A long-boat had been sent ashore at 7 a.m. for wood and water.  Two hours later a solitary sailor with two spear-wounds in his side swam back to his ship.  Though badly hurt he was able to tell his story.  The Maoris on the beach had welcomed the boat’s crew as usual—­even carrying them pick-a-back through the surf.  No sooner were they ashore and separated than each was surrounded and speared or tomahawked.  Eleven were thus killed and savagely hacked to pieces.  The sole survivor had fought his way into the scrub and escaped unnoticed.

Crozet promptly dismantled his station, burying and burning all that could not be carried away, and marched his men to the boats.  The natives met them on the way, yelling, dancing, and shouting that their chief had killed Marion.  Arrived at the boats, Crozet says that he drew a line along the sand and called to a chief that any native who crossed it would be shot.  The chief, he declares, quietly told the mob, who at once, to the number of a thousand, sat down on the ground and watched the French embark.  No sooner had the boats pushed out than the natives in an access of fury began to hurl javelins and stones and rushed after them into the water.  Pausing within easy range, the French opened fire with deadly effect and continued to kill till Crozet, wearying of the slaughter, told the oarsmen to pull on.  He asks us to believe that the Maoris did not understand the effect of musketry, and yet stood obstinately to be butchered, crying out and wondering over the bodies of their fallen.

The French next set to work to bring off their sick shipmates from their camp.  Strange to say they had not been attacked, though the natives had been prowling round them.

Thereafter a village on an islet close by the ship’s anchorage was stormed with much slaughter of the inhabitants.  Fifty were slain and the bodies buried with one hand sticking out of the ground to show that the French did not eat enemies.  Next the ship’s guns were tried on canoes in the bay.  One was cut in two by a round shot and several of her paddle-men killed.

A day or two later the officers recovered sufficient confidence to send a party to attack the village where their captain had presumably been murdered.  The Maoris fled.  But Marion’s boat-cloak was seen on the shoulders of their chief, and in the huts were found more clothing—­blood-stained—­and fragments of human flesh.

The ships were hurriedly got ready for sea.  The beautiful “cedar” masts were abandoned, and jury-masts set up instead.  Wood and water were taken in, and the expedition sailed for Manila, turning its back upon the quest of the great southern continent.  Meanwhile the Maoris had taken refuge in the hills, whence the cries of their sentinels could be heard by day and their signal fires be descried by night.