We crossed
several small rivers, and at last reached a spot that commanded a view
of the waterfall, on the other side of a deep ravine. Just below the
fort that crowns the height, a river issues from a narrow cleft in the
rock, and falls at a single bound from the edge of an almost
perpendicular cliff, 600 feet high, into the valley beneath. First one
sees the rush of blue water, gradually changing in its descent to a
cloud of white spray, which in its turn is lost in a rainbow of mist.
Imagine that from beneath the shade of feathery palms and broad-leaved
bananas through a network of ferns and creepers you are looking upon
the Staubbach, in Switzerland, magnified in height, and with a
background of verdure-clad mountains, and you will have some idea of
the fall of Faataua as we beheld it.
[Illustration: Waterfall at Faataua]
After resting a little while and taking some sketches, we climbed up
to the fort itself, a place of considerable interest, where the
natives held out to the very last against the French. On the bank
opposite the fort, the last islander killed during the struggle for
independence was shot while trying to escape. Situated in the centre
of a group of mountains, with valleys branching off in all directions,
the fort could hold communication with every part of the coast, and
there can be little doubt that it would have held out much longer than
it did, but for the treachery of one of the garrison, who led the
invaders, under cover of the night, and by devious paths, to the top
of a hill commanding the position.
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