of Sumatra, but that he had seen the skins of several other species in
the hands of the taxidermists, brought from various islands, as well as
from the mainland of India, Malacca, and Cochin-China. They were all
large birds, though some were smaller than the others; mostly black,
with white markings about the throat and breast. He said that their
nests are always built in the hollow of a tree, in the same way as the
one he had robbed, and the entrance to them invariably plastered up with
mud in a similar fashion, leaving a hole just big enough to allow the
beak of the hen to be passed out, and opened a little for the reception
of the food brought to her by her mate. It is the cock that does the
"bricking up," Saloo said, bringing the "mortar" from the banks of some
neighbouring pool or stream and laying it on with his beak. He begins
the task as soon as the hen takes her seat upon her solitary egg. The
hen is kept in her prison not only during the full period of incubation,
but long after; in fact, until the young chick becomes a full fledgling,
and can fly out of itself. During all this time the imprisoned bird is
entirely dependent on her mate for every morsel of food required, either
by herself or for the sustenance of the nursling, and, of course, has to
trust to his fidelity, in which he never fails. The hornbills, however,
like the eagles, and many other rapacious birds, though not otherwise of
a very amiable disposition, are true to the sacred ties of matrimony.
So said Saloo, though not in this exact phraseology.
"But what if the ould cock shud get killed?" suggested Murtagh.
"Supposin' any accident was to prevint him from returnin' to the nest?
Wud the hen have to stay there an' starve?"
Saloo could not answer this question. It was a theory he had never
thought of, or a problem that had not come under his experience.
Possibly it might be so; but it was more likely that her imprisonment
within the tree cave, being an act agreed to on her part, was more
apparent than real, and that she could break through the mud barricade,
and set herself free whenever she had a mind to do so.
This was the more probable view of the case, and terminated the
discussion on natural history; or rather, it was brought to a close by
their perceiving that the bird upon the bamboo stake was done to a turn,
and they were by this time too hungry to think of anything else than
eating it.
So off it came from the spit, and at it they went with a will, Saloo
acting as carver, and distributing the roast joints all around, taking
care to give the tenderest bits of breast to the children, and to Helen
the liver wing.
They were all very cheerful in commencing their supper, but their strain
was changed to sadness even before they had finished it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
SICK AFTER SUPPER.
It was near upon sundown when the roast fowl was taken from the spit,
carved, and distributed among them. The fire over which they had cooked
it was close to the trunk of the tree under whose shade they intended to
pass the night. It was not the one they had chosen after being driven
from the durion, but another, with far-spreading branches and green
glossy leaves growing thickly upon them, which promised a better
protection from the dews of the night. They needed this, as they had
not yet thought of erecting any other roof. The only thing in the shape
of shelter they had set up was the tarpaulin, spread awning fashion over
four uprights, which held it at the four corners; but this was barely
sufficient to furnish the two young people with a sleeping-place.
After removing the roast fowl from the spit, they had not permitted
their fire to die out. On the contrary, Murtagh, in whose charge it
was, threw on some fresh faggots. They intended keeping it up through
the night, not to scare away wild beasts, for, as already said, they had
no fear of these; but because the atmosphere toward midnight usually
became damp and chilly, and they would need the fire to keep them warm.
It was quite sunset by the time they had finished eating the roast
hornbill, and as there is but little twilight under or near the equator,
the darkness came down almost instantaneously. By the light of the
blazing faggots they picked the bones of the bird, and picked them
clean. But they had scarce dropped the drumsticks and other bones out
of their fingers, when one and all fell violently sick.
A sensation of vertigo had been growing upon them, which, as soon as the
meal was over, became nausea, and shortly after ended in vomiting. It
was natural they should feel alarmed. Had only one been ill, they might
have ascribed the illness to some other cause; but now, when all five
were affected at the same time, and with symptoms exactly similar, they
could have no other belief than that it was owing to what they had
eaten, and that the flesh of the hornbill had caused their sickness--
perhaps poisoned them.
Could this be? Was it possible for the flesh of a bird to be poisonous?
Was that of a hornbill so? These questions were quickly asked of one
another, but more especially addressed to Saloo. The Malay did not
believe it was. He had eaten hornbills before, and more than once; had
seen others eat them; but had never known or heard of the dish being
followed by symptoms similar to those now affecting and afflicting them.
The bird itself might have eaten something of a poisonous nature, which,
although it had not troubled its own stomach, acted as an emetic upon
theirs. There was some probability in this conjecture; at all events
the sufferers thought so for a time, since there seemed no other way of
accounting for the illness which had so suddenly seized upon them.
At first they were not so very greatly alarmed, for they could not
realise the idea that they had been absolutely poisoned. A little
suffering and it would be all over, when they would take good care not
to eat roast hornbill again. No, nor even stewed or broiled; so that
now the old hen and her young one were no longer looked upon as so much
provision ahead. Both would be thrown away, to form food for the first
predatory creature that might chance to light upon them.
As time passed, however, and the sufferers, instead of feeling relieved,
only seemed to be growing worse--the vertigo and nausea continuing,
while the vomiting was renewed in frequent and violent attacks--they at
length became seriously alarmed, believing themselves poisoned to death.
They knew not what to do. They had no medicine to act as an antidote;
and if they had been in possession of all the drugs in the
pharmacopoeia, they would not have known which to make use of. Had it
been the bite of a venomous snake or other reptile, the Malay,
acquainted with the usual native remedies, might have found some
herbaceous balsam in the forest; though in the darkness there would have
been a difficulty about this, since it was now midnight, and there was
no moon in the sky--no light to look for anything. They could scarcely
see one another, and each knew where his neighbours lay only by hearing
their moans and other exclamations of distress.
As the hours dragged on wearily, they became still more and more
alarmed. They seriously believed that death was approaching. A
terrible contemplation it was, after all they had passed through; the
perils of shipwreck, famine, thirst; the danger of being drowned; one of
them escaping from a hideous reptile; another from the coils of a
serpent; a third from having his skull cracked in by a fallen fruit, and
afterwards split open by the beak of an angry bird. Now, after all
these hairbreadth perils and escapes, to be poisoned by eating the flesh
of this very bird--to die in such simple and apparently causeless
fashion; though it may seem almost ridiculous, it was to them not a whit
the less appalling. And appalled they were, as time passed, and they
felt themselves growing worse instead of better. They were surely
poisoned--surely going to die.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
AN UNEASY NIGHT.
Long with the agonising pain--for the sensations they experienced were
exceedingly painful--there was confusion in their thoughts, and
wandering in their speech. The feeling was somewhat to that of
sea-sickness in its worst form; and they felt that reckless indifference
to death so characteristic of the sufferer from this very common, but
not the less painful, complaint. Had the sea, seething and surging
against the beach so near them, broken beyond its boundaries, and swept
over the spot where they lay, not one of them, in all probability, would
have stirred hand or foot to remove themselves out of its reach.
Drowning--death in any form--would at that moment have seemed preferable
to the tortures they were enduring.
They did not lie still. At times one or another would get up and stray
from under the tree. But the nausea continued, accompanied by the
horrid retching; their heads swam, their steps tottered, and staggering
back, they would fling themselves down despairingly, hoping, almost
praying, for death to put an end to their agonies. It was likely soon
to do so.
During all, Captain Redwood showed that he was thinking less of himself
than his children. Willingly would he have lain down and died, could
that have secured their surviving him. But it was a fate that
threatened all alike. On this account, he was wishing that either he or
one of his comrades, Murtagh or Saloo, might outlive the young people
long enough to give them the rites of sepulture. He could not bear the
thought that the bodies of his two beautiful children were to be left
above ground, on the desolate shore, their flesh to be torn from them by
the teeth of ravenous beasts or the beaks of predatory birds--their
bones to whiten and moulder under the sun and storms of the tropics.
Despite the pain he was himself enduring, he secretly communicated his
wishes to Murtagh and the Malay, imploring them to obey what might be
almost deemed a dying request.
Parting speeches were from time to time exchanged in the muttered tones
of despair. Prayers were said aloud, unitedly, and by all of them
silently in their own hearts.
After this, Captain Redwood lay resignedly, his children, one on each
side of him, nestling within his arms, their heads pillowed upon his
breast close together. They also held one another by the hand, joined
in affectionate embrace across the breast of their father. Not many
words were spoken between them; only, now and then, some low murmurs,
which betokened the terrible pain they felt, and the fortitude both
showed in enduring it.
Now and then, too, their father spoke to them. At first he had essayed
to cheer them with words of encouragement; but as time passed, these
seemed to sound hollow in their ears as well as his own, and he changed
them to speeches enjoining resignation, and words that told of the
"Better Land". He reminded them that their mother was there, and they
should all soon join her. They would go to her together; and how happy
this would be after their toils and sufferings; after so many perils and
fatigues, it would be but pleasure to find rest in heaven.
In this way he tried to win their thoughts from dwelling on the terrors
of death, every moment growing darker and seeming nearer.
The fire burned down, smouldered, and went out. No one had thought of
replenishing it with fuel. Though there were faggots enough collected
not far off, the toil of bringing them forward seemed too much for their
wasted strength and deadened energies. Fire could be of no service to
them now. It had done them no good while ablaze; and since it had gone
out, they cared not to renew it. If they were to die, their last
moments could scarcely be more bitter in darkness than in light.
Still Captain Redwood wished for light. He wished for it, so that he
might once more look upon the faces of his two sweet suffering pets,
before the pallor of death should overspread them. He would perhaps
have made an effort to rekindle the fire, or requested one of the others
to do it; but just then, on turning his eyes to the east, he saw a
greyish streak glimmering above the line of the sea-horizon. He knew it
was the herald of coming day; and he knew, moreover, that, in the
latitude they were in, the day itself would not linger long behind.
"Thank God!" was the exclamation that came from his lips, low muttered,
but in fervent emphasis. "Thank God, I shall see them once more!
Better their lives should not go out in the darkness."
As he spoke the words, and as if to gratify him, the streak on the
eastern sky seemed rapidly to grow broader and brighter, its colour of
pale grey changing to golden yellow; and soon after, the upper limb of
the glorious tropical sun showed itself over the smooth surface of the
Celebes Sea.
As his cheering rays touched the trees of the forest, then eyes were
first turned upon one another, and then in different directions. Those
of Captain Redwood rested upon the faces of his children, now truly
overspread with the wan pallor of what seemed to be rapidly approaching
death.
Murtagh gazed wistfully out upon the ocean, as if wishing himself once
more upon it, and no doubt thinking of that green isle far away beyond
it; while Saloo's glance was turned upward--not toward the heavens, but
as if he was contemplating some object among the leaves of the tree
overhead.
All at once the expression upon his countenance took a change--
remarkable as it was sudden. From the look of sullen despair, which but
the moment before might have been seen gleaming out of the sunken orbits
of his eyes, his glance seemed to change to one of joy, almost with the
quickness of the lightning's flash.
Simultaneous with the change, he sprang up from his reclining position,
uttering as he did so an exclamation in the Malayan tongue, which his
companions guessed to be some formula of address to the Deity, from its
ending with the word "Allah."
"De gleat God be thank!" he continued, returning to his "pigeon
English," so that the others might understand. "We all be save. Buld
no poison. We no die yet. Come away, cappen," he continued, bending
down, and seizing the children by the hands. Then raising both on their
feet, he quickly added, "Come all away. Unda de tlee death. Out yonda
we findee life. Come away--way."
Without waiting for the consent either of them or their father, he led--
indeed, almost dragged--Helen and Henry from under the shadow of the
tree and out toward the open sea-beach.
Though Captain Redwood did not clearly comprehend the object of Saloo's
sudden action, nor Murtagh comprehend it at all, both rose to their
feet, and followed with tottering steps.
Not until they had got out upon the open ground, and sat down upon the
sand, with the fresh sea-breeze fanning their fevered brows, did Saloo
give an explanation of his apparently eccentric behaviour.
He did so by pointing to the tree under which they had passed the night,
and pronouncing only the one word--"Upas."
CHAPTER TWENTY.
THE DEADLY UPAS.
"Upas!"
A word sufficient to explain all that had passed. Both Captain Redwood
and his ship-carpenter understood its signification; for what man is
there who has ever sailed through the islands of the India Archipelago
without having heard of the upas? Indeed, who in any part of the world
has not either heard or read of this poisonous tree, supposed to carry
death to every living thing for a wide distance around it, not even
sparing shrubs or plants--things of its own kind--but inflicting blight
and destruction wherever its envenomed breath may be wafted on the
breeze?
Captain Redwood was a man of too much intelligence, and too
well-informed, to have belief in this fabulous tale of the olden time.
Still he knew there was enough truth in it to account for all that had
occurred--for the vertigo and vomiting, the horrible nausea and utter
prostration of strength that had come upon them unconsciously. They had
made their camp under one of these baneful trees--the true upas
(_antiaris toxicaria_); they had kindled a fire beneath it, building it
close to the trunk--in fact, against it; the smoke had ascended among
its leaves; the heat had caused a sudden exudation of the sap; and the
envenomed vapour floating about upon the air had freely found its way
both into their mouths and nostrils. For hours had this empoisoned
atmosphere been their only breath, nearly depriving them of that upon
which their lives depended.
If still suffering severely from the effects of having inhaled the
noxious vapour, they were now no longer wretched. Their spirits were
even restored to a degree of cheerfulness, as is always the case with
those who have just escaped from some calamity or danger. They now knew
that in due time they would recover their health and strength. The
glorious tropical sun that had arisen was shining benignantly in their
faces, and brightening everything around, while the breeze, blowing
fresh upon them from a serene sapphire-coloured sea, cooled their
fevered blood. They felt already reviving. The sensations they
experienced were those of one who, late suffering from sea-sickness,
pent up in the state-room of a storm-tossed ship, with all its vile
odours around him, has been suddenly transferred to _terra firma_, and
laid upon some solid bank, grassy or moss-grown, with tall trees waving
above, and the perfume of flowers floating upon the balmy air.
For a long while they sat upon the sands in this pleasant dreamy state,
gazing upon the white surf that curled over the coral reefs, gazing upon
the blue water beyond, following the flight of large white-winged birds
that now and then went plunging down into the sea, to rise up with a
fish glistening in their beaks, half unconscious of the scene under
their eyes and the strife continuing before them, but conscious,
contented, and even joyous at knowing they still lived, and that the
time had not yet come for them to die.
They no longer blamed the hornbill for what had happened. The cause was
in their own carelessness or imprudence; for Captain Redwood knew the
upas-tree, and was well aware of its dangerous properties to those
venturing into too close proximity. He had seen it in other islands;
for it grows not only in Java, with which its name is more familiarly
identified, but in Bali, Celebes, and Borneo. He had seen it elsewhere,
and heard it called by different names, according to the different
localities, as _tayim, hippo, upo, antijar_, and _upas_; all signifying
the same thing--the "tree of poison."
Had he been more careful about the selection of their camping-place, and
looked upon its smooth reddish or tan-coloured bark and closely-set
leaves of glossy green, he would have recognised and shunned it. He did
not do so; for who at such a time could have been thinking of such a
catastrophe? Under a tree whose shade seemed so inviting, who would
have suspected that danger was lurking, much less that death dwelt among
its leaves and branches?
The first had actually arisen, and the last had been very near. But it
was now far away, or at least no longer to be dreaded from the poison of
the upas. The sickness caused by it would continue for a while, and it
might be some time before their strength or energies would be fully
restored. But of dying there was no danger, as the poison of the upas
does not kill, when only inhaled as a vapour; unless the inhalation be a
long time continued. Its sap taken internally, by the chewing of its
leaves, bark, or root, is certain death, and speedy death. It is one of
the ingredients used by the Bornean Dyaks for tipping their poisoned
spears, and the arrows of their _sumpitans_ or blow-guns. They use it
in combination with the _bina_, another deadly poison, extracted from
the juice of a parasitical plant found everywhere through the forests of
Borneo.
It is singular that the upas-tree should belong to the same natural
order, the Artocarpaceae, as the bread-fruit; the tree of death thus
being connected with the tree of life. In some of the Indian islands it
is called _Popon-upas_; in Java it is known as the _Antijar_.
Its leaves are shaped like spear-heads; the fruit is a kind of drupe,
clothed in fleshy scales.
The juice, when prepared as a poison, is sometimes mixed with black
pepper, and the juice of galanga-root, and of ginger. It is as thick as
molasses, and will keep for a long time if sheltered from the action of
the air.
The upas does not grow as a gregarious tree, and is nowhere found in
numbers. Like the precious treasures of nature--gold, diamonds, and
pearls--her poisons, too, happily for man, are sparsely distributed.
Even in the climate and soil congenial to it, the _antiaris toxicaria_
is rare; but wherever discovered is sure to be frequently visited, if in
a district where there are hunters or warriors wishing to empoison and
make more deadly their shafts. A upas-tree in a well-known
neighbourhood is usually disfigured by seams and scars, where incisions
have been made to extract its envenomed juice.
That there were no such marks upon the one where they had made their
camp, was evidence that the neighbourhood was uninhabited. So said
Saloo, and the others were but too glad to accept his interpretation of
the sign.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
STARTING FOR THE INTERIOR.
Reclining on the soft silvery sand, inhaling the fresh morning breeze
blowing in from the Celebes Sea, every breath of it seeming to infuse
fresh blood into their veins and renewed vigour into their limbs, the
castaways felt their health and strength fast returning. Saloo's
prognosis was rapidly proving itself correct. He had said they would
soon recover, and they now acknowledged the truth of his prediction.
Their cheerfulness came back along with their returning strength, and
with this also their appetites. Their dinner-supper of roast hornbill
had done them little good; but although for a time scared by such diet,
and determined to eschew it when better could be had, they were now only
too glad to resort to it, and it was agreed upon that the old hen,
stewed as intended, should supply the material of their breakfast.
A fresh fire was kindled far away from the dangerous upas; the huge
shell, with its contents, was hastily snatched from the deadly shade,
and, supported by four large pebbles to serve as feet for the queer
stew-pan, it was placed over the burning embers, and soon commenced to
steam and squeak, spreading around an odorous incense, far pleasanter to
the olfactories of the hungry party than either the fresh saline breeze,
or the perfume of tropical flowers now and then wafted to them from the
recesses of the forest.
While waiting for the flesh of the old hen to get properly and tenderly
stewed, they could not resist the temptation of making an assault upon
the chick; and it, too, was hurriedly rescued from the tainted larder
beneath the upas-tree, spitted upon a bamboo sapling, and broiled like a
squab-pigeon over the incandescent brands.
It gave them only a small morsel each, serving as a sort of prelude to
the more substantial breakfast soon to follow, and for which they could
now wait with greater composure.
In due time Saloo, who was wonderfully skilled in the tactics of the
forest _cuisine_, pronounced the stew sufficiently done; when the
stew-pan was lifted from the fire, and set in the soft sand for its
contents to cool.
Soon gathering around it, each was helped to a share: one to a wing with
liver or gizzard, another to a thigh-joint with a bit of the breast, a
third to the stripped breast-bone, or the back one, with its thin
covering of flesh, a fourth to a variety of stray giblets.
There was still a savoury sauce remaining in the pan, due to the herb
condiments which Saloo had collected. This was served out in some tin
pannikins, which the castaway crew had found time to fling into the boat
before parting from the sinking ship. It gave them a soup, which, if
they could only have had biscuits or bread with it, would have been
quite as good as coffee for their breakfast.
As soon as this was eaten, they took steps to change their place of
encampment. Twice unfortunate in the selection of a site, they were now
more particular, and carefully scrutinised the next tree under whose
shadow they intended to take up their abode. A spreading fig not far
off invited them to repose beneath its umbrageous foliage; and removing
their camp paraphernalia from the poison-breathing; upas, they once more
erected the tarpaulin, and recommenced housekeeping under the protecting
shelter of a tree celebrated in the Hindu mythology as the "sacred
banyan."
"It was a goodly sight to see
That venerable tree
For o'er the lawn, irregularly spread.
Fifty straight columns propt its lofty head;
And many a long depending shoot,
Seeking to strike its root,
Straight like a plummet grew towards the ground.
Some on the lower boughs which crost their way,
Fixing their bearded fibres, round and round,
With many a ring and wild contortion wound;
Some to the passing wind at times, with sway
Of gentle motion swung;
Others of younger growth, unmoved, were hung
Like stone-drops from a cavern's fretted height."