Piracy, as most people are aware, is not yet quite extinct in Chinese and East Indian waters, despite the efforts that have been made to utterly stamp it out. But it is not generally known that along the shores of Dutch New Guinea, on both sides of the great island, there are still vigorous communities of native pirates, who will not hesitate to attack even armed trading vessels. These savages combine the business of head-hunting with piracy, and although they do not possess modern firearms, and their crafts are simply huge canoes, they show the most determined courage, even when attacking a vessel manned by Europeans.

The annual reports of the Governors of Dutch, German and British New Guinea, detailing the murderous doings of these head-hunting pirates, are as interesting reading as the tales of Rajah Brooke and Stamford Raffles, and the practical suppression of piracy in the East Indian Archipelago, but seldom attract more than a few lines of comment in the public press.

In writing of pirates of the present day, I shall not go beyond my own beat of the North and South Pacific, and speak only of events within my own personal knowledge and observation. Before entering into an account of some of the doings of the New Guinea “Tugeri,” or head-hunter pirates, I shall tell the story of two notable acts of piracy committed by white men in the South Pacific, less than ten years ago. The English newspapers gave some attention to one case, for the two principal criminals concerned were tried at Brest, and the case was known as the “Rorique tragedy”. Much comment was made on the statement that the King of the Belgians went to France, after the prisoners had been sentenced to death (they were Belgian), to personally intercede for them. The French press stigmatised His Majesty's action as a scandal (one journal suggesting that perhaps the pirates were pretty women in men's garb); but no doubt King Leopold is a very tender-hearted man, despite the remarks of unkind English people on the subject of the eccentricities of the Belgian officers in the Congo Free State—such as cutting off the hands of a few thousands of stupid negroes who failed to bring in sufficient rubber. There are even people who openly state that the Sultan of Turkey dislikes Armenians, and has caused some of them to be hurt. But I am getting away from my subject The story of the Roriques, and the tragedy of the Niuroahiti which was the name of the vessel they seized, is one of the many grisly episodes with which the history of the South Seas is so prolific. Briefly it is as follows:—

About the end of 1891 the two brothers arrived at Papeite, the capital of Tahiti, from the Paumotu Group, where, it was subsequently learned, they had been put on shore by the captain of an island trader, who strongly suspected them of plotting with the crew to murder him and seize the ship. Nothing of this incident, however, was known at Tahiti among the white residents with whom they soon ingratiated themselves; they were exceedingly agreeable-mannered men, and the elder brother, who was a remarkably handsome man of about thirty-five, was an excellent linguist, speaking German, French, Italian, English, Dutch, Spanish and Zulu fluently. Although they had with them no property beyond firearms, their bonhomie and the generally accepted belief that they were men of means, made them the recipients of much hospitality and kindness. Eventually the younger man was given a position as a trader on one of the pearl-shell lagoon islands in the Paumotu Group, while the other took the berth of mate in the schooner Niuroahiti, a smart little native-built vessel owned by a Tahitian prince. The schooner was under the command of a half-caste, and her complement consisted, besides the captain, of Mr. William Gibson, the supercargo, Rorique the first mate, a second mate, four Society Island natives, and the cook, a Frenchman named Hippolyte Miret. The Niuroahiti traded between Tahiti and the Paumotus, and when she sailed on her last voyage she was bound to the Island of Kaukura, where the younger Rorique was stationed as trader. She never returned, but it was ascertained that she had called at Kaukura, and then left again with the second brother Rorique as passenger.

Long, long months passed, and the Australian relatives and friends of young Gibson, a cheery, adventurous young fellow, began to think, with the owner of the Niuroakiti, that she had met a fate common enough in the South Sea trade—turned turtle in a squall, and gone to the bottom with all hands.

About this time I was on a trading cruise in the Caroline Islands, and one day we spoke a Fiji schooner. I went on board for a chat with the skipper, and told him of the Niuroakiti affair, of which I had heard a month before.

“By Jove,” he exclaimed, “I met a schooner exactly like her about ten days ago. She was going to the W.N.W.—PonapÊ way—and showed French colours. I bore up to speak her, but she evidently didn't want it, hoisted her squaresail and stood away.”

From this I was sure that the vessel was the Niuroakiti, and therefore sent a letter to the Spanish governor at PonapÊ, relating the affair. It reached him just in time.

The Niuroakiti was then lying in Jakoits harbour in PonapÉ, and was to sail on the following day for Macao. She was promptly seized, and the brothers Rorique put in irons, and taken on board the Spanish cruiser Le Gaspi for conveyance to Manila Hippolyte Miret, the cook, confessed to the Spanish authorities that the brothers Rorique had shot dead in their sleep the captain, Mr. Gibson, the second mate, and the four native sailors.

The trial was a long one, but the evidence was most damning and convincing, although the brothers passionately declared that Miret's story was a pure invention. Sentence of death was passed, but was afterwards commuted to imprisonment for life, and the Roriques are now in chains in Cayenne.

The second case was of a very dreadful character, and has an additional interest from the fact that out of all the participators—the pirates and their victims—only one was left alive to tell the tale, and he was found in a dying condition on one of the Galapagos Islands, and only lived a few days. The story was told to me by the captain of the brigantine Isaac Revels, of San Francisco, who put into the Galapagos to repair his ship, which had started a butt-end and was leaking seriously. He had just anchored between Narborough and Albemarle Islands when he saw a man sitting on the shore, and waving his hands to the ship. A boat was lowered, and the man brought on board. He was in a ravenous state of hunger, and half-demented; but after he had been carefully attended to he was able to give some account of himself. He was a young Colombian Indian, could speak no English, and only a mongrel, halting kind of Spanish. The Portuguese cook of the Isaac Revels, however, understood him. This was his story:—

He was one of the peons of a wealthy Ecuadorian gentleman, who with another equally rich friend sailed from Guayaquil for the Galapagos Islands (which belong to Ecuador), and the largest of which, Albemarle Island, they had leased from that Government for sheep and cattle-breeding. They took with them a few thousand silver dollars, which the peon saw placed in “an iron box” (safe).

One of the merchants had with him his two young daughters. The vessel was a small brig, and the captain and crew mostly Chilenos. One night, when the brig was half-way across to the Galapagos (600 miles from Ecuador) the peon, who was on deck asleep, was suddenly seized, pitched down into the fo'c'stle, and the scuttle closed. Here he was left alone until dawn, and then ordered on deck, aft. The captain pointed a pistol at his head, and threatened to shoot him dead if he ever spoke of what had happened in the night. The man—although he knew nothing of what had happened—promised to be secret, and was then given fifty dollars, and put in the mate's watch. He saw numerous blood-stains on the after-deck, and soon after was told by one of the hands that all the four passengers had been murdered, and thrown overboard. The captain, mate and four men, it appeared, had first made ready a boat, provisioned, and lowered it They made some noise, which aroused the male passengers, one of whom came on deck to see what was the matter. He was at once seized, but being a very powerful man, made a most determined fight. His friend rushed up from below with a revolver in his hand, and shot two of the assailants dead, and wounded the mate. But they were assailed on all sides—shot at and struck with various weapons, and then thrown overboard to drown. Then the pirates, after a hurried consultation, went below, and forcing open the girls' cabin door, ruthlessly shot them, carried them on deck, and cast them over the side. It had been their intention to have sent all four away in the boat, but the resistance made so enraged them that they murdered them instead.

For some days the pirates kept on a due west course towards the Galapagos. A barrel of spirits was broached, and night and day captain and crew were drunk. When Albemarle Island was sighted, every one except the peon and a boy was more or less intoxicated. A boat had been lowered, and was towing astern—for what purpose the peon did not know. At night it fell a dead calm, and a strong current set the brig dangerously close in shore. The captain ordered some of the hands into her to tow the brig out of danger; they refused, and shots were exchanged, but after a while peace was restored. The peon and the boy were then told to get into the boat, and bale her out, as she was leaky. They did so, and whilst so engaged a sudden squall struck the brig, and the boat's towline either parted, or was purposely cast off.

When the squall cleared, the peon and boy in the drifting boat could see nothing whatever of the brig—she had probably capsized—and the two unfortunate beings soon after daylight found themselves so close to the breakers on Narborough Island that they were unable to pull her clear—she being very heavy. She soon struck, and was rolled over and over, and the Chileno boy drowned. The peon also received internal injuries, but managed to reach the shore.

The people on board the Isaac Revels did all they could for the poor fellow, but he only survived a few days.

In another article in this volume I have told of my fruitless efforts to induce some of the Rook Island cannibals to “recruit” with me. It was on that voyage I first saw a party of New Guinea head-hunting pirates, and I shall never forget the experience.

After leaving Rook Island, we stood over to the coast of German New Guinea, and sailed along it for three hundred miles to the Dutch boundary (longitude 141 east of Greenwich) for we were in hopes of getting a full cargo of native labourers from some of the many islands which stud the coast. No other “labour” ship had ever been so far north, and Morel (the skipper) and I were keenly anxious to find a new ground. We had a fine vessel, with a high freeboard, a well-armed and splendid crew, and had no fear of being cut off by the natives. (I may here mention that I was grievously disappointed, for owing to the lack of a competent interpreter I failed to get a single recruit But in other respects the voyage was a success, for I did some very satisfactory trading business)

After visiting many of the islands, we anchored in what is now named in the German charts Krauel Bay, on the mainland. There were a few scattered villages on the shore, and some of the natives boarded us. They were all well-armed, with their usual weapons, but were very shy, distrustful and nervous.

Early one morning five large canoes appeared in the offing—evidently having come from the Schouten Islands group, about ten miles to the eastward. The moment they were seen by the natives on shore, the villages were abandoned, and the people fled into the bush.

In a most gallant style the five canoes came straight into the bay, and brought-to within a few hundred fathoms of our ship, and the first thing we noticed was a number of decapitated heads hanging over the sides of each craft, as boat-fenders are hung over the gunwale of a boat. This was intended to impress the White Men.

We certainly were impressed, but were yet quite ready to make short work of our visitors if they attempted mischief. Our ship's high freeboard alone would have made it very difficult for them to rush us, and the crew were so well-armed that, although we numbered but twenty-eight, we could have wiped out over five hundred possible assailants with ease had they attempted to board and capture the ship.

Some of the leaders of this party of pirates came on board our vessel, and Morel and I soon established very friendly relations with them. They told us that they had been two months out from their own territory (in Dutch New Guinea) had raided over thirty villages, and taken two hundred and fifteen heads, and were now returning home—well satisfied.

Morel and I went on board one of the great canoes, and were received in a very friendly manner, and shown many heads—some partly dried, some too fresh, and unpleasant-looking.

These head-hunting pirates were not cannibals, and behaved in an extremely decorous manner when they visited our ship. A finer, more stalwart, proud, self-possessed, and dignified lot of savages—if they could be so termed—I had never before seen.

They left Krauel bay two days later, without interfering with the people on shore, and Morel and I shook hands, and rubbed noses with the leading head-hunters, when we said farewell.