[Illustration: IN AN INSTANT IT HAD FIXED ITS FANGS UPON THE OLD MAN’S
ARM.]
A Royal Smuggler
Or THE ADVENTURES OF
TWO BOYS IN THE INDIAN
ARCHIPELAGO
[Illustration]
BY
WILLIAM DALTON
[Illustration]
CHICAGO:
M. A. DONOHUE & CO.
Copyrighted 1902
By THOMPSON & THOMAS
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. An Important Letter 7
CHAPTER II. A Great Calamity 22
CHAPTER III. Our Uncle’s Last Will and Testament 41
CHAPTER IV. The Robbery and Abduction of Marie 53
CHAPTER V. We Run Away and Take Service with
“Nest-hunters” 65
CHAPTER VI. We Set Out on our Voyage 90
CHAPTER VII. The old Head-man, the “Strong One,”
the “Handsome One,” the “Weak One” 107
CHAPTER VIII. We Descend into the Nest-caves 121
CHAPTER IX. My Adventures in the Nest-caves 137
CHAPTER X. I Recognize the Nest-Robbers 152
CHAPTER XI. A Search for a Mare’s-Nest 164
CHAPTER XII. We Bite the Biters, but are
Overhauled by a Dutch Cruiser 174
CHAPTER XIII. We Sell our Nests, are Taken
Prisoners, but Outwit our Captors 190
CHAPTER XIV. History of our Captain, his Hatred
of the Dutch 214
CHAPTER XV. Adventures with a big Snake and a
Man-eater 223
CHAPTER XVI. We Pick up a Chinese Storyteller,
who Sends us to Sleep 236
CHAPTER XVII. We are Hoodwinked by the Chinese,
who Robs us of our All 249
CHAPTER XVIII. Adventures in Bali 261
CHAPTER XIX. We Visit the Capital of Blilling,
and Witness some Widow-burning 276
CHAPTER XX. We Return to the Coast, and hear
of an old Enemy 298
CHAPTER XXI. The Wen-necked Hunchback, and
his Revelations to Prabu 310
CHAPTER XXII. We Join a Tiger-hunt, but narrowly
Escape Poisoning, and Escape to
our Island 321
CHAPTER XXIII. A Fight; a Great Peril and a
Timely Rescue 333
CHAPTER XXIV. We Land at Mojopahit, and are
Imprisoned as Rebels 348
CHAPTER XXV. Through Woods and Wilds 366
CHAPTER XXVI. We Hunt Tigers, and Discover
some old Acquaintances 377
CHAPTER XXVII. And Last, Containing a Tolerably
Happy Ending 389
A ROYAL SMUGGLER.
CHAPTER I.
AN IMPORTANT LETTER.
“News from Uncle Adam!” cried my brother Martin, as the maid, one
morning, placed upon the breakfast-table a letter, bearing a foreign
postmark; and the words are still fresh in my memory, for that epistle
influenced the fates of my father, brother, and myself. It was
addressed to our parent, in reply to one he had sent to Batavia, some
twelve months before.
“My dear brother Claud,” it ran, “I have received yours, containing
the sad intelligence of the death of your poor wife, and the almost
simultaneous loss of your fortune, through the failure of that rogue
of a banker. I will not, however, waste time in words of condolence,
but at once proceed to business. Well, _you_ are poor--_I_ am rich;
you have _no_ occupation--I have _too much_. You are young--I am
getting old; for there are many years’ difference in our ages. Thus,
in more ways than one, we may assist each other. _I_ can help you
with money, and you can help brother Adam by employing your energies
in his commercial affairs out here in Batavia. But, as deeds are
better than words, I herewith inclose a draft, and beg that you will,
with all convenient speed, take passage for yourself and my two
nephews for this island.
“Yours, my dear brother, lovingly,
“ADAM BLAKE.
“P.S.--I am sorry to add, that I cannot offer you and the boys a home
in my house, as I am no longer a lonely man, my chief reason for
marrying again being for the sake of my dear little Lip-lap, your
niece.”
“Won’t it be a jolly voyage! How good of Uncle Adam!” cried Martin.
“A second wife,” murmured my father, sadly, as if pondering upon his
own bereavement.
“I wonder,” said I, “what our cousin is like, and why Uncle calls her
Lip-lap--Lip-lap, what can it mean?”
“A nickname given to the children of Americans born in Java, Claud,”
answered my father.
“Queer,” said my brother. “But it is no matter what they call her so
that she is pretty--I like pretty girls.”
“All of which we shall discover when we reach Java,” replied our
father. “But now, boys, get you to your lessons, while _I_ go to make
inquiries about a ship.”
“I say, Claud, won’t it be jolly? Father will be rich again, and we
shall grow up to be great merchants, like Uncle Adam, and have a
cousin, too,” said Martin, merrily; but as the thought passed through
his mind that the death of our dear mother had been caused chiefly by
our father’s misfortunes, he burst into tears. “Oh! why did God take
from us poor dear mamma? Why didn’t this letter come ever so many
months ago, and she would have lived!”
Heaven knew that I had felt our loss as deeply as my brother; but for
his sake, for the sake of my father, who had never smiled since her
death, and who trembled at a word or a thing that brought it fresh
again to his memory, I had struggled to suppress any sign of emotion at
the chance mentioning of her name. Then, throwing my arms around his
neck, I said (I believe with tears in my own eyes):
“Martin, it is wicked to be ever recurring to our loss, when you know
how it shocks our father. Remember, mamma is in heaven, and happy.”
“I know it is wicked, but I cannot help it--I _won’t_ help it--I never
_will_ stop talking of dear mamma!” and the passionate boy ran from the
sitting-room into our sleeping-chamber, and, throwing himself upon the
bed, sought relief in a good cry.
Since our mother’s death, such outbreaks of grief had been common with
my warm-hearted but impulsive brother. Our uncle’s letter, however,
produced a good effect upon his mind, by directing his thoughts to
the active, perhaps adventurous, life which seemed before us. But
unfortunately we had to wait six months before we could get a ship--a
loss of time that, as will be seen hereafter, materially influenced
our future. Taking into account this delay, the six months for the
coming of the letter, and a similar period for our outward voyage, it
will be seen that a year and a half elapsed between the penning of our
uncle’s invitation and our anchoring in the roadstead of Batavia. What
unexpected events, what misfortunes, may happen in eighteen months! and
they did happen.
Ominous, indeed, of misfortune was the night of our arrival in the
island. It was the latter end of October, the period of the monsoons.
My brother and I were well-nigh frightened to death, most assuredly we
never expected to reach the land, for the elements were at war. The sea
rose in mountainous heights; the horizon was spread with vast sheets of
livid flame; the thunder shook both heaven and earth; and the wind, as
it rushed inland in its fury, uprooted the largest trees, and toppled
down the huts of peasants and the warehouses of the merchants in the
lower town. It was a mercy, indeed, that even the great pier which
forms the harbor of Batavia should have escaped.
The hurricane, however, although terrible in its fury, was but of short
duration; for by daybreak we were enabled to moor the vessel alongside
the pier, and also to procure a messenger, whom my father at once
dispatched to advise his brother of our arrival.
“If that is Batavia, it is a queer, dirty hole,” said Martin, shrugging
his shoulders, as he stood gazing upon the bamboo huts of the poor
natives, the warehouses of the Dutch merchants, and the thousands of
bales of goods, covered with tarpaulin, which seemed to block up and
render the roadways impassable.
“Right, lad,” said the captain, who was standing near my brother; “it
_is_ a queer, dirty hole. Moreover, it is worse than it seems, for,
after sunset, the vapors and putrid exhalations, arising from the
decaying vegetable and animal matter in the marshes, where you see
yonder mangroves, render it poisonous to Americans.”
“And we have to live there,” said Martin, with a shudder. “Yet,” he
added, thoughtfully, “it can’t kill everybody, for Uncle Adam has lived
in it many years.”
“Not so, my lad. Like the other American merchants, your uncle quits
this place every evening at six o’clock, for his home in the upper
town in yonder mountain, where you will find large streets, a healthy
atmosphere, the Government-house and offices, the theatre, and the
grand residences of the principal colonists.”
“That is good news,” said I, for I had been as nervous as my brother
at the prospect of having to live in such a wretched place as the town
before us; “but,” I added, “where is the Chinese city, for I have heard
that those people abound in Java?”
“Ay, my man, the Chinese swarm in Java, as in every island of the
Indian Archipelago where money is to be made. Their town, however,
or campong, as they term it, is situated upon the other side of the
mountain, in a spot almost as unwholesome as this.”
At this moment we saw our messenger, accompanied by another native,
come along the quay toward the ship. But as the latter will prove no
unimportant personage in my narrative, I will describe his appearance.
Taller in stature than the majority of his diminutive race, he was
yet far shorter than the average height of Americans; his complexion
was a light brown; his eyes full, black, and piercing; his hair not
luxuriant, like many of the Asiatic races, but yet not so scanty as
most of the men of Java. He was well set, and his limbs strong and
muscular, as if he had been trained among the fishing or hunting
tribes. His dress consisted of a pair of thin cotton drawers and
colored sarong, or long plaid-like scarf, which was thrown across the
shoulder, and brought around the waist, so as to form a sash or girdle,
from which was suspended the kris, or creese, a weapon without which no
Indian islander of whatever rank is ever seen; and but that his upper
teeth were filed and blackened, he would have been accounted among
Americans a man of no mean personal appearance.
“He is a slave, or servant of your uncle’s,” said my father. “Say,”
he added, impatiently, as the man trod the deck, “bring you letter or
message from the counselor Van Black?”
“My master,” he replied, bending his body forward, while at the same
time he raised his hands with the palms joined before his face, until
the thumbs touched his nose, “I bring no letter, no message; but yet a
carriage awaits upon the quay, to convey your honor to the house of the
counselor Van Black, where, I am bidden to say, you and your sons will
find a welcome.”
“No message, no letter!” repeated my father, in surprise. “It is
strange that, after a parting of so many years, Adam came not himself
to welcome us. Tell me, man,” he added, “how fares it with your master
and his family? Are they in health?”
“The family,” replied the native, emphasizing the word, and making
another obeisance, “are as well as their best friends would wish them.
But, craving your pardon, Prabu is charged to convey the noble stranger
and his sons to the upper town; to do that, and nothing more. He is a
servant, and must obey.”
“Astounding! What can be the meaning of this?” replied my father,
thoughtfully; but finding it was of no use to further question Prabu,
as he had called himself, he said, turning to us two boys, “Come, lads,
let us follow this fellow, for the sooner we reach my brother’s house
the sooner we shall be free from suspense.”
“Our uncle is ill--too ill to come or write; but fearing to alarm you,
has forbidden this man to open his lips,” said Martin, offering the
best explanation of Prabu’s taciturnity.
“I fear so, indeed,” replied my father. “The greater reason, then, that
we should hasten to him; so forward, my sons.”
I had also my own fears, and an explanation to offer, but as they
passed through my mind, a chilling sensation at my heart seemed to
freeze the words, ere they could escape my lips, and so I followed in
silence to a great, clumsy, old Dutch coach, with four Java ponies,
that was awaiting us on the quay.
Now, the road from the lower to the upper town is steep and narrow.
Thus, on our way we should have been amused by the opportunity the
ascent gave us of looking at the surrounding scenery, so new to us,
and the multitude of quaintly-dressed people of all ranks, on foot and
in all descriptions of vehicles, who were proceeding to their places
of business in the wretched city we had just quitted; but a species of
melancholy foreboding seemed to have seized upon us, which obscured
our eyes, turned our thoughts inwardly, and reined in our tongues, for
neither spoke, until the carriage stopped before the courtyard of a
large, flat-roofed mansion in the upper town.
Perceiving that the gates stood open, my father, who could no longer
bridle his impatience, descended from the carriage, telling us to
follow. As we did so, Martin, touching me on the shoulder, and speaking
for the first time since we had entered the vehicle, said:
“This is very queer, Claud. What do you make of it?”
“Martin, I have a foreboding that something is wrong, very wrong;
calamity is in store for us; the storm, upon our arrival last night,
was ominous. Besides, to my thinking, mystery is seated upon the
mahogany-colored countenance of that fellow Prabu. Look, even now how
he is straining his glittering eyes after us.”
“Pooh, pooh, Claud, don’t croak; you make a fellow shiver,” replied my
brother.
By this time we overtook our father, at the portico of the mansion.
Here the mystery was heightened, for no uncle stood there to welcome
his relatives, but in his place a head servant, or groom of the
chamber, who, calling my father by name, invited us to follow him; but
now, losing all patience, he rudely seized the man by the shoulder,
exclaiming:
“Say, fellow, is my brother, your master, sick, that I see him not here
to welcome us?”
“Sir,” replied the servant, evasively, “my lady awaits you.”
So saying, he threw open the doors of a large and luxuriously furnished
apartment, ushering us into the presence of a lady of dignified
demeanor, but who seemed almost lost amid a pile of velvet cushions
upon which she was reclining, and instantly the mystery was solved, our
forebodings realized, for she was attired in widow’s weeds.
“Great heaven!” exclaimed my father, “can it be possible, then, that my
brother is----”
“Alas! no more,” said the lady, rising and taking his hand. “It is
scarcely three months since my poor husband died of the fever.” Then,
in soft, purring tones, like those of a cat, she added, “It was the
will of God; we may not repine. You will pardon me, my brother, that
I forebade my servants to give you this sad news; but, out of respect
to my late husband’s memory, I desired to be the first to break to you
the sorrowful intelligence, at the same time to bid you and your sons
welcome to this house.” Then, seeing that our father’s heart was too
full of grief to reply, she said, as she folded my brother and me, one
after the other, in her arms:
“These, then, are my charming nephews? Let me embrace you, dear boys.
You are noble fellows, and shall find as good a home in this house as
if your poor, dear uncle had been saved to us.”
“Madam, my sister,” replied my father, “your conduct towards us has
been kind and thoughtful, still my grief is too keen and new; craving
your pardon, I would be alone for a time.”
“It would have been unpardonable, my brother, had I not foreseen this
desire,” she replied, striking a small Chinese gong suspended from
the ceiling. “Go,” she said to the servant who answered the summons,
“conduct my brother and his sons to the rooms prepared for them.”
The apartments to which we were conducted were situated in another wing
of the building, upon the ground floor, and consisted of two bedrooms
and a large sitting-room. They all had French windows opening into the
grounds, and had evidently been carefully and thoughtfully prepared
for our reception. Leaving our parent to give full vent to his grief,
for the death of a brother to whom he had been passionately attached,
we boys (who had never known our uncle, and could not, therefore, so
keenly feel his loss) went to our own chamber, which, by the way, was
of ample size, and fitted up as both sitting and bedroom.
“I am so sorry for poor, dear uncle, though we never saw him,” said
Martin, as soon as we were alone.
“I am more sorry for our father, Martin. I fear that this fresh stroke
of misfortune, coming so soon after our dear mother’s death, will
utterly destroy his already weak health.”
“Nay, Claud, we boys must be his support. Then, you know, it must be
consoling even to him to find our new aunt so kind and thoughtful.”
“New aunt!” I repeated; then, looking cautiously round, and first
listening to hear if footsteps were at hand, I said, in a whisper, “Do
you know, Martin, I don’t like that woman.”
“Don’t you, though,” he replied, with a look of astonishment. “But why?”
“Well, I don’t know, but I don’t. You remember the lines poor mother
used to repeat to us----
“‘I do not like thee, Doctor Fell,
The reason why, I cannot tell;
But this I do know, very well,
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.’”
“Claud,” replied my brother, “I am beginning to be afraid of you; you
are like a witch. But--but,” he added, “this is foolish; it is wicked;
for she is a relation--at least, a kind of a one, you know--and you
have no reason to dislike her. But isn’t she pretty, though?”
“Pretty! Well, so is a tigress, so is a serpent, and she reminds me of
both; she puts me in mind of the portrait in that French story-book we
used to read at home, of the woman who poisoned so many husbands--just
the same plump figure, raven hair, pale skin, dark eyes, that seem to
mean everything, under an effort to look as if they meant nothing, and
soft hands; then her embrace was as mock as a play-actor’s, nothing
real in it, and her kiss like that of Judas.”
“Hang it, Claud, it’s a shame; be quiet, you shall say no more!”
exclaimed my brother, placing his hand upon my mouth. And in truth I
did feel a little ashamed of this warm expression of opinion upon so
short an acquaintance; nevertheless, I believed in it at the time, and,
moreover, that night dreamt that all I had said had come true. But
then, you know, there is not much in dreams; at least, it is foolish to
place reliance upon them.
After this conversation, neither spoke for some time. At length the
silence was broken by Martin. “Claud,” said he, “I wonder how much
money our uncle has left to father?”
“Not much, I fear, if our new aunt had any part in making his will.”
“Oh! bother; drop talking of _her_. It’s a great shame if he hasn’t,
though, after coming all this way by his own invitation.”
“Well, we shall soon know all about the will, I dare say,” said I, a
little shocked that my brother should so soon speak of money affairs;
and Martin understood and felt hurt at my thoughts, for he answered:
“It is for our father, who is ill, and has had so much trouble, that I
want the money, Claud, not myself; for I am strong and healthy, and,
if necessary, shall be able to get my living somehow--for instance, as
a clerk, a messenger, a hunter, or anything, you know, out here, where
white men are valuable.”
“But _you_, Martin, are only a boy.”
“And I should like to know whether a _white_ boy is not as good as two
mahogany-colored men?” he replied, boastfully.
“Hush! we have been watched--listened to!” for although I had said
nothing about it to Martin, I had, several times, while we had been
conversing, heard a rustling in the shrubbery, just outside the glass
door of our room. Hitherto, I had taken but little notice, but now I
distinctly heard a cough.
“Come along, then, and let us unearth the sly fox,” whispered Martin;
and the next minute we were standing by a shrubbery near the window.
Having listened patiently for some time, and heard nothing but the
humming of birds and insects, Martin whispered:
“It was fancy only.”
“Then it was a very pretty fancy, too, for there it is,” I replied,
as at that moment I detected the eye of the listener who had alarmed
us, sparkling through the leaves and branches; and the next instant
I had gently dragged forth one of the prettiest little girls I had
ever seen--tall and graceful in figure, with long, flowing, golden
locks; a fair complexion, tinted with red, but just then mounting with
crimson blushes; fine blue eyes, and dimpled cheeks--indeed, a little
fairy--yes, a fairy, although she was attired in deep mourning.
“Oh! don’t; you hurt my arm!” she exclaimed, half pettishly, half
smiling, as she struggled to escape from my grasp.
“We won’t let you go; we don’t often catch real live fairies,” said
Martin. “Besides, you have half killed us with fright.”
“For shame,” she replied, “for two great boys to be frightened by a
little girl like me.”
“You know a mouse may frighten an elephant, if the elephant hears a
strange noise and doesn’t know that it is caused by a mouse.”
“Well, then,” she replied, “I _am_ sorry I have frightened you both;
but I am sure I could not help it; it was that nasty cough.”
“But how came you to be hiding in the shrubs? Was it to listen to what
we were talking about? for certainly you must have heard all we said.”
“Yes, oh! yes; that is, all _you_ said,” here she whispered, “_about
her_. It was very wicked, but I won’t tell; not I--that I won’t. But,”
she added, “I couldn’t help hearing, as I was in the shrubbery.”
“But what brought you there?” I asked.
“To get a peep at my two new cousins, of course. I have heard so much
about you from poor, dear papa, and have so long expected you to come,
that when _she_ wouldn’t let me stay in the room, when you came this
morning, I cried my eyes out--at least, almost--and then----”
“And then what?” asked Martin.
“Why, I came here by myself, determined to have a peep at you both, and
uncle, too, if I could. But hush!” she exclaimed, placing a finger upon
her lips, “I must go; I heard MY LADY calling for me. She must not know
that I have been here; pray don’t tell her, or I shall be punished for
disobedience;” and in an instant she had flitted out of sight.
“So that is our cousin,” said Martin, when we had returned to our room.
“What a pretty girl!”
“Yes,” said I; “and so amiable, that she makes up for our
queer-tempered looking new aunt.”
“After all, Claud, I begin to think you are right about ‘MY LADY,’
as they call her. What a shame to punish a nice girl like that for
anything!” replied Martin.
And now I have told all that is worth telling of our first day in the
upper town of Batavia.