CHAPTER XII
On the 22d of July, while our first cutter, Lieutenant Alden and Midshipman Henry, and the Leopard, Lieutenant Underwood, were surveying the island of Malolo, they ran short of provisions. Lieutenant Underwood and Midshipman Henry, with several of the boat’s crew, landed upon this island and attempted to purchase food from the natives. While engaged in trading, the hostage in the cutter under Lieutenant Alden, jumped overboard and swam for the shore. Lieutenant Alden immediately leveled his rifle and shot at him, but he dodged the ball. The natives, seeing that the hostage had escaped, raised the war-cry, and then a bloody work commenced. Our officers and crew retreated to the water backwards, at the same time firing and warding off with their bowie- knife pistols the arrows and spears which were flying thick about their heads. Our little band fought bravely, and many of those savages were made to kiss the coral reefs. Midshipman Henry was knocked down by a blow from a club on the back of the head. He quickly arose, however, and seizing his assailant, plunged his bowie- knife deep into the savage’s breast. The two then fell together, never to rise again.
Lieutenant Underwood, struck on the side of his head by a club in the hand of a gigantic savage, fell face downward into the water. This seemed to revive him, for he regained his footing and dealt the savage a terrible blow on his head with his bowie-knife pistol, which split his head nearly in two. He then turned towards the boats, when he was struck on the back of his head with a ula, or handy billy, which was thrown with tremendous force by a native a short distance off, and fell senseless into the water.
In the meantime Lieutenant Emmons in the Greyhound had joined Lieutenant Alden in the cutter, and then made for the shore to recover the bodies of their brother officers. They found them stripped of their clothing. Lieutenant Underwood was just alive, and as they lifted him he faintly breathed the words, "Tell — her — that —." These were his last. He had been married but a few weeks before we sailed from Norfolk. Beside him lay Joseph G. Clark, and not far from him Jerome Davis and Robert Furman. Close by the body of Henry were William Leicester and John Sac. They were all stunned. Clark’s upper lip was partly torn away, and was hanging down to his chin. The natives were kept at a distance by the Greyhound's crew, while others were bearing the bodies of their shipmates to the cutter. We soon got under way and pulled for the ship. Arriving on board, every attention that affection could suggest was paid to the wounded. Clark’s lip was a horrible sight. It was sewed up by our surgeon, Dr. Gilchrist. None of the others were wounded, but were quite severely stunned.
The next morning the Flying Fish, on board of which 
MASSACRE OF LIEUTENANT UNDERWOOD AND MIDSHIPMAN WILKES HENRY.
The sun never rose more clearly, and nothing could have looked more beautiful and peaceful than did the little group of islands as we passed them in succession on our melancholy errand. Arriving at the last one, which was about ten miles from Malolo and uninhabited, we came to anchor. Two of the officers and three of the crew went on shore to select a place and dig a grave for both the victims. At one bell all hands were called to bury the dead. The two bodies were placed in the commodore’s gig, side by side, wrapped in their country’s flag, and rowed to the lonely little island, followed by other boats with the commodore, several of the officers, and twenty of the sailors (all dressed in white), who landed to pay this last tribute of respect to those who had gone through so many hardships and shared so many dangers with them.
The quiet of the scene, the solemnity of the occasion, and the smallness of the numbers were calculated to produce a deep impression. The bodies were borne to the grave, which was in the center of the little island, amid a small grove of ficus trees. It was a lovely spot that had been chosen. The grave was dug wide and deep, in the pure white coral sand. The funeral services were conducted so calmly, and yet with such feeling, that none who were present will ever forget that sad half-hour. After the bodies had been lowered, and the grave filled, three volleys were fired over it.
This pretty cluster of islands was named Underwood’s Group, the little island, Henry’s Island. We wandered about the beach a short time, then reshipped and returned to Malolo. Preparations were at once made to punish the actors in this foul deed. The rest of the day and during the night, the ship’s small arms were prepared, and parties duly organized for the fight. Several boats, well manned and armed, were stationed around the island, so that none of the natives could escape. At nine o’clock we landed well armed, and provided with port-fires and rockets (fiery spirits), which we had found so efficient on a former occasion. Orders were given to spare all women and children.
The first town we arrived at was entirely deserted. The natives had even taken all their household goods with them. We reduced it quickly to ashes, destroyed their yam and taro patches, and made the next town. When the natives first got sight of us, they sent up a shout of defiance. They exhibited no signs of fear, but rather defied us. While awaiting the arrival of Captain Ringold’s and Lieutenant Johnson’s parties, we descended the hill, and advanced towards the ditch of the town. The natives boldly came to meet us, with a discharge of arrows, and exhibited the utmost confidence. They in truth believed their town to be impregnable, for it had hitherto withstood every attack made by the Fiji warriors. Its defenses showed no little engineering skill. A ditch twelve feet wide, and full of mud and water, surrounded the whole. Next came a stong palisade, built of cocoanut trunks, placed four or five feet apart, among which was here and there a living tree. This palisade also included a fence of wicker-work, about ten feet high, so strong and dense as to defy all attempts to penetrate or even see through it. Inside of this was a second ditch. In this ditch the natives sought shelter and defended themselves, only exposing their heads when they rose to shoot through the loop-holes left in the palisade.
As soon as we neared the fortification, we spread out so as to outflank the skirmishers, and by a few rockets and a shower of balls showed them that they had different enemies from Fiji men to deal with. This compelled them to abandon all the outer works to destruction, and to retire within, where they all united in giving a loud shout of "Lako-mai," "Come on," at the same time flourishing their war-clubs and spears.
Having arrived within about seventy feet, we fired on the fortification. Now was seen what many of those present had not before believed; the expertness with which these savages dodge a ball at the flash of a gun. Those who were the most incredulous before, were now satisfied that they could do this effectually. A stubborn resistance was kept up with musketry, arrows, and war-clubs, which lasted about twenty minutes. In this the women and children were as actively engaged as the men. They believed that it required a larger load to kill a large man than it did to kill a small man. The bows and arrows were for the most part used by the women.
The defense soon slackened, and many natives could be seen escaping from the rear with their dead and wounded on their backs. A rocket, of which several had already been tried without any visible effect, now struck one of the thatched roofs. Several natives sprang up to tear it off, but that moment was their last, as the roof immediately burst into flames. As soon as the flames were found to be spreading, a scene of confusion ensued that baffles description. The deafening shouts of "Curlew, curlew, curlew," by the savages, with the cries and shrieks of the women and children, the roaring of the fire, the bursting of the bamboos, and an occasional volley from our rifles, will always be impressed on our memories. In about half an hour this whole town or stronghold of theirs was reduced to ashes. It was evident that large quantities of water, provisions, pigs, etc., had been stored up in the anticipation of a long siege. In the ditch we picked up a number of war-clubs, spears, bows and arrows, several old muskets, fish-nets, tapa, etc., and the cap of Lieutenant Underwood. Many of the dead were lying in the ditch.
Our party sustained but little injury. Only one man was struck by a ball, which did no other harm than to leave a scar on his right arm. Several were wounded by arrows, but only one, Samuel Stretch, dangerously. In crossing the island to another town, we found the scenery extremely beautiful. In the valleys below us and on the declivities of the hills were to be seen yam and taro patches kept in the neatest order, with the small yam houses, or lololo, in the midst, surrounded by groves of tall cocoanut trees and plantations of bananas. All looked quiet and peaceful, in strong contrast to the exciting contest in which we had been engaged, and the character of the ruthless and murderous race who had been the occupants of the smiling valley.
Soon after descending the hill we came upon another stronghold. We soon set fire to this town by throwing in rockets. It became too hot for the savages, and as they attempted to escape in fives and tens, they were riddled with bullets. Here we were re-inforced by Lieutenant Murray’s and Lieutenant Emerson’s forces, who had destroyed several towns. The natives made a stubborn resistance and even stood a charge of bayonets.
While these transactions were taking place on the island, the water also became the scene of many conflicts. Every canoe that attempted to escape from the island was overtaken by our boats, destroyed, and its occupants became food for hungry sharks.
We destroyed all the towns, and by five o’clock all hands had returned on board ship. The boats on guard around the island were relieved every four hours. The night passed as quietly as in a country churchyard, save for the singing of some tropical bird, or the splashing of the water, occasioned by some monster of the deep.
Early the next morning several natives were seen on the beach, waving pieces of white tapa, the emblem of peace with them. The commodore, with the interpreter in his gig, pulled for the shore. As they neared the edge of the reef, which was bare now, it being low water, all the men retired, leaving a young native woman standing with the different articles of Lieutenant Underwood and Midshipman Henry near her. She held a white cockerell in her arms, which she wanted the commodore to accept. He declined to do so, but took the articles of clothing. The commodore knew it to be the custom of the natives, when defeated and at the mercy of their enemies, to beg pardon and sue for mercy before the whole of the attacking party, in order that all might be witnesses; and he also knew that they never acknowledged themselves conquered unless this was done.
Many messages were delivered to the commodore by this young woman from the chiefs, saying that they were sorry for clubbing and killing our little chiefs. This, however, amounted to nothing. The commodore sent word to the chiefs and people that they must come and beg pardon and sue for mercy before all our warriors, on a hill that he pointed out, on the south end of the island, saying that he should land there in a little while and receive them. In a few hours our whole force went ashore and took our station on the hill.
The day was perfectly serene, but the island, which a few days before had been one of the loveliest spots on earth, was now entirely desolate, showing the place of the massacre, ruined towns, and devastated plantations.
The eye wandered over the dreary waste, to the beautiful expanse of waters beyond and around, with the long lines of white, sparkling reefs, until it rested, far in the distance, on the small green island where we had performed the last rites to our murdered shipmates. A gentle breeze stirred the lofty palm trees and produced a moaning sound as in the forests of our own country. A feeling of depression, inseparable from the occasion, rested upon us and brought vividly to our thoughts the grief which these melancholy deaths would bring upon those who were far away.
After watching several hours with much patience, we heard the sound of distant wailings, which gradually drew nearer. Presently the natives could be seen coming over the hills towards us, making a scene which will be long remembered. They at length reached the foot of the hill, when about forty of them advanced, crouching on their hands and knees, pausing occasionally to utter piteous moans and wails.
When within about thirty feet of us, they stopped, and an old chief, their leader, in the most piteous manner begged pardon, supplicating forgiveness and pledging that they would never do the like again to a papalangi, or white man. He said that they acknowledged themselves conquered, and that the island belonged to our big chief (the commodore), and that they were his slaves and would do whatever he desired. He said that their head chiefs and most of their wives had been killed.
He offered several of the slain chiefs' daughters, as a present to the commodore.
During the whole time that the old chief was speaking the other natives remained bowed, with their faces to the ground.
A few words of advice were given them by the commodore, and they were then dismissed. They were not long in leaving; the chiefs’ daughters with them. The young women were all very pretty.
Orders were now given to man the boats, and we reached the vessels at sundown.
Midshipman Wilkes Henry was the only son of his mother, and she a widow, the sister of Commodore Wilkes. His death was a deep affliction to his mother, who could be sustained under it only by Divine grace.
The following lines were written by Joseph G. Clark, one of the crew, who fought so bravely and had his upper lip nearly cut off in the fight:
Wilkes Henry.
He went to his home, where his kind mother dwelt,
To tell her the squadron was ready to sail,
And merry the heart of the young sailor felt,
For bright was the morning and fair was the gale.
In vain were his efforts her tears to restrain,
By reciting the hopes that inspired him with joy,
For she secretly felt, — oh, how keen was the pain! —
That this was the last she would see of her boy.
The hand of his mother he grasped in his own,
And bade her farewell as he rose to depart;
She could breathe no response, for to her ’twas the tone
Of the death-knell of all that was dear to her heart.
He hastened on board and the anchors were "home,"
The wide canvas spread, his ship started from shore;
But ah! who can tell of the evil to come, —
He had left her indeed, to behold her no more!
To the Isle of Malolo, the lonely abode
Of a cannibal king and his murderous train,
The youth in the path of his duty trod,
Was attacked by the natives and treacherously slain.
I saw from his eye flash the heroic fire
Of a brave and true heart that was born to command;
He could not advance, and he would not retire,
But he stood, fought and fell with his knife in his hand.
To a desolate island his body we bore,
And laid his remains with his comrade to rest.
That island ne’er held such a treasure before,
As the jewels we buried so deep in its breast.
Dear youth! he has gone to his rest with the brave,
To the source whence true glory, true happiness springs;
The tears of his countrymen sprinkled his grave,
And the blue, rolling ocean his requiem sings.