numbered about thirty men all told, they had come about ninety miles
right into the heart of the enemy’s country, and, if there were any
failure, retreat was a choice between a return against the current with a
hostile people on either bank, or a long pull to the river’s mouth under
the same conditions and then the sea.
Pĕnglima Prang Sĕmaun had, however, calculated the chances, and he
counted on a successful surprise and, if need be, the pursuit of those
tactics which he had already, at Bandar, found so useful.
Once on shore the palisade of Haji Mûsah’s house was cautiously
approached, and, the gate being locked, it was scaled, and the whole
party noiselessly established themselves beneath the house and waited for
daylight.
It so happened that the house contained only two men and two women—Haji
Mûsah and his wife, Haji Hawah, and their daughter and son-in-law, the
latter named Haji Sâhil.
At daybreak the back door of the house was opened and the two women came
out and went into the kitchen. In a moment Haji Hawah discovered that
the space beneath the house was full of armed men, and with a scream she
rushed back towards the door. Ere she could gain it, Haji Ali sprang upon
the platform and seized one of her hands, while her husband, unpleasantly
alive to the situation, caught hold of the other and tried to pull her
within the door, an effort which she seconded with all her might.
A real tug-of-war was carried on for a few moments, and Haji Ali was
joined by another man.
Local tradition says that Haji Ali experienced suddenly a feeling that
something dire was going to happen, and he asked his companion to relieve
him of his hold of the woman’s hand. The man took it, and Haji Mûsah from
the inside making a great effort drew his wife towards him, and at the
same time, with a spear, thrust out beyond her with so true an aim that
he transfixed her would-be captor. The man released his hold, fell with
a groan into Haji Ali’s arms, and Haji Mûsah, drawing his wife into the
house and believing he had wounded Pĕnglima Prang Sĕmaun, shouted as he
closed the door, “That has wetted you, Pĕnglima!”
Wetted him with blood.
Haji Ali called to the Pĕnglima, “Help me, a ‘watering’ has befallen our
friend”; a polite way of expressing a disaster. By the time they got the
man to the ground he was dead, for the spear had struck home.
The Pĕnglima, furious at this sight, leapt on the platform, and, finding
the door immovable, dashed open a small side-window with the butt end of
a musket and fired into the house, but hurt no one.
In the scuffle before the door was closed Haji Mûsah had accidentally
given his son-in-law a flesh wound on the shoulder, and that had disabled
him, so the defence of the position rested on one man alone.
Pĕnglima Prang Sĕmaun now summoned Haji Mûsah to surrender, but the reply
was, “I will not surrender.”
“Then,” said the Pĕnglima, “I will riddle the house with bullets.”
“Shoot away,” was the reply.
“I will burn the house down.”
“Burn it,” said Haji Mûsah, “and do whatever else you like, but I will
not give in.”
“Let us burn it,” said the Pĕnglima. But Haji Ali protested. “Are you
mad,” he urged, “already our enemies are collecting outside, you would
burn the house down and these people in it, and then what should we do?
Caught like fish in a basket, without walls or roof to shelter us, what
will become of us?”
The wisdom of this advice was apparent, and as it was necessary to deal
with those in the house quickly the leader set to work to devise another
plan.
An evil inspiration came to the Pĕnglima, and he told Haji Ali to get
Haji Mûsah into conversation again while he, having loaded with all
manner of missiles a pivot-gun which he found under the house, listened
attentively to the sound of Haji Mûsah’s voice, and tying the gun to a
post just beneath the spot where he thought the Haji must be standing,
fired it.
A large hole was rent in the floor, and, the various missiles scattering
in all directions, one of them struck Haji Mûsah in the thigh, seriously
wounding him and placing him _hors de combat_. His wife was also hit, but
only slightly injured.
The assailants realised the effects of the shot from what they heard
said within and again called upon Haji Mûsah to yield, but he declined
utterly to do so.
His wife said, “What is the use, you are wounded and cannot fight, so am
I and so is Haji Sâhil, what can we do, better make terms with them?”
Haji Mûsah stubbornly declined to listen to this persuasion and only
said, “Let them do their worst, I will not yield.”
Strange to say it was only then that Haji Hawah realised that her
daughter was missing. She remembered that the girl had left the house
with her and gone into the kitchen, but until that moment, what with the
discovery that the enemy was within their gates, the struggle at the door
and subsequent events, she had not thought of the girl further than to
suppose she was sitting terrified in some corner of the never brilliantly
lighted house.
Now, however, it was certain that she had failed to get back before the
door was closed and must have fallen into the hands of the enemy.
As a matter of fact nothing of the kind had happened. On the first alarm,
seeing the crowd of strange men and her mother’s struggles to gain the
house, the girl was too terrified to leave her shelter and had hidden
herself in the kitchen. The enemy being all under the house when the
women first came out, no one had particularly noticed the girl or ever
thought of entering her hiding-place.
The moment Haji Hawah was convinced her daughter was not in the house,
she became equally certain she was in the hands of the enemy, and that
was an intolerable idea. She, therefore, besought her husband to offer
to yield provided the girl were restored. This new factor in the case
persuaded him, and Haji Mûsah called out that he would yield if his
daughter were given back to them.
At first the besiegers could not understand the meaning of this proposal,
but light very soon came to them and they argued that if the girl was not
inside the house or in their hands, she must be in the kitchen, and a
search of that place very soon discovered her.
The Pĕnglima accordingly replied that he accepted the proposal and would
restore the girl on condition her father yielded. The door was then
opened and the girl admitted, but no sooner was she in the house than it
was closed again and Haji Mûsah declined to give himself up.
Shortly after, however, the loss of blood and pain of his stiffening limb
made movement impossible and compelled Haji Mûsah to abandon all idea of
further resistance.
The Pĕnglima and his friends having gained the house proceeded to make
themselves comfortable and did not attempt to disturb or annoy Haji
Mûsah and his family. These latter occupied a curtained portion of the
principal room, and underneath their only window a sentry was placed
night and day.
Meanwhile the Shabandar, informed by messenger of what had taken place,
hurried back to the neighbourhood and reinforced the adherents of Haji
Mûsah, who so far had contented themselves with building and occupying
stockades to command Haji Mûsah’s house.
The Pĕnglima’s tactics were again completely successful, and as it was
impossible to fire on the captors without danger to their imprisoned
friends the Shabandar, who now commanded the investing force, set himself
to devise a plan whereby he might gain his end by craft.
The Pĕnglima’s men occupied the house and one or two small stockades
close by it. The Shabandar’s party had built a series of enclosing works
which practically cut off escape to landward. In front was the river
and here again, both up stream and down, there lay a small fleet of
guard-boats.
The Pĕnglima’s own two boats were chained to the landing-stage where they
were safe, for it would have been impossible to seize them without being
exposed to fire from the house, to which no reply could be made.
A month went by, and in that time Haji Mûsah, his wife, and son-in-law
had fairly recovered from their injuries. Meanwhile the Shabandar, by
means of spies, learned that the prisoners occupied a side of the house
where there was but one window, and that always guarded at night by the
same man. Through this man there was the best chance of escape for the
prisoners, if only he could be bought over.
This sentry, who had some authority over part of the band, was a
foreigner, he was getting tired of the game and probably did not
altogether like the outlook or see how his party was to turn the
situation to their own advantage. At any rate communications were opened
between the Shabandar and him, and for a sum of two thousand dollars he
promised to get the prisoners out of the window and through the lines to
their friends.
In the dead of a dark night (and moonless Eastern nights can be black as
a sepulchre) he assisted the four prisoners to make their escape through
the window, while the Pĕnglima, Haji Ali, and a number of their men slept
peacefully on the other side of the sheltering curtain that gave privacy
to the women.
Guided by the traitor, their movements hidden in Cimmerian darkness,
the little party made its way in safety to the friendly shelter of the
Shabandar’s stockade. He was expecting them, and he had also prepared
an unpleasant surprise for the cuckoos in temporary occupation of their
stolen nest.
Pĕnglima Prang Sĕmaun and his friends were awakened from sleep by the
banging of jingals and muskets and a hail of various missiles.
A moment’s search showed that the prisoners had escaped, and the Pĕnglima
instantly realised that he was in the toils.
He had already shown that he was a man of resource, and his presence of
mind did not desert him in this dangerous crisis. The darkness alone
protected them, and that would not last; moreover, he could not tell at
what moment his position might not be rushed. It was clear that for them
was reserved the fate of those who when they got up in the morning were
all dead men.
The Pĕnglima called his followers together, explained the situation and
its urgency, pointed out the choice that lay before them—an attempt
to pass the enemy’s stockades under cover of the night or to run the
gauntlet of the guard-boats, where capture was, as he said, certain.
The men of the band, the wretched Lambor contingent, elected, as the
Pĕnglima had meant they should do, to try and force their way through
the enemy’s lines, never thinking that if they succeeded they would only
reach a pathless jungle swamp, where they, strangers in that part of the
country, must either perish miserably or return to the tender mercies of
the investing foe.
Of these deplorable eventualities they took no thought; there was little
time for hesitation; tightening the grasp upon their weapons they went
out into the night, and in a few moments the shouts from the surrounding
stockades showed that their intention had been discovered.
This was exactly what Pĕnglima Prang Sĕmaun had expected; he had created
a diversion, and seizing his opportunity, accompanied by Haji Ali and a
few of his particular associates, he made for the river and got into one
of his boats, cast off and pulled out into the stream.
A very wily man was the Pĕnglima. Every one in the guard-boats was on the
alert, the firing and shouts from the shore had warned them that the fox
was being hunted in the covert, and the pack were after him in full cry.
Still there was just a trifle of uncertainty about it, and that was the
Pĕnglima’s one chance of salvation.
The slightest hesitation now, the smallest of false steps, and neither
the Pĕnglima nor any of those with him would ever see the dawn. He knew
it well enough, and as he ordered those who had taken the oars to pull
out boldly into the stream, he grasped the helm and steering straight up
the middle of the river, _against_ the tide, he gave orders that no man
should speak, undertaking the whole responsibility himself.
It was still so dark that no one could see quite whence this boat came,
or distinguish who was in it, but as it moved with plenty of noise and no
attempt at concealment right towards the line of guard-boats, some one
called out, “Who goes there?”
“It is I,” replied the Pĕnglima, “I bring the Shabandar’s orders to you
to keep a good look-out, they are attacking the Pĕnglima Prang, and as
he can’t hold out he will probably try to escape by the river. Be ready
for him, I am going to warn the boats down stream,” and turning round the
craft disappeared towards the other line of river-sentinels.
No one of course suspected a ruse under such a bold disguise as that,
and, pulling straight for the down-stream boats, steering right on and
through them, the Pĕnglima called out, “_Jâga-jâga_, ‘be on your guard,’
the Shabandar sends orders to watch for the Pĕnglima Prang Sĕmaun, he is
trying to escape, I am warning all the boats.”
No one could distinctly see who this messenger was, or even catch more
than a shadowy glimpse of a spectral craft as she glided through the
line, and in the excitement of expectation, the noise of firing and
rival battle-shouts on shore, no one took special heed as to which way
the messengers went, or whether that was the sound of their oars echoing
faintly in the distance.
The Shabandar on his part made no long tarrying, but eager to revenge the
murder of his brother, and feeling that at last the Pĕnglima and Haji Ali
were in his power, he determined to _mĕng-âmok_, to rush the house at
once without waiting for daylight.
Whilst summoning his men for the assault, he heard the cries that told
him the besieged were making an attempt to break through his stockades,
and without further delay he dashed into Haji Mûsah’s house, only to find
it empty, the renowned Pĕnglima and his amiable friend gone, and with
them a considerable quantity of dollars and everything that was both
valuable and easily portable.
Torches and an examination of the muddy ground soon established the
direction taken, and the missing boat, coupled with the missing property,
convinced the least astute that by this way went the Pĕnglima Prang
Sĕmaun.
Many shouted questions from the bank drew forth many assurances from
those on the water that no enemy had passed that way. The evidence to the
contrary was, however, all too plain, and as the boats one by one came up
to the landing-place, and the watchers told their tale, it became evident
that once again the Pĕnglima Prang Sĕmaun had justified his reputation
for both daring and resource.
He had made for the sea, his party did not number ten, and they were
in one boat. There was still time to overtake or intercept them at the
river’s mouth, and, as the grey light of dawn began to lift the veil of
mist and the freshening breeze swept in chilly gusts over the water, a
fleet of boats set off to search the creeks and backwaters, while others
had orders to pull straight to the river’s mouth, and there take line and
see that none passed out to sea.
The Pĕnglima meanwhile had wasted no time. ’Twixt the devil behind and
the deep sea in front, he had no difficulty in determining which way
lay safety; but he also realised that it could not be an hour, it might
be only a few minutes before his ruse would be discovered, and with his
crew he could not hope to reach the sea without being overtaken. The
rowers needed little exhortation to strain every nerve, and after a few
miles had been travelled, the boat was forced through heavy overhanging
branches into an all but imperceptible creek, so narrow the entrance and
so thoroughly concealed that no one would dream of its existence. The
boat could only be got a few yards up this ditch, and the party, leaving
it entirely hidden, ensconced themselves in a tangled mass of jungle
foliage from which they commanded a view of the river.
Here the fugitives lay all day, and watched the boats of their enemies
pass by intent on the fruitless search.
It was not a pleasant place nor did they spend an altogether happy day,
for they were not yet out of the wood, indeed the chances of escape were
still decidedly against them, but for the moment they were safe, and
whatever was to come could not be worse than the situation from which
their leader had already extricated them.
Whilst the Pĕnglima was running the gauntlet of the guard-boats his late
companions, the men of Lambor, some twenty or thirty in number, were
having a worse experience on shore.
Being a large party and in their haste not over-cautious, they were, of
course, discovered as they tried to break through the line of stockades.
Some were shot, others were speared and _krised_ in hand-to-hand
encounters, while a few got away to the forest under cover of the
darkness. But when these stragglers fully realised that it was a choice
between the enemy and painful wandering in a swampy and well-nigh
impenetrable jungle, with the prospect of starvation and a lingering
death, they chose rather to return to the light and a speedier reckoning.
None of this band returned to Lambor, and if they sought their fate and
made an unprovoked attack upon Haji Mûsah it is not altogether surprising
that to this day there is no wasted affection between the people of
Lambor and the Lower Perak Chiefs.
All through that sultry day, as one by one these doomed men appeared
from the jungle fastness and went down before the weapons of their
adversaries, waiting tirelessly expectant in the certainty that no
refuge would be found in those inhospitable depths, the Pĕnglima and his
little band lay close in their concealment and longed for sheltering
night.
All day long the Shabandar’s boats passed hither and thither, and with
the nightfall many appeared to abandon the search and returned on the
rising tide.
Then an hour or two of the new-born moon, and after that thick darkness.
The Pĕnglima and his friends had regained their boat, and as, about
midnight, the tide began to ebb, the vessel was pushed noiselessly out
into the river and bracing themselves for a final effort the rowers
gripped their oars, stiffened their backs and put their whole strength
into the work before them.
The river as it approaches the sea grows wider at every bend, the
searchers were exhausted and asleep, or had already returned up-stream,
the night was dark and the fugitives were unmolested until, between 4
A.M. and 5 A.M., in the last reach, they saw a line of boats guarding the
river’s mouth.
There were wide intervals between each vessel, but even in that uncertain
light it was impossible for a boat to run this blockade without being
seen.
At this final juncture the Pĕnglima’s Familiar did not desert him.
Of course the earth ought to have opened and swallowed up this hardened
criminal as it did Korah, Dathan, Abiram, and all their company; he ought
to have been shot or drowned or speared if he were not being reserved
for hanging. At any rate this was an excellent opportunity for getting
rid of two hardened villains, and a few other passably wicked men. The
Lambor people, whose crimes were as snow compared to those of these two
arch-criminals, had all met with violent deaths and no miracle, not even
so much as a small streak of luck, like falling into a well and being
tended by a beautiful maiden, had saved the life of one of them.
Why was it then that, as these cold-blooded assassins cowered together
and wondered how they were going to elude the vigilance of their enemies,
a palpable miracle was wrought to save their miserable skins?
It cannot be said that anything very unusual happened, because the thing
is of common occurrence, but it was certainly thoughtfully arranged that
at that moment there should sail round the bend of the river, in the
strongest flow of the ebb-tide (now of course slackening), an enormous
mass of floating palms, a very island of foliage broken away from some
undermined bank and drifting majestically to the wider waters of the sea.
If these great clumps of root and branch and foliage may be seen sailing
every day down a Malay river into the Straits of Malacca, this particular
island was so gigantic, that in size at least it was miraculous. It is
possible that to another man the passing drift would have suggested
nothing, but the Pĕnglima Prang Sĕmaun was on such terms with Fortune
that he knew exactly the psychological moment at which to take her. Here
he remembered that the Malays call these floating islands _âpong_, and
that boats know very much better than to get in their way. His craft then
he promptly steered right into the back of this Satan-sent refuge, and,
forcing it in amongst the palms and covering it as well as was possible,
he calmly sat down and awaited the issue.
The island sailed slowly along, and when the huge mass got near enough
to the guard-boats for them to realise their danger, there was a deal of
shouting and pulling of anchors, kicking up sleepy boatmen and frantic
struggles to avoid this river Juggernaut.
So passed the Pĕnglima Prang Sĕmaun; not to the vales and Queens of
Avilion, but to the open sea, from sore stress to safety, from an earthly
death to an earthly life.
One can almost hear him chuckle as he sails through that last danger and
watches his enemies’ efforts to get back into their places.
Malays do not pine for manual labour, they had already had more than
enough of it, and as they were now being towed idly along, they lay
down to sleep, vaguely wondering, in that moment of tired but delicious
drowsiness, what occult powers this leader possessed to secure at such a
moment the powerful help of this great leviathan, under whose green and
shady sails they were being wafted to safety and “the haven where they
would be.”
A day or two of pleasant coasting, a walk across country, and Pĕnglima
Prang Sĕmaun, with Haji Ali and a considerable booty, arrived safely at
Blanja and received the congratulations of his master, the Raja Bĕndahâra.
We read that when it was the fashion for knights to devote themselves to
the service of distressed damsels, they wrought many startling deeds,
which cannot always be satisfactorily explained without recognising that
devotion in so good a cause was sometimes supernaturally aided.
Unfortunately, the practice has fallen into desuetude; let us hope it is
because the damsels of the nineteenth century are never in distress, want
no assistance, or despise that of the mere man.
Malays are perhaps, in some respects, a few hundred years behind the
age, and I like to think that in this veracious story the Pĕnglima Prang
Sĕmaun made his first appearance as the champion of a lady in distress.
XIV
BĔR-HANTU
Striving to reach the mystic source
of things, the secrets of the earth
and sea and air
L. MORRIS
We could all see the _tunggul mêrah_, the crimson streak which boded the
death of the King. Looking from the top of our green-terraced hill across
the clear wide river late one afternoon, this curious phenomenon appeared
in the sky, above the last spur of a picturesque range of mountains which
separates the valleys of two considerable streams whose united waters
flow into the Straits of Malacca.
Standing on the right bank of the river, a stretch of level land lies
between the opposite bank and the foot of this range, and the wealth
of foliage hides from view the houses, orchards, and rice-fields which
cover that fertile plain. But the Sultan’s house, a palm-thatched wooden
structure, three houses on piles joined together by short platforms
after the accepted Malay pattern, stands out clearly enough, rather
down-stream than opposite the point of view.
The crimson portent is not visible for long, and we realise that,
whatever it means, it is accounted for by the segment of a rainbow
shining through a bank of low clouds which obscure the rest of the “arch
of heaven,” and so blur the prismatic colours that nothing is clearly
discernible but a short column of flame, all the more striking for its
dull grey background. The tradition of ill-omen is of ancient origin,
but the fact that the Sultan now lies grievously ill gives an air of
probability to the gossip of the prophets.