The Place Is The Private Property Of The Queen, Who Has A Residence
There - A Melancholy-Looking Range Of Bamboo Houses - Neglected And
Falling To Decay Among The Trees.
Commanding the harbour as it does, her majesty has done all she could
to make a fortress of the island.
The margin has been raised and
levelled, and built up with a low parapet of hewn Hocks of coral.
Behind the parapet are ranged, at wide intervals, a number of rusty
old cannon, of all fashions and calibres. They are mounted upon lame,
decrepit-looking carriages, ready to sink under the useless burden of
bearing them up. Indeed, two or three have given up the ghost
altogether, and the pieces they sustained lie half buried among their
bleaching bones. Several of the cannon are spiked; probably with a
view of making them more formidable; as they certainly must be to
anyone undertaking to fire them off.
Presented to Pomaree at various times by captains of British armed
ships, these poor old "dogs of war," thus toothless and turned out to
die, formerly bayed in full pack as the battle-hounds of Old England.
There was something about Hotoo-Otoo that struck my fancy; and I
registered a vow to plant my foot upon its soil, notwithstanding an
old bareheaded sentry menaced me in the moonlight with an unsightly
musket. As my canoe drew scarcely three inches of water, I could
paddle close up to the parapet without grounding; but every time I
came near, the old man ran toward me, pushing his piece forward, but
never clapping it to his shoulder.
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