"Gang Murders"--Malay Nicknames--A Persecuted Infant--The Last of the
Golden Chersonese
MR. JUSTICE WOOD'S, THE PEAK, PINANG, February 24.
However kind and hospitable people are, the process of "breaking in" to
conventionalities again is always a severe one, and I never feel well
except in the quiet and freedom of the wilds, though in the abstract
nothing can be more healthy than the climate of this lofty Peak. The
mercury has been down at 68 degrees for two nights, and blankets have
been a comfort!
Shortly after finishing my last letter I left Taipeng with Mr. Maxwell,
calling on our way to the coast at Permatang, to inquire if there were
any scent of the murderers of the revenue officer, but there was none.
The inspector said that he had seen many murdered bodies, but never one
so frightfully mutilated. These Chinese "gang-murders" are nearly
always committed for gain, and the Chinese delight in cruel hackings
and purposeless mutilations. The Malay assassinations are nearly all
affairs of jealousy--a single stab and no more.
The last part of the drive on a road causewayed through the endless
mangrove swamp impresses the imagination strongly by its dolefulness.
Here are hundreds of square miles all along the coast nothing but swamp
and slime, loaded with rank and useless vegetation, which has not even
beauty to justify its existence, teeming with alligators, serpents, and
other vengeful creatures. There is a mournfulness in seeing the pointed
fruit of the mangrove drop down through the still air into the slime
beneath, with the rootlet already formed of that which never fails to
become a tree.
A Sikh guard of honor of fifty men in scarlet uniforms lined the way to
the boat as a farewell to Major Swinburne, whose feet they had embraced
and kissed with every Oriental demonstration of woe two hours before.
We asked him what his farewells were, and he says that he said, "You
are a lot of unmitigated scoundrels; half of you deserve hanging; but
keep out of scrapes if you can till I come back, that I may have the
pleasure of hanging you myself." He really likes them though, and
called after Captain Walker, who is to act as his substitute, "Now, old
man, don't knock those fellows about!" The chief dread of the "fellows"
is that they will be at the mercy of an interpreter under the new
regime. The Malays give sobriquets to all Europeans, founded upon their
physical or mental idiosyncrasies. Thus they call Major Swinburne "The
Mad One" and "The Outspoken One." Captain Walker they have already
dubbed "The Black Panther." They call Mr. Maxwell "The Cat-eyed One,"
and "The Tiger Cub."
Just before sailing I had the satisfaction of getting this telegram
from Kwala Kangsa: "Eblis is a little better this morning. He has eaten
two grasshoppers and has taken his milk without trouble, but he is very
weak."*
[*Those of my readers who have become interested in this most bewitching
ape will be sorry to hear that, after recovering and thriving for a
considerable time, he died, to the great grief of his friends.]
We embarked at 5:30 P.M. along with a swarm of mosquitoes, and after a
beautiful night anchored at Georgetown at 2 A.M., but it was a
ludicrously uncomfortable voyage. An English would-be lady, i.e., a
"fine lady," a product of imperfect civilization with which I have
little sympathy, had demanded rather than asked for a passage in the
Kinta, and this involved not only a baby, but an ayah and man-servant.
The little cabin of the launch can hold two on two coaches, but the
lady, after appropriating one, filled up most of the other with bags
and impediments of various kinds. The floor was covered with luggage,
among which the ayah and infant slept, and the man sat inside on the
lowest rung of the ladder. Thus there were five human beings, a host of
mosquitoes, and a lamp in the stifling den, in which the mercury stood
all night at 88 degrees. Then a whole bottle of milk was spilt and
turned sour, a vial of brandy was broken and gave off its disgusting
fumes, and the infant screamed with a ferocious persistency, which
contrasted with the patient wistfulness of the sick Eblis and his
gentle murmur of "ouf! ouf!" Before we anchored the lady asked me to go
and wake the gentlemen and get a teaspoonful of brandy for her, at
which request, though made with all due gravity, they laughed so
tremendously that I was hardly able to go back to her with it. Major
Swinburne, who professes to be a woman and child hater, was quite
irrepressible, and whenever the infant cried outrageously, called to
his servant, "Wring that brat's neck," the servant, of course, knowing
not a word of English, and at 2 A.M., when there was chocolate on deck,
and the unfortunate baby was roaring and kicking, he called down to me,
"Will you come and drink some chocolate to King Herod's memory?" Mr.
Maxwell, who has four children, did not behave much better; and it was
a great exertion to me, by overdone courtesy and desperate attempts at
conversation, to keep the mother as far as possible from hearing what
was going on!
At 6 A.M., in the glory of the tropic sunrise, Mr. Maxwell and I landed
in Province Wellesley, under the magnificent casuarina trees which
droop in mournful grace over the sandy shore. The somberness of the
interminable groves of cocoa-palms on the one side of the Strait, the
brightness of the sun-kissed peaks on the other, and the deep shadows
on the amber water, were all beautiful. Truly in the tropics "the
outgoings of the morning rejoice."
We found Mrs. Isemonger away, no one knew where, so we broke open the
tea-chest, and got some breakfast, at the end of which she returned,
and we had a very pleasant morning. At noon a six-oared gig, which was
the last of the "Government facilities," took us over to Georgetown,
spending an hour in crossing against an unfavorable tide, under a
blazing sun. This was the last of the Malay Peninsula.
S.S. Malwa, February 25.--We sailed from Pinang in glorious sunshine at
an early hour this afternoon, and have exchanged the sparkling calms of
the Malacca Straits for the indolent roll of the Bay of Bengal. The
steamer's head points northwest. In the far distance the hills of the
Peninsula lie like mists upon a reddening sky. My tropic dream is
fading and the "Golden Chersonese" is already a memory.