Kataafa himself and his more important chiefs were in the “Malae,” or public square of the village, when the three papalangi arrived there.
The greeting between the wily old Kapuan rebel and the count was ceremonial to an extreme. Klinger had previously made it plain that this “papalangi” was the special ambassador of his great nation beyond the sea—a nation which was much more powerful than both England and America put together.
The would-be king made the count sit next to him, and then the ceremony of kava drinking was begun. This solemn custom of preparing the root and mixing the kava can never be dispensed with at any ceremony in which the Kapuans take part. To omit it would be a grave ceremonial blunder.
Kataafa and his important chiefs and their women sat under the spreading branches of an umbrella tree, whose horizontal boughs covered with dark green foliage gave shelter from the scorching sun to nearly two hundred men and women. The warriors sat in serried ranks, close to their chosen king, while the women fringed the edge of the densely packed crowd.
The various villages formed their companies where they had camped upon arrival, and very soon they could be heard approaching. Faint singing was heard in the distance, becoming stronger as the groups advanced. At last the war chant burst out in all its barbaric melody. The maidens led, two abreast, their Tapau in front, dressed in her most elaborate creation of fine mats, tapa and girdles of sweet-scented grass. Her skin, shiny with oil, resembling soft satin, and her locks polished to the deep bluish black of the raven’s wing. Upon her head rested grotesquely the Tapau head-dress of human hair and shells of pearl. Around her throat were string after string of shells and beads. Following the maidens came the warriors, each carrying a staff to represent a rifle.
As each village arrived they danced wildly, keeping time to their quick, inspiring chant, the women, led by their graceful Tapau, swaying from side to side in perfect time, while the men brandished their wooden guns, in pantomime of battle.
Then the villagers with a sudden burst of throaty sound, resembling the final roar of a wave dashing upon the reef, deposited their food offerings and withdrew to their appointed places, from where they would take part in the great “fono,”[28] called by their candidate for king.
Count Rosen gazed in undisguised admiration upon this wonderfully drilled assemblage. All were now sitting immovable on the ground, their deep lustrous eyes turned in the direction of the inner circle of chiefs, where sat their calm leader.
After several minutes of impressive silence a chief rose to his feet and struck the attitude traditional to the Kapuan of one who wishes to be heard. He carried a “fui” of white horsehair in his right hand, while his left rested upon the knob of his orator’s staff.
He talked for nearly fifteen minutes, while the multitude listened in breathless attention.