with difficulty, they kindled a fire and cooked a breakfast of the
boar's ham cured by them before leaving the coast. It was the second,
and of course the last, already becoming rapidly reduced to a "knuckle;"
for their journey was now entering upon the second week.
They bethought them of making a halt on the bank of the lake; partly to
recruit their strength after the long-continued fatigue, and partly, if
possible, to replenish their larder.
Saloo got ready his blow-gun and poisoned arrows; Captain Redwood looked
to his rifle; while the ship-carpenter, whose speciality was fishing,
and who for this purpose had brought his hooks and lines along with him,
determined on trying what species of the finny tribe frequented the
inland lake, in hopes they might prove less shy at biting than their
brethren of the sea-coast stream.
Again the three men started off, Murtagh traversing in solitude the edge
of the lake, while Captain Redwood, with his rifle--accompanied by
Saloo, carrying his sumpitan and quiver of poisoned arrows--struck
direct into the woods.
Henry and Helen remained where they had passed the night, under the
shadow of a spreading tree; which, although of a species unknown to the
travellers, had been cautiously scrutinised by them, and seemed to be
neither a durion nor a upas. They were cautioned not to stir a step
from the spot till the others should return.
Though in other respects a good, obedient boy, Henry Redwood was not
abundantly gifted with prudence. He was a native-born New Yorker, and
as such, of course, precocious, courageous, daring, even to a fault--in
short, having the heart of a man beating within the breast of a boy. So
inspired, when a huge bird, standing even taller than himself on its
great stilt-like legs--it was the adjutant stork of India (_ciconia
argalia_)--dropped down upon the point of a little peninsula which
projected into the lake, he could not resist the temptation of getting a
shot at it.
Grasping the great ship's musket--part of the paraphernalia they had
brought along with them, and which was almost as much as he could
stagger under--he started to stalk the great crane, leaving little Helen
under the tree.
Some reeds growing along the edge of the lake offered a chance by which
the game might be approached, and under cover of them he had crept
almost within shot of it, when a cry fell upon his ear, thrilling him
with a sudden dread.
It was the voice of his sister Helen, uttered in tones of alarm?
Turning suddenly, he wondered not that her cries were continued in the
wildest terror, mingled with convulsive ejaculations. A man had drawn
near her, and oh! such a man! Never in all his experience, nor in his
darkest and most distorted dreams, had he seen, or dreamt of, a human
being so hideous, as that he now saw, half-standing, half-crouching,
only a short distance from his sister's resting-place.
It was a man who, if he had only been in an erect attitude, would have
stood at least eight feet in height, and this would have been in an
under-proportion to the size of his head, the massive breadth of his
body across the breast and shoulders, and the length of his arms. But
it was not his gigantic size which made him so terrible, or which
electrified the heart of the boy, at a safe distance, as it had done
that of the girl, nearer and in more danger. It was the _tout ensemble_
of this strange creature in human shape--a man apparently covered all
over with red hair, thick and shaggy, as upon the skin of a wolf or
bear; bright red over the body and limbs, and blacker upon the face,
where it was thinnest--a creature, in short, such as neither boy nor
girl had ever before seen, and such as was long believed to exist only
in the imagination of the ancients, under the appellation of "satyr."
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
SILENCE RESTORED.
At first sight of the brute, notwithstanding its strangely monstrous
appearance, Henry had really mistaken it for a man; but a moment's
reflection convinced him that he was looking upon an ape instead of a
man, and one of such gigantic size as to make him certain it must be the
animal spoken of by Saloo under the various appellations of _mias
rombi_, _ourang-outang_, and _red gorilla_. Saloo's remarks concerning
this ape, and his emphatic warnings, were not at all pleasant to be now
recalled. Though brave as a young lion, he looked upon the shaggy
monster with fear and trembling. Far less for himself than for his
sister; who, being nearer to it, was, of course, in greater peril of an
attack. This, indeed, seemed imminent, and his first thought was to
rush to the spot and discharge his musket into the monster's face. He
was restrained only by seeing that Helen, moved by an instinct of
self-preservation, had made an effort to save herself by gliding round
the trunk of the tree, and seeking concealment on its opposite side. At
the same time she had prudently ceased her cries; and as the animal did
not show any intention of following her, but rather seemed inclined to
keep toward the edge of the lake, the boy bethought him that his best
course would be not to discharge his musket until the ape should make
some hostile demonstration.
Saloo had told them that the brute is not always disposed to commence
the attack upon man. If left alone, it will go its own way, except
during certain seasons, when the females are fearful for their young
offspring. Then they will assail every intruder that comes near,
whether man or animal. But when wounded or enraged they will not only
act on the defensive, but attack their enemies in the most spiteful and
implacable manner.
Remembering these things, and hoping the huge creature might take a
peaceful departure from the place, Henry, who had already held his
musket at the level, lowered its muzzle, at the same time dropping upon
his knees among some tall grass, which, in this attitude, tolerably well
concealed him.
He soon saw that he had acted wisely. The hairy monster seemed
altogether to ignore the presence of his sister and himself; and as if
neither were within a thousand miles of the spot, kept on its course
toward the margin of the water. Fortunately for Henry, it went quite
another way, which, widening diagonally, did not bring the creature at
all near him. It was evidently directing its course toward some
liliaceous plants with large succulent stems, which formed a patch or
bed, standing in the water, but close to the brink of the lake.
In all probability there was not enough fruit in the neighbourhood to
satisfy the hirsute gentleman now passing before their eyes; or else he
had a fancy to vary his diet by making a meal upon simple vegetables.
He soon reached the patch of tall water-plants; waded in nearly
knee-deep; and then with arms, each of which had the sweep of a mower's
scythe, drew in their heads toward him, and with a mouth wide as that of
a hippopotamus, cropped off the succulent shoots and flower-stems, and
munched them like an ox in the act of chewing its cud.
Seeing the huge hairy creature thus peaceably disposed, and hoping it
would for some time continue in this harmless disposition, Henry rose
from his kneeling attitude, and glided silently, but swiftly, toward the
tree. Joining his sister Helen, he flung his arms around her as he rose
erect, and kissed her to chase away the effects of the terrible fright
she had sustained.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
IN FEAR AND TREMBLING.
The kiss which Henry gave his little sister was not one of
congratulation. He was not yet sure of her safety, or of his own. The
hairy monster was still in sight--not more than a hundred yards off--and
though apparently busy with his banquet on the tender shoots of the
water-plants, might at any moment discontinue it, and spring upon them.
What was the best thing to be done in order to escape him? Run off into
the forest, and try to find their father and Saloo? They might go the
wrong way, and by so doing make things worse. The great ape itself
would soon be returning among the trees, and might meet them in the
teeth; there would then be no chance of avoiding an encounter.
To go after Murtagh would be an equally doubtful proceeding; they were
ignorant of the direction the ship-carpenter had taken.
Young as they were, a moment's reflection admonished them not to stir
from the spot.
But what, then? Cry out, so that the absent ones might hear them? No;
for this might also attract the attention of the ourang-outang, and
bring it upon them. Besides, Helen had shrieked loudly on the first
alarm. If any of the hunters had been within hearing, they would have
needed no further signal to tell them that some danger threatened her.
If not within hearing, it would be worse than idle for either of them to
cry out again. They determined, therefore, to remain silent, and keep
to their position, in the hope that either their father, the Malay, or
Murtagh, might come to their speedy relief.
But they were prudent enough not to expose themselves to any wandering
glance of the red gorilla's. The moment Henry had joined his sister he
had hurried her behind the trunk of the tree, and they were now on the
side facing toward the forest. There, by looking through the leaves of
some orchideous creepers that wreathed the great stem, they could see
the dreaded creature without being seen by it. Hand in hand, still
trembling, they stood silently and cautiously regarding the gorilla and
its movements.
Under other and safer circumstances it would have been a curious and
interesting spectacle: this gigantic, human-like ape, stretching forth
its hairy arms, each full four feet in length--gathering in the heads of
the tall water-plants, and munching them in great mouthfuls, then
letting the stalks go and sweeping round to collect a fresh sheaf, at
intervals wading a pace or two to reach some that were more tempting to
its taste. For several minutes they remained looking at this rare
sight, which would have absorbed the attention of the spectators could
it have been witnessed in a menagerie.
But they regarded it with fear and awe. Their eyes and ears were at the
same time more occupied in looking and listening for some sign that
might veil them of the return of their protectors.
Time passed; none was seen, none heard.
A long time passed, and no sound from the forest; no murmur of men's
voices, or cry of scared bird, to proclaim that any one was approaching
the spot.
The brute was still browsing, but with less apparent voracity. He drew
the shoots toward him with a gentler sweep of his arms, selecting only
the most succulent. His appetite was on the wane; it was evident he
would soon leave off eating and return to his roosting or resting-place.
In the forest, of course, though they knew not where. It might be on
the tree over their heads, or on one close at hand; or it might be afar
off. In any case, they felt that a crisis was approaching.
Both trembled, as they thought how soon they might be face to face with
the hideous creature--confronting it, or perhaps enfolded in its long
hairy arms. And in such an embrace, how would it fare with them? What
chance of escape from it? None! They would be crushed, helpless as
flies in the grasp of a gigantic spider. If the creature should come
that way, and resolve upon assailing them, one or other, or both of
them, would surely be destroyed.
If only one, Henry had fully made up his mind who it should be. The
brave boy had determined to sacrifice his own life, if need be, to save
his sister. Firmly grasping the great musket, he said:--
"Sister Nell, if it come this way and offer to attack us, you keep out
of the scrape. Leave everything to me. Go a good way off when you see
me preparing to fire. I shan't draw trigger till it is close up to the
muzzle of the gun. Then there'll be no fear of missing it. To miss
would only make it all the madder. Saloo said so. If the shot
shouldn't kill it right off, don't mind me. The report may be heard,
and bring father or some of the others to our assistance. Dear sis, no
matter what happens, keep out of the way, and wait till they come up.
Promise me you will do so!"
"Henry! I will not leave you. Dear, dear brother, if you should be
killed I would not care to live longer. Henry! I will die with you!"
"Don't talk that way, sis. I'm not going to be killed; for I fancy that
we can run faster than it can. It don't appear to make much speed--at
least along the ground; and I think we might both escape it if we only
knew which way it was going to take. At any rate, you do as I say, and
leave the rest to me."
While they were thus discussing the course to be pursued--Henry urging
his sister to retreat in the event of his being attacked, and Helen
tearfully protesting against leaving him--a movement on the part of the
mias claimed all their attention. It was not a movement indicating any
design to leave the spot where it had been browsing; but rather a start,
as if something caused it a surprise. The start was quickly followed by
a gesture, not of alarm, but one that plainly betokened anger. Indeed,
it spoke audibly of this, being accompanied by a fierce growl, and
succeeded by a series of hoarse barkings, just like those of a bull-dog
or angry mastiff, whose mouth, confined in a muzzle, hinders him from
giving full vent to his anger. At the same time, instead of rising
erect, as a human being under similar circumstances would have done, the
frightful ape, that had been already in the most upright position
possible to it, dropped down upon all fours, which still, however, from
the great length of its arms, enabled it to preserve a semi-erect
attitude.
With its huge cheek callosities puffed out beyond their natural
dimensions--(they far exceed a foot in breadth)--its crested hair thrown
forward in a stiff coronal ruff; underneath a pair of eyes, gleaming
like two coals of fire, and, further down, its mouth wide agape,
displaying two rows of great glistening teeth, it stood--or rather
crouched--as if awaiting for the onset of some well-known enemy; a
dangerous enemy, but yet not so dangerous that it need be avoided. On
the contrary, the attitude now assumed by the red gorilla, as also its
voice and gestures, told them that it was affected by no fear, but
breathed only fury and defiance.
Why should it fear? Was there any living thing in the forests of
Borneo--biped, quadruped, or reptile possessed of sufficient powers to
cope with the hairy colossus now before their eyes, which seemed to
partake of the characters of all three, and twice the strength of any of
them individually? Saloo had said there was none.
But it was not from the forests of Borneo its enemy was to come. Out of
its waters was approaching the antagonist that had caused it to assume
its attitude of angry defiance; and the spectators now saw this
antagonist in the shape of an enormous lizard--a crocodile larger than
they had ever seen before.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
A SPECTACLE RARELY SEEN.
When the huge reptile first unfolded itself to their view, it was
already close to the spot where the ourang-outang, knee-deep in the
water, stood awaiting it. They naturally expected to see the land
animal effect a retreat from an antagonist even more formidable-looking
than itself.
And in reality it did give ground at first; but only for a few long
scrambling strides, made as much on its arms as legs--just far enough to
place itself high and dry upon the bank. There it came to a stop, and
stood firmly facing the foe.
They now perceived the truth of what Saloo had been telling them: that
there is no animal in all Borneo, either in its forests or its rivers,
of which the mias feels fear. Certainly there is none more to be
dreaded than the gavial crocodile; yet the great ape, judging by its
present attitude, was in no sense afraid of it. Had it been so, it
would have retreated into the woods, where, by climbing a tree, it might
easily have shunned the encounter. Even if it had retired a little upon
_terra firma_, the amphibious animal would not have thought of following
it, and it could at once have avoided the conflict, if desirous of doing
so. On the contrary, it seemed rather to court it; for not only did it
take a firm stand on the approach of the saurian, but continued to emit
its hoarse cough and bark, which, as we have said before, closely
resembled the growlings of an angry mastiff with his jaws held half-shut
by the straps of a muzzle. At the same time it struck the ground
repeatedly with its fore-paws, tearing up grass and weeds, and flinging
them spitefully toward the crocodile, and into its very teeth, as if
provoking the latter to the attack.
Undismayed, the scaly reptile continued to advance. Neither the strange
noises nor the violent gesticulations of its four-handed enemy seemed to
have any effect upon it. To all appearance, nothing could terrify the
gigantic saurian. Confident in its great size and strength--above all,
in the thick impenetrable skin that covered its body like a coat of
shale armour--conscious of being so defended, the crocodile also
believed that there was no living thing in all the land of Borneo, or in
its waters either, that could withstand its terrible onslaught. It
therefore advanced to the attack with no idea of danger to itself, but
only the thought of seizing upon the half-crouching, half-upright form
that had intruded upon its domain, and which possibly appeared to it
only a weak human being--a poor Dyak, like some of its former victims.
In this respect it was woefully deceiving itself; and the slight retreat
made by the mias toward the dry land no doubt further misled its
assailant. The reptile paused for a moment, lest the retreat should be
continued, at the same time sinking its body beneath the water as low as
the depth would allow.
Remaining motionless for a few seconds, and seeing that its victim was
not only not going any further, but maintained its defiant attitude, the
gavial crawled silently and cautiously on till the reeds no longer
concealed it. Then suddenly rising on its strong fore-arms, it bounded
forward--aiding the movement by a stroke of its immense tail--and
launched the whole length of its body on the bank, its huge jaws flying
agape as they came in contact with the shaggy skin of its intended prey.
For an instant of time its snout was actually buried in the long red
hair of the gorilla, and the spectators expected to see the latter
grasped between its jaws and dragged into the lake.
They were even congratulating themselves on the chance of thus getting
rid of it, when a movement on the part of the mias warned them they were
not to be so conveniently disembarrassed of its dangerous proximity.
That movement was a leap partly to one side, and partly upward into the
air. It sprang so high as completely to clear the head of its
assailant, and so far horizontally, that when it came to the ground
again, it was along the extended body of the crocodile, midway between
its head and its tail. Before the unwieldy reptile could turn to
confront it, the ape made a second spring, this time alighting upon the
gavial's back, just behind his shoulders. There straddling, and taking
a firm hold with its thick short legs, it threw its long arms forward
over the crocodile's shoulder-blades, as with the intent to throttle it.
And now commenced a struggle between the two monstrous creatures--a
conflict strange and terrible--such as could only be seen in the depths
of a Bornean or Sumatran forest, in the midst of those wild solitudes
where man rarely makes his way. And even in such scenes but rarely
witnessed; and only by the lone Dyak hunter straying along the banks of
some solitary stream, or threading the mazes of the jungle-grown swamp
or lagoon.
On the part of the crocodile the strife consisted simply in a series of
endeavours to dismount the hairy rider who clung like a saddle to its
back. To effect this purpose, it made every effort in its power;
turning about upon its belly as upon a pivot; snapping its jaws till
they cracked like pistol shots; lashing the ground with its long
vertebrated tail, till the grass and weeds were swept off as if cut with
the blade of a scythe; twisting and wriggling in every possible
direction.
All to no purpose. The ape held on as firmly as a Mexican to a restive
mule, one of its fore-arms clutching the shoulder-blade of the reptile,
while the other was constantly oscillating in the air, as if searching
for something to seize upon.
For what purpose it did this, the spectators could not at first tell, it
was not long, however, before they discovered its intention. All at
once the disengaged arm made a long clutch forward and grasped the upper
jaw of the gavial. During the struggle this had been frequently wide
agape, almost pointing vertically upward, as is customary with reptiles
of the lizard kind, the singular conformation of the cervical vertebrae
enabling them to open their jaws thus widely. One might have supposed
that, in thus taking hold, the gorilla had got its hand into a terrible
trap, and that in another instant its fingers would be caught between
the quickly-closing teeth of the saurian, and snapped off like
pipe-stems, or the tender shoots of a head of celery. The inexperienced
and youthful spectators expected some such result; but not so the
cunning old man-monkey, who knew what he was about; for, once he had
gained a good hold upon the upper jaw, at its narrowest part, near the
snout, he made up his mind that those bony counterparts, now asunder,
should never come together again. To make quite sure of this, he bent
himself to the last supreme effort. Supporting his knees firmly against
the shoulders of the saurian, and bending his thick muscular arms to the
extent of their great strength, he was seen to give one grand wrench.
There was a crashing sound, as of a tree torn from its roots, followed
by a spasmodic struggle; then the hideous reptile lay extended along the
earth, still writhing its body and flirting its tail.
The red gorilla saw that it had accomplished its task; victory was
achieved, the danger over, and the hated enemy lay helpless, almost
nerveless, in its hairy embrace.
At length, detaching itself from the scaly creature, whose struggles
each moment grew feebler and feebler, it sprang to one side, squatted
itself on its haunches, and with a hoarse laughter, that resembled the
horrid yell of a maniac, triumphantly contemplated the ruin of its
prostrate foe!
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
STILL TRUSTING IN GOD.
The reader may suppose the strange conflict we have described to be a
thing of the author's imagination. Some will, no doubt, pronounce it a
story of the sensational and fabulous kind--in short, a "sailor's yarn."
So may it seem to those who give but little attention to the study of
nature. To the naturalist, however, this chapter of animal life and
habits will cause no astonishment; for he will know it to be a true one;
and that the spectacle described, although perhaps not one coming every
day under the eye of man, and especially civilised man, has nevertheless
been witnessed by the inhabitants of the recesses of the Bornean forest.