“Perhaps they have fallen foul of an alligator,” said Poore, “all the creeks on Rook Island are full of them. Come along, and let us see what is wrong.”
Running through the open, timber country, and then through the long grass on the banks of the stream, we had reached about half-way to the boat when we heard a savage yell—or rather yells—for it seemed to come from a hundred throats, and in an instant we both felt sure that the boat had been attacked.
Madly forcing our way through the infernal reed-like grass, which every now and then caused us to trip and fall, we had just reached a bend of the creek, which gave us a clear sight of its course for about three hundred yards, when Poore tripped over a fallen tree branch; I fell on the top of him, and my face struck his upturned right foot with such violence that the blood poured from my nose in a torrent, and for half a minute I was stunned.
“Good God, look at that!” cried Poore, pointing down stream.
Crossing a shallow part of the creek were a party of sixty or seventy savages, all armed with spears and clubs. Four of them who were leading were carrying on poles from their shoulders the naked and headless bodies of our two unfortunate sailors, and the decapitated heads were in either hand of an enormously fat man, who from his many shell armlets and other adornments was evidently the leader. So close were they—less than fifty yards—that we easily recognised one of the bodies by its light yellow skin as that of Anteru (Andrew), a native of Rotumah, and one of the best men we had on the Samana.
Before I could stay his hand and point out the folly of it, Poore stood up and shot the fat savage through the stomach, and I saw the blood spurt from his side, as the heavy, flat-nosed bullet ploughed its way clean through the man, who, still clutching the two heads in his ensanguined hands, stood upright for a few seconds, and then fell with a splash into the stream.
Yells of rage and astonishment came from the savages, as Poore, now wild with fury, began to fire at them indiscriminately, until the magazine of his rifle was emptied; but he was so excited that only two or three of them were hit. Then his senses came back to him.
“Quick, into the creek, and over to the other side, or they'll cut us off.”
We clambered down the bank into the water, and then, by some mischance, Poore, who was a bad swimmer, dropped his rifle, and began uttering the most fearful oaths, when I told him that it was no use my trying to dive for it, unless he could hold my shot gun, which I was carrying in my left hand. We had scarcely reached the opposite bank, when thin, slender spears began to whizz about us, and one, no thicker than a lead pencil, caught Poore in the cheek, obliquely, and its point came out quite a yard from where it had entered, and literally pinned him to the ground.
I have heard some very strong language in the South Seas, but I have never heard anything so awful as that of Poore when I drew out the spear, and we started to run for our lives down the opposite bank of the creek.