Our sailor-boy, Tom Fairweather, leaned over the ship's side, watching
the return of the steam-launch.
A message had been sent to no less a personage than the Sultan of
Borneo, or perhaps I should have said an embassy. So grand a personage
as a Sultan calls for such a ceremonious term. Don't you think so, young
people?
The ship lay in the Chinese Sea off the coast of the island of Borneo,
and some fifteen miles from the town of Bruni, or Borneo, as it is
sometimes called.
As Tom stood there, a succession of wise thoughts coursed through his
head; wise, that is, for a young gentleman of his age--twelve,
by-the-way. These thoughts included the position of the equator. Tom
felt himself to be quite old friends with the equator by this time, so
often had he "crossed the line."
When he had first studied geography he had regarded such a performance
as quite remarkable, and on a par with sailing or sledging to either
pole. The thoughts of geography brought to his mind the book he had used
at school, _Maury's Manual_, which contained a number of illustrations.
Tom distinctly recalled a picture in this book, beneath which was
written "The Sultan of Borneo." The Sultan was resplendent in a flowing
flowered robe, which Tom supposed to be of brocade. He wore Turkish
trousers, a turban on his head, and mutton-chop whiskers. The only touch
of carelessness about his costume was his bare feet. He reposed in a
grove of palms, and in one hand held a long hookah. Take him all in all,
he bore a strong resemblance to the Sultans in the _Arabian Nights
Entertainment_, one of Tom's favorite volumes, and who, as other boys
and girls are well aware, were all very wealthy and lordly people
indeed.
As Tom had never seen a live Sultan before, he was most anxious to visit
his Sultanship of Borneo. He therefore broke out in a whistle of pleased
expectation, for it was distinctly understood that he was to be of the
party making the formal visit.
The Sultan, it appeared, had graciously signified his entire willingness
to be called upon; so Tom made a few additions to his toilet, which he
considered were called for by the magnificence of the occasion; that is
to say, he put on his watch and chain, as well as a ring with a large
red stone, which the man in Ceylon of whom he had bought it had told him
was a ruby. He felt extremely important and a little overawed when he
was seated in the launch on his way to the Sultan's abode.
To begin with, he was somewhat surprised at the appearance of Bruni as
they neared it. "Huts!" he said, in astonishment. "With thatched roofs.
Are all the houses like these? Why, this doesn't look like a city at
all. Maury's Geography said this was the capital. This is a high old
capital, I must say."
"There are capitals and capitals," returned his father. "Did you expect
something like Washington? I must admit that the splendor of Borneo is
rather down at heels--but so it goes."
The residence of the Sultan was a thatched hut, very much like those of
which the rest of the town was composed. It was built on piles driven
into the river-bed, and was entered by steps leading down to the water.
There were other houses thus set up on piles, and behind those still
others, until finally the rest of the town straggled against and on top
of the river-bank.
Tom followed his father up the steps with feelings in which
disappointment struggled with curiosity. His expectations had already
received a series of shocks, but this was too much. A King's palace to
have dwindled down to this shabby little hut!
They entered into the royal presence. Captain Fairweather and his
officers were received by two interpreters, who made them welcome in
very broken English, and then led the way to the head of the room, where
stood the Sultan. He was almost a hundred years old. Don't suppose from
this that such is the average age of Sultans. But this particular one,
Abdul Momin, had actually attained that ripe old age, from which we may
gather that his dignities agreed with him. There is something impressive
in old age, whether it be that of prince or peasant; but beyond this the
old man before whom Tom found himself bowing politely was certainly not
in the least remarkable. He was a very shabby old man indeed. He wore a
single soiled garment--a gown which reached to his feet. As though to
make him as unlike the Sultan in _Maury's Manual_ as possible, he wore
slippers (such as they were); and finally there was a common little cap
on his head instead of the silken turban, bound with pearls, of Tom's
imagination.
The Sultan could not speak English, and the officers could not
understand him, so that the conversation would have flagged had it not
been for the interpreters referred to above. One of these was the Funny
Man one meets all over the world, who sees a joke in everything, and
laughs at it himself, whether you are amused or not. But this man was
really very funny. He rubbed his hands and bowed and laughed over
everything that was said, until it was impossible not to be in good
spirits. He evidently considered it quite a good joke that so many fine
gentlemen in uniform, with gold epaulets and clanking swords, should
have taken the trouble to look up such a seedy old Sultan as Abdul
Momin. Having made the presentations in due form, he proceeded to do the
honors of the one-roomed palace. There was very, very little furniture
to look at; but the officers showed a determination to be pleased, and
admired all that this interpreter, in his flourishing way, pointed out
to their notice.
"That's a nice rug," said Lieutenant Jollytarre.
"Yes; Sultan borrow that when he know you coming," replied the
interpreter.
"Those are nice pipes," proceeded Tom, following in the wake, as he was
in the habit of doing, of his friend Lieutenant Jollytarre.
"Borrowed too," rejoined the interpreter, with a wink.
Coffee was handed around, served in pretty little cups of Japanese ware.
Captain Fairweather, by way of making conversation, in his turn, admired
these cups. "Ah! Kioto ware?" said he.
"Kioto; yes, yes," replied the interpreter, to whom the remark was
addressed. "Chinaman keep shop in Bruni. Sultan borrow cups of him."
Thereupon he winked more decidedly than before.
"Well!" exclaimed Tom; "don't the Sultan own anything? I suppose the
slippers on his feet are his at least."
"Borrowed," ejaculated the interpreter, with a chuckle.
Tom was now convulsed with laughter; seeing which, the interpreter
winked again--this time gravely.
Captain Fairweather finally took out his watch, and remarked, "We must
be off if we wish to see anything more of Bruni."
With ceremonious politeness the officers took leave of the Sultan, all
of which impressed Tom as highly absurd. On shore there were, as stated,
more thatched huts--these too were set on piles in order to prevent the
venomous reptiles native to these shores from crawling in and out the
open doors.
"Lots of tribes in Borneo," piped up the interpreter. "This tribe
Muruts--head-hunters."
[Illustration: THE HEAD-HUNTERS OF BORNEO.]
Tom stood transfixed in mute, horrified astonishment in front of the
nearest hut. Its steep projecting roof had fallen somewhat into decay;
the thatching in some places had fallen quite off. Before the doorway a
group of natives were gathered, attracted by the strangers. They stared
at the strangers, who in turn stared back with equal curiosity.
Suspended across the doorway was a string of human heads--yes, horrible
to relate--of human heads in different states of decomposition. "He
great head-hunter," said the interpreter, pointing to the owner of the
hut. "Count heads--one--two--three--"
"Twenty," announced Tom, solemnly, completing the count.
"These fellows bring home a head as a token of their prowess, just as a
North American Indian brings home a scalp," explained Mr. Jollytarre.
"They make a raid into another tribe, kill a man, and back they come
with it as an evidence of their courage and skill. The more heads a man
takes, the greater distinction he attains in his tribe. Nothing is
thought of him by his own people until he chops off a head."
Tom looked again at the string of heads, and exclaimed, "Faugh! it makes
me ill. I almost wish I hadn't come."
But disagreeable things are short-lived in a boy's mind. The
head-hunters and their ghastly trophies faded away as he asked questions
upon questions about Borneo, on his way back to the ship.
"The third largest island in the world," he repeated to himself.
"Australia, New Guinea, Borneo--and if you don't count Australia an
island, it's the second. Well, well, it's a queer place anyway, and I
don't think much of it, whatever its size may be."