by Graeme Lay
Eighteen
29 SEPTEMBER 1777
Dearest Elizabeth,
We are now back in Matavai Bay, the harbour where I first anchored in Otaheite on Endeavour over eight years ago. It’s good to be back. The people here know us well now and on the whole treat us considerately, my friend Tu the high chief especially. Conscious of our continuing need for provisions, I presented him with a suit of fine English linen and a headdress from the Friendly Isles, decorated with red feathers. He was overjoyed, immediately putting on the suit and crowning himself with the headdress. After that, the provisions—hogs, fish, coconuts and breadfruit—flowed to us as steadily as the Gulf Stream.
There is war talk in the air, the consequence of a dispute between the people of Otaheite and those of the neighbouring island, Moorea. The cause of the antagonism is the line of succession. The high chief of Moorea, a man called Mahine, has declared that his adopted son should succeed him, rather than a blood relative of Tu’s. When last at Matavai Bay, three years ago, I observed that a great armada of canoes had been assembled nearby, suggesting that Tu’s people were about to invade Moorea. Evidently the fleet, under the command of another veteran chief, Toofa, did cross the channel to Moorea. But although Toofa and his warriors laid waste some villages there, no outright war eventuated. I suspect that Tu wishes me to support another invasion, aided by our weapons, but I am strongly opposed to this.
That war between the two islands remains a real possibility is emphasised by the fact that a human sacrifice has been recently carried out, at a marae called Utu-aima-hurau, further along the coast. Such sacrifices are made in times of war or calamity, Omai tells me.
I became curious and decided to visit the marae to view the victim and observe the accompanying rituals. Tu, Omai, Anderson and Webber accompanied me.
The ritual was complex and protracted, accompanied by much priestly ceremony, drumming and chanting. Located in a valley a little way inland, the marae is finely constructed, overlooked by mountains and surrounded by dense vegetation. The sacrificial victim was a commoner, who I was told had been taken by surprise and clubbed to death. His body was trussed and hung under a wooden platform, in the company of sacrificed pigs and an image of Oro, the Otaheitian war god. I found the ritual of great interest. Human sacrifice is a pagan custom, based on superstition and false notions. I recall reading that the Romans once practised it, but they progressed to a higher level of civilisation, as will the Otaheitians in time, I hope.
I mentioned to you earlier that I have been suffering from pains in my right leg, so intense that on occasion I have been unable to stand. They stem, I believe, from the dampness below decks. When I described my affliction to Tu he was sympathetic and said he would arrange treatment for my problem. This was in the form of his mother and sister, whom he brought out to the ship. Hefty, plain women both, they instructed me to lie on a mattress on the floor of the Great Cabin. They then began to pummel my afflicted leg from the hip to the foot and rub the flesh with monoi—coconut oil. Big and strong, the two women pounded, twisted and pulled at me, especially my joints. The Otaheitians call this treatment mama lomi and Tu told me it is practised only by older women. The pain was intense, and it was all I could do not to cry out, but I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw and in half an hour my ordeal was over. The women then gestured for me to stand. Reluctantly, I did so. To my astonishment, the pains in the limb had gone. Completely. I pressed upon the two women gifts of a doll and a square of linen, with which they seemed greatly pleased. It is a considerable relief to have my leg free of pain. If only the cramps in my gut could also be massaged away!
This Otaheite sojourn has been almost free of trouble. The only exceptions have been some thefts, the attempted desertions of two of our men, and a duel fought with pistols between two of Resolution’s company, Lieutenant Williamson and marine Lieutenant Phillips. Their quarrel was evidently over the matter of who had the stronger claim to a young woman. In the case of the deserters, they were quickly captured and returned, with Tu’s assistance. I ordered them lashed and clapped in irons. In the case of the duellists, both missed their targets. I admonished them, pointing out that ‘If you had both struck your targets, the ship would have been left severely short-manned.’ Phillips can be impetuous, while Williamson should have known better. He is an unpleasant fellow. As Gore remarked to me later, only half in jest I suspect, ‘If Phillips had been a better shot, few of the crew would have mourned his target.’
I will end now, dearest. We weigh tomorrow morning and sail for Moorea, the island which I have long seen on the horizon yet have never set foot upon. We will shortly bid farewell to our Otaheitian friends, and leave with further affectionate memories of our time spent here.
The autumn will be upon you in London, the mellow harvest season which I have always relished. Here the days are sweltering, the heat relieved only by sporadic sea breezes and the occasional downpour.
My love to you, James, Nathaniel and little Hugh,
James
James and Tu embraced on Resolution’s mid-deck. ‘Tute, parahi.’
‘And parahi to you, taio Tu. Mauruuru! Fa’aitoito!’
Tu stepped back. Tears coursed down his wrinkled cheeks. The ari’i rahi of Tahiti Nui wore the linen suit and red-feathered headdress; James had on his dress uniform. Tu’s female relatives came forward. Also weeping, they placed garlands of tiare blossoms around James’s neck. Earlier, Tu had brought out to the ship a beautifully carved outrigger canoe, but to his disappointment they could not take it aboard, as it was too large to be accommodated on deck. As his parting present to Tu, James gave him a lockable trunk to keep his English gifts in, including another portrait of himself which Webber had drawn. As James handed over two keys, he said, ‘These are so no one can steal your possessions, taio.’
‘Ei, mauruuru, Tute.’ The high chief wiped his eyes. ‘Parahi, fa’aitoito!’
‘Yes, parahi. And I will convey your good wishes to King Tosh of Peretane.’
Faces creased with grief, tears still streaming, Tu and his family climbed down the hull steps and into his canoe. The line was tossed off; the paddlers began their work. James ascended to the quarterdeck then called down to Lieutenant Harvey, ‘Order the gunner to prepare a seven-gun salute!’
Bligh directed six men to the capstan and they shoved at it until Resolution’s anchor came a-peak. Some sail was made and caught the light breeze. The ship eased, the capstan was worked again and the anchor emerged, black sand dripping from its flukes. Once it was catted the men aloft released more canvas and the ship stirred, then began to move out towards the pass. Abaft, Discovery began to shadow her. The canoes surrounding both vessels were filled with waving men and weeping women, some of whom tore at their brows with sharks’ teeth; blood began to run down their faces. Adding to the poignancy of the farewells was the knowledge that the two giant vaka containing their friends were now bound for Moorea, the island ruled by Mahine, the Otaheitians’ implacable enemy.
As the ships’ sails billowed with the strengthening breeze, gunner Anderson yelled from the larboard side of the deck, ‘Fire one!’ There was a burst of smoke, followed by a boom which reverberated around the bay. ‘Fire two!’ Another thunderclap. Many in the canoes covered their ears. ‘Fire three!’ Another, and another, the cannons jerking backwards from their ports, until at last a seventh detonation was sounded. Traces of white smoke drifted landward, then were whipped away by the wind.
Although silence descended on the lagoon, the yards became alive with activity as the main topsail and fore topsail were released and caught the wind. The water in the pass was silky, but outside the reef there was a light chop. The flotilla of canoes gradually fell behind as the sloops’ sails billowed.
Only one vessel followed. On board was Omai, who had purchased the war canoe, drawing on his trove of red feathers, and named it Royal George. From its mast flew an ensign and several pennants, and Omai stood proudly in its stern, feet planted wide apart,
wearing his suit of armour and plumed helmet and sword.
It was a sight so ludicrous that the crew of Resolution could be heard hooting with derision as they worked their way along the yards. Omai, on his way back to his homeland, preparing to declare himself monarch of the Leeward Islands!
Bligh had set a nor-west course. The veil of mist that had hung above the bay earlier was lifting and the sun’s rays were fierce. Just 14 nautical miles away, Moorea loomed from the sea, a mauve mass whose mountains were swathed in cloud.
James’s eyes were not fixed on their next destination, however. Instead he stared back at Otaheite. Memories rushed in like a floodtide. How much of his life had been bound up with this island! First brought there eight years ago by a cosmic quirk—the fact that a rare transit of Venus could best be observed from its shores—he had returned, twice, ostensibly for reasons of duty or provisioning but always aware that Otaheite’s allure ran far deeper. He had charted its coastlines, entered its forests and bequeathed it English animals and birds. He had observed and documented its people’s customs, feasted and traded with them, hosted them on his ships, acquired some of their language.
What now stirred him most were the memories of the friendships he had made, with people whose lives were so different from his own as to be considered incomprehensible by other Europeans. But to him they were not so, they were merely different and had their own validity. He had walked among the island’s people and had gained their friendship and respect. Those things he valued above all else. His amity with the first family of Otaheite had been a unique privilege.
The breeze freshened and the sails began to swell. James pushed his tricorn down more firmly on his head. Those friends: Oberea, Tutaha, Amo, the Vehiatuas, Tu, Toofa. Although some were now dead, none would ever be forgotten. Aware that he would never set foot on Otaheite again, James kept staring back at the island. Then, with Resolution making a steady four knots with the following wind, its features began to slip out of focus. Only then did he wipe the moisture from his eyes, turn away and direct his attention to where they were now headed.
Gore had been to Moorea, back in 1769 when he and others had observed the transit of Venus from there. He now joined James on the quarterdeck. ‘There are two sounds on the northern coast,’ he said. ‘The western one is more sheltered. Shall I direct Bligh towards it?’
‘Yes.’
Gore looked more closely at James. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
James turned away. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Carry on, Gore.’
After the entrance to the western inlet was sounded at 25 fathoms, both sloops entered it. Tu had told them it was called Opunohu. Omai had already anchored his canoe a short distance from the shore.
As the ships’ anchor chains rattled and their sails slackened, the crews stared at their dazzling new surroundings. Opunohu Bay bit deeply into the island and was so completely surrounded by mountains that it resembled a lake. The mountains to the west were sheer-sided and forested, their rocky peaks over 3000 feet high. Some were as sharp as cathedral spires. These spires were connected by a row of rounded mountains, resembling worn molars. The eastern side of the bay was bounded by a huge block of mountain with sides of vertical rock, while at the head of the bay was a small plain, also forested, which rose gradually to a pair of flat-topped mountains. The shores of the sound were fringed with coconut palms and breadfruit trees. There was barely a breath of wind, and just a few tufts of cloud above the mountains. The water of the bay was as still as a mirror.
King stood alongside James on the quarterdeck. In the sweltering heat, both men were jacketless, their vests unbuttoned. Gazing around, King said, ‘What a sight, sir. Like a sea within a sea. Since the island is volcanic, this may be a crater that has been flooded by the ocean.’
James nodded. ‘It’s a fine anchorage. One of the finest I’ve seen.’ He paused. His belly was aching again. Pressing it with his hand, he went on. ‘It’s most remiss of me never to have visited Moorea before, or charted its coastline.’ He could see grass growing among the coconut groves on the eastern shore. ‘Good grazing for the goats. We’ll put them ashore.’
Gore, who was at the masthead, called down to the quarterdeck. ‘Sir, look to starboard. It seems that we are about to have visitors.’
James and King both turned. Two outrigger canoes had put out from the head of the sound and were heading in their direction.
Chief Mahine climbed up onto the mid-deck. He glanced around nervously as his eyes alighted on James, knowing that his enemy, Tu, was Captain Tute’s taio. James was polite but formal as he greeted the ruler of Moorea. Mahine was middle-aged, very fat and completely bald. He wore a bark loincloth and a pearl-shell pendant, and his left upper arm and shoulder were covered in tattoos. Where his right eye had been there was just blank skin and a jagged scar ran across his left breast.
Having never been aboard a European ship before, he stared about the decks, his one eye bulging with bewilderment. He seemed particularly taken with the ship’s goats, which were in their pens on the foredeck, munching their fodder.
With Omai translating, Mahine said he lived in a village called Pow-Pow. He pointed towards the head of the bay. ‘Village is there,’ Omai said. James explained that they needed pigs, coconuts and water from the river, and handed the chief a hatchet and some nails.
Mahine accepted them, and agreed that his people would provide what Tute wanted. Then he pointed up at the foredeck. Omai said, ‘He also wants the goats.’
James explained that this was not possible. ‘They are needed for their milk,’ he said. ‘For the rest of the voyage.’ He took some red feathers from his pocket and handed them to Mahine, who chuckled and nodded. ‘Mauruuru,’ he said, seeming satisfied. Then he returned to his canoe and was paddled back.
The boats were hoisted and shore parties organised; the goats were taken ashore and tethered under the palms to graze. This took up most of their first afternoon in the bay.
The following morning James was writing in his journal to Elizabeth when there was a knock on the door of the Great Cabin. He blotted what he had written then closed the journal. ‘Come,’ he called.
Midshipman Shuttleworth put his head around the door. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Captain, but Lieutenant Phillips said you must be told.’
‘Told what?’
‘One of the goats has gone, Captain. Stolen.’
Something snapped in James’s mind. It was as if a squall had struck him and his mind had splintered like a topmast. Thieving! And this time of one of their most valuable animals! This must be the work of the fat, one-eyed chief. After locking Elizabeth’s journal away and picking up his stick, he stormed up onto the deck.
Williamson was officer of the watch. ‘A goat’s been stolen!’ James yelled at him. ‘Get Omai!’
In spite of the smothering heat, Omai wore his heavy jacket, plumed hat and boots. James shouted at him, ‘Go to the village of the chief. Tell him that unless the goat is brought back, we will set fire to his houses and destroy his canoes!’
Omai grinned. ‘I tell him!’
Three hours later he returned in the launch. The goat, and the person who had taken it away, were in the stern. The thief was a slim, dark-faced youth with hair pulled up into a topknot.
After he and the goat were brought aboard, the youth stared up at James, his expression fearful. ‘He says,’ explained Omai, ‘that he took the goat because it was grazing on his family’s land. And the family had not been given recompense for what it had eaten.’
James stared down at the youth disdainfully. A likely story. No doubt this excuse had been concocted by Mahine. Both needed to be taught a lesson. He called Doyle over. ‘Take this one below and clap him in irons. Allow him no visitors.’
The youth looked around in terror, not able to understand, but aware that some sort of judgment had been passed.
The next day Williamson came to the Great Cabin. ‘Captain, the other goat has been stolen.’
Jame
s pressed his brow to ease the pain behind his eyes. Thieving, yet more thieving. When would these people learn? Livid, breathing deeply, he climbed to the deck, where Gore and Omai were conversing. Gore said to James, ‘Omai has been told that another chief knows where the other goat has been taken. His name is Hamoa.’
James’s fury was now directed at this person. He told Omai, ‘Find this Hamoa. Tell him that unless the missing goat is returned we will smash and burn every canoe and house on this island.’
To demonstrate that this threat was not an idle one, he ordered carpenter Cleveley, ‘Take six men and axes to the beach at the head of the bay. Smash the canoes there. Chop them to pieces!’
They not only destroyed the canoes and the shelters that housed them, they set fire to the wreckage. It burned for hours.
That evening James watched the flames, which still flickered. Although the sight was satisfying, the goat had not been returned. James’s anger smouldered like the burned canoes. The culprits will not get away with this.
The next day he told Phillips and his marines to report for armed duty. Addressing the assembled troop, and Omai, he shouted, ‘We’re going inland, to search for our goat!’
Williamson was to take two of the ships’ boats and a company of armed men. They were to row down Moorea’s western coast, searching for the stolen animal in the villages along the way. ‘Take axes and hammers,’ James told Williamson. ‘Any canoes there, smash them!’
‘Aye, sir!’
Meanwhile, James’s and Omai’s group would search the villages around the bay, then cross the mountain range and meet up with Williamson and his men on the west coast.
As they listened to the captain’s fulminating, the rest of the crew were puzzled. All this fury, all this energy, for one goat? It was out of all proportion. Most of them were aware of the time and effort required to make a canoe with just stone tools; as seamen, they respected this. Now their shipmates were being ordered to destroy canoes that represented years of toil. It didn’t seem fair. As they watched the armed parties leaving, many again wondered: why was the captain reacting so harshly?
