Blown to Bits: The Lonely Man of Rakata, the Malay Archipelago

“It is no secret,” answered the hermit, in a sad tone. “The truth is, I had discovered some of his nefarious plans, and more than once have been the means of preventing his intended deeds of violence—as in the case of the Dyaks whom we have so lately visited. Besides, the man had done me irreparable injury, and it is one of the curious facts of human experience that sometimes those who injure us hate us because they have done so.”

“May I venture to ask for a fuller account of the injury he did you?” said Nigel with some hesitancy.

For some moments the hermit did not answer. He was evidently struggling with some suppressed feeling. Turning a look full upon his young friend, he at length spoke in a low sad voice—“I have never mentioned my grief to mortal man since that day when it pleased God to draw a cloud of thickest darkness over my life. But, Nigel, there is that in you which encourages confidence. I confess that more than once I have been tempted to tell you of my grief—for human hearts crave intelligent sympathy. My faithful servant and friend Moses is, no doubt, intensely sympathetic, but—but—well, I cannot understand, still less can I explain, why I shrink from making a confidant of him. Certainly it is not because of his colour, for I hold that the souls of men are colourless!”

“I need not trouble you with the story of my early life,” continued the hermit. “I lost my dear wife a year after our marriage, and was left with a little girl whose lovely face became more and more like that of her mother every day she lived. My soul was wrapped up in the child. After three years I went with her as a passenger to Batavia. On the way we were attacked by a couple of pirate junks. Baderoon was the pirate captain. He killed many of our men, took some of us prisoners, sank the vessel, seized my child, and was about to separate us, putting my child into one junk while I was retained, bound, in the other.”

He paused, and gazed over the glowing tree-tops into the golden horizon, with a longing, wistful look. At the same time something like an electric shock passed through Nigel’s frame, for was not this narrative strangely similar in its main features to that which his own father had told him on the Keeling Islands about beautiful little Kathleen Holbein and her father? He was on the point of seizing the hermit by the hand and telling him what he knew, when the thought occurred that attacks by pirates were common enough in those seas, that other fathers might have lost daughters in this way, and that, perhaps, his suspicion might be wrong. It would be a terrible thing, he thought, to raise hope in his poor friend’s breast unless he were pretty sure of the hope being well founded. He would wait and hear more. He had just come to this conclusion, and managed to subdue the feelings which had been aroused, when Van der Kemp turned to him again, and continued his narrative—“I know not how it was, unless the Lord gave me strength for a purpose as he gave it to Samson of old, but when I recovered from the stinging blow I had received, and saw the junk hoist her sails and heard my child scream, I felt the strength of a lion come over me; I burst the bonds that held me and leaped into the sea, intending to swim to her. But it was otherwise ordained. A breeze which had sprung up freshened, and the junk soon left me far behind. As for the other junk, I never saw it again, for I never looked back or thought of it—only, as I left it, I heard a mocking laugh from the one-eyed villain, who, I afterwards found out, owned and commanded both junks.”

Nigel had no doubt now, but the agitation of his feelings still kept him silent.

“Need I say,” continued the hermit, “that revenge burned fiercely in my breast from that day forward? If I had met the man soon after that, I should certainly have slain him. But God mercifully forbade it. Since then He has opened my eyes to see the Crucified One who prayed for His enemies. And up till now I have prayed most earnestly that Baderoon and I might not meet. My prayer has not been answered in the way I wished, but a better answer has been granted, for the sin of revenge was overcome within me before we met.”

Van der Kemp paused again.

“Go on,” said Nigel, eagerly. “How did you escape?”

“Escape! Where was I—Oh! I remember,” said the hermit, awaking as if out of a dream; “Well, I swam after the junk until it was out of sight, and then I swam on in silent despair until so completely exhausted that I felt consciousness leaving me. Then I knew that the end must be near and I felt almost glad; but when I began to sink, the natural desire to prolong life revived, and I struggled on. Just as my strength began a second time to fail, I struck against something. It was a dead cocoa-nut tree. I laid hold of it and clung to it all that night. Next morning I was picked up by some fishermen who were going to Telok Betong by the outer passage round Sebesi Island, and were willing to land me there. But as my business connections had been chiefly with the town of Anjer, I begged of them to land me on the island of Krakatoa. This they did, and it has been my home ever since. I have been there many years.”

“Have you never seen or heard of your daughter since?” asked Nigel eagerly, and with deep sympathy.

“Never—I have travelled far and near, all over the archipelago; into the interior of the islands, great and small, but have failed to find her. I have long since felt that she must be dead—for—for she could not live with the monsters who stole her away.”

A certain contraction of the mouth, as he said this, and a gleam of the eyes, suggested to Nigel that revenge was not yet dead within the hermit’s breast, although it had been overcome.

“What was her name?” asked Nigel, willing to gain time to think how he ought to act, and being afraid of the effect that the sudden communication of the news might have on his friend.

“Winnie—darling Winnie—after her mother,” said the hermit with deep pathos in his tone.

A feeling of disappointment came over our hero. Winnie bore not the most distant resemblance to Kathleen!

“Did you ever, during your search,” asked Nigel slowly, “visit the Cocos-Keeling Islands?”

“Never. They are too far from where the attack on us was made.”

“And you never heard of a gun-boat having captured a pirate junk and—”

“Why do you ask, and why pause?” said the hermit, looking at his friend in some surprise.

Nigel felt that he had almost gone too far.

“Well, you know—” he replied in some confusion, “you—you are right when you expect me to sympathise with your great sorrow, which I do most profoundly, and—and—in short, I would give anything to be able to suggest hope to you, my friend. Men should never give way to despair.”

“Thank you. It is kindly meant,” returned the hermit, looking at the youth with his sad smile. “But it is vain. Hope is dead now.”

They were interrupted at this point by the announcement that supper was ready. At the same time the sun sank, like the hermit’s hope, and disappeared beyond the dark forest.

Chapter Twenty
Nigel makes a Confidant of Moses—Undertakes a Lonely Watch and sees something Wonderful

It was not much supper that Nigel Roy ate that night. The excitement resulting from his supposed discovery reduced his appetite seriously, and the intense desire to open a safety-valve in the way of confidential talk with some one induced a nervously absent disposition which at last attracted attention.

“You vant a goot dose of kvinine,” remarked Verkimier, when, having satiated himself, he found time to think of others—not that the professor was selfish by any means, only he was addicted to concentration of mind on all work in hand, inclusive of feeding.

The hermit paid no attention to anything that was said. His recent conversation had given vent to a flood of memories and feelings that had been pent-up for many years.

After supper Nigel resolved to make a confidant of Moses. The negro’s fidelity to and love for his master would ensure his sympathy at least, if not wise counsel.

“Moses,” he said, when the professor had raised himself to the seventh heaven by means of tobacco fumes, “come with me. I want to have a talk.”

“Das what I’s allers wantin’, Massa Nadgel; talkin’s my strong point, if I hab a strong point at all.”

They went together to the edge of a cliff on the hill-top, whence they could see an almost illimitable stretch of tropical wilderness bathed in a glorious flood of moonlight, and sat down.

On a neighbouring cliff, which was crowned with a mass of grasses and shrubs, a small monkey also sat down, on a fallen branch, and watched them with pathetic interest, tempered, it would seem, by cutaneous irritation.

“Moses, I am sorely in need of advice,” said Nigel, turning suddenly to his companion with ill-suppressed excitement.

“Well, Massa Nadgel, you does look like it, but I’m sorry I ain’t a doctor. P’r’aps de purfesser would help you better nor—”

“You misunderstand me. Can you keep a secret, Moses?”

“I kin try—if—if he’s not too diffikilt to keep.”

“Well, then; listen.”

The negro opened his eyes and his mouth as if these were the chief orifices for the entrance of sound, and advanced an ear. The distant monkey, observing, apparently, that some unusual communication was about to be made, also stretched out its little head, cocked an ear, and suspended its other operations.

Then, in low earnest tones, Nigel told Moses of his belief that Van der Kemp’s daughter might yet be alive and well, and detailed the recent conversation he had had with his master.

“Now, Moses; what d’ye think of all that?”

Profundity unfathomable sat on the negro’s sable brow as he replied, “Massa Nadgel, I don’t bery well know what to t’ink.”

“But remember, Moses, before we go further, that I tell you all this in strict confidence; not a word of it must pass your lips.”

The awful solemnity with which Nigel sought to impress this on his companion was absolutely trifling compared with the expression of that companion’s countenance, as, with a long-drawn argumentative and remonstrative Oh! he replied:—

“Massa Nadgel. Does you really t’ink I would say or do any mortal t’ing w’atsumiver as would injure my massa?”

“I’m sure you would not,” returned Nigel, quickly. “Forgive me, Moses, I merely meant that you would have to be very cautious—very careful—that you do not let a word slip—by accident, you know—I believe you’d sooner die than do an intentional injury to Van der Kemp. If I thought you capable of that, I think I would relieve my feelings by giving you a good thrashing.”

The listening monkey cocked its ear a little higher at this, and Moses, who had at first raised his flat nose indignantly in the air, gradually lowered it, while a benignant smile supplanted indignation.

“You’re right dere, Massa Nadgel. I’d die a t’ousand times sooner dan injure massa. As to your last obserwation, it rouses two idees in my mind. First, I wonder how you’d manidge to gib me a t’rashin’, an’ second, I wonder if your own moder would rikognise you arter you’d tried it.”

At this the monkey turned its other ear as if to make quite sure that it heard aright. Nigel laughed shortly.

“But seriously, Moses,” he continued; “what do you think I should do? Should I reveal my suspicions to Van der Kemp?”

“Cer’nly not!” answered the negro with prompt decision. “What! wake up all his old hopes to hab ’em all dashed to bits p’raps when you find dat you’s wrong!”

“But I feel absolutely certain that I’m not wrong!” returned Nigel, excitedly. “Consider—there is, first, the one-eyed pirate; second, there is—”

“’Scuse me, Massa Nadgel, dere’s no occasion to go all ober it again. I’ll tell you what you do.”

“Well?” exclaimed Nigel, anxiously, while his companion frowned savagely under the force of the thoughts that surged through his brain.

“Here’s what you’ll do,” said Moses.

“Well?” (impatiently, as the negro paused.)

“We’re on our way home to Krakatoa.”

“Yes—well?”

“One ob our men leabes us to-morrer—goes to ’is home on de coast. Kitch one ob de steamers dat’s allers due about dis time.”

“Well, what of that?”

“What ob dat! why, you’ll write a letter to your fadder. It’ll go by de steamer to Batavia. He gits it long before we gits home, so dere’s plenty time for ’im to take haction.”

“But what good will writing to my father do?” asked Nigel in a somewhat disappointed tone. “He can’t help us.”

“Ho yes, he can,” said Moses with a self-satisfied nod. “See here, I’ll tell you what to write. You begin, ‘Dear fadder—or Dearest fadder’—I’s not quite sure ob de strengt’ ob your affection. P’raps de safest way.”

“Oh! get on, Moses. Never mind that.”

“Ho! it’s all bery well for you to say dat, but de ole gen’leman’ll mind it. Hows’ever, put it as you t’ink best—‘Dear fadder, victual your ship; up anchor; hois’ de sails, an’ steer for de Cocos-Keelin’ Islands. Go ashore; git hold ob do young ’ooman called Kat’leen Hobbleben.’”

“Holbein, Moses.”

“What! is she Moses too?”

“No, no! get on, man.”

“Well, ‘Dearest fadder, git a hold ob her, whateber her name is, an’ carry her off body and soul, an’ whateber else b’longs to her. Take her to de town ob Anjer an’ wait dere for furder orders.’ Ob course for de windin’ up o’ de letter you must appeal agin to de state ob your affections, for, as—”

“Not a bad idea,” exclaimed Nigel. “Why, Moses, you’re a genius! Of course I’ll have to explain a little more fully.”

“’Splain what you please,” said Moses. “My business is to gib you de bones ob de letter; yours—bein’ a scholar—is to clove it wid flesh.”

“I’ll do it, Moses, at once.”

“I should like,” rejoined Moses, with a tooth-and-gum-disclosing smile, “to see your fadder when he gits dat letter!”

The picture conjured up by his vivid imagination caused the negro to give way to an explosive laugh that sent the eavesdropping monkey like a brown thunderbolt into the recesses of its native jungle, while Nigel went off to write and despatch the important letter.

Next day the party arrived at another village, where, the report of their approach having preceded them, they were received with much ceremony—all the more that the professor’s power with the rifle had been made known, and that the neighbourhood was infested by tigers.

There can be little doubt that at this part of the journey the travellers must have been dogged all the way by tigers, and it was matter for surprise that so small a party should not have been molested. Possibly the reason was that these huge members of the feline race were afraid of white faces, being unaccustomed to them, or, perchance, the appearance and vigorous stride of even a few stalwart and fearless men had intimidated them. Whatever the cause, the party reached the village without seeing a single tiger, though their footprints were observed in many places.

The wild scenery became more and more beautiful as this village was neared.

Although flowers as a rule were small and inconspicuous in many parts of the great forest through which they passed, the rich pink and scarlet of many of the opening leaves, and the autumn-tinted foliage which lasts through all seasons of the year, fully made up for the want of them—at least as regards colour, while the whole vegetation was intermingled in a rich confusion that defies description.

The professor went into perplexed raptures, his mind being distracted by the exuberant wealth of subjects which were presented to it all at the same time.

“Look zere!” he cried, at one turning in the path which opened up a new vista of exquisite beauty—“look at zat!”

“Ay, it is a Siamang ape—next in size to the orang-utan,” said Van der Kemp, who stood at his friend’s elbow.

The animal in question was a fine full-grown specimen, with long jet-black glancing hair. Its height might probably have been a few inches over three feet, and the stretch of its arms over rather than under five feet, but at the great height at which it was seen—not less than eighty feet—it looked much like an ordinary monkey. It was hanging in the most easy nonchalant way by one hand from the branch of a tree, utterly indifferent to the fact that to drop was to die!

The instant the Siamang observed the travellers it set up a loud barking howl which made the woods resound, but it did not alter its position or seem to be alarmed in any degree.

“Vat a ’straordinary noise!” remarked the professor.

“It is indeed,” returned the hermit, “and it has an extraordinary appliance for producing it. There is a large bag under its throat extending to its lips and cheeks which it can fill with air by means of a valve in the windpipe. By expelling this air in sudden bursts it makes the varied sounds you hear.”

“Mos’ vonderful! A sort of natural air-gun! I vill shoot it,” said the professor, raising his deadly rifle, and there is no doubt that the poor Siamang would have dropped in another moment if Van der Kemp had not quietly and gravely touched his friend’s elbow just as the explosion took place.

“Hah! you tooched me!” exclaimed the disappointed naturalist, looking fiercely round, while the amazed ape sent forth a bursting crack of its air-gun as it swung itself into the tree-top and made off.

“Yes, I touched you, and if you will shoot when I am so close to you, you cannot wonder at it—especially when you intend to take life uselessly. The time now at the disposal of my friend Nigel Roy will not permit of our delaying long enough to kill and preserve large specimens. To say truth, my friend, we must press on now, as fast as we can, for we have a very long way to go.”

Verkimier was not quite pleased with this explanation, but there was a sort of indescribable power about the hermit, when he was resolved to have his way, that those whom he led found it impossible to resist.

On arriving at the village they were agreeably surprised to find a grand banquet, consisting chiefly of fruit, with fowl, rice, and Indian corn, spread out for them in the Balai or public hall, where also their sleeping quarters were appointed. An event had recently occurred, however, which somewhat damped the pleasure of their reception. A young man had been killed by a tiger. The brute had leaped upon him while he and a party of lads were traversing a narrow path through the jungle, and had killed him with one blow of its paw. The other youths courageously rushed at the beast with their spears and axes, and, driving it off, carried the body of their comrade away.

“We have just buried the young man,” said the chief of the village, “and have set a trap for the tiger, for he will be sure to visit the grave.”

“My friends would like to see this trap,” said the hermit, who, of course, acted the part of interpreter wherever they went, being well acquainted with most of the languages and dialects of the archipelago.

“There will yet be daylight after you have finished eating,” said the chief.

Although anxious to go at once to see this trap, they felt the propriety of doing justice to what had been provided for them, and sat down to their meal, for which, to say truth, they were quite ready.

Then they went with a large band of armed natives to see this curious tiger-trap, the bait of which was the grave of a human being!

The grave was close to the outskirts of the village, and, on one side, the jungle came up to within a few yards of it. The spot was surrounded by a strong and high bamboo fence, except at one point where a narrow but very conspicuous opening had been left. Here a sharp spear was so arranged beside the opening that it could be shot across it at a point corresponding with the height of a tiger’s heart from the ground—as well, at least, as that point could be estimated by men who were pretty familiar with tigers. The motive power to propel this spear was derived from a green bamboo, so strong that it required several powerful men to bend it in the form of a bow. A species of trigger was arranged to let the bent bow fly, and a piece of fine cord passed from this across the opening about breast-high for a tiger. The intention was that the animal, in entering the enclosure, should become its own executioner—should commit unintentional suicide, if we may so put it.

“I have an ambition to shoot a tiger,” said Nigel to Van der Kemp that evening. “Do you think the people would object to my getting up into a tree with my rifle and watching beside the grave, part of the night?”

“I am sure that they would not. But your watch will probably be in vain, for tigers are uncommonly sagacious creatures and seem to me to have exceptional powers for scenting danger.”

“No matter, I will try.”

Accordingly, a little before dark that evening our hero borrowed the professor’s double-barrelled rifle, being more suitable for large game than his own gun, and sauntered with Moses down to the grave where he ensconced himself in the branches of a large tree about thirty feet from the ground. The form of the tree was such, that among its forks Nigel could form a sort of nest in which he could sit, in full view of the poor youth’s grave, without the risk of falling to the ground even if he should chance to drop asleep.

“Good-night, massa Nadgel,” said Moses as he turned to leave his companion to his solitary vigil. “See you not go to sleep.”

“No fear of that!” said Nigel.

“An’ whateber you do, don’t miss.”

“I’ll do my best—Good-night.”

While there was yet a little daylight, our hunter looked well about him; took note of the exact position of the fence, the entrance to the enclosure, and the grave; judged the various distances of objects, and arranged the sights of the rifle, which was already loaded with a brace of hardened balls. Then he looked up through the tree-tops and wished for darkness.

It came sooner than he expected. Night always descends more suddenly in tropical than in temperate regions. The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when night seemed to descend like a pall over the jungle, and an indescribable sensation of eerieness crept over Nigel’s spirit. Objects became very indistinct, and he fancied that he saw something moving on the newly-made grave. With a startled feeling he grasped his weapon, supposing that the tiger must have entered the enclosure with cat-like stealth. On second thoughts, however, he discarded the idea, for the entrance was between him and the grave, and still seemed quite visible. Do what he would, however, the thought of ghosts insisted on intruding upon him! He did not believe in ghosts—oh no!—had always scouted the idea of their existence. Why, therefore, did he feel uncomfortable? He could not tell. It must simply be the excitement natural to such a very new and peculiar situation. He would think of something else. He would devote his mind to the contemplation of tigers! In a short time the moon would rise, he knew—then he would be able to see better.

While he was in this very uncomfortable state of mind, with the jungle wrapped in profound silence as well as gloom, there broke on the night air a wail so indescribable that the very marrow in Nigel’s bones seemed to shrivel up. It ceased, but again broke forth louder than before, increasing in length and strength, until his ears seemed to tingle with the sound, and then it died away to a sigh of unutterable woe.

“I have always,” muttered Nigel, “believed myself to be a man of ordinary courage, but now—I shall write myself a coward, if not an ass!”

He attempted to laugh at this pleasantry, but the laugh was hollow and seemed to freeze in his gullet as the wail broke forth again, ten times more hideous than at first. After a time the wail became more continuous, and the watcher began to get used to it. Then a happy thought flashed into his mind—this was, perhaps, some sort of mourning for the dead! He was right. The duty of the father of the poor youth who had been killed was, for several days after the funeral, to sit alone in his house and chant from sunset till daybreak a death-dirge, or, as it is called, the tjerita bari. It was not till next day that this was told to him, but meanwhile the surmise afforded him instantaneous relief.

As if nature sympathised with his feelings, the moon arose at the same time and dispelled the thick darkness, though it was not till much later that, sailing across a clear sky, she poured her bright beams through the tree-tops and finally rested on the dead man’s grave.

By that time Nigel had quite recovered his equanimity, and mentally blotted out the writing of “coward” and “ass” which he had written against himself. But another trouble now assailed him. He became sleepy! Half-a-dozen times at least within half-an-hour he started wide awake under the impression that he was falling off the tree.

“This will never do,” he exclaimed, rising to his feet, resting his rifle in a position of safety, and then stretching himself to his utmost extent so that he became thoroughly awake. After this “rouser,” as he called it, he sat down again, and almost immediately fell fast asleep.

How long he sat in this condition it is impossible to say, but he opened his eyes at length with an indescribable sensation that something required attention, and the first thing they rested on, (for daylight was dawning), was an enormous tiger not forty yards away from him, gliding like a shadow and with cat-like stealth towards the opening of the enclosure. The sight was so sudden and so unexpected that, for the moment, he was paralysed. Perhaps he thought it was a dream. Before he could recover presence of mind to seize his rifle, the breast of the animal had touched the fatal line; the trigger was drawn; the stout bamboo straightened with a booming sound, and the spear—or, rather, the giant arrow—was shot straight through the tiger’s side!

Then occurred a scene which might well have induced Nigel to imagine that he dreamt, for the transfixed creature bounded into the enclosure with a terrific roar that rang fearfully through the arches of the hitherto silent forest. Rushing across the grave, it sprang with one tremendous bound right over the high fence, carrying the spear along with it into the jungle beyond.

By that time Nigel was himself again, with rifle in hand, but too late to fire. The moment he heard the thud of the tiger’s descent, he slid down the tree, and, forgetful or regardless of danger,—went crashing into the jungle, while the yells and shouts of hundreds of aroused natives suggested the peopling of the region with an army of fiends.

But our hero had not to go far. In his haste he almost tumbled over the tiger. It was lying stone dead on the spot where it had fallen!

A few minutes more and the natives came pouring round him, wild with excitement and joy. Soon he was joined by his own comrades.

“Well, you’ve managed to shoot him, I see,” said Van der Kemp as he joined the group.

“Alas! no. I have not fired a shot,” said Nigel, with a half disappointed look.

“You’s got de better ob him anyhow,” remarked Moses as he pushed to the front.

“The spear got the better of him, Moses.”

“Vell now, zat is a splendid animal. Lat me see,” said the professor, pulling out his tape-measure.

It was with difficulty that the man of science made and noted his measurements, for the people were pressing eagerly round the carcase to gratify their revenge by running their spears into the still warm body. They dipped the points in the blood and passed their krisses broadside over the creature that they might absorb the courage and boldness which were supposed to emanate from it! Then they skinned it, and pieces of the heart and brain were eaten raw by some of those whose relatives had been killed by tigers. Finally the skull was hacked to pieces for the purpose of distributing the teeth, which are used by the natives as charms.