I knew that the days of piracy in the Straits of Malacca, save for
an occasional outbreak of high-sea petty larceny on a Chinese lumber
junk or a native trader's tonkang, were past, and I did not believe
that the rebels would have the hardihood to attack, day or night,
a boat, however unprotected, bearing the American flag.
For an hour or more we ran along between the mangrove-bordered shores
against a swiftly flowing, muddy current.
The great tangled roots of these trees stood up out of the water like
a fretwork of lace, and the interwoven branches above our heads shut
out the glassy glare of the sun. We pushed on until the dim twilight
faded out, and only a phosphorescent glow on the water remained to
reveal the snags that marked our course.
The launch was anchored for the night close under the bank, where
the maze of mangroves was beginning to give place to the solid ground
and the jungle.
Myriads of fireflies settled down on us and hung from the low limbs
of the overhanging trees, relieving the hot, murky darkness with
their thousands of throbbing lamps.
From time to time a crocodile splashed in the water as he slid heavily
down the clayey bank at the bow.
In the trees and rubber-vines all about us a colony of long-armed
wah-wah monkeys whistled and chattered, and farther away the sharp,
rasping note of a cicada kept up a continuous protest at our invasion.
At intervals the long, quivering yell of a tiger frightened the
garrulous monkeys into silence, and made us peer apprehensively toward
the impenetrable blackness of the jungle.
Aboo Din came to me as I was arranging my mosquito curtains for
the night. He was casting quick, timid glances over his shoulder as
he talked.
"Tuan, I no like this place. Too close bank. Ten boat-lengths down
stream better. Baboo swear by Allah he see faces behind trees,--once,
twice. Baboo good eyes."
I shook off the uncanny feeling that the place was beginning to cast
over me, and turned fiercely on the faithful Aboo Din.
He slunk away with a low salaam, muttering something about the
Heaven-Born being all wise, and later I saw him in deep converse with
his first-born under a palm-thatched cadjang on the bow.
I was half inclined to take Aboo Din's advice and drop down the
stream. Then it occurred to me that I might better face an imaginary
foe than the whirlpools and sunken snags of the Pahang.
I posted sentinels fore and aft and lay down and closed my eyes to
the legion of fireflies that made the night luminous, and my ears
to the low, musical chant that arose fitfully from among my Malay
servants on the stern.
The Sikhs were big, massive fellows, fully six feet tall, with towering
red turbans that accentuated their height fully a foot.
They were regular artillery-men from Fort Canning, and had seen
service all over India.
They had not been in Singapore long enough to become acquainted
with the Malay language or character, but they knew their duty,
and I trusted to their military training rather than to my Malay's
superior knowledge for our safety during the night.
I found out later that the cunning in Baboo's small brown finger was
worth all the precision and drill in the Sikh sergeant's great body.
I fell asleep at last, lulled by the tenderly crooned promises of
the Koran, and the drowsy, intermittent prattle of the monkeys among
the varnished leaves above. The night was intensely hot; not a breath
of air could stir within our living-cabin, and the cooling moisture
which always comes with nightfall on the equator was lapped up by the
thirsty fronds above our heads, so that I had not slept many hours
before I awoke dripping with perspiration, and faint.
There was an impression in my mind that I had been awakened by the
falling of glass.
The Sikh saluted silently as I stepped out on the deck.
It lacked some hours of daylight, and there was nothing to do but go
back to my bed, vowing never again to camp for the night along the
steaming shores of a jungle-covered stream.
I slept but indifferently; I missed the cooling swish of the punkah,
and all through my dreams the crackle and breaking of glass seemed
to mingle with the insistent buzz of the tiger-gnats.
Baboo's diminutive form kept flitting between me and the fireflies.
The first half-lights of morning were struggling down through the
green canopy above when I was brought to my feet by the discharge of
a Winchester and a long, shrill cry of fright and pain.
Before I could disentangle myself from the meshes of the mosquito net
I could see dimly a dozen naked forms drop lightly on to the deck
from the obscurity of the bank, followed in each case by a long,
piercing scream of pain.
I snatched up my revolver and rushed out on to the deck in my bare
feet.