At
four
o'clock
in
the
afternoon
we
were
winding
down
a
mountain
of
dreary
and
desolate
lava
to
the
sea,
and
closing
our
pleasant
land
journey.
This
lava
is
the
accumulation
of
ages;
one
torrent
of
fire
after
another
has
rolled
down
here
in
old
times,
and
built
up
the
island
structure
higher
and
higher. Underneath,
it
is
honey-combed
with
caves;
it
would
be
of
no
use
to
dig
wells
in
such
a place;
they
would
not
hold
water—you
would
not
find
any
for
them
to
hold,
for
that
matter. Consequently,
the
planters
depend
upon
cisterns.
The
last
lava
flow
occurred
here
so
long
ago
that
there
are
none
now
living
who
witnessed it.
In
one
place
it
enclosed
and
burned
down
a
grove
of
cocoa-nut trees,
and
the
holes
in
the
lava
where
the
trunks
stood
are
still
visible;
their
sides
retain
the
impression
of
the
bark;
the
trees
fell
upon
the
burning
river,
and
becoming partly submerged, left
in
it
the
perfect
counterpart
of
every
knot
and
branch
and
leaf,
and
even
nut,
for
curiosity
seekers
of
a
long
distant
day
to
gaze
upon
and
wonder
at.
There
were
doubtless
plenty
of
Kanaka
sentinels
on
guard
hereabouts
at
that
time,
but
they
did
not
leave
casts
of
their
figures
in
the
lava
as
the
Roman
sentinels
at
Herculaneum
and
Pompeii did.
It
is
a
pity
it
is
so,
because
such
things
are
so
interesting;
but
so
it
is.
They
probably went away.
They
went
away
early, perhaps. However,
they
had
their
merits;
the
Romans
exhibited
the
higher
pluck,
but
the
Kanakas
showed
the
sounder
judgment.
Shortly
we
came
in
sight
of
that
spot
whose
history
is
so
familiar
to
every
school-boy
in
the
wide
world—Kealakekua Bay—the
place
where
Captain Cook,
the
great
circumnavigator,
was
killed
by
the
natives, nearly a
hundred
years
ago.
The
setting
sun
was
flaming
upon
it, a
Summer
shower
was
falling,
and
it
was
spanned
by
two
magnificent
rainbows.
Two
men
who
were
in
advance
of
us
rode
through
one
of
these
and
for
a
moment
their
garments
shone
with
a
more
than
regal
splendor.
Why
did
not
Captain Cook
have
taste
enough
to
call
his
great
discovery
the
Rainbow
Islands?
These
charming spectacles
are
present
to
you
at
every
turn;
they
are
common
in
all
the
islands;
they
are
visible
every
day,
and
frequently
at
night
also—not
the
silvery
bow
we
see
once
in
an
age
in
the
States,
by
moonlight,
but
barred
with
all
bright
and
beautiful colors,
like
the
children
of
the
sun
and
rain. I
saw
one
of
them
a
few
nights
ago.
What
the
sailors
call
"raindogs"—little
patches
of
rainbow—are
often
seen
drifting
about
the
heavens
in
these
latitudes,
like
stained
cathedral
windows. Kealakekua
Bay
is
a
little
curve
like
the
last
kink
of
a snail-shell,
winding
deep
into
the
land, seemingly
not
more
than
a
mile
wide
from
shore
to
shore.
It
is
bounded
on
one
side—where
the
murder
was
done—by a
little
flat
plain,
on
which
stands
a cocoanut
grove
and
some
ruined houses; a
steep
wall
of
lava, a
thousand
feet high
at
the
upper
end
and
three
or
four
hundred
at
the
lower,
comes
down
from
the
mountain
and
bounds
the
inner
extremity
of
it.
From
this
wall
the
place
takes
its
name, Kealakekua,
which
in
the
native
tongue
signifies
"The Pathway
of
the
Gods."
They
say, (and
still
believe,
in
spite
of
their
liberal
education
in
Christianity),
that
the
great
god
Lono,
who
used
to
live
upon
the
hillside,
always
traveled
that
causeway
when
urgent
business
connected
with
heavenly
affairs
called
him
down
to
the
seashore
in
a hurry.
As
the
red
sun
looked
across
the
placid
ocean
through
the
tall, clean
stems
of
the
cocoanut trees,
like
a blooming
whiskey
bloat
through
the
bars
of
a
city
prison, I went
and
stood
in
the
edge
of
the
water
on
the
flat
rock
pressed
by
Captain Cook's feet
when
the
blow
was
dealt
which
took
away
his
life,
and
tried
to
picture
in
my
mind
the
doomed
man
struggling
in
the
midst
of
the
multitude
of
exasperated
savages—the men
in
the
ship
crowding
to
the
vessel's
side
and
gazing
in
anxious
dismay
toward
the
shore—the—but I
discovered
that
I
could
not
do
it.
It
was
growing
dark,
the
rain
began
to
fall,
we
could
see
that
the
distant
Boomerang
was
helplessly
becalmed
at
sea,
and
so
I
adjourned
to
the
cheerless
little
box
of
a warehouse
and
sat
down
to
smoke
and
think,
and
wish
the
ship
would
make
the
land—for
we
had
not
eaten
much
for
ten
hours
and
were
viciously
hungry.
Plain
unvarnished
history
takes
the
romance
out
of
Captain Cook's assassination,
and
renders a
deliberate
verdict
of
justifiable
homicide. Wherever
he
went
among
the
islands,
he
was
cordially received
and
welcomed
by
the
inhabitants,
and
his
ships
lavishly supplied
with
all
manner
of
food.
He
returned
these
kindnesses
with
insult
and
ill- treatment.
Perceiving
that
the
people
took
him
for
the
long
vanished
and
lamented
god
Lono,
he
encouraged
them
in
the
delusion
for
the
sake
of
the
limitless power
it
gave him;
but
during
the
famous
disturbance
at
this
spot,
and
while
he
and
his
comrades
were
surrounded
by
fifteen
thousand
maddened savages,
he
received a hurt
and
betrayed
his
earthly
origin
with
a groan.
It
was
his
death-warrant. Instantly a shout went up: "He groans!—he
is
not
a god!"
So
they
closed
in
upon
him
and
dispatched
him.
His
flesh
was
stripped
from
the
bones
and
burned
(except
nine
pounds
of
it
which
were
sent
on
board
the
ships).
The
heart
was
hung
up
in
a
native
hut,
where
it
was
found
and
eaten
by
three
children,
who
mistook
it
for
the
heart
of
a dog.
One
of
these
children
grew
to
be
a
very
old
man,
and
died
in
Honolulu a
few
years
ago.
Some
of
Cook's
bones
were
recovered
and
consigned
to
the
deep
by
the
officers
of
the
ships. Small
blame
should
attach
to
the
natives
for
the
killing
of
Cook.
They
treated
him
well.
In
return,
he
abused
them.
He
and
his
men
inflicted
bodily
injury
upon
many
of
them
at
different
times,
and
killed
at
least
three
of
them
before
they
offered
any
proportionate
retaliation.
Near
the
shore
we
found "Cook's Monument"—only a cocoanut stump,
four
feet high
and
about
a
foot
in
diameter
at
the
butt.
It
had
lava
boulders
piled
around
its
base
to
hold
it
up
and
keep
it
in
its
place,
and
it
was
entirely sheathed over,
from
top
to
bottom,
with
rough,
discolored
sheets
of
copper,
such
as
ships' bottoms
are
coppered
with.
Each
sheet
had a
rude
inscription
scratched
upon
it—with a nail, apparently—and
in
every
case
the
execution
was
wretched.
Most
of
these
merely
recorded
the
visits
of
British
naval
commanders
to
the
spot,
but
one
of
them
bore
this
legend: "Near
this
spot
fell
CAPTAIN
JAMES
COOK,
The
Distinguished Circumnavigator,
Who
Discovered
these
Islands
A. D. 1778."
After
Cook's murder,
his
second
in
command,
on
board
the
ship,
opened
fire
upon
the
swarms
of
natives
on
the
beach,
and
one
of
his
cannon
balls
cut
this
cocoanut tree
short
off
and
left
this
monumental
stump
standing.
It
looked
sad
and
lonely
enough
to
us,
out
there
in
the
rainy
twilight.
But
there
is
no
other
monument
to
Captain Cook. True,
up
on
the
mountain
side
we
had
passed
by
a
large
inclosure
like
an
ample
hog-pen, built
of
lava
blocks,
which
marks
the
spot
where
Cook's flesh
was
stripped
from
his
bones
and
burned;
but
this
is
not
properly
a
monument
since
it
was
erected
by
the
natives
themselves,
and
less
to
do
honor
to
the
circumnavigator
than
for
the
sake
of
convenience
in
roasting him. A
thing
like
a guide-board
was
elevated
above
this
pen
on
a
tall
pole,
and
formerly
there
was
an
inscription
upon
it
describing
the
memorable
occurrence
that
had
there
taken place;
but
the
sun
and
the
wind
have
long
ago
so
defaced
it
as
to
render
it
illegible.
Toward
midnight
a
fine
breeze sprang
up
and
the
schooner
soon
worked
herself
into
the
bay
and
cast anchor.
The
boat
came
ashore
for
us,
and
in
a
little
while
the
clouds
and
the
rain
were
all
gone.
The
moon
was
beaming
tranquilly
down
on
land
and
sea,
and
we
two
were
stretched
upon
the
deck sleeping
the
refreshing
sleep
and
dreaming
the
happy
dreams
that
are
only
vouchsafed
to
the
weary
and
the
innocent.