The sketch was proceeding most satisfactorily, so were our attempts at conversation, until, prompted by curiosity, I endeavoured to elicit from Pomare, who did understand a few words of English, what were the contents of the barrels they were sitting upon.
“Rum?” said I.
“Kahori rum,” said he.
“Water?”
“No.”
“Pork?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Boom! Boom!” retorted the Chief.
When he perceived that I failed to understand him, he quietly pulled out the wooden plug which closed the bung-hole; a stream of black, shiny powder ran out, falling within a few inches of the burning embers. Without ever exchanging a word, or a wink even, officers, midshipmen, and sailors made a bold rush on all fours through the aperture of the whare, down the ladder, helter-skelter to the ground below, much to the amazement of our Native hosts, whose portrait remains unfinished to this day. Had one grain of powder reached the burning coals, I doubt much if Pomare and his pah would have troubled Colonel Despard, or the 99th Regiment, in 1845.