Vasu: Captain Burt and the Cannibals

cannibals.

Chapter 1 - Discovery

Goleta, California November 1996

The Santa Ana’s are blowing harder today, Tess thought as another powerful gust of wind rattled the windows on the little bungalow on Morton Bay Lane. She pulled open one of the living room curtains to see what was going on outside and was startled at the strength of the wind as it bent the palm trees and blew an assortment of newspapers, plastic grocery bags and debris through the air and flying down the street. She was afraid the sheer force of the wind may be strong enough to lift the little house from its foundation so she hurried to complete the last of the remaining tasks before she could finally vacate the property. As the last surviving relatives of her husband Bill’s deceased elderly spinster cousin, Nancy Colvin Coulter, Tess and her husband had given themselves just a week to dispose of her personal effects and place the property up for sale. The task seemed insurmountable to her as she discovered Nancy rarely threw anything out. Most of what Nancy had accumulated over the years was just worthless clutter or had only sentimental value. Like the chipped and cracked old cameo brooch given to her by her mother, Madeline Burt Coulter, who received it from her mother, Frances Burt, decades ago. No matter what, Tess was determined to sort through all of it to be certain she didn’t dispose of anything valuable. She just had that closet at the end of the hall to clean out and a few other little chores and then the house would be ready for the realtor’s final inspection.

Earlier in the day, Bill had determined the chores assigned to him by his purposeful wife were completed and decided to treat himself to a few glasses of the local vintage. The loud snoring that echoed down the hall from the master bedroom was indication enough that the evening’s remaining task of cleaning out the hall closet would be left solely to her. She had begun at first light again today, sorting and packing, deciding what to keep and what would go to the thrift store. The sixty-eight year old woman had plenty of energy for her age but now it was getting dark and she was exhausted. As they were close to being finished, she hoped she could finally relax and get back to her home in Canada. She was anxious to leave California as a small tremor of an earthquake that would have been hardly been worth a mention by the locals, had frightened her the night before.

Just that hall closet, she thought, and then it’s done.

Her previous attempt at opening the closet door had been unsuccessful. A combination of the humid California coastal air and decades of neglect had caused the thick wood to swell and despite several hard pulls she found she lacked the strength to open it. Two semi-circle lines had been left behind on the ceiling and the tile floor by the previous times it had been forcefully opened by the home’s former occupants. The door would require several hard pulls by someone with greater strength than hers so she decided she would ask her husband to take care of it as she felt her limited time was better spent packing and cleaning. Now she cursed herself for forgetting to remind Bill to open it before he went to bed. She pulled on the dinted metal doorknob with all her strength until there was enough space between the door and the frame for her to slide her fingers along the edge for a better handgrip. She pulled again with all her strength and the swollen door began to yield its vice like hold, screeching out an inch or two at a time until there was enough of an opening for her to look inside. Using what was left of her strength; she positioned her feet against the wall to brace herself and gave the inflexible door a few final determined heaves that would provide an opening large enough for her to retrieve whatever contents were behind the cobwebs and all the floating dust she had just stirred up. However the dull glow of the lone forty watt light bulb in the hall ceiling fixture did not provide enough light to reveal what was hiding back in the deep recesses of the darkened closet. She tried to remember where she packed the flashlights so she walked back to the living room and opened a couple of boxes before finding one that miraculously worked after a few light taps. Standing on her tiptoes, Tess reached up and laid the flashlight on its side on the top shelf. She stood on one of Nancy’s wobbly kitchen chairs and pulled out the first of three heavy paper boxes out of the dusty closet’s top shelf. The bottom of each cardboard box instantly began to give way without the shelf’s support so Tess had to maneuver herself with care as she stepped down from the chair with both of her arms under each box. She carried the boxes to the living room and placed them in front of Nancy’s worn old sofa. With a damp towel, she sat down and wiped off the countless years of accumulated dust from the top of the first box and looked inside.

The box began to reveal its hidden treasures as she reached in and pulled out each item one by one. She was at first puzzled by her discoveries, and then she became astounded. Inside the first box were stacks of photos encased in glass, dating back to what must have been the mid-19th century. The photos depicted images of fierce looking jungle tribesmen with spears and clubs, huts, canoes, half naked native women and dead bodies. In another box, she found some old school scribblers dating back to the late 1800s filled with handwriting in a vernacular language that would be indigenous to a 19th century New England seaman. The third box contained some three hole punched binders filled with typewritten pages, official American government papers, correspondence, and a White House invitation to a president’s inauguration. At the bottom of the third box was a large antiquated manila envelope containing yellowed newspaper clippings from the Los Angeles Herald Examiner with articles about a white Fijian king and a Burbank woman being offered the title of Queen of Fiji. Tess began to read the journals but as she turned each fascinating page, made brittle with age, they began to crumble off at the edges. All the dust and paper particles caused her to sneeze so she put the first journal down and began to read one of the binder’s typewritten pages. She discovered someone, likely Nancy, had typed the contents of the journals verbatim, which made them much easier to read. The phonetic writings were the journals of a sea captain named George Rodney Burt who had described in detail his life experiences in Fiji as the first white man to live among the savages that feasted on human flesh.

The Santa Ana’s increased their intensity outside, blowing cans and boxes that banged against the windows and doors of the deceased spinster’s house, adding to the ghoulish atmosphere of the night’s discovery. With the wind howling in the background, Tess began to read the first page of Captain Burt’s journal.

"What is bred in the bone is hard to get out of the flesh.

All my forefathers way back to 1757 were sea-faring men. My elder brother followed suit, and of course, I followed. Skyscrapers, stun sails and stun sail halyards, hard up and hard down, let’s go and haul to were everyday expressions in our family when I was a boy. The west coast of Africa, Cape of Good Hope, Hong Kong and Canton; I knew more about than the country I was born in.

No wonder that I became restless and discontented, and chafing under the restrain of a severely strict puritan home. I longed for the sea and foreign ports. Finally, contrary to all advice and parental admonitions, I left my father’s roof-tree in 1838 at age eighteen, and when I once started I kept on going until I came to anchor where no other white man had ever been at that time. Namely, on Viti Levu, among the Fiji cannibals, where small offences were punished with death and greater offences received no greater punishment than to reduce the guilty parties to the level of food."

Chapter 2 - The Night of the Escape - Part 1

Pago Pago, Tuitilla, Samoa 1856

The oars cut through the water with precision at just the right depth and the right angle. Captain Burt heaved and pulled the little dinghy closer to shore with each powerful stroke, leaving behind a perfect conical vortex in the calm sea on either side of the boat’s wake. He did not want to waste time as it was close to dusk and soon the south sea sun would float below the ocean’s horizon, rendering the island’s main harbor in darkness. He wanted to reach shore and secure the vessel before it became too dark. There was plenty of cover to hide the dinghy but not much sandy beach in the area he had chosen to secure it. The shoreline was mostly rock and iron shore so he didn’t want to take the chance of damaging the fragile wooden vessel in the rapidly dwindling daylight.

Six years! he said aloud as he leaned back and pulled the oars through the water, as if saying the words would somehow justify the deed he would have to undertake that very night. Looking over his shoulder and skillfully maneuvering the oars, he guided his dinghy closer to shore towards his desired destination just as the first stars of the evening began to make their appearance in the tropical night sky. As he got closer, he could hear the gentle ripple of the waves as they lapped the sandy beach and gently splashed against the iron shore. There was not even the slightest wisp of wind on this muggy, cloudless night. It was not the best of conditions for what lay ahead he thought as he lifted the oars out of the water and placed them inside the boat. He jumped into the waist deep water and pulled the little boat to shore the rest of the way and then up onto the beach as far as his strength would allow. He tied the bow line to a coconut tree that leaned over the sparse spit of sandy beach nestled between two formations of iron shore that jutted out into the sea. He changed his wet pants for a dry pair he had brought with him and checked over what would be needed for that evening’s mission; a lantern, a bottle of dark rum and a loaded flintlock musket that he kept rolled up in his seaman’s monkey coat. Using his folded coat as padding, he sat on one of the bench seats and leaned back against the inside of the dinghy’s hull and lit a cigar. He went over his plan in his head one more time while he waited for the pitch black darkness of the Samoan night, when everyone had gone home and the harbor was asleep.

Chapter 3 - The Events Preceding the Night of the Escape

Captain Burt left his native home in New England as a young man of eighteen years to work as a common seaman for one of the many American whaling companies operating out of the Samoan islands. Like many young men, he was in search of adventure. What he found was hard, unfulfilling work, relentless boredom, strict and often cruel captains and meager wages. Through experience and a strong work ethic, he had managed to work his way up to the position of quartermaster for the better part of the last three years. This gave him a small measure of respect from the ship’s captains, better working conditions and better pay, but after he had completed his sixth year as one of the island’s legion of commercial seamen, he knew it was time for a change. Ever since he arrived in Samoa, he dreamed of being the captain of his own ship with his own crew. He held on to his dream by living a Spartan existence and struggling to save his wages while his shipmates parlayed theirs in the local taverns for drink and women, living from one day to the next. He could have taken the easy way out and borrowed money to purchase a suitable vessel from his father but to him that was a weakness he could not abide in himself. He had to do it his way so he would no longer have to be on the receiving end of an impatient captain’s order or be indebted to anyone. He considered himself to be strong willed rather than stubborn, although his family often described him as the latter. As a result, he had but a few close friends and was estranged from his family back in Baltimore, whose religious beliefs he felt constrained him and compelled him to move away and live by his own means.

The young captain learned to sail at a very young age. Trained by his seafaring father and older brother, he had no fear of the open sea. He could pilot any vessel through any kind of sea or weather condition, as long as it had a rudder and a sail. Such was his confidence that when given the chance to exchange almost all of his savings for a small schooner of his own, he seized the opportunity. He would never take an order from anyone again, he thought. Not his father, not any whaler’s skipper, no one. Even though his new vessel was a just a sixty foot gaff rigged two ‘master’, he was now the proud captain of his own ship and in control of his own future.

Captain Burt was a striking looking man. He was over six feet tall with a full head of shocking red hair and a red beard to match, and just one look of his piercing blue eyes could seriously warn any man that he meant business. The young man of twenty-four years was physically strong and mentally seaworthy. His body was lean, powerful and hard muscled from the years of intense manual labor as a whaling ship’s crewman. He longed for a change in his living conditions and for some excitement in his young life. He heard countless stories from other sailors of their fortuitous adventures and the vast opportunities to strike it rich in the wild and lawless Fiji Islands. Having a roving and inquiring disposition he made the decision to seek his fortune there. So he began the arduous and meticulous task of preparing his new ship for the voyage. By his estimation he would require enough provisions for at least four men to sail his little schooner for a four day voyage. His destination would be the port town of Levuka, the capital of the Fiji Islands, on the island of Ovalau. He loaded his ship with barrels of fresh water, coffee, cornmeal, salt pork, flour, biscuits and tobacco. He took into account the likelihood of dangerous encounters and stored a box of muskets, gun powder, flint and a pig of lead in the ship’s hold.

A whaler could be a dangerous place to earn a living, especially if commanded by an overly ambitious captain without any regard for the safety of his crew and determined to fill his quota by any means. Captain Burt gained a reputation in the Samoan whaling community as a fair but firm quartermaster who could always be counted on to respect and enforce his captain’s orders while ensuring the safety of his men. He was held in such high esteem that when he asked four of his former shipmates to crew his new schooner in exchange for a share of the profit they were sure to acquire in Fiji, they all agreed and gave their word they would be more than ready. However, a firm guarantee made by even the most forthright of men with the best of intentions is not always a certainty. The young captain found out all too late that promises made over mugs of rum by his most dependable former shipmates had vanished as quickly as a storm squall at sea. When reality sunk in, they had reneged on their word to crew his new vessel for more stable employment on the local commercial whalers. He didn’t blame them for their change of heart but now he had a serious problem he had not accounted for. After stocking his ship with supplies, he had depleted most of his finances and what little money that remained was not enough to pay for a new crew.

He decided to scour Pago Pago’s deplorable harbor front taverns in search of men who would be willing to crew his vessel to Fiji. The taverns were popular places for the local sailors to let off steam. As a result it could be a dangerous place in the evening with many a night culminating in a drunken melee of some sort, often ending with musket fire or a stabbing and one or more persons dead. This was of little concern to the young captain even though he was an infrequent visitor to the local taverns and would have no one to back him up if trouble should arise. The urgency of his immediate need compelled him to find suitable seamen by almost any means. He needed at least two men by his estimation or all his plans would be scuttled, however three men would be better so he wouldn’t have to do any of the manual labor himself and could fully concentrate on his charts and the captain’s task of piloting the vessel. He thought of ways he could get men to join him. He could promise them riches beyond their wildest dreams if they were willing to work with him. After all the fertile, untouched Fiji Islands with all the riches and adventure any man could ask for awaited them. Who could refuse such an offer? The dilemma of his shortage of funds subsided as excitement built over what he anticipated would be the willingness of men to join him on his voyage.

He wandered the night of the port town, going from tavern to tavern, looking for men to crew his ship and offering the opportunity for success and adventure to whoever would listen. But with little more than a promise of future wages, he was unsuccessful in getting even the most desperate man to join him. His offer was again rejected at the Sky Fox Inn by a table of half-drunk sailors, throwing back mugs of grog, laughing and mocking the young captain for his audacity. Feeling discouraged and angry at himself for his lack of foresight, he sat by himself, nursed his mug of rum and contemplated what options he had left. He had come so close to fulfilling his dream, he thought. There must be a way to get a crew. In the din of the noisy, smoky tavern just barely illuminated by the early morning’s waning lamplight, he did not notice a bedraggled looking old man with long scraggly grey hair as he shuffled unsteadily over to his table from the darkness. His rumpled pants were worn to the point of being threadbare and his soiled seaman’s monkey coat was torn under the arms and exuded a foul odor that was prevalent with many of the island’s derelicts.

May I be so bold as to set an’ join you in a drink young captain? said the old sea dog as he stooped over his table, mug in hand. Before Captain Burt had a chance to answer, the old sea dog flashed a crooked smile through his greasy beard showing a few remaining yellowish brown teeth and added, As it would appear your tight scratch has you lookin’ all harrowed up.

Suit yourself, he replied eyeing the old man suspiciously.

I hope you don’t mind but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with those fellers over there, and I might add I surely don’t favor their rectitude over your complexion, the old sea dog said as he sat down. Perhaps I may be able to discommode you from your tight scratch as I can see it has you quite fairly vexed. The old man looked purposely down at his empty mug and up at the young captain several times.

Captain Burt waved his hand and motioned to the barkeep to bring a bottle of rum to his table and tossed a quarter dollar coin to him for payment. He tipped the bottle and generously filled the old man’s cup. With a shaking hand, the man smacked his lips, lifted the cup to his mouth and tossed back its contents. He looked into his empty cup then back up again before he said, I know a man who is most considerate who can help you out of your fix.

Who would that be? inquired Captain Burt without much interest. He could scarcely believe this old drunkard could possibly help him solve his problem.

Aye, said the old sea dog nodding his head, that man be Judge Jenkins. He is another man in a fix. He has a crew but no vessel.

Captain Burt filled his cup again while he listened intently to his story. The old sea dog told him Judge Jenkins, the American Consul in Samoa, had a crew of escaped convicts from Van Diemen’s Land locked up in his jail and no way of getting rid of them. Van Diemen’s Land was a convict settlement where Great Britain had sent their most hardened and dangerous criminals.

Without waiting for the captain to ask, the old man asked the question on his mind himself, How did Judge Jenkins get a crew? Well, I will tell you. The old American rascal, better known round here as Bobby Towns, lives in Sydney, Australia and owns a fleet o’ whalers. Some of them whalers was commanded by men not half as good as they would have hung in America. Well here were one of ’em sent to sea with only half a crew. He could not get more because he was such a scoundrel that men did not care to go with him. Aye, so now Bobby Towns is in a fix.

Go on, Captain Burt urged him.

So Bobby Towns makes a run over to Van Diemen’s Land and steals enough convicts to make up his full complement o’ men. Well this he did and when he come to Samoa to buy fresh provisions for his crew, three of those which was convicts and a big strong, ugly lookin’ American nigger, they ran away from his vessel and hid in the bush until his vessel was gone. With no money or food, them escaped convicts broke in to Judge Jenkins’ office and blow’d open the safe by puttin’ gun powder in the keyhole. They was soon caught, put on trial and sentenced to be banished from the islands. The old sea dog leaned back in his chair confident he had successfully captured the complete attention of the young man seated across the table. He raised his eyebrows and leaned forward while moving his empty mug across the table.

Captain Burt filled his cup again and the old man continued.

But who would take them convicts? The captains of all the vessels that came in here were afraid to have anything to do with such scoundrels - and there were no men o’ war to take ’em away. So the white men here decided that Judge Jenkins would have to take charge of ’em and provide for ’em as he was the most interested. Now I can tell you that old judge be frightened for his life. So for his own safety, he had them convicts heavily leg ironed and hand cuffed and hired a Samoan to look after ’em. Now allof this he has to pay for out of his own pocket."

The old sea dog looked both ways and leaned in closer to make sure no one overheard him and whispered, Now if a man with tong and hammer were to approach Judge Jenkins and offer to take away them convicts, well I warrant his plan would be countenanced. He licked his lips and wryly added as an afterthought to test the young captain’s courage, That be…if a man weren’t too pale at the idear.

As outrageous and dangerous a plan it was, it was also a solution to his problem. He thanked him for his advice and got up to leave.

You’se wouldn’t be leavin’ a poor ol’ salt thirsty now would ya? said the man eyeing the half full bottle on the table.

He grabbed the bottle and placed it in front of the old man, patted him on the back and walked out of the noisy tavern into the tropical night. He struck a wooden match against the door frame, lit his lantern and began to make his way back to his little dinghy in the harbor. He decided he would spend his first night as a captain aboard his ship and the next day he would meet this Judge Jenkins.

Armed with the information he heard from the old man the night before, the young Captain approached Judge Jenkins the next morning with a plan. He did not have far to go. The judge’s office, which also doubled as the American consulate in the area, was located a short distance from the harbor. The two story whitewashed wood and stone structure that housed a courthouse, jail and judge’s quarters was the most imposing structure in the vicinity. The judge and his family lived on the second floor of the building.

He pushed open the heavy wood door to the judge’s office and stepped inside. It was still early morning and the air in the small, poorly ventilated office had already become stagnant and muggy from the sweltering tropical sun. A grey haired, bespectacled and distinguished looking man wearing a starched white long sleeved shirt with cuffs and