Singapore on a sunny day, looking bright, attractive, even wonderful to
stranger eyes. Ships of all nations in the harbour, with sailors from
Europe, from America, from the ports about the Red Sea, from India,
China, and Japan.
A wonderful polyglot assembly rubbing shoulders in the street: Jack in
his white duck frock, straw, and loose trousers, staring at John
Chinaman, with his blue cotton garments, pith-soled shoes, and pigtail
reaching almost to the ground. Swarthy Dyaks, Papuans, Bugis, and
Malays pure and Malays mongrel from the many islands of the Eastern
seas, every opalescent-eyed, swarthy savage wearing his kris. British
soldiers mingled with the native police in their puggrees; and busy
English merchants, and many Scotch, hurried with the varied races on
their way to and from their places of business.
Above all, the Chinese seemed to muster strongly--those busy, patient,
plodding people, who are ready to squeeze themselves into any vacant
hole, round or square, and to make themselves fit therein. Barbers,
carriers, purveyors of fruit, washers of clothes, shampooers, tailors,
cooks, waiters, domestic servants, always ready, patient and willing,
childlike and bland--John Chinaman swarms in Singapore, and can be found
there as the meanest workman or artisan, up to the wealthiest merchant
or banker, like the late Mr Whampoa, whose gardens were one of the
lions of the place.
Everything looked at its best in the pure air and under the brilliant
sky; and Hilton and Chumbley were on their way to meet Mr Harley, who,
now that Helen Perowne had been pronounced quite out of danger, had come
down with a lighter heart to be present at the trial of the Malay chief
Murad, who was to be tried by a jury of his fellow-countrymen for his
treachery to an English lady, and for firing upon a vessel bearing the
English flag.
"Not a bad place this, Chum, old fellow," said Hilton. "I could stay a
month with comfort."
"Yes, so could I," said Chumbley, lazily; "but I want to get back."
"What for?"
"Oh, I don't know," was the reply. "I say, look at that Malay lady; she
isn't unlike the Inche Maida, is she?"
"H'm, no: something like. I say, though, old fellow, I don't feel very
easy about that affair. It hardly seems just that that woman should get
off scot-free!"
"Nonsense: stuff, man. Let the poor body rest. Why, how ungallant you
are! She fell in love with you, and wanted to marry you!"
"Very condescending of her, I'm sure," said Hilton. "But really, I
think I shall tell Harley that she captured us. He believes Murad was
at the bottom of it all."
"I beg you will do nothing of the kind!" said Chumbley, firing up. "I
shall take it as a personal affront if you do. You promised me you
would not."
"Why, hallo! Is that you, Chum? You haven't taken a fancy to the
woman, have you?"
"Never you mind, if--I say, draw your sword, man! Look out!" cried
Chumbley, excitedly, as he drew his weapon from its sheath. "There's
one of those mad Malay demons running a-muck!"
As he spoke there was a shouting and shrieking heard in the street
between the Chinese bazaars; right in front people were running
frantically, as if for their lives, while from the direction of the
prison they could see a nearly nude Malay with a red handkerchief tied
round his head, and a flaming yellow sarong about his waist, in strong
contrast to the white and blue clothed crowd who were skurrying here and
there.
Hilton's first instinct was to follow the example of the rest, and turn
down some sideway or into a store; but as he saw first one and then
another unfortunate stagger and fall where the fierce Malay dashed on,
striking right and left, a feeling of rage took possession of him, and
he felt ready to assist in the capture of the fanatic, who was racing
out followed now by a mixed crowd of armed men, shouting with all their
might, "_Amok! amok_!"
The Malay, with rolling eyes, foaming lips, and teeth gnashing like some
wild beast, rushed toward the young officers. He was striking right and
left with his kris, and two more men who had tried to intercept him fell
from the deadly thrusts. Then a native woman was stabbed in the throat,
and the savage enthusiast was making straight for where a couple of
Indian nurses with some European children were cowering against a wall,
too much alarmed to do anything but shriek.
This roused Hilton and Chumbley to action; and they interposed between
the shrieking women and the Malay.
They were both good swordsmen as far as military teaching goes; but the
Malay paid no more heed to their blunt regulation weapons than if they
had been made of lath.
Hilton was first, and as he tried to guard himself from a thrust, the
Malay leaped upon him and drove his kris through the fleshy part of his
arm, and Chumbley stumbled over him.
With a shrill yell the Malay dashed on, struck at one of the women, who
fell, and would have stabbed the children; but the fierce crowd was
after him--a crowd gradually augmented, and among whom were three or
four armed soldiers and a couple of the native police, each bearing what
seemed to be a large pitchfork.
The Malay rushed on headlong, stabbing right and left, and marking his
way with the bodies of the victims as he continued his fearful course,
devoting himself to death, but with the furious thirst for blood
displayed in such cases, where the _Amok_ runner kills all he can, and
goes on till he is either shot down or brought to bay.
Every now and then a Malay would make a stab at the savage as he passed,
some of which blows took effect; but for the most part the runner
escaped unhurt--the frightened people in the streets fleeing for life,
with the consequence that here and there quite a little knot would be
driven into a corner, crowding, shrieking together, unable to escape,
and the outside unfortunates would receive lightning-like stabs before
the wretch who delivered them raced on.
Chumbley rose to his feet and hastily tied a handkerchief round Hilton's
bleeding arm, the latter turning faint, and having to be helped into a
Chinaman's shop close at hand, the owner creeping from beneath his
counter as the officers came in.
"Don't stop for me," said Hilton. "I'm all right."
Chumbley hesitated for a moment, and then ran out to see that the _Amok_
runner had been turned and was coming back at full speed, apparently
full of vigour as ever, though he was streaming with blood and striking
savagely at any one who came in his way.
The young officer saw two more victims fall, and then the Malay dashed
down a sideway, making for the harbour now, affording an opportunity for
a couple of shots to be sent after him, neither of which, however seemed
to take effect.
On came the shouting crowd of pursuers, thirsting for the Malay's blood,
their object being to destroy him with as little compunction as they
would a mad dog; but they did not gain upon him, and it was not until he
had left several more inoffensive people weltering in their blood, that
he turned at bay with his back to a blank wall, yelling, gnashing his
teeth, and striking fiercely at his assailants with his dripping kris.
Suddenly, with a quick motion, one of the native policemen made a dart
with the huge pitchfork he carried, his object being to strike the tines
on either side of the madman and hold him pinned against the wall; but
he was too quick, for he darted aside, and striking fiercely with his
kris, started off afresh, but running more slowly now, for he was
growing weak.
Still his thirst for blood was not assuaged, and running on he struck
down a couple of Chinamen before he was again brought to bay in a kind
of pool, where he stood glaring and displaying his teeth--a savage beast
apparently, more than man--and ready to fight for his life to the very
last.
For mad or no, the _Amok_ runner knew that his fate was to be destroyed
like some tiger. The native policemen's instructions were to take him
prisoner, so as to bring such offender to trial; but the majority of
these fanatics are hunted to their death.
And it was so here, for as the police advanced cautiously, one of them
falling back directly with a slight stab in his breast, a
cleverly-thrown spear passed right through the savage's neck, and he
fell in the muddy pool.
It was a horrible sight to see the wild face rise again above the
surface as its owner tried to struggle to his feet; but it was a vain
effort. He was thrust under, pinned into the mud by half a dozen spears
and bayonets, and a few bubbles rising to the surface, showed that the
wretch's career was at an end.
Chumbley, big, strong man as he was, felt sick as he stood there leaning
on his sword, while with shouts of triumph the mob of mingled
nationality dragged the corpse from the muddy pool.
"You here, Chumbley?" said a familiar voice, and he turned to see Mr
Harley.
"Yes: what a horrid affair!"
"Horrible! We don't often have them now. It is a native custom that is
dying out. You know, I suppose, when a Malay has committed some crime
that makes his pardon hopeless, or when some strong desire for revenge
seizes him, he runs _Amok--a-muck_, as people call it--and then the
innocent suffer till he is put out of the way."
"Then you think they are not mad?" said Chumbley, who could not withdraw
his eyes from the ghastly corpse, round which the slayers stood in
triumph.
"Mad with frenzy or enthusiasm," said Harley, "some of them think it an
heroic death to die and--Good Heavens!--it is Murad!"
"No!" cried Chumbley.
It was. The Rajah had escaped from prison, had run _Amok_ through the
streets of Singapore, and the disfigured clay that lay there in the mud
and blood, was all that remained of the abductor of Helen Perowne.
The two English spectators turned away with a shudder, and hurried to
where poor Hilton lay back, rather faint from his wound, which was too
slight, however, to be of a lasting nature.
Four poor creatures died from Murad's kris, and sixteen were wounded
more or less severely before he was slain.