[Frontispiece: "The native screamed and the snake constricted
suddenly, breaking nearly every bone in the man's body and crushing
the life out of him."]
A
STAR BOOK
TRAPPING WILD ANIMALS
IN MALAY JUNGLES
BY
CHARLES MAYER
GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC.
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK
Copyright, 1920, by
ASIA PUBLISHING COMPANY
Copyright, 1921, by
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
Printed in U. S. A.
To
MY SISTER DORA
CONTENTS
I. CIRCUS DAYS
II. JUNGLE STRATAGEMS
III. ELEPHANTS
IV. SHIPPING WILD ANIMALS
V. THE SEA TRAGEDY OF THE JUNGLE FOLK
VI. "KILLING A MAN-EATER"
VII. UP A TREE IN THE JUNGLE
ILLUSTRATIONS
"The native screamed and the snake constricted suddenly, breaking
nearly every bone in the man's body and crushing the life out of
him." ...... _Frontispiece_
"I looked up just as a black leopard sprang at us. Ali's spear
whizzed by my head, hitting the animal in the side. I fired,
catching him in mid-air squarely in the chest with an explosive
bullet."
"Since the monkey cannot pull his hand out of the bottle while it is
doubled up and he hasn't sense enough to let go, he sticks there
until the hunter comes along."
"I climbed to the platform and looked down into the trap. There were
sixty elephants."
"I felt myself spinning so rapidly that the elephant, my men and the
stall were all a blur; and I came up against the wall with a thud.
Fortunately, there was a gutter running along the wall, and I dropped
into it just as the elephant lunged forward at me."
"We began to prod the rhinoceros..... He put his head against the
wall and rooted; the wall toppled over and he lurched out of the pit
and into the cage."
"A huge paw shot out and grabbed my ankle. I was jerked off the
ground, and, as I fell, my hands caught the limb of a tree..... The
brute pulled. I felt myself growing dizzy..... Then Omar grabbed a
club and pounded the Orang's arm."
"Then three of us armed with krises took positions so that we should
be above the seladang when he charged, and we lowered the sack. He
snorted and drew back."
Trapping Wild Animals in Malay Jungles
I
CIRCUS DAYS
It as the lure of the circus--the tug that every boy feels when a
show comes to town--that started me on my career as a collector of
wild animals. I use the word collector rather than hunter, because
hunting gives the idea of killing and, in my business, a dead animal
is no animal at all. In fact, the mere hunting of the animals was
simply the beginning of my work, and the task of capturing them
uninjured was far more thrilling than standing at a distance and
pulling a trigger. And then, when animals were safely in the net or
stockade, came the job of taking them back through the jungle to the
port where they could be sold. It was often a case of continuous
performance until I stood on the dock and saw the boats steam away
with the cages aboard. And I wasn't too sure of the success of my
expedition even then, because the animals I had yanked from the
jungle might die before they reached their destination.
I was nearly seventeen when Sells Brothers' Circus came to
Binghamton, New York, where I was living with my parents. That day I
joined some other boys in playing hookey from school, and we earned
our passes by carrying water for the animals. It wasn't my first
circus, but it was the first time that I had ever worked around the
animals and I was fascinated. I didn't miss the big show, but all
the rest of the day I was in the menagerie, listening to the yarns of
the keepers and doing as much of their work as they would allow.
That night, when the circus left town, I stowed away in a wagon.
The next morning, in Elmira, I showed up at the menagerie bright and
early. The men laughed when they saw me. I had expected them to be
surprised and I was afraid that they might send me away, but I found
out later that it was quite an ordinary thing for boys to run away
from home and join the circus. And the men didn't mind because the
boys were always glad to do their work for them. I worked hard and,
in return, the men saw that I had something to eat. That night I
stowed away again in the wagon.
In Buffalo I was told to see the boss--the head property-man--and I
went, trembling for fear he was going to send me back home. Instead,
he told me that I might have the job of property-boy, which would
give me $25 a month, my meals and a place to sleep--if I could find
one. There were no sleeping accommodations for the canvas and
property crews; we rolled up in the most comfortable places we could
find, and we were always so dead tired that we didn't care much where
we slept.
Since those early days in the circus, I've been around the world many
times, and I've seen all sorts of men, living and working in all
sorts of conditions, but I've never found a harder life than that of
property-boy, unless, perhaps, it's that of a Malay prisoner.
Sometimes I wonder how I stood it and why I liked it. But I did
stand it and, what is more, I loved it so much that I persuaded the
boss to keep me on when we went into winter quarters.
The moment we arrived at a town, the head canvas-man rode to the lot
on which we were to show and laid it out; that is, he measured it and
decided on the location of the tents. The men with him drove small
stakes to indicate where the tent-pegs were to be placed. In the
meantime, the property gang unloaded the show. Then we drove the
four-foot stakes for the dressing-tent into whatever kind of ground
the lot happened to have. A man can work up a good appetite by
swinging a fourteen-pound hammer for an hour or so before breakfast,
but before we started we had also many other things to do. The
dressing-tent had to be spread and hoisted; then the properties were
sorted and placed in their position for the performers to get ready
for the parade. Meanwhile the canvas-gang was getting the "big-top"
up. Then, when the parade started, we went to the "big-top" and
arranged the properties there, made the rings, adjusted the guys,
ropes and wires for the aerial acts and laid out all the
paraphernalia for the ground acts. While we were doing these things,
the canvas-men were stringing the seats. Then we had breakfast.
When the parade returned, there were cages to be placed in the
menagerie tent and the parade properties to be prepared for shipping.
By the time that work was finished, the crowds had arrived for the
show and we stood by to handle the tackle of the various acts. At
night, after the show had started, we began taking down the smaller,
tents and stowing the properties just as fast as they came from the
"big top." Then, when the show was loaded, we took one last look
over the lot to be sure that nothing had been left behind.
No, we didn't care much where we slept--just any spot where we
dropped was good enough.
My greatest interest was in the animals, especially the elephants.
In my spare minutes--they were mighty few and far between--I talked
with the keepers and learned from them many things about the care of
animals. When we went into winter quarters at Columbus, Ohio, the
head animal-man agreed to let me stay as a keeper.
The next season I went with the Adam Forepaugh show; then with the
Frank Robbins show. I learned the circus business from the ground up
and I was rapidly promoted. In 1883, I joined R. W. Fryer's show as
head property-man and transportation master. It was a responsible
position, which required every bit of the knowledge I had gained in
the few preceding years. I had charge of all the circus property and
I was boss of a large crew of men. The job kept me on the jump day
and night. The canvas and property crews were made up of the
toughest characters I have ever struck in my life--a man had to be
tough in those days. They were hard to handle, but they were good
workers and I got along all right with them.
They were always just a little bit tougher than any local talent we
came up against on the tour, even though a circus used to attract the
worst men for miles around. At Albuquerque one night, four "bad men"
came to see the show. When they came up, Fitzgerald, who was one of
the partners, was taking tickets at the entrance. He tried to get
tickets from them, but they pulled out guns. One of them said:
"These are our tickets." Fitzgerald let them in and passed the word
along to the crew. The men took seats and, when the show started,
they let loose with their guns, shooting through the tents and
letting a few bullets fly into the ring. Sometimes a bullet would
strike near a performer, raising a puff of dust and scaring him half
to death. The "bad men" were sitting with their legs dangling down
between the seats. Some of the crew took seats near them, just as if
they were part of the audience, and a dozen property-men sneaked
under the tent. When the signal was given, they grabbed the dangling
legs and pulled. Then the circus-men in the seats jumped up and,
without letting the audience know what was happening, they snatched
the guns. Down went the "bad men" between the seats. It all
happened so quickly and so quietly that the audience didn't realize
what had become of them. The canvas-men "toe-staked" them; that is,
they hit them over the heads with the toe-stakes that are driven into
the ground to keep the seat-stringers from sliding. A toe-stake is
of just the proper size and weight to use in a fight, and it is the
circus-man's idea of a good weapon. The crew buried the four men
while the show was on. I thought there would be trouble before we
could get out of town, but the men weren't even missed.
The Fryer outfit had a Pennsylvania Dutchman called Charley. He was
one of the strongest men I have ever seen. One night, when the
stake-wagon, drawn by eight horses, was stuck in the mire, he lifted
the rear end of the wagon on his back while the horses pulled it out.
I think that if Charley had got a good swing at a man and used his
full strength, he could have killed him with one blow. One day, in
Christchurch, New Zealand, while Fitzgerald was taking tickets, a
larrikin--a tough--came along and said: "Ticket?--I'll spit in your
eye." Fitzgerald knocked him down and called for Charley, who was
working at the ticket-wagon. Charley took the larrikin in his arms
just as easily as if he had been a baby, and carried him out into the
street. There he dropped him and said: "If I have to do this again,
I'll hit you." The larrikin didn't come back.
Charley's work at the ticket-wagon was to keep the crowd moving. In
front of the ticket-window there was always stretched down a big
sheet of canvas covered with sawdust. When a man put down his money
for a ticket, the fellow in the wagon passed him out a ticket for the
cheapest seat and charged him the highest price--unless the man
showed that he knew exactly what seat he wanted; in that case, the
ticket-seller shoved his change out so that one or two coins slid off
the counter into the sawdust. If the man tried to stop and hunt in
the sawdust for his money, Charley pushed him along to make room for
the others who wanted to buy tickets. After the crowd had passed
into the teat, Charley and his pal would take tap the canvas and sort
out the money from the sawdust.
I wasn't in on that "flam" system, but I had another way of making
money. As head property-man, I stood near the entrance to the
"big-top" and, when people weren't satisfied with their seats, they
came to me. I sold them the privilege of taking better seats. The
sum acquired in this way was known as "cross-over money" and it was
supposed to be turned over to the company. One day one of the
partners objected to this arrangement. He decided that he would take
the "cross-over money" himself and have me collect tickets at the
main entrance. The other partner in the show would not agree to this
scheme. "If Mayer takes the 'cross-over money'," he said, "we get
half of it, at least; but, if you take it, we don't get any."
That settled the matter, and, considering times and ways, I've always
thought that it was a good tribute to my honesty. It was a crude
business and every man was out for himself. To break even, a man had
to be just as hard as the next one, and to come out ahead, he had to
be a bit harder. I liked the game, but I always had the feeling that
it wasn't the thing I wanted most. I was interested chiefly in the
animals, but, as head property-man, I had little time to be near them.
My desire to learn all there was to know about animals was the main
reason why I cultivated the acquaintance and friendship of Gaylord.
He was an expert animal-man--probably the best informed in the
business--and had been P. T. Barnum's confidential agent for years.
He had traveled the world over, time and again.
It was Gaylord who negotiated with the Siamese officials for one of
the famous white elephants of Siam. Barnum had his heart set on
having one of them for his show and he sent Gaylord out with
instructions to go the limit. The stumbling-block in the transaction
was that the Siamese believe the spirits of the ancestors of the
royal family are transferred to the white elephants. The animals
live in the royal palace and are cared for with all the ceremony
given to any members of the reigning family. Of course, Barnum's
plan was just as unthinkable to them as if he had offered to exhibit
the king in his side-show. There was a hot exchange of cablegrams
between Barnum in New York and Gaylord in Siam. Finally Barnum
offered the government $250,000 for the privilege of borrowing one of
the elephants for just one year. He agreed to support a retinue of
priests and attendants and to pay all transportation charges. The
government would not even consider the proposition so Gaylord gave up
in disgust and cabled that the deal was off. But Barnum was not
discouraged. When Gaylord returned to this country, he found that
the old man was advertising a white elephant from the royal palace of
Siam. Barnum had simply used a whitewash brush on an ordinary
elephant, with the result that he had a whiter elephant than the
Siamese ever dreamed of seeing. The animal was so covered with
velvet robes and surrounded by attendants that the audience could not
detect the fraud; the general effect was good and the trick brought
in a lot of money.
Gaylord was quite deaf when I knew him, and so was Fryer. Sometimes
at rehearsal in the morning Fryer would come along and say to
Gaylord: "Let's go up on the top seat--I want to tell you something
privately." Then they would climb up to the top seats and exchange
confidences--shouting at each other so loud that you could hear them
all over the lot.
The Fryer show opened in Kansas City and then worked right out to the
coast. After a month in San Francisco, we jumped to Hawaii. We
showed a month at Honolulu and the King rarely missed a performance.
We had a royal box fitted up for him, and he had as good a time as
any of the youngsters. From Honolulu we went to Auckland, New
Zealand, where we found a twenty-day quarantine on all animals. We
managed to get along by giving performances in the Theatre
Royal--just the acts that required no animals. After that we went to
Australia and showed at all the large towns; then we shipped to Java.
Next we visited the Malay Peninsula, where later I was to spend many
years in collecting animals.
During these long voyages, I spent much of the time with Gaylord,
listening to his stories of experiences with animals. I had many
questions to ask and Gaylord, whose fund of information was
inexhaustible, always answered them and told me more besides.
A few days after we arrived at Singapore, he said: "Do you want to
come with me while I buy some animals?" Naturally, I jumped at the
chance. We went to the house of Mahommed Ariff, the Malay dealer who
held a monopoly on the animal trade. He was squatted in the center
of his courtyard, surrounded by cages containing the animals brought
in from the jungle by his native agents. He was a wicked old devil
and a man had only to glance at him to be convinced of the fact. His
forebears, Gaylord told me as we were going to his house, were
pirates, and he was the chief of a clique of _Samgings_ (the native
gangsters), composed of natives who would commit any crime he
ordered. It was by using such methods that he held his monopoly of
the animal business; the natives were afraid of him, and no European
or native had dared to interfere with his trade. His head was shaven
and his lips and chin were stained crimson from chewing betel-nut.
He had little bullet eyes, set in a fat face. My impression of
Mahommed Ariff was that he would be a bad man to have as an enemy,
but it naturally didn't enter my head that he was to become a sworn
enemy of mine a few years later. He greeted us cordially, for he had
done business many times with Gaylord, and we sat down with him to
talk animals. His religion was "to do all Europeans," but he could
not help being honest with us. If any man knew the value of animals,
it was Gaylord, and old Mahommed Ariff was well aware of the fact.
That day we bought a tiger, several monkeys and a pair of leopards.
Several times during our stay in Singapore, I went to see Mahommed
Ariff. He spoke a little English and he was usually willing to talk
with me, hoping, perhaps, that we would buy more animals. From him I
learned something of the work of collecting as it was done on the
Malay Archipelago, but I had no idea, at that time, of entering the
business.
The show moved to Penang; thence to Bangkok, Hongkong and Shanghai;
then to Japan. It was in Tokyo that Gaylord had one of his bright
ideas. He organized, in conjunction with the circus, a Japanese
village, and, when we worked back over our route, via Singapore and
Australia, we carried forty Japanese with us. Twelve of them were
performers and the remainder were artisans. We had miniature
Japanese houses, in which the artisans worked at their trades, such
as fan-making, wood-carving and embroidering. Also we carried a big
stock of cheap Japanese goods, which were sold as the products of our
traveling factory. The Japanese village was a great success and
brought a lot of money into the show.
In September, 1886, we struck Buenos Aires, where the show had to
buck the Carlos Brothers--the big South American outfit--and bad
weather. During the long tour we had overcome many obstacles, but
that combination was too much. Fryer, Gaylord and Fitzgerald decided
to disband, and most of the properties and animals were sold to the
Carlos Brothers.
By hard work and careful saving, I had managed to accumulate over
$8,000; so I was happy to head northward. I returned to New York by
way of London and in December I met Fitzgerald. A short time
afterward we were in St. Louis, where we bought the Walter L. Main
show, which consisted of nothing more than a tent and some seats. We
had no animals but we hired performers and started out on the road.
For one week we had luck and took in money; then came nine days of
rain. The tent absorbed tons of water, and we had no way of drying
it and preventing mildew. It was so heavy that the canvas-man could
scarcely handle it.
At Springfield I went out to the lot and found Fitzgerald there; he
just stood there, looking at the wet canvas spread out on the ground
with the rain beating down on it. The canvas-men had given up--the
tent was too heavy to hoist. That was the end of my only adventure
as a circus-owner.
The big shows carried an extra tent to meet emergencies, but we
couldn't have one, of course. The rain had beaten us to a finish.
Even if we could have raised our tent, we should have had no
audience, and we weren't well enough supplied with money to follow
Bailey's idea of giving a performance if there were only two persons
there to see it. Our "Greatest Show in the World" was sunk in an
Illinois mud-puddle.
In later years I have stood sponsor for many of the shows and small
circuses that visited Singapore. One I well remember belonged to an
old friend, A. Bert Wilison of Sydney, Australia, who had been with
the advance at the time I was with R. W. Fryer's Circus. He came
with his show from Calcutta in pawn, that is to say, he paid as much
as he had and the steamship company took a lien on his show or
chattels, and if the agent at the port of disembarkment was
satisfied, he could put up his tent and show, the steamship agent
taking the receipts with interest until the freight and passage money
was collected. I happened to be in Singapore at the time and was
told a circus had just arrived from Calcutta--"Bert Wilison's African
Circus and Equine Paradox." I was wondering who's it could be, as I
had never heard of my old friend's rise to proprietor of a show.
I made up my mind to see him, if not for business then as an old
showman, never dreaming I was to meet an old friend. The surprise
and pleasure was mutual at our meeting, after an absence of nearly
fourteen years. The last time we were together was in Buenos Ayres.
As I was dressed in an old suit of khaki, I looked to him as if I
were stranded. "Well, Charley," he said, "I'm broke, too, but I'll
manage to fix you somehow and get you out of here. You come with me,
old boy, we'll share what's left of the old show."
I thanked him and said that I was not as badly off as I appeared, but
had been in the animal business for a number of years, was settled
and pretty well known in Singapore, and if I could be of assistance
to him, it was his for the asking.
"Well, Mayer, to tell the truth, I'm in hock with the steamship
people. I have not enough to pay for the hauling of my stuff or feed
for the horses, let alone to put my wife and child at a decent hotel."
I assured him I would see him through. There were tears in his eyes
as he grasped my hand. I went with him to the agent of the British
India Company and arranged for the payment of his passage and
freight, in fact took care of everything for him. It made me feel
good to be again in touch with the old show business; once in it, one
never forgets its glamor. I arranged for the lot and feed for the
horses, but the performers paid their own hotel expenses. We had
still to look for the labor, so I hired coolies, and by night had the
top up. At the same time there was a stranded balloonist whom I was
befriending, an American named Price, who went broke in India. He
had his balloon, which wanted but a little repairing, so I made
arrangements with Wilison for Price to join the show and give
ascensions and parachute jumps for an attraction.
Well, the show opened and made good. The balloon ascension was
something new and it went big, especially when the balloon was
anchored and would take people up. Wilison played Singapore two
weeks, paid all his debts and was on his feet. I advised him to play
Bangkok, and, if possible, get a guarantee from Prince Damvony to
show inside the palace, which he did with success. The only thing
that marred the career of the show was when Price went up in the
balloon and took a parachute jump, he drifted down into the King's
household, that is, the women's pavilion, and caused an awful uproar
among the inmates. He had to do a lot of explaining to convince the
officials that it was no fault of his, that it was unavoidable, as
the wind carried him there. I leave my readers to imagine, if they
can, the fright and feeling of the women on seeing a man, a European,
dressed in tights, dropping amongst them from the skies. It was
weeks before the scare wore off, and it was spoken of for years
after. The last I heard of Wilison was in Japan, when he intended to
go from there to Hawaii and then to Australia.
As the steamer having the Wilison show aboard left the docks, the old
fascination of show life seemed to grip me. It brought back
wonderful memories of the good old days when one-ring circuses were
the real thing. I look back on those days with regret, days when I
was the head or Boss Property Man, for next to the Proprietor the
Boss Property Man was king of the dressing-tents, and woe to the
performer who slighted him. When the Show would make its first start
on the road, the Boss Property Man would place the performers' trunks
in position. Pay day, the performer who neglected to give his fifty
cents or dollar to the Boss Property Man, would find his trunk badly
damaged, broken open or no trunk at all on arrival at the next town.
It was a custom that few ventured to neglect, for otherwise they
might suffer the loss of their wardrobe or part of it, and probably
their trunk, and ran the risk of being fired by the management for
failure to be ready for their act.
One case in particular I remember when I was with the R. W. Fryer's
Shows as Boss Property Man and transportation master. While the Show
was still in Sydney, N.S.W., and a week before ending our eight
weeks' stay, I told one of the performers, the bearer of a brother
act, that is the man that holds the other man on his shoulders and
catches him as he jumps or turns somersaults, to get a new trunk as
he had an old tin-covered one that had the edges all worn and broken,
and every time any of my men handled it they were sure to have their
hands or clothes cut and torn. He promised to get one in Melbourne.
We played Melbourne eight weeks and went from there to Ballarat,
Victoria. He still failed to get a new trunk, and when the Show
appeared in Ballarat, his trunk was amongst the missing, dropped or
fallen off the train en route during the night. He was fired, and a
day or so after got notice from the Government Railroad to come and
get some of his belongings that had been picked up along the line.
He got a new trunk.
Another character with the same Show was the Musical Clown, named
Shilleto, a really good fellow, but seldom sober. I honestly believe
that if he were sober he could not do his act. He was a natural born
musician. He could play any instrument and play it well.
On arriving at any town, as a joke we would pick some one who had a
local reputation as a ne'er-do-well and explain to him Shilleto's
weakness, flattery and whiskey, telling him to go up to Shilleto and
say, "I beg your pardon, but are you not Shilleto, the great Musical
Clown, now with Fryer's American Show. I have seen you a number of
times in different parts of Europe but never expected to have the
pleasure of seeing you in Australia. You are the greatest I ever
saw. Will you allow me to shake hands with you." Shilleto never had
been in Europe, although it was his boast that he had traveled all
over that continent with shows.
That would settle it. Shilleto's chest would swell up and that
person was his guest for days, introduced as his friend, from Europe,
often giving him a title. Shilleto never seemed to get wise to the
fact that in every town he would meet with some one who had seen him
in Europe and with the same story.
It was on one of the visits to New York that the late J. A. Bailey of
Barnum and Bailey, sent me a telegram from Chicago to meet him two
days later in New York, and, after mutual greetings, asked me how
long it would take me to get to India. I told him I intended to stop
two weeks in New York and probably three or four weeks in London.
"Now, Mayer," he said, "I want you to get to India as soon as
possible. Can you start tomorrow?" Tomorrow being a Saturday, I
told him no, and then asked why the hurry. What was there in India
that was wanted. He then told me that he had reliable information of
a huge elephant, one standing fourteen to fourteen and a half feet
high, in Bombay. I laughed, saying, "Mr. Bailey, your informant must
be mistaken, there are no elephants in Bombay outside of government
elephants, and I am sure none of them equal or come near that size."
I assured him that I was fairly posted on the size of elephants in
captivity throughout India, and reminded him of my standing order
from him to secure if possible any elephant of twelve feet or over.
Now the elephant Jumbo was an African elephant and stood eleven feet
two inches, and he was thought to be the tallest elephant in
captivity, and when Mr. Bailey told me of an Asiatic elephant
fourteen to fourteen and a half feet in height, I could not help
smiling. "Mr. Bailey," I said, "why not cable to the American Consul
at Bombay and have him secure it for you while your representative is
on his way." No, he wanted me to start at once, as he said the
Ringling Brothers and several others had heard of it and were sending
men out, so he wanted me to beat them to it if possible. Money was
no object as long as I was able to secure it, and as he was
absolutely in earnest, I told him I could start the following
Wednesday, July third. He asked me to see what connections I could
make, to secure my passage for the following Wednesday and find out
the shortest possible time I could make Bombay.
Can my readers form an idea what an Asiatic elephant fourteen to
fourteen and a half feet high, and probably weighing from seven to
eight tons, would mean to a circus like the Barnum and Bailey Show?
What a drawing power it would be! It would mean a million or more.
No keener or more wonderful manager than Mr. Bailey lived, but, like
many others, was often misled by wonderful tales of strange things.
Immense amounts of money were spent in searching for and trying to
secure freaks and abnormal animals that never existed outside the
minds of the showmen's informants.
As I said, money was no object. Get it! That was all there was to
it. "Go get it!" sounds easy, eh?
After looking up the sailings from London to Bombay, I saw that one
of the P. & O. steamers leaving London on the fourth day of July was
due in Bombay on the twenty-eighth day of that month, and told Mr.
Bailey that if I left New York on the third of July, with luck, I
would be in Bombay on the twenty-eighth.
"Can you make it, Mayer? By gosh, that's good time, but how are you
going to do it? You have got to go to London first."
I said that was true. I would leave New York on the third and catch
the steamer leaving London on the fourth of July at Brindisi, at the
tail end of Italy, as it was due there on the fourteenth.
I left New York on the steamer New York on the third, arrived in
London on the tenth, stayed two days in London, traveled overland
through France, Switzerland and Italy, and on the evening of the
fourteenth walked up the gangplank of the P. & O. boat and the
twenty-eighth day of July, after transhipping at Aden, stepped ashore
in Bombay.
Well, there was no such elephant; nobody had ever heard of any that
size, let alone seen one near it, either in Bombay or throughout
India, and I went through India looking for it. The largest I ever
saw belonged to the Maharajah of Mysore. He was, as nearly as I
could judge, about twelve feet, but a bad one and old, always heavily
chained, and out of the question for show purposes.
After I left Singapore, I had been thinking constantly of becoming a
dealer in animals. The more I considered the idea, the more it
appealed to me. I was becoming tired of circus life, especially
since my work did not bring me into contact with the animals. On my
return to New York I found Gaylord and told him about my plans. He
encouraged me and introduced me to many men I was glad to know, such
as Donald Burns, who was a dealer and had a store in Roosevelt Street.
At Donald Burns's place I talked my venture over with many showmen.
They were all interested and wished to encourage me, but they were
frankly doubtful of my success because they knew of old Mahommed
Ariff's monopoly. Burns offered to help me dispose of the animals,
but I was not elated at that prospect, for Burns did not attend very
strictly to business. It was a well-known story in the circus world
that he had neglected the opportunity of handling the first
hippopotamus brought to this country. A sea captain had offered to
sell it to him for $3,000, but Burns refused to take it--he simply
wasn't interested. A few days later it was sold to Barnum for
$10,000.
Strangely enough, it was Burns's easygoing way of managing his
affairs that gave me my opportunity of going to Singapore. I had
been in New York, making my plans and saving my money, but I didn't
feel that I had enough to start out on the venture. One day I was in
Burns's store when he was away, and a sailor came in, hiding two
monkeys under his coat. He had smuggled them into the country and
wanted to sell them. The monkeys were black with coal-dust, but one
of them, I noticed, had pink eyes. That fact interested me and I
bargained for them, buying the pair for fifteen dollars. When the
sailor left, I found a cake of soap and gave them a bath. The monkey
with the pink eyes turned out to be pure white. Those were the days
when Jim Corbett was a great favorite, and he had recently become
known as "Pompadour Jim." My white monkey had a perfect pompadour on
his head. Soon one of the newspapers printed a story connecting
Corbett and the monkey. A few days later I sold the monkey for
$1,500, and I then had enough money to start for Singapore.
It was in April, 1887, that I left New York on the steamer
Glenderrie. I outfitted in London while we lay over there, taking
cargo aboard, and, because I was none too sure what material I should
need, I confined my outfit to clothes and guns. On the advice of
several animal-men, I bought a Winchester 50-110 express rifle that
fired explosive ballets. The bullets contained a detonator and
enough dynamite to stop any animal in his tracks. My revolvers were
a Colt .45 and a Smith and Wesson .38. The passage took seven weeks
and during that time I became well acquainted with Captain Angus, who
commanded the boat.
When I reached Singapore, I began at once to learn the Malay
language, which is spoken with some variations of dialect throughout
the Archipelago.
I called on Mahommed Ariff every day and learned as much as possible
about the ways and means by which he carried on his business.
Eventually I proposed to him that he let me act as his agent in
interviewing the captains of some of the boats that called at the
port. He agreed to my plan because there were many captains who
would no longer do business with him--he had cheated them once too
often--and he saw in me a means of resuming trade. We had no written
agreement and no understanding as to my commission, but I was content
to start work on that basis because it meant experience.
It was customary for the members of the crew of a boat to buy
animals, splitting the risk between them, and sell them when they
reached European or American ports. Soon after I had reached the
agreement with Mahommed Ariff, a German boat came into port and I
went out to interview the captain. I found that he had had previous
dealings with the Malay and that he had sworn never to buy another
animal from him. Finally, he agreed to make some purchases, but he
took care to draw up a paper in which he said that he was buying on
my representation.
I reported the deal to Mahommed Ariff, but when I went the next
morning to deliver the animals, I found that he had sent them to the
boat during the night and had collected the money for them. He
refused to give me my commission because, he said, the captain was an
old customer of his. The boat was about to sail and there was no
time to get the captain ashore and settle the dispute. However, I
had the written statement signed by him, that the animals had been
bought from me, and I surprised Mahommed Ariff by suing him. He was
a surprised Malay when I produced the paper in court, and he paid the
commission and costs. The result of the suit was that I gained a
number of friends and established a reputation.
For the time being, all deals with Mahommed Ariff were off, of
course, and so I had to look elsewhere for business. I induced a
Malay _hadji_, who had made a pilgrimage to Mecca, to take me to his
home at Palembang, in the island of Sumatra. He was a buyer of
animals from the people of his district and, as he did much of his
selling through Mahommed Ariff, he hesitated at taking me with him.
But I pointed out the advisability of having a European agent--all
white men were considered Europeans. The vision of securing more
business, without being robbed constantly by Mahommed Ariff, brought
him around to my proposition, and we went together to the Dutch
General in Singapore. I told the Consul General my plans, and, after
I had presented references from the bank, he gave me a passport and a
personal letter to the Dutch Resident at Palembang. Then the old
hadji and I started off for Sumatra.
This was really my start in the business of animal collecting. At
Singapore I had seen enough to know that the work I wanted to do was
not simply to sell the animals at a port, but to capture them in the
jungle. My main object in going to Sumatra was to live with the
natives and learn their methods and language, so that, being at the
source of the supply of animals, I could capture and sell with
practically no interference from Mahommed Ariff. I was in constant
communication with Gaylord, who encouraged me in my idea of becoming
a collector; also I put myself in touch with the Australian
Zoölogical Society.
The district in which the hadji lived had a population of about
100,000, made up of Dutch, Malays and Chinese. Back of the
settlement lay the jungle; a dense virgin forest of trees that were
bound together by a woven mass of creepers and vines. The trunks,
rising straight and smooth for fifty or sixty feet, burst into
foliage that formed a thick, green canopy, through which the sun
rarely filtered. On the ground, the vines, palm ferns, tall grasses
and rattan made a wall that only _parangs_, the native knives,
cutting foot by foot, could penetrate. The heat of the open spaces
in the tropics is blistering, but that of the jungle is damp and
stifling; moisture accumulates, and the light breezes that blow
overhead have no chance of moving the air below, which is filled with
the smell of rotting vegetation. Especially in the morning, before
the sun has a chance to bake the water out, it is a drenching
business to go into the jungle.
Notwithstanding the climate, the sight of such country made me
anxious to begin work, and I lost no time in reporting to the Dutch
Resident. The Dutch are strict in their colonial government, and,
for the most part, they have good reason to be strict. One white man
who does not understand the natives and who has no consideration for
them may start trouble that will end in an uprising. The trouble
generally comes from a lack of regard for the native's feeling for
his women. Though the Malays live a fairly loose life, they resent
having a white man take their women and they generally vent their
displeasure in murder. That, of course, means a government
investigation, with ill-feeling rising on both sides. To the Dutch
Resident I explained my purpose in wishing to live in the Malay
quarter with the hadji, and he gave me permission, warning me that it
would be revoked at the least sign of trouble.
Thereupon, with the hadji leading, I took my belongings to his house
and settled down to become acquainted with the people. They regarded
me curiously, but when the hadji introduced me by saying "_E-tu-twan
banyar bye. Dare be-tolé_ (This man is very good. He is true),"
they accepted me without question. The word of a man who has made a
pilgrimage to Mecca is not to be doubted and my dispute with Mahommed
Ariff was told and retold until it became a wonderfully exaggerated
legend with me as the hero. They disliked Ariff because he was
forever swindling them when they captured animals.
It is not difficult to win the friendship of the natives, if you know
how to treat them. If they like you, they become doglike in their
devotion; they will do anything you tell them to do and believe
whatever you say as though it were gospel. I studied them closely,
learning their language and customs and carefully avoiding anything
that might bring me into disfavor. Day after day, I went with them
into the jungle, picking up bits of jungle-craft. Gradually I
learned to see the things that they saw in the walls of green about
us, and to interpret the sounds--the hum of insects, the call of
birds, the chattering of monkeys and the cries of other animals--and
I spent hours with them, squatting in their houses, busy with the
rudiments of the Malay language.
Once during the eighteen months I spent with the hadji, I was haled
before the Resident for an investigation, but the natives stuck by me
valiantly and I was exonerated. The trouble started one evening when
I was sitting on the hadji's veranda. There came a scream from one
of the houses, and a native emerged, howling and swinging a knife,
slashing at every one within reach--men, women and children. He was
running _amok_, a victim of the strange homicidal mania fairly common
among the Malays. When a man runs amok, he suddenly begins to kill
and he does not care whom--his own family or people he has never seen
before. The hadji yelled to me to shoot. I pulled out my revolver
and fired, hitting the man in the left arm. He stopped for a moment;
the other natives seized him and stabbed him to death. At the
investigation, the hadji explained to the Resident that I was not
responsible for the man's death and that I had acted on his
suggestion, to save the lives of the natives. As the man had slashed
about eight people before I shot, the Resident ended his
investigation by thanking me and renewing my permission to live in
the Malay quarter. I returned to the hadji's house more popular with
the natives than ever before.
A native came running to the hadji's house one day with the news that
he had seen a big snake. He said that it was at least fifty feet
long and as big as a tree. Knowing the Malay habit of exaggerating,
I put it down as about twenty feet long; but I gathered a crew of
natives and we built a crate from the limbs of trees and bamboo,
binding it together with green rattan. According to the native's
tale, the snake had just swallowed a pig, and so, knowing that where
he had first been seen, he would remain, sleeping and digesting his
meal, we postponed the capture until the next morning.
A python always kills his food by coiling around it and crushing it
to death; then he swallows it whole, slobbering so that it will pass
his throat. During the digestive process, he generally becomes
torpid and, without putting up much fight, submits to capture.
Before we went out for the snake, I told each man what he was to do,
explaining carefully how I intended to get the snake into the crate.
When I was sure that they understood, we started into the jungle, led
by the native who made the discovery. I was surprised to find the
largest snake I had ever seen. It looked at least thirty feet long
and about eighteen inches in diameter. For a moment we stood there
gasping.
The python was sleeping peacefully, digesting the pig. I called to
the men and put them to work at staking the crate to the ground and
securing it so that the snake could not lash it around. The crate
was about eight feet long, six feet wide and two and one-half feet
deep; just large enough to hold him and just small enough so that,
once inside, he would not be able to get leverage and break it.
Again I explained what each man was to do. Then I passed a rope
through the crate, tying one end to a tree and preparing a running
noose to be slipped around the snake's head when we were ready to
draw him forward. Two more ropes were laid out, running from his
tail. These we wrapped around trees on each side of the tail, and I
stationed men at the ends, showing them how they were to pay out the
rope as the snake was drawn toward the crate, keeping it taut enough
to prevent him from lashing.
The python slept soundly through all these preparations. When we
were ready, I gathered the men about me and cautioned them against
becoming excited. I warned all those who had not been given work to
do to stand back out of the way and not to approach unless we needed
them.
With bamboo poles we prodded the snake at the head and tail, standing
by with the nooses, ready to slip them on when he stirred
sufficiently. Before he realized what was happening, we had the
head-noose over him. The instant he felt the rope tighten he was
awake!
The natives holding the tail-ropes became excited and succeeded in
getting only one of them in place. The python suddenly leaped
forward, and, though he did not loosen the rope, whipped it out of
the hands of the men and knocked several of them flat; then he caught
one man, who had not been able to get out of the way, and wrapped the
lower part of his body around him while five or six feet of his tail
still lashed about with the rope. I yelled to the others to pull on
the tail-rope, but the confusion was so great that they did not hear
me. I went for the snake's neck, which is the most tender part of
him, hoping to sink my fingers in on the nerve center and disable him
for a moment until the men collected their senses and pulled the
rope. By jumping forward, the snake had loosened the head-rope
sufficiently to turn on me and sink his fangs into my forearm. I
sprang back.
The man who was caught in the snake's coils screamed, and tried to
beat off the tail as it was drawing in about him. Then the snake
constricted suddenly, breaking nearly every bone in the man's body
and crushing the life out of him instantly. Blood spouted from his
mouth and ears, and he was thrown limply about as the snake lashed
the air.
I yelled to the men to pull the head-rope taut. Fortunately, the
tail-rope had not become loose, and we caught it just as the snake
tried to lurch forward again. We allowed him to move forward slowly,
drawing his head toward the crate and, at the same time, holding his
tail until we had him stretched out. By prodding his tail with
sticks, we forced him to uncoil and to release the body of the native.
The head-noose had been slipped farther down than I wanted, and was
giving his head too much play. Assuring the men that he could do no
more harm, I took three of them with me and we grabbed the snake's
neck. He tossed us about, and we had several minutes of exciting
work before we got the head into the open end of the crate. When the
rope was secured, we fastened another rope about the middle of him.
The snake lashed furiously, knocking several of the natives down.
Stationing a crew of men at the tail-rope to slacken it as we moved
forward, I took the others to the crate and set them at pulling on
the middle rope. As we dragged the python forward, he coiled in the
crate; then, when he was half in, we secured the middle rope and
head-rope to trees, passed the tail-rope through the crate and
dragged the tail in. There was great rejoicing when we closed the
end of the crate and prepared to haul it back to Palembang. We had
captured a prize specimen. Cross of Liverpool, to whom I sold him,
told me that he measured thirty-two feet. I have never seen his
equal in length and girth. But, huge as he was, he coiled up
comfortably in his small quarters, promptly fell asleep and went on
digesting his pig.
II
JUNGLE STRATAGEMS
The entire population of Palembang came to marvel at the size of the
python, and, before I realized it, I had acquired a wonderful and
wide-spread reputation as a collector. I was soon besieged by
requests to go out and capture all kinds of enormous animals--most of
them imaginary, of course, for a Malay can imagine anything. Once he
starts with "_Sahya fîkir_ (I think)," you may expect to hear many
wonderful tales if you have time to stop and listen to him.
[Illustration: "I looked up just as a black leopard sprang at us.
Ali's spear whizzed by my head, hitting the animal in the side. I
fired, catching him in mid-air squarely in the chest with an
explosive bullet."]
To Malays nothing seems impossible, and it is difficult to hold them
down to actual facts. They will hedge about with "I think" and
"_bârang-kâli_ (perhaps)" until you give up in disgust; and then they
will offer to bring their brothers or other relatives, who will
repeat the performance. Sometimes I used to spend hours in wondering
how their minds worked, and I came to the conclusion that they talk
merely with a desire to please. They want to tell anything you want
to hear, regardless of whether it is true or not. It is exasperating
and occasionally funny. For instance, several years after I left
Sumatra, I was traveling through the jungle, looking for elephants.
At one village I talked with the Malay headman, who represented the
government in that locality, and the conversation turned to large
elephants. Jumbo, who was eleven feet two inches, had died, and I
had it in my mind that I should like to find an animal big enough to
take his place. "Have you ever seen a twelve-foot elephant?" I asked
the headman. And as quick as a flash, he answered, "How many do you
want?" He could not understand why I rolled back on the floor and
laughed until my jaws ached. The headman was a true Malay.