The Shining Sea (37 page)

Porter now advanced on them with twenty-eight men. He failed to see the Taipi hiding in the bushes ahead. Suddenly, his men heard slings snapping and spears quivering. Miraculously, the shower of missiles that then hit them did not kill anyone. Porter kept advancing, but the Taipi were so carefully hidden he still could not see them. He was now a mile from the water's edge.

The Taiohae and Hapa'a stood by and watched as Porter continued moving forward cautiously. It was abundantly clear that he had not come with enough force and needed to go back and regroup, but he did not want to lose face with the Taiohae and Hapa'a. As if to underscore the danger he was in, a well-aimed stone struck Lieutenant Downes's left leg and cracked it. Porter sent Mr. Shaw, the
Essex
's purser, with four men to take Downes back to the beach. That left Porter with only twenty-four men. Most, but not all, of his native allies remained spectators. The Taiohae warrior chief Mouina was in front leading, but nearly all the others
were either in the rear or watching. Even Mouina was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of moving forward.

Porter continued to advance, however, and soon came to a river, which he crossed with difficulty, losing all the Taiohae who had stuck with him, except for Mouina and three others. At length, Porter came to a Taipi village, where a seven-foot wall blocked his path. His situation was looking bleaker and bleaker. To make matters worse, he was running out of ammunition. He was forced to send Lieutenant Gamble and four men back to the beach, where they were to take a boat out to
Essex Junior
and obtain more. Porter's party was now reduced to nineteen. While waiting for Gamble to return, Porter carried on a desultory fire at unseen Taipi warriors who were continually throwing stones and spears at him. He was now in danger of losing his entire party and his life, as the Taipi, seeing his hesitation, became bolder. Porter decided he had to get back to the beach, but his retreat could not appear precipitate, otherwise, he feared an attack from the Hapa'a.

When he began to withdraw, the Taipi rushed him, screaming insults, but two of their leaders were instantly shot dead. When others came to drag away the bodies, Porter's men wounded them. This checked them momentarily, allowing Porter to withdraw to the river, with the Taipi following cautiously at a distance. He managed to cross the stream, and to his great relief, the Taipi did not follow, allowing him to get back to the beach with all his men.

Without pausing, he began rowing out to
Essex Junior,
but the Taipi suddenly appeared and attacked the Taiohae who were still on the beach, forcing Porter to reverse course and row back. Fortunately, when the Taipi saw him returning, they ran. He then gathered all his forces and rowed back to Massachusetts Bay.
Essex Junior
followed when the wind served.

Deeply chagrined, Porter believed that his annexation was in jeopardy if he did not return right away with a much larger force and defeat the Taipi. He feared that the whole island would turn against him, including the Taiohae. The skirmish on the beach had provided little intelligence on the real strength of the Taipi. He did not know what was facing him, but he thought that a strike force of two hundred men would be enough to humble them.

He prepared in secret, not wanting help from the natives, since they had proven useless on the last expedition. He originally planned to go back in boats, but decided to travel by land this time, since the boats had been too leaky. He left after dark and reached the summit of the mountain in three hours. He imposed the utmost secrecy, hoping to catch the Taipi by surprise.

By midnight Porter could hear drums beating in the Taipi valley and loud singing. They were celebrating their victory. Since the path ahead was particularly difficult (necessitating a descent down an almost perpendicular cliff) he decided to rest on the mountaintop and wait for daylight. He had just dozed off when rain began to fall heavily. He feared that his muskets and ammunition would get so wet they would be useless. The rain continued coming down in torrents, followed by a cold piercing wind. “Never in the course of my life,” he wrote, “did I spend a more anxious or disagreeable night.”

At daylight, Porter went about examining the men, their muskets, and the ammunition. He found the guns in remarkably good shape, but half the ammunition was too wet to use. He also spent time looking down the mountainside they would have to travel to reach the Taipi valley. He was astonished at how steep it was and how difficult just descending was going to be. He concluded that it would be foolhardy to try right then and decided to retreat to the Hapa'a valley on the other side of the mountain and wait for better conditions. Before leaving the mountaintop he fired off some guns to demonstrate to the Hapa'a that his force was still potent. “The Hapa'a would not have hesitated in making an attack on us,” he wrote.

Porter's party spent the night in the Hapa'a village. People abandoned their houses so that the Americans could have comfortable quarters, but provided no food—no hogs or fruit. In fact, the Hapa'a, who were supposed to be overjoyed at becoming Americans, appeared more and more hostile. Before matters got out of hand, Porter confronted the chiefs, who backed off, and suddenly hogs and fruit appeared in abundance, and everyone, including the women, were friendlier. Nonetheless, Porter remained on guard, posting sentries and having the men sleep with their arms.

The next morning, Porter ascended the mountain again and gazed at the Taipi valley spread out at the bottom of the steep precipice. Nine
miles long and three or four wide, surrounded by steep, verdant hills, it looked like a paradise to him. Water cascading from one of the hillsides ran through the valley, forming a delightful stream that flowed to the beach, where Porter had landed a few days before. “Villages were scattered here and there,” he recalled, “the breadfruit and coconut trees flourished luxuriantly and in abundance; plantations laid out in good order, enclosed with stone walls, were in a high state of cultivation, and everything bespoke industry, abundance, and happiness—never in my life did I witness such a delightful scene, or experience more repugnancy than I now felt for the necessity which compelled me to punish a happy and heroic people.”

The compulsion he felt was peculiar to him, of course. Nothing compelled him to attack these innocent people other than his determination to annex the island. No military purpose was served. Fighting them had nothing whatever to do with refitting and supplying his ships. Slaughtering these people had only one object—his own aggrandizement as the conqueror of Nuku Hiva.

Porter claimed otherwise. He insisted that slaughtering the Taipi was a military necessity because “[we were] a handful of men residing among numerous warlike tribes, liable every moment to be attacked by them and cut off; our only hopes of safety was in convincing them of our great superiority over them, and . . . we must either attack them or be attacked.”
This was a far cry from his claim that the tribes of Nuku Hiva yearned to become part of America. The Taipi had it in their power to keep him at bay, he insisted; all they had to do was submit. When they refused to give up their liberty, he struck. “The evils they experienced they brought on themselves,” he insisted, “and the blood of their relations and friends must be on their own heads.”

After briefly resting his party at the summit of the mountain, Porter began threading his way down the tricky mountainside toward the Taipi villages. “Not a whisper was heard from one end of the line to the other,” he wrote; “our guides marched in front, and we followed in silence up and down the steep sides of rocks and mountains, through rivulets, thickets, and reed breaks, and by the sides of precipices which sometimes caused us to shutter.”
Taipi drums were beating and war conchs sounding, as Mouina guided Porter's column toward the Taipi valley. At the bottom of the mountain the Taipi, hidden behind bushes and stone walls, threw
stones and then withdrew. None of Porter's men were injured. The column moved on, crossed a river and pushed the Taipi back, killing and wounding a number of warriors.

It was clear that Porter would have to fight every inch of the way through the valley. As he moved slowly forward, the Taipi continued to resist and then draw back. All the while, Porter was consuming ammunition, and he feared running out. With his ammunition gone, the Taipi, with their superiority of numbers, could easily overwhelm him.

As he marched through the valley, Porter set fire to the villages he took and pushed on to the main village, which he thought was splendid. “The beauty and regularity of this place was such, as to strike every spectator with astonishment. . . . their . . . public square was far superior to any other we had met with.” Nonetheless, he put it to the torch. The proud Taipi continued to resist to the end; they “fought us to the last,” Porter reported with admiration. His force was just too much for them.

Once the work of savaging the Taipi was completed, Porter began the long trek back up the mountain. When he was halfway there, in a spot overlooking the smoking valley, Gattanewa appeared unexpectedly. “The old man's heart was full,” Porter reported, “he could not speak, he placed both my hands on his head, rested his forehead on my knees, and after a short pause, raising himself, placed his hands on my breast, exclaimed, Gattanewa!” And then he called Porter Opotee, to remind him that they had exchanged names.

When the column reached the summit of the mountain Porter stopped to survey the damage below. What had been a scene of surpassing beauty and abundance was now misery and desolation. The opposite hills were covered with unhappy fugitives.

Porter moved on to the valley of the Hapa'a, where he spent the night. The next day he returned to the fort on Massachusetts Bay. He had been absent three nights and two days. He sent a message to the Taipi to make peace, which they were now anxious to do. In exchange for peace they agreed to give Porter whatever presents he wanted in hogs and fruit. Eventually four hundred hogs appeared.

With the defeat of the Taipi, Porter believed he had completed his business on Nuku Hiva. He fancied that in seven weeks—even though he could not understand the language of the people or even their customs—
he had completely transformed their ancient society. He believed that he had created a lasting peace among all the tribes, something they had not experienced in their entire history. He pointed out that they could now travel out of their valley to every part of Nuku Hiva in safety. Many old men told him they had never been outside their own valley.

Porter warned them to keep the peace. He promised to leave and return within a year and expected to find the peace he had brought to continue. If not, he assured them his punishment would be swift and severe. “They all gave me the strongest assurances of a disposition to remain on good terms, not only with me and my people, but with one another,” he wrote. His capacity for self-delusion was breathtaking.

CHAPTER

18

M
UTINY

W
HILE
P
ORTER WAS DEALING WITH HIS OTHER PROBLEMS
, the possibility of a mutiny was ever present. During the first two weeks of November 1813, a number of British prisoners organized an escape, as it was their duty to do. They planned to seize
Essex Junior
and slip away during the night of November 14, the very day, as it turned out, that Fort Madison was completed. Porter discovered their plan days before, and he was furious. He had been deluding himself that his liberal treatment of the prisoners, especially when compared to Britain's rough handling of American seamen, had brought them over to his side, and they would never attempt an escape. “They had all been permitted to go on shore and on board the different vessels whenever they wished,” he wrote bitterly, “on a promise of conducting themselves with propriety, and not absenting themselves so that they could not be found; they were, in fact, admitted on parole, and all restrictions removed.”

A seaman named Lawson, formerly a mate on the
Sir Andrew Hammond
, led them. He planned to get the crew of
Essex Junior
drunk on rum mixed with the drug laudanum. Prisoners on the beach were to seize canoes, row out to the ship, board, take her, and put to sea. If complete surprise was achieved, no other ship would be ready to pursue
them, and the
Essex
, with no powder aboard, would be helpless to stop them.

The plan was workable, but Porter knew about it almost from the moment it was hatched. Two sentinels, who were guarding the rum, were helping Lawson, and Porter had discovered their activities. Disturbed by what he found, he punished the sentinels severely. He then put the crews and marines on high alert, and warned the marines that if the next neglect of duty merited death, he would not hesitate to shoot the offender. They knew he meant it.