the days have flown almost uncounted. our native passengers left us several days ago, after we had passed a large river which it was impossible for them to cross on account of its width and depth. they had refused to go home on foot, for this would have necessitated their traversing unfriendly territory they knew to be dangerous in the extreme.
landing on the other side of the river, they were among tribes more or less friendly to their own and stood an excellent chance of reaching home in safety.
their absence was welcome, for they had reduced the tiny forward deck to the condition of a pigsty. once dining their stay on board two of them tried to get friendly with us and came aft 68like children encroaching on forbidden ground, but ula made their stay one of exceedingly short duration. in fact, they didn’t stay at all. they didn’t even pause, for as they stepped around the saloon-deck combing ula spied them and with a well-directed heave of a large wooden thole-pin snatched from its socket on the rail sent them scurrying back to their end of the ship.
five minutes after we had landed them they disappeared in the mystic silence of the jungle, anxious to gain the safety of their familiar haunts.
we remained on shore for an hour to stretch our legs, for the close quarters on the nautilus make some sort of exercise necessary. we wandered up-river for a little distance and saw, floating in the shallows near the shore, seven or eight basking crocodiles which slowly sank from view as we approached. many funny little fish, with heads like frogs and fins in front like short fore legs, flopped and jumped about on the muddy flats the receding tide had left. we watched them for some minutes and laughed 69hugely at the antics of the fiddler-crabs fighting and trying to drag one another into their respective holes, where the victor could eat his unfortunate neighbor in peace, secure from interruption.
upon our return to the schooner we found ula holding aloft an almost empty cognac bottle. upon his face there was a look of sorrow, for this, it seemed, was the very last of his once plentiful stock. after carefully measuring the contents with a speculative eye, he came to the conclusion that the remaining fluid was sufficient for only one more drink and raised the bottle to his lips. the cognac disappeared in one long swallow, and ula dropped the empty bottle over the rail as though he were parting from his last friend. this was as it should be, for of late he had begun to show the effects of quarts previously imbibed. he seemed able to stand one or two, but many bottles drunk in rather quick succession were making themselves felt.
though he was fairly steady on his feet, his eyes told the tale and his tongue had become 70noticeably thick. that evening he came to us and requested that we let him start on the stock we carry in our medicine kit. of course we refused, and he sulkily returned to the stern sheets in disconsolate dejection. later ula was seized with a brilliant idea. his system craved alcohol. he must have it, he told himself. the compass of the nautilus held nearly a pint of grain alcohol. his face lighted with anticipation and before we realized the meaning of his fumbling with the instrument he had unscrewed the top and had drained the raw spirits to the last drop. it was a draft to kill a mule and probably would have ended him, but his tortured stomach refused to retain it. enough of it stayed down, however, to reduce ula to the most satisfying state of inebriation he had ever experienced. he became very friendly and most anxious to please, while we just looked at each other. there was nothing to be done. we thanked providence that there was no more of the stuff within his reach and turned away from him in disgust.
that was just an hour or so ago, and we have 71been sitting reading while the nautilus slipped through the water smoothly, as though she were commanded by a skipper who was the soul of sobriety. there is land to starboard, a mile or two away, one would judge, and over there a little distance ahead we see smoke coming from the jungle. it is the first sign of native life we have seen since leaving merauke. after a hurried discussion we ask ula what the place is, but he is foolishly drunk and we cannot make out what he says, so we decide for ourselves and tell him to head for the shore as we wish to visit the place. ula swings over the tiller obligingly, and we move at a lively clip across the wind toward the place.
we shall go ashore and investigate the kampong and, if it interests us, move our camping-outfit there and settle down for a few days. moh brings up our cameras and guns while the crew unfasten the dinghy from its place beside the rail. we go below, to load some fresh rolls into the kodaks, where the light is not so strong. five minutes pass while we are engaged in this 72undertaking and speculation as to what kind of kampong we shall find, when suddenly there is a terrific shock, a rending, crunching sound, and we pick ourselves up from the saloon floor and gaze blankly at each other, for the fraction of a moment speechless with consternation. the cause of the crash is self-evident. we are on a reef.
from beneath the floor comes the gurgle of a torrent of water which is pouring into the nautilus through a gaping hole in her bottom. we are high upon a submerged reef of rocky coral, shipwrecked among cannibals! what the tribe is that lives on shore and how friendly it is remain to be seen. the moment is one of those deadly potential eternities that either make one lose all self-control or become cold sober. luckily, we are not of the hysterical type and our first thought is to get our guns, food, and cameras to a place of safety on shore. the schooner may slide off the reef into deep water at any moment, and then we shall be in a pickle.
working like mad, we begin heaving our possessions 73up on deck, and i go up to see that it is properly stowed in the dinghy. the crew are working like demons, and ula, sobered by the catastrophe, has ordered the men to get the anchor hooked into the reef and the chain drawn taut to hold us there.
i take command and order some of the men to get the dinghy overside, and into it we pack all that it will hold. it is sent ashore, and five trips are necessary to transport the whole of our outfit. we go ashore with the third load to see that it is properly cared for. there is a high surf running, and in order to get the dinghy through it without soaking the baggage we have to jump overboard into waist-deep water and help steer it through the breakers. the barang is piled up just above the reach of the incoming surges, but the tide seems to be rising.
it is necessary to get the stuff higher up, out of reach of the water, and we bend our energies in that direction. the beach seems to be deserted, and we wonder whether or not the natives have discovered our presence. we are soon to 74be informed as to this, for suddenly we hear a guttural grunt and an explosive, “uhumen! [go away!]” coming from the fringe of tall tapa grass that fringes the beach. we gaze in startled surprise in the direction of the sound and even as we look there spring, like mushrooms, from the thick grass a long row of black heads which seem to number hundreds.
we stop work for the moment and stand in indecision, facing the watching line of feather-crowned heads. three of the natives rise from their crouching position and advance toward us, waving their arms and shouting, “uhumen!” from their menacing manner it is evident that we are de trop, that they wish us to depart. this is out of the question, for our only means of conveyance is at least temporarily on the rocks. a rapid calculation tells us that we are about three hundred miles from the town of merauke. to walk to it is out of the question, also, for we could not carry sufficient provender, together with our expensive equipment, to sustain us during the journey. we are between the hammer 75and the anvil. the only solution of the difficulty is to make friends with the natives.
the best way to do this is to assert ourselves immediately, to show ourselves masters of the situation. if we allow the natives to take the initiative, things will go hard with us. they have all seen white men before, or, if not, have heard much about them and fear them.
we must seem to justify that fear. as the three kia kias draw near to us we beckon to them and, pointing to the barang, tell them sternly in malay, to carry it up out of reach of the tide. the middle one draws himself up proudly at this and again points to the wreck of the nautilus, saying, “uhumen!” again we indicate the barang and order it carried up the beach. the others in the grass have risen now and are watching intently but in silence the action of their chiefs.
the first rule in dealing with the native is never to allow him to disobey the orders of a white man, and we have given an order. it must be carried out. once more we command 76them to move the barang, stepping close to the middle chief, who seems to be in authority. he refuses for them all. the time for action has come. he receives a forceful blow on the point of his jaw; without a sound he goes down. his six-foot body stretches out full-length on the sand, lies quiet for the moment; then, his senses slowly returning, he rises painfully and, cowering before us, goes to the pile of barang, selects the lightest of the pieces, carries it to a spot we designate, and deposits it there. then he turns to the others and calls to them to come and assist him with the work.
we do not understand the meaning of his words and as a precautionary measure draw our colt “forty-fives,” ready for an emergency. the automatics can speak a rapid language. spears and war-clubs are not much of a match for them. we know the natives will not stand against firearms. at the first bark of the heavy pistols they would disappear into the jungle, never to return.
moh seems to have vanished and we turn to 77look for him. there he is, standing so close behind us that he is like our shadow. his face is positively green. poor devil! he is scared speechless! with the safe stowage of our equipment we stop to consider for a moment. the spot we are now on is well above the reach of the tide and will make an admirable camp site. it is far enough from the thick-growing cocoanuts to render us safe from surprise attack. we decide to pitch the tents here.
since our first show of authority the natives have withdrawn to a discreet distance and are seated cross-legged in the sand, intently watching our preparations for camp-making. they are chattering volubly among themselves, though whether in anger or not, we cannot tell. among our boxes we come to a carton of coarse shag tobacco which has been broken open and the idea comes that it might not be amiss to make them a little present as a sort of friendship offering.
we gather up an armful of the little blue packages and walk toward the savages slowly. they all rise to their feet as we approach; they 78are not quite sure of our intentions, and are ready to fly at the first sign of trouble. that unceremonious chastening of their chief in the face of terrific odds has instilled in them a wholesome awe of us.
conversation is difficult, for we do not speak their language. after a time, however, we seem to make our intentions understood, and a smile appears on the faces of some of them, here and there, as the light of comprehension bursts upon them. these in turn tell their fellows, and soon broad smiles wreathe the faces of all, even including the sober face of the chastened one. their manner becomes almost affable and we walk slowly around the semicircle, passing to each a package of the shag. none of them thank us, except with their eyes, but all of them immediately devote their attention to the packets, tearing them open and stuffing whole mouthfuls of tobacco into cavernous cheeks that distend in funny pouch-like roundness, reminding us of the monkeys we saw six months ago on the sacred island in the queen river in borneo.
79with the gift of the tobacco we seem to have acquired membership in their clan and they cluster around us in apparent friendliness, much to our discomfort. one and all are besmeared with rancid cocoanut-oil mixed with various earth pigments, and the odor is terrific. this will never do, we tell ourselves, and we motion them to withdraw a little. they are obedient and return to the place where they were sitting before. they are about twenty yards from the spot where the boys are erecting the tents. this is a sufficient distance for comfort, so we take up pieces of driftwood and, beginning at the grass-line of the beach, draw a circle in the sand around the tents. this, we inform them by means of signs, is the dead-line and none may pass it without permission. they all nod in comprehension.
moh regards us with reverential awe. they cannot be kept too far away to suit him. he knows better than we that the kia kias are not to be trusted too far. they may be friendly one moment and the very next turn upon one unaware. 80he tells us so, and with the warning comes the adjurations of our friends in merauke. a little precaution will not be amiss, we decide, and our rifles are placed within reach, ready for instant use. our automatics are our constant companions. somehow, though, it all seems unnecessary. we have done, and intend them, no wrong.
the incoming tide is playing havoc with the nautilus. great combers are breaking over her rail on the weather side and she is careening drunkenly, her masts canted over at a sharp angle. ula and the men depart for her, to salvage what they can before she slides off the reef into deep water.
when they return they bring two bags of water-soaked rice which they have rescued from the schooner’s hold. they report that she is a total loss and can never be saved. the coral has torn a gaping hole in her bottom and the planking, including the keelson, is crushed beyond repair. the outlook is not pleasant. when we ask ula how soon some malay trading-schooner is likely to happen along, he cheerfully informs us that this is the storm season and that one may not make this part of the coast for months.
seated at a discreet distance, watching our camp-making intently
there had been a disagreement in the village
81we look at each other blankly for a moment and then laugh. we were looking for adventure, weren’t we? well, we have it. we shall have ample time to study the cannibals at home. our opportunity could not be better, but we wonder—oh, well, when in doubt—dine!
moh is nonplussed at our decision. to dine we must have water. where to get it worries him. he has visions of himself going to some lonely water-hole back in the jungle, with stealthy kia kias creeping up on him, mouths watering in anticipation, to jerk him hence. his face is positively pitiful as he looks at us and says:
“tuan, ini tida ayer minum. [master, there is no drinking-water.]”
we allay his fears, for we tell him that we will go with him to find it, and, taking one of the natives for a guide, we set out to find it. it is always plentiful in the jungle, for there are numberless little brooks threading the deep 82silences of the thickets not far from the shore-line. a hundred yards from the camp we come upon a small stream from which we fill the buckets, and moh soon has dinner under way. as night falls we mount guard in turns of four hours on and four off. we are under constant attack while on duty, for the mosquitos swarm upon us in clouds. with the help of veils, gloves, and choking smudge we worry through our respective watches.
moh does not sleep at all the first night, but sits in the drifting smoke of the burning cocoa husks in downcast self-commiseration. we cannot quite make out why he left happy java to come on a fool trip like this. he thinks all americans are crazy, for they do not seem to know fear. he keeps the coffee-pot working for us and fills the lamp once when the gasolene runs low. the mantle-lamp, hanging between the tents and the forest, throws a white glare over the camp site. we are burning it for two reasons: it lights up the jungle approach to the camp and draws the myriad insects to its 83killing heat in swarms. thus we shall be warned of the approach of danger and at the same time, to some extent, rid of the pests. when on guard we keep in the shadow of a board from a packing-case placed between us and the lamp, so that the light may not blind us with its glare.
the murmur of the surf seems to whisper to us of lurking dangers and the night is eery with unaccustomed sounds that come from the jungle. as the breeze stirs the fronds of the cocoas they rasp together. now and then a falling nut thumps to the ground with startling abruptness. each sound is magnified by our nervous expectancy, until the night becomes hideous with sounds and the grotesque shadows the ferns cast in the lamplight move weirdly to and fro like creeping savages. more than once we sit bolt upright with rifles tightly clutched as some shadow takes on a human shape or moves slowly toward us. the rising moon casts a wan half-light over the scene, for it is in its last quarter. the scene is one of indescribable beauty and never-to-be-forgotten tensity. even the crew of 84the nautilus are crouched around a tiny smudge of their own, wide awake and silent. the air is surcharged with an electric expectancy; the darkness a malign mantle of doubt. how the hours drag, and how we wish for dawn?
those who failed to get a package came to the dead-line and asked for one
they may be friendly at one moment and turn upon one the very next
