stretched out on our mats upon the floor to snatch a few hours of sleep
before dawn; whether or not the natives slept at all is doubtful; when we
awoke at the first streaks of gray in the east, the bustle of embarking
was at its height.
Just as the first red beams of level light came gleaming down the long
stretch of the river, five of the most energetic canoes swung out from
the shore, and a mighty shout went up from their sixty or seventy
paddlers; the foam and spray dashed and sparkled and glittered from the
paddles; the thwarts creaked in their rattan bindings as the canoes
fairly bent and quivered under the powerful strokes. Away they darted
up-stream racing for the lead, the snow-white feathers in the warriors’
caps and on the war-coats, glittered like burnished silver as they
fluttered and caught the glancing sunlight.
Every few minutes, canoes from down-stream, filled with warriors in
panoply, came into view, just touched at the landing, asked a few
breathless, excited questions, swerved off, and dashed after the leaders.
The women, in a long line, leaned over the railing of the veranda, and,
let us hope, ‘rained influence;’ certain it is that between the puffs of
their cigarettes they broadly smiled encouragement to their lovers and
husbands, who (it pains me to add) paid absolutely no attention to them.
When ten or twelve canoes had started off, we followed in our big canoe,
manned by Ibans from the Baram Fort, who, though of a different tribe,
love fighting as passionately as do the Kayans. Not to be outdone, we
started off with as brave a splash and as vigorous a shout as the best of
them, and very soon had caught up with the main body of canoes that were
just behind those that were the first to break the placid water and catch
the full beams of the rising sun.
Indeed, it was a thrilling scene! It was war, savage war, and a war of
savages. However it might end, be it bloody or bloodless, now at the
outset fierce eagerness lit up all faces, and a frenzy for blood had
mounted to every brain.
As we rounded a turn of the river we came to a sudden pause. The advance
guard of five canoes had hauled up to the shore. On a narrow sandy bank
an excited crowd of warriors were kindling a fire and putting up poles
and arches of sticks cut along their whole length into curled shavings,—a
bird of good omen had been seen on the right side! An exhilarating proof
that, although the usual rites had been neglected, the blessed birds
were, after all, propitious. The fire, an unfailing messenger from man to
the omniscient Omen-givers, now announced to the birds that their favour
was greatly appreciated. All the maturer men, pre-eminent among them our
old friend, the whilom instructor in the warlike use of shield and spear,
evidently also a pronounced and respectable conservative, were overjoyed,
and danced, and shouted, round the fire before returning to their boats.
Although no such spur was needed, yet unquestionably this favourable omen
imparted a fierce exultant joy to all, and we started off with redoubled
zeal.
[Illustration: FIGURE-HEAD OF A LONG WAR-CANOE.
THE MAN IS AN IBAN OF THE REJANG DISTRICT, NOW SETTLED ON THE BARAM. HIS
COAT IS OF NATIVE MANUFACTURE AND DESIGN.]
The canoes kept fairly close together all day, but as the sun mounted
higher and higher, and was at last directly overhead, the paddling became
somewhat less vigorous; cumbersome war-coats and caps were placed in
a heap in the centre of each boat. Three or four times we all halted
and cooled ourselves off by a plunge in the stream, which, now that we
had passed the lowlands, ran beautifully clear. Whenever we approached
friendly houses, the paddling became furious, the shoutings and cries
from all throats were renewed; to which, as a response, several canoes
full of eager warriors would unfailingly push out from shore to join
us. Then again was the air filled with a wild din of savage whoops and
halloos, and thrills of excitement ran from boat to boat.
Late in the afternoon, under the westering sun, we reached Juman’s
house at Bowang Takun; the house is a large one standing at some little
distance back from the river and almost hidden under a luxuriant grove of
cocoanut palms. Why the spot should be called _Onion Lake_, seeing that
there are neither onions nor lakes there, is as inexplicable as some of
the Bornean conventional tattoo designs. There is a slimy pond, to be
sure, near the house, which as it is water might suggest a lake, and its
exceedingly bad odor might supply a reminder of the vegetable.
As the day’s journey closed at Juman’s house, Juman very naturally
claimed the privilege of acting as host to this large party. Furthermore,
was he not the indirect,—but most happy cause, of this delightful war?
Was not its joyous pretext to avenge his wrongs? Surely it was his
pleasant duty then to feed the warriors royally. (And let me say in
parenthesis that to supply, at a few hours’ notice, food and lodging
for four or five hundred men might well task any hospitality save that
of a Bornean.) Accordingly, his boats had pushed on ahead at the double
quick, and reached his house several hours before us. When the forty or
fifty canoes (with an average of at least ten men to a canoe) drew up to
Juman’s beach, the slaughtering of pigs and fowls was still going on,
and great troughs full of boiled rice were in preparation. In order not
to be in the way, the whole army filled in the spare time by bathing in
the river, and by washing their chawats, (_waist-cloths_,) which were
spread out on the pebbly beach, and, until they were dried, the owners
remained in the water. Before dark, all were summoned to the supper,
which was spread in the veranda for the common folk, and in Juman’s
own room for the select few. In two rows on the floor down the centre
of the whole length of Juman’s room, where we dined, were squares of
banana leaf, each one piled high with boiled rice, and beside each cover
stood a little bowl of wood or of coarse china, filled with cubes of
boiled pork and chicken. Between the rows, about every three feet, were
large wooden bowls heaped with pulverised salted fish; these bowls were
in common, all hands might dive into them for a savory pinch. As soon
as all were squatted, some began to fall to at once; whereupon Juman
shouted the obligatory welcome, ‘Kuman plahei plahei,’ which, as I have
said, means _eat slowly_. He had no shade of fear that his guests would
not eat heartily,—the duration of the meal must be long,—‘the linked
sweetness long drawn out.’ Mrs. Juman and little Miss Juman (I failed to
catch their names when I was presented), and several little Jumans were
ubiquitous in their zeal that all should be helped, that every one should
have plenty; when this was assured, they sat on one side and helped
themselves. It was a remarkably quiet feast, all attention was absorbed
in disposing of the food with neatness, and, in spite of the injunction
of Kuman plahei plahei, with dispatch. Considering that all the eating
was performed without knife, fork, spoon, or even chop-sticks, the
cleanliness with which they all ate, brought a blush to our cheeks when
we contemplated the quantity of rice scattered about our places when we
had finished.
Darkness closed in soon after supper; the men all gathered in groups
in the veranda. Again and again the stories about the hiding-place of
the enemy were rehearsed, and those who had been among the fortunate
discoverers of this hiding-place never lacked an interested party of
listeners, who accepted implicitly every embellishment which each
repetition brought forth. The plans for the expedition to the clearings
on the following day were discussed, and, in a sort of Council of War, it
was finally decided that the whole band should preserve as closed ranks
as possible, and sedulously use every expedient in the jungle to indicate
to the foe their formidable numbers. In case the enemy had scattered only
to reassemble, its scouts would become aware of the perfectly equipped
and enormous force with which it had to deal. (I mention these details
to show that this expedition was not a mere armed mob, but that the
leaders had some inkling of the rudiments of genuine tactics.) Every one
was keen for the fight; a protracted peace on the Baram had made the
people restless; the heads hanging from the rafters in the houses were
becoming exceedingly dusty, and their beneficent virtue was, possibly,
evaporating.
[Illustration: KELAVIT BOK—A HAIRY SHIELD.
ON THE OUTSIDE IS PAINTED A SQUATTING FIGURE, WITH THE ARMS HOOKED UNDER
THE BEND OF THE KNEES, AND WITH A LARGE, GRINNING FACE, AND WIDE, STARING
EYES AND LONG TUSKS. COVERING THE PAINTING ARE ROWS AND TUFTS OF HUMAN
HAIR, CUT FROM THE HEADS OF SLAIN ENEMIES. ON THE INSIDE OF THE SHIELDS
ARE USUALLY FIGURES OF MEN OR WOMEN; IT IS SAID THAT THE FIGURES OF WOMEN
ARE PAINTED THERE SO THAT THE WARRIOR MAY BE CONSTANTLY REMINDED OF HIS
WIFE AND FAMILY AT HOME, FOR WHOSE BENEFIT AND HONOUR HE IS STRIVING TO
BRING BACK A FRESH HEAD. IN THE SHIELD HERE PHOTOGRAPHED, THE PATTERNS
ABOVE AND BELOW THE FIGURES ARE EVIDENTLY DESIGNED FROM THE PECULIAR
CURVES OF THE BEAK AND HORNY CREST OF THE HORN-BILL, THE WAR-BIRD OF ALL
THE TRIBES. THESE DESIGNS ARE ALMOST INVARIABLE IN THE DECORATION OF
KAYAN SHIELDS.]
By the time, however, that all the excited rumors of the number of
the foe, and of its movements, had been thoroughly sifted, I think I
could detect indications that several of the older and cooler headed
Chiefs began to waver in their belief that there would be after all any
desperate conflict; possibly even, that this fierce show, with all the
paraphernalia of war, would in itself prove all-sufficient, and that the
enemy would be so intimidated that it would make no stand.
As the evening wore on and the damar lamps burned low with fitful
sputters, I deserted the Council of War, and joined a group where care
had been cast to the winds, and, by tacit consent, the evening before the
battle was to be as gay and festive as possible. A youth was playing on
the kaluri, and a sharp-featured man of middle age was the bard; he had
a deep bass voice and seemed to be widely recognized as the possessor of
an endless repertoire of songs,—every song that was called for, be it
war-like, be it pastoral, be it of love, or be it of the nursery, he was
familiar with, and at once launched into the solo, while the rest joined
in the refrain.
I could not follow word for word these Kayan songs, which are often,
no doubt, quite ancient. The unwritten languages of all the Polynesian
races are subject to remarkably rapid modifications; wherefore the songs
and legends which preserve their original form are very difficult for
modern and foreign ears to understand. Juman sat cross-legged next to
me, and interpreted to me in Malay, from time to time, fragments of
the songs; one, I remember, had a very _catchy_ rhythm with a constant
refrain ‘_Tama Poyong kapei paha, Ara wi wi ará_.’ According to Juman,
it was a woful ballad rehearsing the lament of a young girl to her mother
because she had been commanded to marry ‘Tama Poyong, with the twisted
leg;’ her plaintive objections to Tama Poyong as a husband, on various
grounds, sent Juman and all the rest of the group into such fits of
laughter that they could hardly join in the chorus, and, of course, I
laughed in sympathy. Another song was of the workers in the fields, and
then followed a minute account of the harvest-festival, when women dress
like men in nothing but a chawat, and parade about the house in a long
procession carrying shield, parang, and spear. The solo singer sat in
the centre of the group, and with a smile glanced here and there about
him in a half-embarrassed way, keeping time to his song by twirling the
free end of his chawat round and round in front of him, and at times, for
emphasis, whacking it down on his knee. Whenever women were represented
as speaking, he broke into a high falsetto.
So the evening wore on till one by one the singers crept away, and soon,
wrapped in their long, white cotton coverings, were stretched along the
veranda like a row of corpses in shrouds.
The next morning the excitement in getting off in the boats that
there had been at Long Lama was repeated. Eight or ten more canoes
from up-river joined us just as we set out, making the total number
of the fleet at least sixty, carrying about six hundred,—truly a very
formidable army of keen, savage warriors. After ascending the river a
short distance, the canoes fell into single file and turned into a narrow
tributary stream, leading up to the rice-clearings.
On both sides, trees arched over the stream in a dense canopy; thick with
orchids, ferns, and vines, which sent their blossoms, roots, and tendrils
down, in heavy masses, almost sweeping our heads; gorgeous butterflies
flickered and fluttered in their uncertain flight just above the surface
of the water or gathered, like flaming jewels, on patches of mud on the
banks; hordes of monkeys, aroused by the unusual bustle and turmoil on
the river, peered, and chattered, and jeered at us from a safe distance
above; while the harsh and deep-toned calls of the horn-bills boomed and
echoed from the depths of the jungle.
[Illustration: POLING CANOES OVER SWIFT BUT SHALLOW RAPIDS.]
For several hours we zigzagged up the stream, following the deeper
courses where the current ran less swift, under shady, far-reaching
boughs, whose tips dabbled in the rippling water; gradually the stream
narrowed and ran between rocks and pebbled islands. Paddles were
ineffectual against the swift current, and the men halted to cut poles.
One by one, the long line of canoes again moved off, the men grunting in
chorus at each shove of the poles, whose successive movements travelled
along the line like the rippling legs of a centipede; the man in the bow
raises his pole and sweeps it ahead for a fresh hold, then the next man
behind, on the opposite side of the boat, does likewise with the same
motion, and so down the whole line, each waiting till the man in front
has his pole firmly fixed. Then all the twenty together, with a profound
and mighty grunt, give a shove that sends the boat ahead for fifteen or
twenty feet.
By this time, we had approached so near to the lurking-place of the
enemy that it was deemed advisable to have scouts sent ahead, especially
to see that there were no trees on the banks which had been partially
chopped through and were kept in position only by the vines binding them
to adjoining trees; a fatal trap for enemies often used by the Borneans.
When the trees are half cut through, it needs but a single blow with a
parang to sever the vines that hold it and then down it goes crashing on
the boats of an enemy, and while the occupants flounder in the water and
are entangled among broken branches, nothing is easier than to reap an
abundant and soothing harvest of human heads.
Thus we slowly toiled up the shallow water in the crawling canoes, while
scouts kept abreast in the jungle, cutting a path for themselves in
the dense tangle of thorny palms and rattans. Foremost among them were
Abun, the Chief, and his youthful and ardent brother, Batu. They were
as alert as hawks, peering everywhere for indications of the earnestly
desired foe. Every now and then my eyes were dazzled by flashes from
a diamond-shaped decoration on Abun’s war-cap. When we disembarked at
noon I found that this glittering jewel was a tin trade-mark stamped in
familiar letters: ‘Devoe’s Brilliant Kerosene Oil.’
For some inexplicable reason, the Borneans never breakfast before
starting on any expedition; but, once started, they always seem to
choose the most inopportune time for their first meal; just when they
have fallen fairly into the swing of paddling or poling, they must needs
land and build fires for cooking rice. Even war permits no exception
to this exasperating custom; so at noon the whole fleet pulled up on
a ‘karangan,’ or pebbly island, where, in fulfillment of the strategy
planned the night before, fully a hundred fires were kindled under as
many earthen pots, and over a widely extended area. While the rice was
boiling, some energetic workers constructed a shelter with boughs and
large palm leaves to protect the Chiefs and the ‘Kalunan putih,’ (_white
men_,) from the vertical rays of the sun, which beat down pitilessly in
this wide expanse of the stream, where a tributary, almost equal in size,
joined its broad waters. The smoke drifted hazily and lazily into the
thick, ever-dripping jungle, and the water swirled over the smooth hidden
rocks and broke into ‘unnumbered smiles’ in the flecks of sunshine.
War-caps and coats were laid aside, and for an hour there was rest for
warriors, filled with peace and rice. It is to be feared that under this
soothing influence the pristine enthusiasm which marked the start was
slightly ebbing; ‘weary seemed the oar, and weary the wandering fields of
barren foam;’ there is no knowing how much longer that hour would have
lasted. Juman was keeping himself a little in the background, now that
his alarming reports were so soon to be tested. Of a sudden the note of
instant war was struck by Ma Obat, (_Father of Medicine_,) of most fierce
aspect, but a braggart and at heart a coward; one of his eye-sockets
was empty and in the other rolled a bloodshot orb, whose red lids, from
which the lashes had been plucked, were everted. He started up, and, with
a shout to his men to be quick, or they would never reach the enemy,
bustled down to his boat, slipping his head through his war-coat and
girding on his parang, as he went.
This sudden call broke the spell, and in a moment all were scurrying to
the boats, but not before every peg whereon the pots had rested was with
scrupulous care pulled up, and the embers scattered;—nothing brings worse
luck to a war-party than the omission of this last duty in breaking camp.
One by one the canoes started off again up-stream; sometimes making their
way with difficulty between boulders, then again gliding swiftly over
placid pools, the poles rattling and splashing on the pebbly bottom.
Before long, we reached the head of navigation, and here at last were the
rice-clearings,—the very ground whereon the foe had lately trod. For half
a mile or more on the left bank of the river, the jungle had been cleared
and the surface burnt, leaving only tall charred stumps of trees. Here
and there were scattered thatched huts on high poles, where the guardians
of the fields sleep at night; and all the undulating ground about the
scraggy charred tree stems, was clothed thick with the lush, translucent
green of sprouting rice.
[Illustration: THE WAR-PARTY HALTED ON A ‘KARANGAN’ TO COOK BREAKFAST.]
The path now led up the bed of the stream, here dwindled to a mere brook;
the foliage was dense all about us, and all were obliged to advance as
stealthily as possible. Every face was set, with keen eyes darting in
every direction, and every muscle tense. Not an instant but was fraught
to all with possible death; at any moment might come the sudden sharp
sting of a poisoned arrow from an invisible, noiseless blow-pipe. No one
picked his steps,—eyes could not be spared for that. The trembling of a
leaf might mean a fatal wound. It was a thrilling, impressive hour. I
suppose my heart would have beat quicker, had I not had a firm conviction
that the victims of the unerring blow-pipe would be natives, not white
men. Once I looked over my shoulder, and smiled at Abun just behind me,
with the repoussé legend ‘Devoe’s oil’ glittering on his cap. He did
not return the smile, but gravely shook his head, in deprecation of all
lightmindedness in such a fateful time. Suddenly there was a commotion
in the advance guard, loud cries and vehement talking. Then a quick
movement forward. I thought we had actually encountered the enemy, but
just as suddenly every man came to a halt and spears were grounded. Our
foremost scouts had come upon the camping-ground of the wily Lerons; a
capacious shelter of interlacing shrubs and overspread with large leaves
had been discovered; the earth was blackened and deep with the ashes from
their fires; round about, we found the jungle beaten down, and while
we were closely examining these recent traces, one of our scouts came
back in great excitement to lead us to the edge of the clearing, where
a treacherous ambush had been made, whence a watch could be kept on the
labourers in the rice-fields and a sudden onslaught made upon any unwary
women or unarmed men.
The last doubt was now dispelled. Intruders with evil intent had
been skulking in the neighborhood, in considerable numbers, and very
recently,—but whither had they fled? Possibly, they were in hiding,
awaiting a favorable chance to attack, or else, after we had given up the
pursuit, to return to their deserted ambush.
The little army, gathered on the banks and in the dry bed of the
stream, waited patiently until the scouts had returned from fruitlessly
searching the jungle far and wide. Then a council of war was convened
upon the karangan. It was of no use to advance further unless to attack
some household on the Tinjar;—this was not advisable; no one knew
with certainty from whose house these hostile intruders had come, and
indiscriminate vengeance was out of the question where the Prenta was in
the lead.
It was futile to attempt pursuit. The enemy was equipped for land travel,
which we were not, and, as they had at least a day’s start, we could
not hope to catch up with them. Bitter was the disappointment to all.
Many vehemently declared that they were willing to go on, without rest
or food, by night and day, only let them taste the glorious excitement
of a fight for heads. Ma Obat turned his one seeing but unsightly
eye on Dr. Hose, and boldly said, (unblushingly of course, and in a
vainglorious tone,) ‘If the Tuan will let me go with only a few of my
men, I promise I’ll bring back heads; if I don’t find these Lerons I
know where to find some Ivans [thus pronounced by Kayans] collecting
gutta and rattans.’ After this display of courage in killing unarmed
victims, and of obedience to the Government, he assumed an expression
of great ferocity, and rolled his cyclopean eye round the circle to
note the effect of his words. To any one who knew how untutored, how
undisciplined, how childlike are the minds of these savages, it could
hardly have been discouraging, certainly not surprising, to see how many
were the nods of approval which followed this treasonable speech; the
zealous old ‘fencing-master’ was, as might be expected, decidedly on Ma
Obat’s side, and a grizzled old warrior, who, during the discussion, had
seized the opportunity of cooling himself off in a pool directly in view
of the assembly, cried out, waving his arms and lying flat on his back
in the water, ‘That’s the talk! that’s right! I’ll go with Ma Obat! and
we’ll kill any one we meet, Ivan, Leron, Punan! any one is better than
no one.’
[Illustration: PARTY OF ARMED WARRIORS ON A NARROW TRAIL IN THE JUNGLE.]