and his sons had been the victims of foul play. They had been killed by
the simple villagers of Slim, and a cock-and-bull story trumped up to
account for their disappearance. This is a very good, and withal a very
astute explanation, showing as it does a profound knowledge of human
nature, and I should be more than half inclined to accept it as the
correct one, but for the fact that Haji Äli and his sons turned up in
quite another part of the Peninsula some months later. They have nothing
out of the way about them to mark them from their fellows, except that
Haji Äli goes lame on his right leg.
THE AMOK OF DÂTO KÂYA BÎJI DERJA
I have done for ever with all these things,
--Deeds that were joyous to knights and kings,
In the days that with song were cherish'd.
The songs are ended, the deeds are done,
There's none shall gladden me now, not one,
There is nothing good for me under the sun,
But to perish as these things perish'd.
_The Rhyme of the Joyous Garde._
The average stay-at-home Englishman knows very little about the Malay,
and cares less. Any fragmentary ideas that he may have concerning him
are, for the most part, vague and hopelessly wrong. When he thinks of
him at all, which is not often, he conjures up the figure of a
wild-eyed, long-haired, blood-smeared, howling and naked savage, armed
with what Tennyson calls the 'cursed Malayan crease,' who spends all his
spare time running _âmok_. As a matter of fact, _âmok_ are not as common
as people suppose, but false ideas on the subject, and more especially
concerning the reasons which lead a Malay to run _âmok_, are not
confined to those Europeans who know nothing about the natives of the
Peninsula. White men, in the East and out of it, are apt to attribute
_âmok_ running to madness pure and simple, and, as such, to regard it
as a form of disease, to which any Malay is liable, and which is as
involuntary on his part as an attack of smallpox. This, I venture to
think, is a mistaken view of the matter. It is true that some _âmok_ are
caused by madness, but such acts are not peculiar to the Malays. Given a
lunatic who has arms always within his reach, and the result is likely
to be the same, no matter what the land in which he lives, or the race
to which he belongs. In independent Malay States everybody goes about
armed; and weapons, therefore, are always available. As a consequence,
madmen often run _âmok_, but such cases are not typical, and do not
present any of the characteristic features which distinguish the _âmok_
among Malays, from similar acts committed by people of other
nationalities. By far the greater number of Malay _âmok_ results from a
condition of mind which is described in the vernacular by the term
_sâkit hâti_--sickness of liver--that organ, and not the heart, being
regarded as the centre of sensibility. The states of feeling which are
described by this phrase are numerous, complex, and differ widely in
degree, but they all imply some measure of anger, excitement, and mental
irritation. A Malay loses something he values; he has a bad night in the
gambling houses; some of his property is wantonly damaged; he has a
quarrel with one whom he loves; his father dies; or his mistress proves
unfaithful; any one of these things causes him 'sickness of liver.' In
the year 1888, I spent two nights awake by the side of Râja Haji Hamid,
with difficulty restraining him from running _âmok_ in the streets of
Pekan, because his father had died a natural death in Selângor. He had
no quarrel with the people of Pahang, but his 'liver was sick,' and to
run _âmok_ was, in his opinion, the natural remedy. This is merely one
instance of many which might be cited, and serves to illustrate my
contention that _âmok_ is caused, in most cases, by a condition of mind,
which may result from either serious or comparatively trivial causes,
but which, while it lasts, makes a native weary of life. At such times,
he is doubtless to some extent a madman--just as all suicides are more
or less insane--but the state of feeling which drives a European to
take his own life makes a Malay run _âmok_. All Malays have the
greatest horror of suicide, and I know of no properly authenticated
case in which a male Malay has committed such an act, but I have known
several who ran _âmok_ when a white man, under similar circumstances,
would not improbably have taken his own life. Often enough something
trivial begins the trouble, and, in the heat of the moment, a blow is
struck by a man against one whom he holds dear, and the hatred of self
which results, causes him to long for death, and to seek it in the
only way which occurs to a Malay--namely, by running _âmok_. A man who
runs _âmok_, too, almost always kills his wife. He is anxious to die
himself, and he sees no reason why his wife should survive him, and,
in a little space, become the property of some other man. He also
frequently destroys his most valued possessions, as they have become
useless to him, since he cannot take them with him to that bourne
whence no traveller returns. The following story, for the truth of
which I can vouch in every particular, illustrates all that I have
said:
In writing of the natives of the East Coast, I have mentioned that the
people of Trenggânu are, first and foremost, men of peace. This must be
borne in mind in reading what follows, for I doubt whether things could
have fallen out as they did in any other Native State, and, at the time
when these events occurred, the want of courage and skill shown by the
Trenggânu people made them the laughing stock of the whole of the East
Coast. To this day no Trenggânu man likes to be chaffed about the doings
of his countrymen at the _âmok_ of Bîji Derja, and any reference to it,
gives as much offence as does the whisper of the magic words 'Rusty
buckles' in the ears of the men of a certain cavalry regiment.
When Baginda Ümar ruled in Trenggânu there was a Chief named To’ Bentâra
Haji, who was one of the monarch's adopted sons, and early in the
present reign the eldest son of this Chief was given the title of Dâto’
Kâya Bîji Derja. At this, the minds of the good people of Trenggânu were
not a little exercised, for the title is one which it is not usual to
confer upon a commoner, and Jûsup, the man now selected to bear It, was
both young and untried. He was of no particular birth, he possessed no
book-learning--such as the Trenggânu people love--and was not even
skilled in the warrior's lore which is so highly prized by the ruder
natives of Pahang. The new To’ Kâya was fully sensible of his unfitness
for the post, and determined to do all that in him lay to remedy his
deficiencies. He probably knew that, as a student, he could never hope
to excel; so he set his heart on acquiring the _ëlemu hûlubâlang_ or
occult sciences, which it behoves a fighting man to possess. In
Trenggânu there were few warriors to teach him the lore he desired to
learn, though he was a pupil of Tungku Long Pendêkar, who was skilled in
fencing and other kindred arts. At night-time, therefore, he took to
haunting graveyards, in the hope that the ghosts of the mighty dead--the
warriors of ancient times--would appear to him and instruct him in the
sciences which had died with them.
Women are notoriously perverse, and To’ Kâya's wife persisted in
misunderstanding the motives which kept him abroad far into the night.
She attributed his absences to the blandishments of some unknown lady,
and she refused to be pacified by his explanations, just as other wives,
in more civilised communities, have obstinately disregarded the excuses
of their husbands, when the latter have pleaded that 'business' has
detained them.
At length, for the sake of peace and quietness, To’ Kâya abandoned his
nocturnal prowls among the graves, and settled down to live the orderly
domestic life for which he was best fitted, and which he had only
temporarily forsaken when the Sultân's ill-advised selection of him to
fill a high post, and to bear a great name, had interrupted the even
tenor of his ways.
One day, his father, To’ Bentâra Haji, fell sick, and was removed to the
house of one Che’ Äli, a medicine man of some repute. To’ Kâya was a
dutiful son, and he paid many visits to his father in his sickness,
tending him unceasingly, and consequently he did not return to his home
until late at night. I have said that this was an old cause of offence,
and angry recriminations passed between him and his wife, which were
only made more bitter because To’ Kâya mistook a stringy piece of egg,
in his wife's sweetmeats, for a human hair. To a European, this does not
sound a very important matter, but To’ Kâya, in common with many Malays,
believed that a hair in his food betokened that the dish was poisoned,
and he refused to touch it, hinting that his wife desired his death.
Next night he was also absent until a late hour, tending his father in
his sickness, and, on his return, his wife again abused him for
infidelity to her. He cried to her to unbar the door, which, at length,
she did, using many injurious words the while, and he, in his anger,
replied that he would shortly have to stab her to teach her better
manners.
At this she flew into a perfect fury of rage, 'Hei! Stab then! Stab!'
she cried, and, as she shouted the words, she made a gesture which is
the grossest insult that a Malay woman can put upon a man. At this To’
Kâya lost both his head and his temper, and, hardly knowing what he did,
he drew his dagger clear and she took the point in her breast, their
baby, who was on her arm, being also slightly wounded. Dropping the
child upon the verandah, she rushed past her husband, and took refuge in
the house of a neighbour named Che’ Long. To’ Kâya followed her, and
cried to those within the house to unbar the door. Che’ Long's daughter
Ësah ran to comply with his bidding; but, before she could do so, To’
Kâya had crept under the house, and he stabbed at her savagely through
the interstices of the bamboo flooring, wounding her in the hip. The
girl's father, hearing the noise, ran out of the house, and was greeted
by To’ Kâya with a spear thrust in the stomach which doubled him up,
and, like Abner Dean of Angel's, 'the subsequent proceedings interested
him no more.' Meanwhile, To’ Kâya's wife had rushed out of the house,
and returned to her home. Her husband pursued her, overtook her on the
verandah, and stabbed her through the breast, killing her on the spot.
He then entered his house, which was still tenanted by his son, and his
mother-in-law, and set fire to the bed curtains with a box of matches.
Now, the people of Kuâla Trenggânu dread fire more than anything in the
world; for, their houses, which are made of very inflammable material,
jostle one another on every foot of available ground. When a Trenggânu
man deliberately sets fire to his own house, he has reached the highest
pitch of desperation, and is 'burning his ships' in sober earnest. At
the sight of the flames, To’ Kâya's son, a boy of about twelve years of
age, made a rush at the curtains, pulled them down, and stamped the fire
out. To’ Kâya's mother-in-law, meanwhile, had rushed out of the house,
seized the baby who still lay on the verandah, and set off at a run. The
sight of his mother-in-law in full flight was too much for To’ Kâya, who
probably owed her many grudges, and he at once gave chase, overtook her,
and stabbed her through the shoulder. She, however, succeeded in making
good her escape, carrying the baby with her. To’ Kâya then returned to
his house, whence his son had also fled, and set it afire once more, and
this time it blazed up bravely.
As he stood looking at the flames, a Kelantan man named Äbdul Rahman
came up and asked him how the house had caught fire.
'I know not,' said To’ Kâya.
'Let us try to save some of the property,' said Äbdul Rahman, for, like
many Kelantan natives, he was a thief by trade, and knew that a fire
gave him a good opportunity of practising his profession.
'Good!' said To’ Kâya, 'Mount thee into the house, and lift the boxes,
while I wait here and receive them.'
Nothing loth, Äbdul Rahman climbed into the house, and presently
appeared with a large box in his arms. As he leaned over the verandah,
in the act of handing it down to To’ Kâya, the latter stabbed him
shrewdly in the vitals, and box and man came to the ground with a crash.
Äbdul Rahman picked himself up, and ran as far as the big stone mosque,
where he collapsed and died. To’ Kâya did not pursue him, but stood
looking at the leaping flames.
The next man to arrive on the scene was Pa’ Pek, a Trenggânu native,
who, with his wife Ma’ Pek, had tended To’ Kâya when he was little.
'Wo’,' he said, for he spoke to To’ Kâya as though the latter was his
son, 'Wo’, what has caused this fire?'
'I know not,' said To’ Kâya.
'Where are thy children, Wo’?' asked Pa’ Pek.
'They are still within the house,' said To’ Kâya.
'Then suffer me to save them,' said Pa’ Pek.
'Do so, Pa’ Pek,' said To’ Kâya, and, as the old man climbed into the
house, he stabbed him in the ribs, and Pa’ Pek ran away towards the
mosque till he tripped over the prostrate body of Äbdul Rahman, fell,
and eventually died where he lay.
Presently, Ma’ Pek came to look for her husband, and asked To’ Kâya
about the fire, and where the children were.
'They are still in the house,' said To’ Kâya, 'but I cannot be bothered
to take them out of it.'
'Let me fetch them,' said Ma’ Pek.
'Do so, by all means,' said To’ Kâya, and, as she scrambled up, he
stabbed her as he had done her husband, and she, running away, tripped
over the two other bodies, and gave up the ghost.
Then a Trenggânu boy named Jûsup came up, armed with a spear, and To’
Kâya tried to kill him, but he hid behind a tree. To’ Kâya at first
emptied his revolver at Jûsup, missing with all six chambers, and then,
throwing away the pistol, he stabbed at him with his spear, but in the
darkness he struck the tree. 'Thou art invulnerable!' he cried, thinking
that the tree was Jûsup's chest, and, a panic seizing him, he promptly
turned and fled. Jûsup, meanwhile, made off in the opposite direction as
fast as his frightened legs would carry him.
Seeing that he was not pursued, To’ Kâya returned, and went to Tungku
Long Pendêkar's house. At the alarm of fire, all the men in the
house--Tungku Long, Tungku Îtam, Tungku Pa, Tungku Chik, and Che’ Mat
Tukang--had rushed out, but all of them had gone back again to remove
their effects, with the exception of Tungku Long himself, who stood
looking at the flames. He was armed with a rattan-work shield, and an
ancient and very pliable native sword. As he stood gazing upwards,
quite unaware that any trouble, other than that involved by the
conflagration, was toward, To’ Kâya rushed upon him and stabbed him with
his spear in the ribs. For a long time they fought, Tungku Long lashing
To’ Kâya with his little pliable sword, but only succeeding in bruising
him. At length, To’ Kâya was wounded in the left hand, and almost at the
same moment he struck Tungku Long with such force in the centre of the
shield that he knocked him down. He then jumped upon his chest, and,
stabbing downwards, as one stabs fish with a spear, pinned him through
the neck. Tungku Îtam, who had been watching the struggle as men watch a
cock-fight, without taking any part in it, then ran away. To’ Kâya
passed out of the compound, and Che’ Mat Tukang, running out of the
house, climbed up the fence and threw a spear at To’ Kâya, striking him
in the back. Che’ Mat then very prudently ran away too.
To’ Kâya, passing up the path, met a woman named Ma’ Chik--a very aged,
bent, and feeble crone--and her he stabbed in the breast, killing her on
the spot. Thence he went to the compound of a pilgrim named Haji Mih,
who was engaged in getting his property out of his house in case the
fire spread. Haji Mih asked To’ Kâya how the fire had originated.
'God alone knows,' said To’ Kâya, and so saying, he stabbed Haji Mih
through the shoulder.
'Help! Help!' cried the pilgrim, and his son-in-law Saleh and four other
men rushed out of the house and fell upon To’ Kâya, driving him
backwards in the fight until he tripped and fell. Then, as he lay on
his back, he stabbed upwards, striking Saleh through the elbow and deep
into his chest. At this, Saleh and all the other men with him fled
incontinently. To’ Kâya, then picked himself up. He had not been hurt in
the struggle, for Saleh and his people had not stayed to unbind their
spears, which were fastened into bundles, and, save for the slight
wounds in his hand and on his back, he was little the worse for his
adventures.
He next went to the Makam Lebai Salâm--the grave of an ancient
Saint--and here he bathed in a well hard by, dressed himself, and eat
half a tin of Messrs. Huntly and Palmer's 'gem' biscuits, which he had
brought with him. Having completed his toilet, he returned to Haji Mih's
house and cried out:
'Where are those my enemies, who engaged me in fight a little while
agone?'
It was now about 3 A.M., but the men were awake and heard him.
'Come quickly!' he shouted again, 'Come quickly, and let us finish this
little business with no needless delay.'
At this, ten men rushed out of Haji Mih's house, and began to throw
spears at him, but though they struck him more than once they did not
succeed in wounding him. He retreated backwards, and, in doing so, he
tripped over a root near a clump of bamboos and fell to the earth.
Seeing this, the men fancied that they had killed him, and fear fell
upon them, for he was a Chief, and they had no warrant from the Sultân.
Thereupon they fled, and To’ Kâya once more gathered himself together
and returned to Lebai Salâm's grave, where he finished the tin of 'gem'
biscuits.
At dawn he returned to Haji Mih's house. Here he halted to bandage his
wounds with the rags of cotton that had been bound about some rolls of
mats and pillows, which Haji Mih had removed from the house at the alarm
of fire. Then he shouted to the men within the house to come out and
fight with him anew, but no one came, and he laughed aloud and went on
down the road till he came to Tungku Pa's house. Tungku Pa and a man
named Semäil were in the verandah, and when the alarm was raised that
To’ Kâya was coming, Tungku Pa's wife rushed to the door, and bolted it
on the inside, while her husband yammered to be let in.
When To’ Kâya saw him, he cried to him as he would have cried to an
equal:
'O Pa! I have waited for thee the long night through though thou camest
not. I have much desired to fight with a man of rank. At last we have
met, and I shall have my desire.'
Semäil at once made a bolt of it, but To’ Kâya was too quick for him,
and as he leaped down, the spear took him through the body, and he died.
Then Tungku Pa stabbed down at To’ Kâya from the verandah and struck him
in the groin, the spear head becoming bent in the muscles, so that it
could not be withdrawn. Now was Tungku Pa's opportunity, but instead of
seizing it and rushing in upon To’ Kâya to finish him with his _kris_,
he let go the handle of the spear, and fled to a large water jar, behind
which he sought shelter. To’ Kâya tugged at the spear, and at length
succeeded in wrenching it free, and Tungku Pa, seeing this, broke cover
from behind the jar, and took to his heels. To’ Kâya was too lame to
attempt to overtake him, but he cried out:
'He, Pa! Did the men of old bid thee fly from thy enemies?'
Tungku Pa halted and turned round. 'I am only armed with a _kris_, and
have no spear as thou hast,' he said.
'This house is thine,' said To’ Kâya. 'If thou dost desire arms, go up
into the house, and fetch as many as thou canst carry, while I await thy
coming.'
But Tungku Pa had had enough, and he turned and fled at the top of his
speed.
'Hah! Hah! Hah! Ho! Ho! Ho!' laughed To’ Kâya. 'Is this, then, the
manner in which the men of the rising generation fight their enemies?'
Seeing that Tungku Pa was in no wise to be tempted or shamed into giving
battle, To’ Kâya went past the spot where the body of Ma’ Chik still
lay, until he came to the pool of blood which marked the place where
Tungku Long Pendêkar had come by his death. Standing there, he cried to
Tungku Îtam who was within the house:
'O Tungku! Be pleased to come forth if thou desire to avenge the death
of Tungku Long, thy cousin. Now is the acceptable time, for thy servant
has still some little life left in him. Hereafter thou mayst not avenge
thy cousin's death, thy servant being dead. Condescend, therefore, to
come forth and fight with thy servant.'
But Tungku Îtam, like Gallio, cared for none of these things, and To’
Kâya, seeing that his challenge was not answered, cried once more:
'If thou will not take vengeance, the fault is none of thy servant's,'
and, so saying, he passed upon his way.
The dawn was breaking grayly, and the cool land breeze was making a
little stir in the fronds of the palm trees, as To’ Kâya passed up the
lane, and through the compounds, whose owners had fled hastily from fear
of him. Presently, he came out on the open space before the mosque, and
here some four hundred men, fully armed with spears and daggers, were
assembled. It was light enough for To’ Kâya to see and mark the fear in
their eyes. He smiled grimly.
'This is indeed good!' cried he. 'Now at last shall I have my fill of
stabbing and fighting,' and, thereupon, he made a shambling, limping
charge at the crowd, which wavered, broke, and fled in every direction,
the majority rushing into the enclosure of Tungku Ngah's compound, the
door of which they barred.
One of the hindermost was a man named Genih, and to him To’ Kâya
shouted:
'Genih! it profits the _Râja_ little that he gives thou and such as thee
food both morning and evening! Thou art indeed a _bitter_ coward.[10] If
thou fearest me so greatly, go seek for guns and kill me from afar off!'
[Footnote 10: _Pen-âkut pâhit._]
Genih took To’ Kâya's advice. He rushed to the _Bâlai_, or State Hall,
and cried to Tungku Mûsa, the Sultân's uncle and principal adviser:
'Thy servant To’ Kâya bids us bring guns wherewith to slay him.'
Now, all was not well in the _Bâlai_ at this moment. When the first news
of the _âmok_ had reached the Sultân, all the Chiefs had assembled in
the palace, and it had been unanimously decided that no action could be
taken until the day broke. At dawn, however, it was found that all the
Chiefs except Tungku Panglîma, To’ Kâya Dûyong, Panglîma Dâlam, Imâm
Prang Lôsong, and Pahlâwan, had sneaked away under the cover of the
darkness. Tungku Mûsa, the Sultân's great uncle, was there to act as the
King's mouthpiece, but he was in as great fear as any of them.
At last the Sultân said:
'Well, the day has dawned, why does no one go forth to kill To’ Kâya
Bîji Derja?'
Tungku Mûsa turned upon Tungku Panglîma, 'Go thou and slay him,' he
said.
Tungku Panglîma said, 'Why dost thou not go thyself or send Pahlâwan?'
Pahlâwan said, 'Thy servant is not the only Chief in Trenggânu. Many eat
the King's mutton in the King's _Bâlai_, why then should thy servant
alone be called upon to do this thing?'
Tungku Mûsa said: 'Imâm Prang Lôsong, go thou then and kill To’ Kâya.'
'I cannot go,' said Imâm Prang, 'for I have no trousers.'
'I will give thee some trousers,' said Tungku Mûsa.
'Nevertheless I cannot go,' said Imâm Prang, 'for my mother is sick, and
I must return to tend her.'
Then the Sultân stood upon his feet and stamped.
'What manner of a warrior is this?' he asked, pointing at Tungku
Panglîma. 'He is a warrior made out of offal!'
Thus admonished, Tungku Panglîma sent about a hundred of his men to kill
To’ Kâya, but after they had gone some fifty yards they came back to
him, and though he bade them go many times, the same thing occurred over
and over again.
Suddenly, old Tungku Dâlam came hurrying into the palace yard, very much
out of breath, for he is of a full habit of body, binding on his _kris_
as he ran. 'What is this that men say about To’ Kâya running _âmok_ in
the palace? Where is he?' he cried.
'At the Mosque,' said twenty voices.
'Ya Allah!' said Tungku Dâlam, 'They said he was in the palace! Well,
what motion are ye making to slay him?'
No one spoke, and Tungku Dâlam, cursing them roundly, sent for about
forty guns, and, leading the men himself, he passed out at the back of
the palace to Tungku Chik Pâya's house near the mosque, where To’ Kâya
still sat upon the low wall which surrounds that building. When he saw
Tungku Dâlam, he hailed him, saying:
'Welcome! Welcome! Thy servant has desired the long night through to
fight with one who is of noble birth. Come, therefore, and let us see
which of us twain is the more skilful with his weapons.'
At this, Mat, one of Tungku Dâlam's men, leaped forward and said,
'Suffer thy servant to fight with him, it is not fitting, Tungku, that
thou shouldst take part in such a business.'