WE RETURN TO THE COAST, AND HEAR OF AN OLD ENEMY.
The death of the Queen brought about a sad disappointment to Prabu,
for, the day after those terrible rites, the Rajah caused it to be
given out that he would give no audiences, nor, indeed, transact any
kind of business, for the ensuing six months: nevertheless, he bore it
with his usual coolness.
“God is great!” he said. “‘What is written _is_ written.’ The Rajah is
suffering under a great misfortune, and we must wait his Highness’s
pleasure.”
“What!” exclaimed my brother. “Wait six months in this city of horror,
with the ghosts of those poor murdered girls haunting us?--not I!”
“The Sahib Martin is as impatient as he is brave; but I shall not
wait in this city. _No_--we will return to the coast with the Prince
Mahomed’s ambassadors.”
Accordingly, we set out upon our return voyage at early dawn on the
following day, and reached Mahomed’s domain without any incident worthy
of record. We purposed to go on board the prahu the day after our
arrival, but upon paying a farewell visit to the prince, so earnestly
and kindly did he importune Prabu to remain his guest for a week
or so, and so desirous was the latter of securing for his party as
enthusiastic an ally in the son as he had had in the father, that he
consented.
As for Martin, he was delighted at the arrangement; “for Claud,” said
he, “in a few days the heavy rains will fall, the tigers will be driven
down from the mountains, and we shall have a chance of some good sport.”
“Martin,” replied I, “it would be better for us if we were safe on
board the prahu. I don’t believe in this young prince or chief,
whichever he may be. His father was an unmitigated savage, but he was
honest; the son’s manners are so velvety, that, depend upon it, he
means no good.”
“What! You are at your witch-practices again, are you? Nonsense, old
fellow; the truth is, you don’t half like tiger-hunting; I do, though,
for it is plucky sport.”
“Plucky! Well, Martin, I don’t think so. Where is the pluck in, say,
six, seven, or a dozen men, with as many sets of brains (any one being
of superior quality to the tiger’s), the same number of long knives and
rifles, which deal out death at a great distance, attacking one poor
beast with no other weapons than its paws: an animal, too, possessing
so little courage--notwithstanding all that tiger-hunters, to enhance
their own deeds, say about it--that, like a cat or rat, it will seldom
face a cool and determined pursuer if it can run away, without,
indeed, it be goaded to madness by a bullet or so?”
“I grant you, Claud, that the tiger is a coward; for, instead of boldly
facing its prey like the lion, it sneaks about the jungle, ready to
fall upon the first unwary pedestrian or animal that may pass.”
“Yes, as a cat upon a mouse; but, like the cat, the tiger, if boldly
faced and pursued by an animal, would run away; and, surely, there is
small courage in conquering a flying enemy!”
“Then you mean to say there is no pluck in a man fighting a tiger?”
“In _one_ man fighting _one_ tiger, perhaps; but even then it requires
more skill and practice with a particular weapon than courage; for
what chance has the beast against a double-barreled rifle, in hands
trained to its use? But it is of your ordinary tiger-hunting I speak
disparagingly--I mean as it is practiced upon the continent of India
by the vainglorious Englishmen, who, on their return home, write books
about it to glorify their own courage.”
“Nevertheless, I hope we may have a choice of joining one of these
hunts, Claud,” said Martin.
“Possibly so; and I, of course, shall accompany you; but it will not
alter my opinion, that the chances are not equal between the hunter and
the hunted. Why, what does a celebrated writer say of tiger-hunting in
India?”
“I am sure I don’t know, nor do I care,” he replied, a little sulkily.
“Then I will tell you, if only to put a word in for the poor animal.
He says: ‘It is little better than killing cats; nor are there so
many risks attending it as in foxhunting. The sportsmen--and there
are generally twenty of them, with twice that number of elephants,
encaged in the howdahs, each having half a dozen loaded double-barreled
rifles, charged as fast by servants as they can be fired--are perched
in the same security as if in a tree, deer-shooting. A mahout sometimes
gets a scratch, but it is the noble elephant that bears the brunt
of the battle, and everything depends on his sagacity, courage, and
steadiness. If the elephant won’t stand, becomes frightened, and goes
off, then, indeed, the sportsman’s life is in some jeopardy; but this
seldom happens, and even then the number and arms of the party are out
of all proportion to the strength of a tiger or two.’”
“Oh! bother, Claud, I wish you hadn’t such a good memory. But what has
tiger-hunting in India to do with me--we are on the island of Bali?”
“Well, my position is even more strengthened by the practice in Java,”
said I, which Martin knew; but as my readers may not, I will tell them
how the Javanese hunt the tiger, that they may judge what chance the
poor beast has in the contest:--
A vast circle of spearmen is formed around the known haunt of a
tiger, which is gradually contracted, until the animal, hemmed in
on all sides, is compelled to attempt an escape by rushing through
the phalanx. In this endeavor he is commonly killed, through the
number and dexterity of the hunters, and the formidable length of
their weapons. “Among a great many exhibitions of this sort,” says
an old resident in Java, “to which I have been witness, I never knew
an instance in which the tiger was not destroyed without the least
difficulty.”
The same writer gives us another proof of the disadvantage at which
the tiger is taken:--“Among the Javanese, the most interesting
animal-fight is that between the tiger and the buffalo. The buffalo
of the Indian islands is an animal of great size and strength, and of
no contemptible courage; for he is an overmatch for the royal tiger,
hardly ever failing to come off victorious in the fight with him. It
must be confessed that there is no small satisfaction in seeing this
peaceful and docile animal destroy his ferocious and savage enemy.
Neither is possessed of much active courage; the tiger, indeed, is a
coward, and fights only perfidiously, or through necessity. On this
account, it is necessary to confine them within very narrow limits,
and, further, to goad them by various contrivances. A strong cage, of a
circular form, about ten feet in diameter and fifteen feet high, partly
covered at the top, is for this purpose constructed, by driving stakes
into the ground, which are secured by being interwoven with bamboo:
the buffalo is then introduced, and the tiger let in afterwards from
an aperature. The first rencounter is usually tremendous: the buffalo
is the assailant, and his attempt is to crush his antagonist to death
against the strong walls of the cage, in which he frequently succeeds.
The tiger, soon convinced of the superior strength of his antagonist,
endeavors to avoid him, and when he cannot do so, springs insidiously
upon his head and neck.
“In a combat of this nature which I witnessed, the buffalo, at the
very first effort, broke his antagonist’s ribs against the cage, and
he dropped down dead; the buffalo is not always so fortunate. I have
seen a powerful tiger hold him down, thrown upon his knees, for many
seconds; and, in a few instances, he is so torn with wounds that he
must be withdrawn, and a fresh one introduced; in nineteen cases out
of twenty, however, the buffalo is the victor. After the first onset,
there is little satisfaction in the combat; for the animals, having
experienced each other’s strength and ferocity, are reluctant to
engage, and the practices used to goad them to a renewal of the fight
are abominable. The tiger is roused by firebrands and boiling water,
and the buffalo by pouring upon his hide a potent infusion of capsicum,
and by the application of a most poisonous nettle (_lamadu_), a single
touch of which would throw the strongest human frame into a fever.”
But I am digressing.
Now, although, as I have intimated, I had some suspicion that the young
chief had no honest intentions toward us, I had no other reason than a
certain forced courtesy and kindness of manner, which seemed unnatural,
or at least out of place, in a nature so wild and ferocious. Yes, there
was one other--viz., a certain cunning expression about his eyes and
upon his lips, that I did not like. My suspicion, however, became
confirmed, that at least there was something wrong somewhere, when I
accompanied my brother and Prabu down to the prahu.
“How is this?” said Prabu to Kati, as we went on board--“lying at
single anchor and the guns shotted! What do you fear?”
“Kati don’t fear--he only take care. Be ready, case what might happen,”
was the reply.
“Kati, my friend,” replied Prabu, laughing, “when left in command, thou
art over-cautious, for what harm _could_ happen to us in a friendly
port?”
Kati’s reply to this was to the effect that, a few days before, a
Dutch grab had appeared off the coast, and that she had sent a boat
ashore with two men in her; and that although both had landed, and, as
he believed, visited the Chief, but _one_ of them had returned to the
grab. “The other,” he said, “is now in the Chief’s house--what for is
he there?”
“Truly,” said the captain, thoughtfully, “this may mean evil. I will
question Mahomed. But is that your only reason for lifting one anchor
and shotting the guns?” he added.
“No. The day after grab go away, the Chief come on board and admire
prahu, but especially guns, which he look at with his eyes, as much as
to say, ‘Should like to have guns, ship, and all.’ Then Kati say to
himself, ‘S’pose Chief think same thing some night, he with his men
come and run muck among prahu’s crew, and then when Captain Prabu come
back, if not kill him and young sahibs, easy for him to say prahu run
away, or been stolen by rascal Dutchman.’”
“My faithful Kati, I do not blame you,” replied Prabu, “for having such
suspicions. You have acted bravely, but your fears are groundless. Why
should this chief make us eat dirt? Did not his father swear eternal
hatred to the Dutch, and friendship with their enemies?”
“But s’pose old chief honest, dat no reason young chief honest too--all
son not like fathers. Then, if he hated Dutch, as he said when he
took oath, what for he hab ’em in ’is house now?” he replied--adding,
quaintly enough: “The noble Captain Prabu say Kati faithful; dat why he
keep his eyes open when his master got his shut. It no good fasten door
of cage when tiger got away.”
Then, determined to put a word in, as Prabu seemed to have such a
thorough conviction of the Chief’s honesty, I said:
“Well, Kati, what think you of trusting ourselves tiger-hunting with
this chief?”
“Think it no harm at all, s’pose sahibs keep eyes wide, wide open, and
take six prahu’s men with ’em--only,” he added, with a glance full of
meaning, “to help clear jungle; nothing else.”
“Bother! we shall lose the tiger-hunt after all,” exclaimed my brother.
“Better that than hunt with tigers for our companions, Martin.”
“The Sahib Claud’s word are not good--the Chief is our friend,” replied
Prabu, angrily. “Kati has frightened himself by conjuring up the shadow
of a demon; but Kati, brave as a lion by himself, is all fear when his
master’s safety is concerned.”
“Kati fears the anger of his good master more than the spears and
creeses of a thousand Balinese chiefs,” replied the faithful fellow.
“Hast thou intimated to one of the crew thy suspicions?” asked Prabu,
sternly.
“Is it possible the servant could breathe to slaves that which was only
for the ear of the master?” was the reply.
“Then,” said Prabu, in kindlier tones, “Kati, my friend, thou hast done
well, and thy master is not angered. Now, sahibs,” he added, “we will
return ashore.”
“Truly, Prabu,” said I, as we were walking towards the pandapa--wherein
now, as upon our previous visit, we had our lodging--“thou art
obstinate in thy faith in this Mahomed’s honesty!”
“Who is Prabu, that he should doubt his friend and ally?” was the
answer.
“Not even,” said I, “when, at this moment--if Kati’s story be true--he
is harboring a Dutch spy in his palace? For if this man were not a spy,
why did the Chief not tell thee of his coming to the island?” At which
Prabu became thoughtful for a minute, and then replied:
“True, the sahib has _some_ ground for his suspicions, and I will ask
the Chief who this man is, and _why_ he harbors him,” he replied; and
he left us there and then, to visit the palace.
About two hours afterwards, however, he rejoined us, and seemingly
in the best of spirits; for, unusually with him at any time, he
laughed heartily as he told us that the Dutchman, after all, was no
Dutchman--indeed, nothing but a native soothsayer, who had obtained a
passage to the island in the Dutch grab.
“But the Dutch grab, what business had she on this coast?” I asked,
still doubtful whether the captain of that vessel might not have been
in communication with the Chief to our future detriment.
“A trader only, who put in for wood and water. True, her captain
desired to trade for bales of the native cloth, but the Chief dismissed
him with the plea that there was none in his territory fit for the
market. Sahib, sahib,” he added, laughing again, “poor, faithful
Kati has been frightened half out of his life by a Dutch trader, the
natural curiosity of a young chief, and the landing in the island of a
wen-necked hunchback.”
“A what?”--“_A wen-necked hunchback!_” exclaimed my brother and I
simultaneously, and starting as if stung by a venomous snake.
“A wen-necked hunchback,” he repeated, quite coolly. “But why do the
sahibs startle, as if a tiger had leapt forth from my mouth?”
“Prabu,” said my brother, “is this hunchback a snake-charmer?”
“Allah only knows!”
“Have you seen him?”
“No--and if I had I could not tell, for, truly, men do not have their
occupations written upon their foreheads.”
“Can _I_ see him?” asked my brother, knitting his brows, and clenching
his hands together till the nails entered his skin. “Don’t laugh,
Prabu, again, for I am serious, and feel as likely to run a muck as one
of your own countrymen.”
“Let the Sahib Martin be patient till to-morrow, and perhaps he may see
this man about the palace gardens,” replied Prabu. “But why dost thou
so desire to meet this poor wretch?”
“Because,” replied my brother, “I shall then know whether he be the
villain who robbed us of our cousin--nay, who perhaps hath murdered
her.”
“Pray Allah it may prove so, Sahib Martin,” replied Prabu, also playing
with the haft of his creese, and, rarely for him except under the
greatest excitement, something of the ferocity of his race in his eyes,
“for we will tear the whole truth from his heart.”
“Prabu,” cried my brother, starting from his seat, and taking our
companion by the hand, “thank you--thank you for that speech;” then
sitting down again, he murmured, as tears ran down his cheeks--
“Poor dear Marie!”
“Poor dear young sahib!” said Prabu, deeply affected at my brother’s
anguish, “weep not, dear boy” (this was the first time he had used
such a familiar phrase); “for be assured, if still upon earth, we
will find her; if--” but he could not utter the word as he caught the
expression upon Martin’s face--“she shall be avenged.”
Need I say that our dreams that night were of
THE WEN-NECKED HUNCHBACK?