The day had not risen when Mr. Bampfylde, Bertram, Dr. Langmore, and I,
started from Kapit Fort two days after the floods had ceased and the
river had resumed its normal aspect. We were followed down the steep
steps leading to the river by a great company of Kayans and Dyaks, our
Chinese cook, our Malay servants, and Ima, my inseparable attendant
when I lived in Sarawak. Mr. Bampfylde, Ima, and I, occupied one of the
war-canoes, and Bertram and Dr Langmore another. Our boat was called
_Bujang Naga_ (Bachelor Dragon), and was a splendid specimen of a Dyak
war-boat. Our crew, amongst whom were the élite of the chiefs staying
with us in Kapit Fort, numbered about forty. Salleh was steersman, and
stood at the stern with half his body appearing above the roof, his
head protected from the sun by a large conical straw hat. The rudders
of these boats are like those used by ancient Egyptians, according to
the pictures in the British Museum, for they are rigged on the side
of the vessel, instead of being fixed on the stern. A covering of
palm leaves was stretched from one end of the boat to the other, and
I could see from where I sat some twenty-five naked arms paddling as
though for dear life. Those seated nearest to us were Unggat, Merum
and Grasi, all renowned warriors. Our journey being a peaceful one,
the chiefs had discarded their beautiful war accoutrements, and their
appearance was homely, not to say dowdy. Hovering Hawk was wrapped in
an old tartan petticoat or sarong, The Cobra had a loincloth as his
only covering, and their companions followed suit. But the younger
warriors were very smart; they had stuck alamanda and hibiscus blossoms
in their head-handkerchiefs, and their waistcloths were bewilderingly
bright. We paddled on, hour after hour, and I thought it extraordinary
that these men could last so long without a break in their fatiguing
labour. They appeared as though they enjoyed themselves, and when the
rhythmic stroke of the paddles flagged, a shrill scream from the man
sitting in the bows, and who directed the speed of the boat, instilled
renewed vigour in the crew, especially when the leader plunged his
paddle into the water, flung a comet-like spray, reaching beyond the
boat’s stern, yelling and shouting, “Paddle, paddle,” “Do not get
slow,” “Don’t get soft.” “Ah-a-a,” he would scream again. Sometimes our
crew raced Bertram’s boat, and when his boat shot on ahead, Hovering
Hawk and Flying Snake gave vent to ejaculations of disgust, abusing
our crew roundly, and asking them whether they were asleep or awake. I
remember passing a little stream, where, near the bank, about twenty or
thirty yards away, a crocodile lay motionless flush with the water.
Hovering Hawk pointed it out to me, and the man in the bows stopped
the boat. My rifle lay loaded by my side--I cannot explain why it
was there; I suppose I thought it sporting to carry a gun about. Mr.
Bampfylde suggested I should try and shoot the crocodile, which I did,
whereupon the beast rose in a mighty cataract of water and flopped down
again into the stream. This feat of mine was much approved by the crew,
who with grunts and ejaculations congratulated me on my exploit! I do
not know whether I killed the beast. I do not think a bullet from my
rifle could really have ended its life, for crocodiles are difficult
to destroy; yet natives say that if a bullet penetrates their thick
hide, it leads to their death, on account of the open wound becoming
filled with maggots from the rivers, that kill them in time. Being
a lover of all animals, I must explain that I have never, before or
since, willingly killed any living creature, but a crocodile, with
its hideous habits of killing, wounding, and maiming people--many of
whom being people I have known--made me anxious to try and send one of
these monsters to another world. I am not sure I was right in doing so,
although I may have been the means of ridding the rivers of Sarawak
from a dangerous pest.
At mid-day we stopped on a sandbank to lunch, and to give our crew an
hour or two’s rest. The Dyaks had erected a little palm-leaf house
to shelter us during the halt, whilst they themselves, under the
shade of scattered rocks, set their rice boiling in pots hanging
from tripods made from branches of trees cut down in neighbouring
forests. Very soon little fires began to spring up all over the sandy
expanse. As usual the noonday silence of the tropics reigned, broken
only by that bird whose sweet song rivals our nightingale. I think
this bird’s song most ravishing; its trills are velvety, soft, and yet
so loud that they can be heard for some reaches down the river. Our
famous Sarawak naturalist, Dr. Hose, who is an expert in the sounds
of birds, disagrees with me; he thinks its note shrill and sometimes
disagreeable. I beg respectfully to differ from such an authority, and
still maintain that the alligator bird (the name given to the bul-bul
by the natives of the country) is among the sweetest songsters of the
world.
By three o’clock in the afternoon the crew were ready to proceed.
Presently the river became so shallow that poles had to be used instead
of paddles. Great trees, growing on rocks, overshadowed the water,
where it was difficult to understand how they could live. The river
became quite clear, rippling over a pebbly bed. I wish I knew what
those pebbles were, for I believe in these river-beds are to be found
amethysts, tourmalines, and even sapphires. Dr. Hose told me that on
one of his travels up these inland streams, his war-boats floated over
the dust of sapphires. An orchid branch drifted towards us, rosy,
white, and waxy, looking like a smile upon the water. One of our Dyaks
tried to get hold of it for me, but I prevented him. I preferred to
think of the flower dying in the fresh cool stream, rather than see it
fading in my hot hand.
The great stairway of rock was before us, and the crunch of gravel
under our boat’s keel warned us that the water could float it no
longer. Some of the crew jumped overboard and made secure long lengths
of rattan, in order to drag the boats up the many barriers that lay
in our way. The men bounded over these impediments, and we bumped and
creaked as the rattan ropes dragged us up these enormous boulders, the
water pouring over them in all directions. Sometimes the torrent was so
impetuous, and the rocks of such a height, that our boat was poised on
the centre of a great boulder, its keel grating backwards and forwards,
whilst the muscles of our crew stood out like cords on their necks and
limbs, as they pulled at the rattans with all their might. Whenever
our boat was safely lodged on a rock, the crew rested for a while and
bathed in the deep pools of quiet water lying between the stones. They
might have been bronze tritons escaped from fountains, endowed with
life, and disporting themselves in these waters. The agility of an
old Bukitan, who must have been at least sixty-five years old, amused
me much. His crown of plaited straw lay over snow-white bristles,
and a fine crop of snow-white hair ornamented one side of his cheek,
whilst his other cheek was bare. He was proud of his one whisker, and
whenever he rested in his arduous work, he stroked it continually. A
towel round his waist was his only covering. The old man bounded from
rock to rock, agile as a tiger cat; he frequently held the rattan rope
in his teeth in helping to pull the boats up. After about an hour’s
such toil, we found ourselves above the first ledge of rocks in this
great cataract of Pelagus. We clambered up the rocky banks and stood
on the edge of a great forest. Rhododendrons, scarlet with blossom,
wild red hibiscus, and convolvuli of all colours, hung over the water,
whilst masses of tiny flowers, vaguely reminding us of violets, made a
mauve carpet for our feet as we stepped along, and in so doing, alas,
helped to spoil the picture. We looked up a great reach of the torrent
mounting straight and closing the horizon. At our feet the waters were
divided by a small, rocky island, on which grew, in scrappy bits of
soil, lofty trees with leafy branches. The water frothed and foamed
round this impediment, and Mr. Bampfylde informed me that at this spot
many boats are swamped and lives lost every year. Then, beyond the
horizon lay numberless rapids, not so dangerous as is that of Pelagus,
and before reaching Belaga, the water flows tranquilly along until the
upper reaches of the Rejang are reached. Belaga is a great centre for
rattans, camphor, and gutta-percha.
As I stood looking at the whirlpool, Hovering Hawk, who was standing
near me, pointed with his thumb to the swirling water all flecked
with foam. “See there,” he said, “who knows how many eyes lie buried
beneath that foam!”
Beyond this foam, on the opposite bank, were quantities of wild sago
palms, drooping their metallic green fronds over smaller-leaved forest
trees; then, lower down on the rocky banks, were entanglements of red
rhododendrons, of scarlet berries and leaves, sprinkled by the spray.
The mystery, the strangeness of the place, so like, and yet so unlike,
European waterfalls; the groups of Dyaks scattered about, grave and
silent, perhaps remembering comrades of theirs who had found their
deaths in the whirlpool; the perfumes of moss, damp earth and flowers,
and the sound of running water, made us thoughtful, until Face of Day,
with a pompous air, pulled his sword from out its wooden sheath, cut
a branch of leaves and berries from a shrub near by, and handed it to
me. “Its leaves are tongues, and its berries flaming hearts--manah
(beautiful),” he said. His gift somewhat impeded my progress as I
struggled down the slippery rocks to our boat, but I managed to carry
the branch in safety, and one of its leaves now rests between the pages
of St. Francis of Assisi’s _Floweret_ book I always keep by me.
We then embarked for the return--I looking eagerly for a new
experience, that of shooting the rapids. It was very great fun. Salleh
stood in the bows with a long pole, and two or three of the crew also
took poles, whilst the remainder of the Dyaks sat in their places in
the boat, no doubt rejoicing in having nothing to do. We bounded
like corks over the crest of the waves; we were carried into pools,
from whence we emerged by clever strokes of Salleh’s pole against
intervening rocks, and rounded great stones which, a moment before,
appeared as though nothing could prevent our boats being dashed against
them. It was shady, cool, and peaceful; flowers, leaves, and mosses
smelt sweet; pale blue butterflies hovered over the banks, and a hawk
hung motionless in the air above our heads. When we had passed in
safety the most dangerous part of the cataract, our crew sang their
home-coming song, a sort of dirge sounding something like a Gregorian
chant. Mr. Bampfylde told me it was a thanksgiving song to the gods for
having floated us safely over the dangers of the great Pelagus rapid.
As I write, it all comes back to me as though it only happened
yesterday, for the impression was so intense that at times I fancy
myself again in that spot, flying down the rapids like a bird. I think
if, at the end of my life, I had to give an account of the happiest
time I have ever spent, it would be of those too brief minutes when
Salleh and his picked crew steered our boat down those foaming waters.