THE COMING OF THE BURONG MAS
Kampong days melt into one another with such indolent smoothness that
the weeks slide into months without tally. Were it not for the calendar
that hangs on the wall of the tent our count of them would be entirely
lost. The simple routine life of the natives of the kampong, except for
the diversions we have seen, becomes monotonous and boredom grips us.
It is a week since our yellow brethren left us with much ado and genial
wishes for our welfare. They are well on their way by this time. Some of
our own boys from the _Nautilus_ accompanied them, for they had through
some misdeeds become _persona non grata_ with our hosts. On the beach
there is a heavy surf rolling, for some distant storm at sea has raised
a great swell, and dozens of Medusæ and other ocean polyps have been
thrown up by the waves, to die in the fierce rays of the sun.
While we are walking along beside the thundering surf inspecting
these,—a sort of natural-history lesson for want of more engrossing
occupation,—a glance seaward gives us a thrill. Far out upon the
horizon, almost hull down, is a schooner. It seems to be headed in our
direction. She is the first sign of life we have seen at sea since our
arrival here, and our minds are instantly filled with conjecture as to
her destination. “Will she touch here?” we ask each other.
We hasten back to the kampong to tell the natives of the schooner and
also to see if they know anything about her. She may be, we think, a
boat that customarily touches at this place to trade. Upon seeing the
schooner, which is momentarily drawing nearer, the natives chatter
excitedly, finally making us understand that she will not come here, but
will undoubtedly touch at a kampong farther up the coast where much
copra or dried cocoanut meat, purchased from the natives with trade
tobacco, will be taken on. The schooner is tacking and, even as we
watch, takes a slant across the wind. The other kampong is fifteen miles
to the westward. If we can get there in time to intercept the schooner
before she has taken on her cargo and left, there is a good chance that
we can get back to Merauke on her and catch the steamer to Java.
A steamer is due to leave Merauke for civilization in four days,
according to our calendar. There is no time to lose. Instantly we make
up our minds to take that schooner back. This will necessitate our
packing up our equipment immediately and transporting it fifteen miles
in the broiling heat of midday, plowing through the soft beach sand. It
is a large order to undertake in the tropics. When we tell the natives
of our decision they shake their heads gravely and say it cannot be
done.
However, we strike camp in a jiffy and soon have our equipment snugly
done up in thirty- and forty-pound bundles. The next problem is to
secure the assistance of the natives, for without their aid the trip
will be impossible. At first they are most unwilling to accompany us,
but when we tell them that they are going whether they like it or not,
and make a show of becoming nasty, they decide not to arouse our anger
and gather round to load the bundles on their backs. Each tries to
select the lightest of the bundles, and there ensues a great squabble
among them. There are nearly sixty pieces of barang to be carried, and
of course this requires a like number of men. We settle the squabble by
telling all the men to take their bundles to a clear place on the sand
and lay them down. When they have done this, we line them up and pick
out the strongest-looking of them to carry the heavier pieces, so that
the weaker and the very old ones will not be overburdened. It is not
alone a sense of justice that prompts us in this, though, for were we to
overload the weaker ones they would lag behind the rest and thus delay
our march.
[Illustration: The skipper is a jolly fellow with a countenance that
beams good nature, mixed with a shrewdness that speaks of business
ability]
[Illustration: He beats a gong briskly and chants a prayer in Malay,
while the rest of the crew add their prayers to his petitions]
Before going we distribute part of our remaining tobacco among the
women, who have come to like us and appear sad over our sudden
leave-taking. The rest we will give to our carriers when they leave us
at the other kampong. With one of us white men in the lead to set the
pace and the other bringing up the rear to spur on the laggards, we
hasten away at a pace that soon starts the perspiration in streams. Moh
walks along in the middle of the procession, happier than he has been
since leaving Java. He has visions of his lady-love in Soerabaya
greeting him with outstretched arms. He feels sure of her fidelity; for
does she not know that he is well paid by the Tuans, and that his
pockets will be well lined with guilders?
The remaining crew of the _Nautilus_ also come with us, and are rather
useful, for they proudly tote our guns. They, too, are happy, as they
are anxious to return to their homes. Abreast of us is the schooner,
still tacking up the coast. It seems at first as though she were slowly
crawling ahead of us, but as the hours drag on we see that we are
holding our own, and we even stop once for refreshment and to rest the
weary natives, who are beginning to show signs of playing out. Some of
them stagger a little as they come to a halt where we are piling the
barang.
After the period of rest is over they shoulder their burdens and the
long file is again under way. The sky becomes overcast when we are on
the last four-mile stretch and still an hour from our destination. We
welcome the cloudiness, for the heat has been terrific. With the clouds
comes a rain-storm which soaks us to the skin, but which washes off the
perspiration and is gratefully cooling. Once our spirits fall as we near
the kampong. The schooner tacks again, which seems to indicate that she
is going out to sea and does not intend touching at the place at all.
There is excited comment from the natives at this and we indulge in a
little soul-satisfying invective, until we see that the manœuver is
simply to enable the boat to pass a mud-bar over which the tide is
breaking. As the schooner swerves and heads directly for the village, we
cheer loudly and urge the lagging Kia Kias to greater speed, that we may
arrive at the place ahead of her dinghy.
We just make it, for the men drop their burdens as the crew of the
schooner land through the surf. We go forward to meet the skipper of the
craft and find him to be a Chinese who greets us affably. To our inquiry
if he intends returning to Merauke he replies that he will after loading
on five piculs of copra. We tell him that we wish to return with him and
he looks at our pile of barang and shakes his head. After a little
mental calculation he says that he cannot accommodate us unless we wish
to leave some of our belongings for a later trip. At this we firmly
shake our heads, and we finally strike a bargain by chartering his whole
schooner for ourselves. The copra he leaves for a later trip.
We tell him that we must be in Merauke in time to catch the steamer for
Java. Again he shakes his head and with a glance at the sky says,
“_Angin tida baik_ [The wind is not good.]” While this conversation has
been under way, our bearers have cast themselves wearily down upon the
sand, and as the natives of the kampong drift down to the beach they
rise and try to slink away to the village, where they can hide from
further work. Moh calls our attention to this just in time, and we order
them back to their burdens. The schooner is lying about three hundred
yards from the high-tide mark and with the receding tide is canting
slowly on her side. She is aground in the mud of the river mouth.
The best way to load her with our barang is to have the men wade out and
put the stuff directly on her. This they do after some remonstrance, and
then our work is over. Tired out from the long hike in the heat, we go
aboard immediately and change to dry, clean clothes while Moh prepares
our dinner. The Kia Kias receive the remaining tobacco, five packages
each, with cries of glad surprise, and it touches us to hear them
singing to us while, tired as they are, they dance farewell to us up and
down the beach. With all their faults, they have hearts and can come
truly to like one who treats them with consideration and kindliness.
High tide is at eleven, the skipper tells us, and we must of necessity
wait for it. The crew are all on shore, visiting in the kampong, from
which there drifts to us the sound of merrymaking. A thump now and then
warns us of the incoming tide, and soon the schooner’s decks begin to
level up as she straightens to an even keel. At half-past ten o’clock
the skipper comes aboard with the crew and preparations are made for
getting under way. The skipper is a jolly fellow with a rotund
countenance beaming with good nature mixed with shrewdness that speaks
of his business ability. He has driven a hard bargain with us for the
charter, he thinks, but could he but know it, we would have paid him
double without rancor. In fact, we offer a prize or bonus for himself
and the crew if they land us in Merauke in time to catch our steamer.
The kampong is in utter darkness when we finally weigh anchor and glide
out from the shadow of the point beneath which it nestles. Only the
mournful howling of a dog bids us farewell, for the natives have all
turned in. There is a fair breeze, and with low contented murmurings the
wavelets lap the cutwater of the schooner.
Morning dawns on a glassy sea. There is not a breath of air stirring.
The sails hang motionless. The hours speed by with no change in the
motion of the schooner. As the situation begins to get on our nerves and
we contemplate a two-months’ stretch in Merauke, we anxiously question
the skipper as to the probability of the calm enduring. He gives us
little hope and we descend to the depths of gloom. The crew are gathered
up forward around the typical sheet-iron fireplace, cooking rice and
fish. When they have finished their meal one of them worms his way below
and emerges later with a large gong. He is about to call the attention
of the wind spirits to our plight and beseech them to favor us so that
the bonus can be collected. He beats the gong briskly and chants an
invocation in Malay, while the rest of the crew add their prayers to
his. We look upon the proceeding with cynical indifference, but, much to
our surprise, even while the men are still chanting and the gong
booming, a cool breath fans our faces and the sail above us bellies out
tentatively. At this the crew redouble their efforts and soon a spanking
breeze is sending us slithering through the surges in fine style.
The crew look at us with great pride in their gods, and an expression
of, “Your gods cannot do that.” It is a coincidence, we tell ourselves,
but underlying our skepticism is a lurking wonder if after all there is
not something in their faith. Only once on the voyage to Merauke does
the breeze lessen. As the sails flap in the falling breeze, the gong and
the chant are again brought to the fore, with instant results. The thing
is a little uncanny and the skipper assures us that when they are beset
with danger, in a storm, they call to the spirits in the same way and
always with the desired results.
At noon of the second day out we espy ahead the great red buoy that
marks the channel within the river of Merauke. As we turn the point to
enter the broad river a welcome sight greets us. Our steamer is just
coming abreast of the town, having arrived a few hours ahead of time.
To-night we shall sleep in a snow-white stateroom,—between clean sheets.
THE END
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors.
2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Isle of Vanishing Men, by W. F. Alder