SHIPWRECKED AMONG CANNIBALS
The days have flown almost uncounted. Our native passengers left us
several days ago, after we had passed a large river which it was
impossible for them to cross on account of its width and depth. They had
refused to go home on foot, for this would have necessitated their
traversing unfriendly territory they knew to be dangerous in the
extreme.
Landing on the other side of the river, they were among tribes more or
less friendly to their own and stood an excellent chance of reaching
home in safety.
Their absence was welcome, for they had reduced the tiny forward deck to
the condition of a pigsty. Once dining their stay on board two of them
tried to get friendly with us and came aft like children encroaching on
forbidden ground, but Ula made their stay one of exceedingly short
duration. In fact, they didn’t stay at all. They didn’t even pause, for
as they stepped around the saloon-deck combing Ula spied them and with a
well-directed heave of a large wooden thole-pin snatched from its socket
on the rail sent them scurrying back to their end of the ship.
Five minutes after we had landed them they disappeared in the mystic
silence of the jungle, anxious to gain the safety of their familiar
haunts.
We remained on shore for an hour to stretch our legs, for the close
quarters on the _Nautilus_ make some sort of exercise necessary. We
wandered up-river for a little distance and saw, floating in the
shallows near the shore, seven or eight basking crocodiles which slowly
sank from view as we approached. Many funny little fish, with heads like
frogs and fins in front like short fore legs, flopped and jumped about
on the muddy flats the receding tide had left. We watched them for some
minutes and laughed hugely at the antics of the fiddler-crabs fighting
and trying to drag one another into their respective holes, where the
victor could eat his unfortunate neighbor in peace, secure from
interruption.
Upon our return to the schooner we found Ula holding aloft an almost
empty cognac bottle. Upon his face there was a look of sorrow, for this,
it seemed, was the very last of his once plentiful stock. After
carefully measuring the contents with a speculative eye, he came to the
conclusion that the remaining fluid was sufficient for only one more
drink and raised the bottle to his lips. The cognac disappeared in one
long swallow, and Ula dropped the empty bottle over the rail as though
he were parting from his last friend. This was as it should be, for of
late he had begun to show the effects of quarts previously imbibed. He
seemed able to stand one or two, but many bottles drunk in rather quick
succession were making themselves felt.
Though he was fairly steady on his feet, his eyes told the tale and his
tongue had become noticeably thick. That evening he came to us and
requested that we let him start on the stock we carry in our medicine
kit. Of course we refused, and he sulkily returned to the stern sheets
in disconsolate dejection. Later Ula was seized with a brilliant idea.
His system craved alcohol. He must have it, he told himself. The compass
of the _Nautilus_ held nearly a pint of grain alcohol. His face lighted
with anticipation and before we realized the meaning of his fumbling
with the instrument he had unscrewed the top and had drained the raw
spirits to the last drop. It was a draft to kill a mule and probably
would have ended him, but his tortured stomach refused to retain it.
Enough of it stayed down, however, to reduce Ula to the most satisfying
state of inebriation he had ever experienced. He became very friendly
and most anxious to please, while we just looked at each other. There
was nothing to be done. We thanked Providence that there was no more of
the stuff within his reach and turned away from him in disgust.
That was just an hour or so ago, and we have been sitting reading while
the _Nautilus_ slipped through the water smoothly, as though she were
commanded by a skipper who was the soul of sobriety. There is land to
starboard, a mile or two away, one would judge, and over there a little
distance ahead we see smoke coming from the jungle. It is the first sign
of native life we have seen since leaving Merauke. After a hurried
discussion we ask Ula what the place is, but he is foolishly drunk and
we cannot make out what he says, so we decide for ourselves and tell him
to head for the shore as we wish to visit the place. Ula swings over the
tiller obligingly, and we move at a lively clip across the wind toward
the place.
We shall go ashore and investigate the kampong and, if it interests us,
move our camping-outfit there and settle down for a few days. Moh brings
up our cameras and guns while the crew unfasten the dinghy from its
place beside the rail. We go below, to load some fresh rolls into the
kodaks, where the light is not so strong. Five minutes pass while we are
engaged in this undertaking and speculation as to what kind of kampong
we shall find, when suddenly there is a terrific shock, a rending,
crunching sound, and we pick ourselves up from the saloon floor and gaze
blankly at each other, for the fraction of a moment speechless with
consternation. The cause of the crash is self-evident. We are on a reef.
From beneath the floor comes the gurgle of a torrent of water which is
pouring into the _Nautilus_ through a gaping hole in her bottom. We are
high upon a submerged reef of rocky coral, shipwrecked among cannibals!
What the tribe is that lives on shore and how friendly it is remain to
be seen. The moment is one of those deadly potential eternities that
either make one lose all self-control or become cold sober. Luckily, we
are not of the hysterical type and our first thought is to get our guns,
food, and cameras to a place of safety on shore. The schooner may slide
off the reef into deep water at any moment, and then we shall be in a
pickle.
Working like mad, we begin heaving our possessions up on deck, and I go
up to see that it is properly stowed in the dinghy. The crew are working
like demons, and Ula, sobered by the catastrophe, has ordered the men to
get the anchor hooked into the reef and the chain drawn taut to hold us
there.
I take command and order some of the men to get the dinghy overside, and
into it we pack all that it will hold. It is sent ashore, and five trips
are necessary to transport the whole of our outfit. We go ashore with
the third load to see that it is properly cared for. There is a high
surf running, and in order to get the dinghy through it without soaking
the baggage we have to jump overboard into waist-deep water and help
steer it through the breakers. The barang is piled up just above the
reach of the incoming surges, but the tide seems to be rising.
It is necessary to get the stuff higher up, out of reach of the water,
and we bend our energies in that direction. The beach seems to be
deserted, and we wonder whether or not the natives have discovered our
presence. We are soon to be informed as to this, for suddenly we hear a
guttural grunt and an explosive, “_Uhumen!_ [Go away!]” coming from the
fringe of tall _tapa_ grass that fringes the beach. We gaze in startled
surprise in the direction of the sound and even as we look there spring,
like mushrooms, from the thick grass a long row of black heads which
seem to number hundreds.
We stop work for the moment and stand in indecision, facing the watching
line of feather-crowned heads. Three of the natives rise from their
crouching position and advance toward us, waving their arms and
shouting, “_Uhumen!_” From their menacing manner it is evident that we
are de trop, that they wish us to depart. This is out of the question,
for our only means of conveyance is at least temporarily on the rocks. A
rapid calculation tells us that we are about three hundred miles from
the town of Merauke. To walk to it is out of the question, also, for we
could not carry sufficient provender, together with our expensive
equipment, to sustain us during the journey. We are between the hammer
and the anvil. The only solution of the difficulty is to make friends
with the natives.
The best way to do this is to assert ourselves immediately, to show
ourselves masters of the situation. If we allow the natives to take the
initiative, things will go hard with us. They have all seen white men
before, or, if not, have heard much about them and fear them.
We must seem to justify that fear. As the three Kia Kias draw near to us
we beckon to them and, pointing to the barang, tell them sternly in
Malay, to carry it up out of reach of the tide. The middle one draws
himself up proudly at this and again points to the wreck of the
_Nautilus_, saying, “_Uhumen!_” Again we indicate the barang and order
it carried up the beach. The others in the grass have risen now and are
watching intently but in silence the action of their chiefs.
The first rule in dealing with the native is never to allow him to
disobey the orders of a white man, and we have given an order. It must
be carried out. Once more we command them to move the barang, stepping
close to the middle chief, who seems to be in authority. He refuses for
them all. The time for action has come. He receives a forceful blow on
the point of his jaw; without a sound he goes down. His six-foot body
stretches out full-length on the sand, lies quiet for the moment; then,
his senses slowly returning, he rises painfully and, cowering before us,
goes to the pile of barang, selects the lightest of the pieces, carries
it to a spot we designate, and deposits it there. Then he turns to the
others and calls to them to come and assist him with the work.
We do not understand the meaning of his words and as a precautionary
measure draw our Colt “forty-fives,” ready for an emergency. The
automatics can speak a rapid language. Spears and war-clubs are not much
of a match for them. We know the natives will not stand against
firearms. At the first bark of the heavy pistols they would disappear
into the jungle, never to return.
Moh seems to have vanished and we turn to look for him. There he is,
standing so close behind us that he is like our shadow. His face is
positively green. Poor devil! he is scared speechless! With the safe
stowage of our equipment we stop to consider for a moment. The spot we
are now on is well above the reach of the tide and will make an
admirable camp site. It is far enough from the thick-growing cocoanuts
to render us safe from surprise attack. We decide to pitch the tents
here.
Since our first show of authority the natives have withdrawn to a
discreet distance and are seated cross-legged in the sand, intently
watching our preparations for camp-making. They are chattering volubly
among themselves, though whether in anger or not, we cannot tell. Among
our boxes we come to a carton of coarse shag tobacco which has been
broken open and the idea comes that it might not be amiss to make them a
little present as a sort of friendship offering.
We gather up an armful of the little blue packages and walk toward the
savages slowly. They all rise to their feet as we approach; they are not
quite sure of our intentions, and are ready to fly at the first sign of
trouble. That unceremonious chastening of their chief in the face of
terrific odds has instilled in them a wholesome awe of us.
Conversation is difficult, for we do not speak their language. After a
time, however, we seem to make our intentions understood, and a smile
appears on the faces of some of them, here and there, as the light of
comprehension bursts upon them. These in turn tell their fellows, and
soon broad smiles wreathe the faces of all, even including the sober
face of the chastened one. Their manner becomes almost affable and we
walk slowly around the semicircle, passing to each a package of the
shag. None of them thank us, except with their eyes, but all of them
immediately devote their attention to the packets, tearing them open and
stuffing whole mouthfuls of tobacco into cavernous cheeks that distend
in funny pouch-like roundness, reminding us of the monkeys we saw six
months ago on the sacred island in the Queen River in Borneo.
With the gift of the tobacco we seem to have acquired membership in
their clan and they cluster around us in apparent friendliness, much to
our discomfort. One and all are besmeared with rancid cocoanut-oil mixed
with various earth pigments, and the odor is terrific. This will never
do, we tell ourselves, and we motion them to withdraw a little. They are
obedient and return to the place where they were sitting before. They
are about twenty yards from the spot where the boys are erecting the
tents. This is a sufficient distance for comfort, so we take up pieces
of driftwood and, beginning at the grass-line of the beach, draw a
circle in the sand around the tents. This, we inform them by means of
signs, is the dead-line and none may pass it without permission. They
all nod in comprehension.
Moh regards us with reverential awe. They cannot be kept too far away to
suit him. He knows better than we that the Kia Kias are not to be
trusted too far. They may be friendly one moment and the very next turn
upon one unaware. He tells us so, and with the warning comes the
adjurations of our friends in Merauke. A little precaution will not be
amiss, we decide, and our rifles are placed within reach, ready for
instant use. Our automatics are our constant companions. Somehow,
though, it all seems unnecessary. We have done, and intend them, no
wrong.
The incoming tide is playing havoc with the _Nautilus_. Great combers
are breaking over her rail on the weather side and she is careening
drunkenly, her masts canted over at a sharp angle. Ula and the men
depart for her, to salvage what they can before she slides off the reef
into deep water.
When they return they bring two bags of water-soaked rice which they
have rescued from the schooner’s hold. They report that she is a total
loss and can never be saved. The coral has torn a gaping hole in her
bottom and the planking, including the keelson, is crushed beyond
repair. The outlook is not pleasant. When we ask Ula how soon some Malay
trading-schooner is likely to happen along, he cheerfully informs us
that this is the storm season and that one may not make this part of the
coast for months.
[Illustration: Seated at a discreet distance, watching our camp-making
intently]
[Illustration: There had been a disagreement in the village]
We look at each other blankly for a moment and then laugh. We were
looking for adventure, weren’t we? Well, we have it. We shall have ample
time to study the cannibals at home. Our opportunity could not be
better, but we wonder—Oh, well, when in doubt—dine!
Moh is nonplussed at our decision. To dine we must have water. Where to
get it worries him. He has visions of himself going to some lonely
water-hole back in the jungle, with stealthy Kia Kias creeping up on
him, mouths watering in anticipation, to jerk him hence. His face is
positively pitiful as he looks at us and says:
“Tuan, ini tida ayer minum. [Master, there is no drinking-water.]”
We allay his fears, for we tell him that we will go with him to find it,
and, taking one of the natives for a guide, we set out to find it. It is
always plentiful in the jungle, for there are numberless little brooks
threading the deep silences of the thickets not far from the shore-line.
A hundred yards from the camp we come upon a small stream from which we
fill the buckets, and Moh soon has dinner under way. As night falls we
mount guard in turns of four hours on and four off. We are under
constant attack while on duty, for the mosquitos swarm upon us in
clouds. With the help of veils, gloves, and choking smudge we worry
through our respective watches.
Moh does not sleep at all the first night, but sits in the drifting
smoke of the burning cocoa husks in downcast self-commiseration. We
cannot quite make out why he left happy Java to come on a fool trip like
this. He thinks all Americans are crazy, for they do not seem to know
fear. He keeps the coffee-pot working for us and fills the lamp once
when the gasolene runs low. The mantle-lamp, hanging between the tents
and the forest, throws a white glare over the camp site. We are burning
it for two reasons: it lights up the jungle approach to the camp and
draws the myriad insects to its killing heat in swarms. Thus we shall be
warned of the approach of danger and at the same time, to some extent,
rid of the pests. When on guard we keep in the shadow of a board from a
packing-case placed between us and the lamp, so that the light may not
blind us with its glare.
The murmur of the surf seems to whisper to us of lurking dangers and the
night is eery with unaccustomed sounds that come from the jungle. As the
breeze stirs the fronds of the cocoas they rasp together. Now and then a
falling nut thumps to the ground with startling abruptness. Each sound
is magnified by our nervous expectancy, until the night becomes hideous
with sounds and the grotesque shadows the ferns cast in the lamplight
move weirdly to and fro like creeping savages. More than once we sit
bolt upright with rifles tightly clutched as some shadow takes on a
human shape or moves slowly toward us. The rising moon casts a wan
half-light over the scene, for it is in its last quarter. The scene is
one of indescribable beauty and never-to-be-forgotten tensity. Even the
crew of the _Nautilus_ are crouched around a tiny smudge of their own,
wide awake and silent. The air is surcharged with an electric
expectancy; the darkness a malign mantle of doubt. How the hours drag,
and how we wish for dawn?
[Illustration: Those who failed to get a package came to the dead-line
and asked for one]
[Illustration: They may be friendly at one moment and turn upon one the
very next]