WE’RE OFF!
High tide at nine to-day! On the _Nautilus_ the crew are shortening up
on the anchor chain, for the rusty old hook has been buried in the river
mud for two months. We sail at full tide, which enables us to skirt the
shore of the western flats and save much time in getting out to sea.
Moh has superintended the moving of all our effects to the little
schooner while we have been in the trading-company’s store making some
eleventh-hour purchases of tobacco and tin mirrors for the natives and
cigars for ourselves. The three white men in charge bid us Godspeed,
after many admonitions to take care of ourselves and warnings not to
trust the Kia Kias too far. Grouped in a little knot upon the veranda of
the store, silent, they sadly watch us depart. We, too, hate to say
good-by; we have had some pleasant chats with them.
We go directly to the schooner, anxious to take up the trail to
adventure. Ula is waiting for us beside the wharf in the tiny dinghy. As
we drop into it it sinks with our weight so that the gunwale is scarcely
three inches above water and we have visions of making the short trip to
the _Nautilus_ each for himself, swimming. Nothing more serious than the
shipping of a few gallons of the muddy river water happens, however, and
we arrive alongside the _Nautilus_, in high spirits, though with feet
and legs soaked. We probably shall be much wetter than this before the
trip is over, is the cheering thought that comes to us.
As we clamber up over the schooner’s low rail we scan the deck. Up
forward are our five ex-convicts. Their brief sojourn in the hoosgow has
quieted them down a bit and they are not particularly effusive in their
greetings. In fact, they don’t even notice us, but sit huddled together
just back of the anchor winch with dirty bark-cloth blankets thrown over
their heads. We go forward to look them over and they return our gaze
with a half-conciliatory, half-annoyed expression that makes us grin.
Our grin seems to be taken as an assurance of good-will, for they in
turn smile slightly and one of the women bursts out in a hearty laugh.
From that moment we “belong.” Ula seems anxious to get under way and
comes stumbling forward with two of the crew. Most of our barang is
still on deck, awaiting our orders concerning its disposal, and over
this the trio have some difficulty in making their way. The dinghy
further complicates matters, for it has been hoisted and deposited edge
up beside the rail. One of the crew jumps upon it, as the easiest way,
and runs over it, balancing like a tight-rope walker on the narrow
rolling edge of the thing as though it were a solid sidewalk. His pride
takes a fall, however, for as he jumps from it he finds insecure footing
where the water from the dinghy has made the deck slippery and falls
flat, to the huge delight of our friends the criminals.
The boys hoist the sail on the foremast and the _Nautilus_ swings around
to break out the anchor. This done, Ula snaps a sharp command in Malay
to the boys in the bow, who seize the rusty handles of the winch and
slowly bring the old mud-hook to the surface. How they accomplish this
is a mystery, for at every turn one of the handles of the winch slips on
the shaft, while Ula tries to tighten it with wedges of wood driven into
the handle socket.
Our Kia Kia friends are very much interested in the proceedings and
gather closely around. This gets on Ula’s nerves to such an extent that
he unceremoniously kicks the men out of the way, which they do not seem
to resent particularly; they sit down again out of harm’s way, but keep
up a lively flow of comment. Ula is much disgusted with them and the
glances he gives them make us wonder if they are going to enjoy their
trip home.
The town is fast dropping into the hazy distance, and save for the
chatter of the crew and the natives, and now and then the thumping
splash of a husky comber against the bow, all is silent. Moh places our
dunnage below in the tiny saloon. He carries the groceries down last,
for he will have to cook all of our meals there. The crew cook theirs
over a sort of fireplace built right on deck, just aft of the foremast.
After inspecting the saloon, which contains two sleeping-bunks, we
decide to sleep on deck. The atmosphere of the saloon is hard to
describe. It is hot and stuffy and a strong smell of bilge-water comes
from beneath the floor. No, it isn’t possible to sleep there. Moh grins
when we tell him to place our cots on deck.
We clear the mouth of the river and swing outward on a long tack, for
the wind is coming dead against us. This will make the up-coast trip
slow, but what care we? We have plenty of time and then we may always
console ourselves with the thought, “Well, maybe something will happen.”
As we swerve into the trough of the sea the _Nautilus_ begins to roll
and a groan comes from the Kia Kias on the forward deck. They are
experiencing their first case of seasickness and seem very wretched
indeed. I have been told that seasickness is wholly mental and that
babies are never sick at sea because they have no fear of being so, nor
any knowledge of how others are affected. The poor savages by the
foremast seem to refute this theory, for though they are grown-ups, they
can have had no previous experience of the sea, having come from far
inland, and it is not likely that they have ever discussed seasickness.
They succumb one by one until all are down.
Moh walks by with a stony glare in his eye, as though all were not right
with him, and later becomes a delicate robin’s-egg green around the
gills, but he continues at work with a never-say-die expression that
wins our admiration. Moh is all right, we whisper to ourselves; he’s
game, anyway.
The day wears on, the only diversion being when Ula calls to the men to
tack. He is sitting beside us in the stern with the tiller ropes in
hand. Now and then we attempt to break the monotony by taking a turn at
steering, and silently flatter ourselves that we are doing it as
skilfully as he. But Ula now and then casts a critical glance aloft and
finally takes the ropes from us. A slight tug at one or the other of
them and the sails fill, catching all the wind which we have been
missing. There is an amused grin on Ula’s face. Moh is asleep on the
deck in the shade of the low saloon bulkhead. The sea is very calm and
the sky cloudless except for a few low-hanging clouds which fringe the
horizon in the west. The easy swells lull us into slumber, from which we
are roused—after what seems only ten minutes but is really two hours—by
Moh, who is calling us to _makanan_. This is the Malay word for dinner
and is, I believe, the first word of the language learned by the
traveler.
He has unpacked our camp table and set it on the deck. Our meal consists
of canned goods brought from the good old U. S. A. We purchased a
two-months’ supply of them in Java and Moh is delighted, for all he has
to do to cook them is to put a great bucket of water on the fire, dump
the cans into it, and, when it has boiled a sufficient length of time,
fish them out and open them. He is thrifty, too, for he saves the hot
water in the bucket to wash the dishes with.
We have made only one mistake in picking out our dishes: we purchased
aluminum cups. Every time we essay a mouthful of hot coffee—and Moh
serves it piping hot—there is a sputter and the air becomes lurid with
imprecations. It is astonishing how hot those metal cups can get. Every
time we burn our lips on them Moh looks up with a terrified, wondering
expression, as though in doubt as to whether we are berating him as a
cook or what. The Malay does not understand the soul-satisfaction the
white man gets from swearing. He must have some specific object upon
which to vent his feelings and his invectives invariably take the form
of some terrible expression such as “_Babi kow_,” meaning “You pig,” or
some similarly outrageous figure of speech. Compared with our most
conservative epithets the vocabulary of the Malay is singularly
amateurish.
While Moh clears away the debris of the evening meal we stoke up the old
briers and watch the sunset. In the Indies this is usually one of the
events of the day. Shortly after nightfall, which comes in these
latitudes with surprising rapidity, we peel off our clothes and stretch
out on our cots with no other covering than our pajamas. The sky is a
diamond-studded canopy above us,—blue velvet, unfathomable in depth. We
shall be sound asleep when the moon rises and shall probably miss that,
though it is almost worth waiting for. Above us, but a little to the
south of the zenith, hangs the Southern Cross, which resembles somewhat
a broken kite,—one of those two-sticked kites of boyhood that was
diamond-shaped and had one bowed stick. We fall asleep trying to count
the stars in one of the constellations. As I drop off I wonder drowsily
if it will rain before morning. If it does! Oh, well, what matter? We
can change to dry pajamas.
Ula is still on duty at the tiller when we drift into slumber. He has a
bottle of cognac beside him for company, and for solace, too, we
imagine. He must have hated to leave his lady-love with the courting
just begun. He knows full well that there are many other Ulas in her
vicinity who will do their best to keep her from pining while he is
away. In all probability, though, should he find that in his absence
another has taken his place, he will be just as content with her next
older sister. It really doesn’t matter much.
* * * * *
Six bells. The air is stifling. There is a loud drumming sound over and
around us. As we come wide awake we realize what the matter is. The
_Nautilus_ was headed for a heavy squall and Ula called Moh, who, rather
than waken us, simply spread a heavy tarpaulin over us to protect us
from the rain. It was the smothering and not the storm that roused us.
How he got the covering spread without disturbing us we shall never
know. We rise up on our elbows and peer out from under it. The rain is
coming down in torrents. Ula is still at the tiller. His clothes stick
to him and the water is running in a steady stream from the turned-down
brim of his brown straw hat. He has tied it upon his head with a string
passed underneath his jaw. His water-soaked figure is ludicrous and we
burst into laughter. Ula apparently enjoys the situation, himself, and
does not seem to mind the wetting. The bottle of cognac is still beside
him, so he won’t get cold. His capacity for liquor is a matter of great
pride to him; it is the envy of his fellows and the subject of much
discussion among them.
Like all tropical storms, the squall passes soon and we are able to toss
off the heavy “tarp.” Under it the heat is terrific. We wonder how the
Kia Kias up forward are faring, but are not sufficiently interested to
go there and find out. If Ula and the crew can stand it, they should be
able to. A thorough soaking will do them good, for it is only with rain
that their bodies are ever moistened. They have a constitutional dislike
for water, even as a beverage. For drink they are quite content with the
milk of the cocoanut, the meat of which forms a large part of their
diet.
After the squall the air is cool and deliciously sweet. The breeze comes
again and fills the dripping sails which have been hanging limp and
motionless. Some of the crew are clustered around the fireplace, cooking
fish. They spit them upon slivers broken from one of our packing-cases
and toast them over the open fire. Moh is squatted among them and seems
to be quite at home. Occasional words drift to us, indicating that the
topic of discussion is the usual one,—the virtues of their respective
women. This is a subject that the Malay never seems to tire of. In the
kampongs the women talk likewise of the men. Having nothing else to
occupy their thoughts, no business or serious occupation, naturally they
are interested chiefly in one another and they discuss with the utmost
candor subjects of which the European never speaks.
We listen, and are properly shocked at some of the things said which
bring forth bursts of delighted laughter from the listeners;
nevertheless we cock our ears so as not to miss any of them. One of the
boys is telling how well his sweetheart dances and he gives a
demonstration which to us is lewd in the extreme and occasions
uproarious laughter. His companions slap him on the back and urge him to
continue, but he shakes his head in refusal when Ula calls to him to
come and show the _Tuans_, meaning us. This breaks up the party, for
they believed us to be asleep. They are very reserved in the presence of
the stranger, for they sense that their ways are not ours.
It is only upon ripe acquaintance that the male native will speak of his
family affairs to the white man, though the women seem to be always
ready to gossip.
When the whispering begins again Ula looks at us and grins. He wags his
head as though to say, “It’s too bad, for he is very funny, but I can’t
make him do it.” We are just as well satisfied, and we turn over to our
sleep. Ula has just tossed the empty cognac bottle over the side, where
it bobs away into the darkness in a wabbly dance. The idle thought
drifts through my mind that I should like to cork up some wild message
in that bottle on the chance of its being picked up. But white men who
could read it seldom visit this lonely coast.
We are the first to come in years, except the few “paradise-hunters.”
Some of these have taken the paradise away with them, while others,
seeking the one kind of paradise, have found another and have remained
after having served as the pièce de résistance of some gastronomic
function.