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

CHAPTER XI THE CHIEF’S FUNERAL

KAI-​KOUMOU, as fre­quent­ly hap­pens among the Maories, joined the ti­tle of ari­ki to that of trib­al chief. He was in­vest­ed with the dig­ni­ty of priest, and, as such, he had the pow­er to throw over per­sons or things the su­per­sti­tious pro­tec­tion of the “taboo.”

The “taboo,” which is com­mon to all the Poly­ne­sian races, has the pri­ma­ry ef­fect of iso­lat­ing the “tabooed” per­son and pre­vent­ing the use of “tabooed” things. Ac­cord­ing to the Maori doc­trine, any­one who laid sac­ri­le­gious hands on what had been de­clared “taboo,” would be pun­ished with death by the in­sult­ed de­ity, and even if the god de­layed the vin­di­ca­tion of his pow­er, the priests took care to ac­cel­er­ate his vengeance.

By the chiefs, the “taboo” is made a po­lit­ical en­gine, ex­cept in some cas­es, for do­mes­tic rea­sons. For in­stance, a na­tive is tabooed for sev­er­al days when his hair is cut; when he is tat­tooed; when he is build­ing a ca­noe, or a house; when he is se­ri­ous­ly ill, and when he is dead. If ex­ces­sive con­sump­tion threat­ens to ex­ter­mi­nate the fish of a riv­er, or ru­in the ear­ly crop of sweet pota­toes, these things are put un­der the pro­tec­tion of the taboo. If a chief wish­es to clear his house of hang­ers-​on, he taboos it; if an En­glish trad­er dis­pleas­es him he is tabooed. His in­ter­dict has the ef­fect of the old roy­al “ve­to.”

If an ob­ject is tabooed, no one can touch it with im­puni­ty. When a na­tive is un­der the in­ter­dict, cer­tain al­iments are de­nied him for a pre­scribed pe­ri­od. If he is re­lieved, as re­gards the se­vere di­et, his slaves feed him with the viands he is for­bid­den to touch with his hands; if he is poor and has no slaves, he has to take up the food with his mouth, like an an­imal.

In short, the most tri­fling acts of the Maories are di­rect­ed and mod­ified by this sin­gu­lar cus­tom, the de­ity is brought in­to con­stant con­tact with their dai­ly life. The taboo has the same weight as a law; or rather, the code of the Maories, in­dis­putable and undis­put­ed, is com­prised in the fre­quent ap­pli­ca­tions of the taboo.

As to the pris­on­ers con­fined in the Ware-​Atoua, it was an ar­bi­trary taboo which had saved them from the fury of the tribe. Some of the na­tives, friends and par­ti­sans of Kai-​Koumou, de­sist­ed at once on hear­ing their chief’s voice, and pro­tect­ed the cap­tives from the rest.

Gle­nar­van cher­ished no il­lu­sive hopes as to his own fate; noth­ing but his death could atone for the mur­der of a chief, and among these peo­ple death was on­ly the con­clud­ing act of a mar­tyr­dom of tor­ture. Gle­nar­van, there­fore, was ful­ly pre­pared to pay the penal­ty of the righ­teous in­dig­na­tion that nerved his arm, but he hoped that the wrath of Kai-​Koumou would not ex­tend be­yond him­self.

What a night he and his com­pan­ions passed! Who could pic­ture their ag­onies or mea­sure their suf­fer­ings? Robert and Pa­ganel had not been re­stored to them, but their fate was no doubt­ful mat­ter. They were too sure­ly the first vic­tims of the fren­zied na­tives. Even Mc­Nabbs, who was al­ways san­guine, had aban­doned hope. John Man­gles was near­ly fran­tic at the sight of Mary Grant’s de­spair at be­ing sep­arat­ed from her broth­er. Gle­nar­van pon­dered over the ter­ri­ble re­quest of La­dy He­le­na, who pre­ferred dy­ing by his hand to sub­mit­ting to tor­ture and slav­ery. How was he to sum­mon the ter­ri­ble courage!

“And Mary? who has a right to strike her dead?” thought John, whose heart was bro­ken.

Es­cape was clear­ly im­pos­si­ble. Ten war­riors, armed to the teeth, kept watch at the door of Ware-​Atoua.

The morn­ing of Febru­ary 13th ar­rived. No com­mu­ni­ca­tion had tak­en place be­tween the na­tives and the “tabooed” pris­on­ers. A lim­it­ed sup­ply of pro­vi­sions was in the house, which the un­hap­py in­mates scarce­ly touched. Mis­ery dead­ened the pangs of hunger. The day passed with­out change, and with­out hope; the fu­ner­al cer­emonies of the dead chief would doubt­less be the sig­nal for their ex­ecu­tion.

Al­though Gle­nar­van did not con­ceal from him­self the prob­abil­ity that Kai-​Koumou had giv­en up all idea of ex­change, the Ma­jor still cher­ished a spark of hope.

“Who knows,” said he, as he re­mind­ed Gle­nar­van of the ef­fect pro­duced on the chief by the death of Kara-​Tete–“who knows but that Kai-​Koumou, in his heart, is very much obliged to you?”

But even Mc­Nabbs’ re­marks failed to awak­en hope in Gle­nar­van’s mind. The next day passed with­out any ap­pear­ance of prepa­ra­tion for their pun­ish­ment; and this was the rea­son of the de­lay.

The Maories be­lieve that for three days af­ter death the soul in­hab­its the body, and there­fore, for three times twen­ty-​four hours, the corpse re­mains un­buried. This cus­tom was rig­or­ous­ly ob­served. Till Febru­ary 15th the “pah” was de­sert­ed.

John Man­gles, hoist­ed on Wil­son’s shoul­ders, fre­quent­ly re­con­noi­tered the out­er de­fences. Not a sin­gle na­tive was vis­ible; on­ly the watch­ful sen­tinels re­liev­ing guard at the door of the Ware-​Atoua.

But on the third day the huts opened; all the sav­ages, men, wom­en, and chil­dren, in all sev­er­al hun­dred Maories, as­sem­bled in the “pah,” silent and calm.

Kai-​Koumou came out of his house, and sur­round­ed by the prin­ci­pal chiefs of his tribe, he took his stand on a mound some feet above the lev­el, in the cen­ter of the en­clo­sure. The crowd of na­tives formed in a half cir­cle some dis­tance off, in dead si­lence.

At a sign from Kai-​Koumou, a war­rior bent his steps to­ward Ware-​Atoua.

“Re­mem­ber,” said La­dy He­le­na to her hus­band. Gle­nar­van pressed her to his heart, and Mary Grant went clos­er to John Man­gles, and said hur­ried­ly:

“Lord and La­dy Gle­nar­van can­not but think if a wife may claim death at her hus­band’s hands, to es­cape a shame­ful life, a be­trothed wife may claim death at the hands of her be­trothed hus­band, to es­cape the same fate. John! at this last mo­ment I ask you, have we not long been be­trothed to each oth­er in our se­cret hearts? May I re­ly on you, as La­dy He­le­na re­lies on Lord Gle­nar­van?”

“Mary!” cried the young cap­tain in his de­spair. “Ah! dear Mary–“

The mat was lift­ed, and the cap­tives led to Kai-​Koumou; the two wom­en were re­signed to their fate; the men dis­sem­bled their suf­fer­ings with su­per­hu­man ef­fort.

They ar­rived in the pres­ence of the Maori chief.

“You killed Kara-​Tete,” said he to Gle­nar­van.

“I did,” an­swered Gle­nar­van.

“You die to-​mor­row at sun­rise.”

“Alone?” asked Gle­nar­van, with a beat­ing heart.

“Oh! if our To­hon­ga’s life was not more pre­cious than yours!” ex­claimed Kai-​Koumou, with a fe­ro­cious ex­pres­sion of re­gret.

At this mo­ment there was a com­mo­tion among the na­tives. Gle­nar­van looked quick­ly around; the crowd made way, and a war­rior ap­peared heat­ed by run­ning, and sink­ing with fa­tigue.

Kai-​Koumou, as soon as he saw him, said in En­glish, ev­ident­ly for the ben­efit of the cap­tives:

“You come from the camp of the Pakekas?”

“Yes,” an­swered the Maori.

“You have seen the pris­on­er, our To­hon­ga?”

“I have seen him.”

“Alive?”

“Dead! En­glish have shot him.”

It was all over with Gle­nar­van and his com­pan­ions.

“All!” cried Kai-​Koumou; “you all die to-​mor­row at day­break.”

Pun­ish­ment fell on all in­dis­crim­inate­ly. La­dy He­le­na and Mary Grant were grate­ful to Heav­en for the boon.

The cap­tives were not tak­en back to Ware-​Atoua. They were des­tined to at­tend the ob­se­quies of the chief and the bloody rites that ac­com­pa­nied them. A guard of na­tives con­duct­ed them to the foot of an im­mense kau­ri, and then stood on guard with­out tak­ing their eyes off the pris­on­ers.

The three pre­scribed days had elapsed since the death of Kara-​Tete, and the soul of the dead war­rior had fi­nal­ly de­part­ed; so the cer­emonies com­menced.

The body was laid on a small mound in the cen­tral en­clo­sure. It was clothed in a rich dress, and wrapped in a mag­nif­icent flax mat. His head, adorned with feath­ers, was en­cir­cled with a crown of green leaves. His face, arms, and chest had been rubbed with oil, and did not show any sign of de­cay.

The par­ents and friends ar­rived at the foot of the mound, and at a cer­tain mo­ment, as if the lead­er of an or­ches­tra were lead­ing a fu­ner­al chant, there arose a great wail of tears, sighs, and sobs. They lament­ed the de­ceased with a plain­tive rhythm and dole­ful ca­dence. The kins­men beat their heads; the kinswom­en tore their faces with their nails and lav­ished more blood than tears. But these demon­stra­tions were not suf­fi­cient to pro­pi­ti­ate the soul of the de­ceased, whose wrath might strike the sur­vivors of his tribe; and his war­riors, as they could not re­call him to life, were anx­ious that he should have noth­ing to wish for in the oth­er world. The wife of Kara-​Tete was not to be part­ed from him; in­deed, she would have re­fused to sur­vive him. It was a cus­tom, as well as a du­ty, and Maori his­to­ry has no lack of such sac­ri­fices.

This wom­an came on the scene; she was still young. Her di­sheveled hair flowed over her shoul­ders. Her sobs and cries filled the air. In­co­her­ent words, re­grets, sobs, bro­ken phras­es in which she ex­tolled the virtues of the dead, al­ter­nat­ed with her moans, and in a crown­ing parox­ysm of sor­row, she threw her­self at the foot of the mound and beat her head on the earth.

The Kai-​Koumou drew near; sud­den­ly the wretched vic­tim rose; but a vi­olent blow from a “MERE,” a kind of club bran­dished by the chief, struck her to the ground; she fell sense­less.

Hor­ri­ble yells fol­lowed; a hun­dred arms threat­ened the ter­ror-​strick­en cap­tives. But no one moved, for the fu­ner­al cer­emonies were not yet over.

The wife of Kara-​Tete had joined her hus­band. The two bod­ies lay stretched side by side. But in the fu­ture life, even the pres­ence of his faith­ful com­pan­ion was not enough. Who would at­tend on them in the realm of Noui-​Atoua, if their slaves did not fol­low them in­to the oth­er world.

Six un­for­tu­nate fel­lows were brought to the mound. They were at­ten­dants whom the piti­less us­ages of war had re­duced to slav­ery. Dur­ing the chief’s life­time they had borne the sever­est pri­va­tions, and been sub­ject­ed to all kinds of ill-​us­age; they had been scant­ily fed, and in­ces­sant­ly oc­cu­pied like beasts of bur­den, and now, ac­cord­ing to Maori ideas, they were to re­sume to all eter­ni­ty this life of bondage.

These poor crea­tures ap­peared quite re­signed to their des­tiny. They were not tak­en by sur­prise. Their un­bound hands showed that they met their fate with­out re­sis­tance.

Their death was speedy and not ag­gra­vat­ed by te­dious suf­fer­ing; tor­ture was re­served for the au­thors of the mur­der, who, on­ly twen­ty paces off, avert­ed their eyes from the hor­ri­ble scene which was to grow yet more hor­ri­ble.

Six blows of the MERE, de­liv­ered by the hands of six pow­er­ful war­riors, felled the vic­tims in the midst of a sea of blood.

This was the sig­nal for a fear­ful scene of can­ni­bal­ism. The bod­ies of slaves are not pro­tect­ed by taboo like those of their mas­ters. They be­long to the tribe; they were a sort of small change thrown among the mourn­ers, and the mo­ment the sac­ri­fice was over, the whole crowd, chiefs, war­riors, old men, wom­en, chil­dren, with­out dis­tinc­tion of age, or sex, fell up­on the sense­less re­mains with bru­tal ap­petite. Faster than a rapid pen could de­scribe it, the bod­ies, still reek­ing, were dis­mem­bered, di­vid­ed, cut up, not in­to morsels, but in­to crumbs. Of the two hun­dred Maories present ev­ery­one ob­tained a share. They fought, they strug­gled, they quar­reled over the small­est frag­ment. The drops of hot blood splashed over these fes­tive mon­sters, and the whole of this de­testable crew grov­eled un­der a rain of blood. It was like the deliri­ous fury of tigers fight­ing over their prey, or like a cir­cus where the wild beasts de­vour the deer. This scene end­ed, a score of fires were lit at var­ious points of the “pah”; the smell of charred flesh pol­lut­ed the air; and but for the fear­ful tu­mult of the fes­ti­val, but for the cries that em­anat­ed from these flesh-​sat­ed throats, the cap­tives might have heard the bones crunch­ing un­der the teeth of the can­ni­bals.

Gle­nar­van and his com­pan­ions, breath­less with hor­ror, tried to con­ceal this fear­ful scene from the eyes of the two poor ladies. They un­der­stood then what fate await­ed them next day at dawn, and al­so with what cru­el tor­ture this death would be pre­ced­ed. They were dumb with hor­ror.

The fu­ner­al dances com­menced. Strong liquors dis­tilled from the “piper ex­cel­sum” an­imat­ed the in­tox­ica­tion of the na­tives. They had noth­ing hu­man left. It seemed pos­si­ble that the “taboo” might be for­got­ten, and they might rush up­on the pris­on­ers, who were al­ready ter­ri­fied at their deliri­ous ges­tures.

But Kai-​Koumou had kept his own sens­es amidst the gen­er­al delir­ium. He al­lowed an hour for this or­gy of blood to at­tain its max­imum and then cease, and the fi­nal scene of the ob­se­quies was per­formed with the ac­cus­tomed cer­emo­ni­al.

The corpses of Kara-​Tete and his wife were raised, the limbs were bent, and laid against the stom­ach ac­cord­ing to the Maori us­age; then came the fu­ner­al, not the fi­nal in­ter­ment, but a buri­al un­til the mo­ment when the earth had de­stroyed the flesh and noth­ing re­mained but the skele­ton.

The place of “oudoupa,” or the tomb, had been cho­sen out­side the fortress, about two miles off at the top of a low hill called Maun­gana­mu, sit­uat­ed on the right bank of the lake, and to this spot the body was to be tak­en. Two palan­quins of a very prim­itive kind, hand-​bar­rows, in fact, were brought to the foot of the mound, and the corpses dou­bled up so that they were sit­ting rather than ly­ing, and their gar­ments kept in place by a band of hanes, were placed on them. Four war­riors took up the lit­ters on their shoul­ders, and the whole tribe, re­peat­ing their fu­ner­al chant, fol­lowed in pro­ces­sion to the place of sepul­ture.

The cap­tives, still strict­ly guard­ed, saw the fu­ner­al cortege leave the in­ner in­clo­sure of the “pah”; then the chants and cries grew fainter. For about half an hour the fu­ner­al pro­ces­sion re­mained out of sight, in the hol­low val­ley, and then came in sight again wind­ing up the moun­tain side; the dis­tance gave a fan­tas­tic ef­fect to the un­du­lat­ing move­ment of this long ser­pen­tine col­umn.

The tribe stopped at an el­eva­tion of about 800 feet, on the sum­mit of Maun­gana­mu, where the buri­al place of Kara-​Tete had been pre­pared. An or­di­nary Maori would have had noth­ing but a hole and a heap of earth. But a pow­er­ful and formidable chief des­tined to speedy de­ifi­ca­tion, was hon­ored with a tomb wor­thy of his ex­ploits.

The “oudoupa” had been fenced round, and posts, sur­mount­ed with faces paint­ed in red ochre, stood near the grave where the bod­ies were to lie. The rel­atives had not for­got­ten that the “Waidoua,” the spir­it of the dead, lives on mor­tal food, as the body did in this life. There­fore, food was de­posit­ed in the in­clo­sure as well as the arms and cloth­ing of the de­ceased. Noth­ing was omit­ted for com­fort. The hus­band and wife were laid side by side, then cov­ered with earth and grass, af­ter an­oth­er se­ries of laments.

Then the pro­ces­sion wound slow­ly down the moun­tain, and hence­forth none dare as­cend the slope of Maun­gana­mu on pain of death, for it was “tabooed,” like Ton­gariro, where lie the ash­es of a chief killed by an earth­quake in 1846.