors, the wom­en es­pe­cial­ly, lac­er­at­ed their faces and shoul­ders with sharp­ened shells. The blood spurt­ed out and blend­ed with their tears. Deep wounds de­not­ed great de­spair. The un­hap­py Maories, bleed­ing and ex­cit­ed, were hideous to look up­on.

There was an­oth­er se­ri­ous el­ement in their grief. Not on­ly had they lost the rel­ative or friend they mourned, but his bones would be miss­ing in the fam­ily mau­soleum. In the Maori re­li­gion the pos­ses­sion of these relics is re­gard­ed as in­dis­pens­able to the des­tinies of the fu­ture life; not the per­ish­able flesh, but the bones, which are col­lect­ed with the great­est care, cleaned, scraped, pol­ished, even var­nished, and then de­posit­ed in the “oudoupa,” that is the “house of glo­ry.” These tombs are adorned with wood­en stat­ues, rep­re­sent­ing with per­fect ex­act­ness the tat­too of the de­ceased. But now their tombs would be left emp­ty, the re­li­gious rites would be un­sol­em­nized, and the bones that es­caped the teeth of the wild dog would whiten with­out buri­al on the field of bat­tle.

Then the sor­row­ful cho­rus re­dou­bled. The men­aces of the wom­en were in­ten­si­fied by the im­pre­ca­tions of the men against the Eu­ro­peans. Abu­sive ep­ithets were lav­ished, the ac­com­pa­ny­ing ges­tures be­came more vi­olent. The howl was about to end in bru­tal ac­tion.

Kai-​Koumou, fear­ing that he might be over­pow­ered by the fa­nat­ics of his tribe, con­duct­ed his pris­on­ers to a sa­cred place, on an abrupt­ly raised plateau at the oth­er end of the “pah.” This hut rest­ed against a mound el­evat­ed a hun­dred feet above it, which formed the steep out­er but­tress of the en­trench­ment. In this “Ware-​Atoua,” sa­cred house, the priests or arikis taught the Maories about a Tri­une God, fa­ther, son, and bird, or spir­it. The large, well con­struct­ed hut, con­tained the sa­cred and choice food which Maoui-​Ran­ga-​Ran­gui eats by the mouths of his priests.

In this place, and safe for the mo­ment from the fren­zied na­tives, the cap­tives lay down on the flax mats. La­dy He­le­na was quite ex­haust­ed, her moral en­er­gies pros­trate, and she fell help­less in­to her hus­band’s arms.

Gle­nar­van pressed her to his bo­som and said:

“Courage, my dear He­le­na; Heav­en will not for­sake us!”

Robert was scarce­ly in when he jumped on Wil­son’s shoul­ders, and squeezed his head through a crevice left be­tween the roof and the walls, from which chap­lets of amulets were hung. From that el­eva­tion he could see the whole ex­tent of the “pah,” and as far as Kai-​Koumou’s house.

“They are all crowd­ing round the chief,” said he soft­ly. “They are throw­ing their arms about. . . . They are howl­ing. . . . . Kai-​Koumou is try­ing to speak.”

Then he was silent for a few min­utes.

“Kai-​Koumou is speak­ing. . . . The sav­ages are qui­eter. . . . . They are lis­ten­ing. . . . .”

“Ev­ident­ly,” said the Ma­jor, “this chief has a per­son­al in­ter­est in pro­tect­ing us. He wants to ex­change his pris­on­ers for some chiefs of his tribe! But will his war­riors con­sent?”

“Yes! . . . They are lis­ten­ing. . . . . They have dis­persed, some are gone in­to their huts. . . . The oth­ers have left the in­trench­ment.”

“Are you sure?” said the Ma­jor.

“Yes, Mr. Mc­Nabbs,” replied Robert, “Kai-​Koumou is left alone with the war­riors of his ca­noe. . . . . Oh! one of them is com­ing up here. . . . .”

“Come down, Robert,” said Gle­nar­van.

At this mo­ment, La­dy He­le­na who had risen, seized her hus­band’s arm.

“Ed­ward,” she said in a res­olute tone, “nei­ther Mary Grant nor I must fall in­to the hands of these sav­ages alive!”

And so say­ing, she hand­ed Gle­nar­van a load­ed re­volver.

“Fire-​arm!” ex­claimed Gle­nar­van, with flash­ing eyes.

“Yes! the Maories do not search their pris­on­ers. But, Ed­ward, this is for us, not for them.”

Gle­nar­van slipped the re­volver un­der his coat; at the same mo­ment the mat at the en­trance was raised, and a na­tive en­tered.

He mo­tioned to the pris­on­ers to fol­low him. Gle­nar­van and the rest walked across the “pah” and stopped be­fore Kai-​Koumou. He was sur­round­ed by the prin­ci­pal war­riors of his tribe, and among them the Maori whose ca­noe joined that of the Kai-​Koumou at the con­flu­ence of Po­hain-​hen­na, on the Waika­to. He was a man about forty years of age, pow­er­ful­ly built and of fierce and cru­el as­pect. His name was Kara-​Tete, mean­ing “the iras­ci­ble” in the na­tive tongue. Kai-​Koumou treat­ed him with a cer­tain tone of re­spect, and by the fine­ness of his tat­too, it was easy to per­ceive that Kara-​Tete held a lofty po­si­tion in the tribe, but a keen ob­serv­er would have guessed the feel­ing of ri­val­ry that ex­ist­ed be­tween these two chiefs. The Ma­jor ob­served that the in­flu­ence of Kara-​Tete gave um­brage to Kai-​Koumou. They both ruled the Waika­to tribes, and were equal in au­thor­ity. Dur­ing this in­ter­view Kai-​Koumou smiled, but his eyes be­trayed a deep-​seat­ed en­mi­ty.

Kai-​Koumou in­ter­ro­gat­ed Gle­nar­van.

“You are En­glish?” said he.

“Yes,” replied Gle­nar­van, un­hesi­tat­ing­ly, as his na­tion­al­ity would fa­cil­itate the ex­change.

“And your com­pan­ions?” said Kai-​Koumou.

“My com­pan­ions are En­glish like my­self. We are ship­wrecked trav­el­ers, but it may be im­por­tant to state that we have tak­en no part in the war.”

“That mat­ters lit­tle!” was the bru­tal an­swer of Kara-​Tete. “Ev­ery En­glish­man is an en­emy. Your peo­ple in­vad­ed our is­land! They robbed our fields! they burned our vil­lages!”

“They were wrong!” said Gle­nar­van, qui­et­ly. “I say so, be­cause I think it, not be­cause I am in your pow­er.”

“Lis­ten,” said Kai-​Koumou, “the To­hon­ga, the chief priest of Noui-​Atoua has fall­en in­to the hands of your brethren; he is a pris­on­er among the Pakekas. Our de­ity has com­mand­ed us to ran­som him. For my own part, I would rather have torn out your heart, I would have stuck your head, and those of your com­pan­ions, on the posts of that pal­isade. But Noui-​Atoua has spo­ken.”

As he ut­tered these words, Kai-​Koumou, who till now had been quite un­moved, trem­bled with rage, and his fea­tures ex­pressed in­tense fe­roc­ity.

Then af­ter a few min­utes’ in­ter­val he pro­ceed­ed more calm­ly.

“Do you think the En­glish will ex­change you for our To­hon­ga?”

Gle­nar­van hes­itat­ed, all the while watch­ing the Maori chief.

“I do not know,” said he, af­ter a mo­ment of si­lence.

“Speak,” re­turned Kai-​Koumou, “is your life worth that of our To­hon­ga?”

“No,” replied Gle­nar­van. “I am nei­ther a chief nor a priest among my own peo­ple.”

Pa­ganel, pet­ri­fied at this re­ply, looked at Gle­nar­van in amaze­ment. Kai-​Koumou ap­peared equal­ly as­ton­ished.

“You doubt it then?” said he.

“I do not know,” replied Gle­nar­van.

“Your peo­ple will not ac­cept you as an ex­change for To­hon­ga?”

“Me alone? no,” re­peat­ed Gle­nar­van. “All of us per­haps they might.”

“Our Maori cus­tom,” replied Kai-​Koumou, “is head for head.”

“Of­fer first these ladies in ex­change for your priest,” said Gle­nar­van, point­ing to La­dy He­le­na and Mary Grant.

La­dy He­le­na was about to in­ter­rupt him. But the Ma­jor held her back.

“Those two ladies,” con­tin­ued Gle­nar­van, bow­ing re­spect­ful­ly to­ward La­dy He­le­na and Mary Grant, “are per­son­ages of rank in their own coun­try.”

The war­rior gazed cold­ly at his pris­on­er. An evil smile re­laxed his lips for a mo­ment; then he con­trolled him­self, and in a voice of ill-​con­cealed anger:

“Do you hope to de­ceive Kai-​Koumou with ly­ing words, ac­cursed Pake­ka? Can not the eyes of Kai-​Koumou read hearts?”

And point­ing to La­dy He­le­na: “That is your wife?” he said.

“No! mine!” ex­claimed Kara-​Tete.

And then push­ing his pris­on­ers aside, he laid his hand on the shoul­der of La­dy He­le­na, who turned pale at his touch.

“Ed­ward!” cried the un­for­tu­nate wom­an in ter­ror.

Gle­nar­van, with­out a word, raised his arm, a shot! and Kara-​Tete fell at his feet.

The sound brought a crowd of na­tives to the spot. A hun­dred arms were ready, and Gle­nar­van’s re­volver was snatched from him.

Kai-​Koumou glanced at Gle­nar­van with a cu­ri­ous ex­pres­sion: then with one hand pro­tect­ing Gle­nar­van, with the oth­er he waved off the crowd who were rush­ing on the par­ty.

At last his voice was heard above the tu­mult.

“Taboo! Taboo!” he shout­ed.

At that word the crowd stood still be­fore Gle­nar­van and his com­pan­ions, who for the time were pre­served by a su­per­nat­ural in­flu­ence.

A few min­utes af­ter they were re-​con­duct­ed to Ware-​Atoua, which was their prison. But Robert Grant and Pa­ganel were not with them.