High tide at nine to-day! On the Nautilus the crew are shortening up on the anchor chain, for the rusty old hook has been buried in the river mud for two months. We sail at full tide, which enables us to skirt the shore of the western flats and save much time in getting out to sea.
Moh has superintended the moving of all our effects to the little schooner while we have been in the trading-company’s store making some eleventh-hour purchases of tobacco and tin mirrors for the natives and cigars for ourselves. The three white men in charge bid us Godspeed, after many admonitions to take care of ourselves and warnings not to trust the Kia Kias too far. Grouped in a little knot upon the veranda of the 54store, silent, they sadly watch us depart. We, too, hate to say good-by; we have had some pleasant chats with them.
We go directly to the schooner, anxious to take up the trail to adventure. Ula is waiting for us beside the wharf in the tiny dinghy. As we drop into it it sinks with our weight so that the gunwale is scarcely three inches above water and we have visions of making the short trip to the Nautilus each for himself, swimming. Nothing more serious than the shipping of a few gallons of the muddy river water happens, however, and we arrive alongside the Nautilus, in high spirits, though with feet and legs soaked. We probably shall be much wetter than this before the trip is over, is the cheering thought that comes to us.
As we clamber up over the schooner’s low rail we scan the deck. Up forward are our five ex-convicts. Their brief sojourn in the hoosgow has quieted them down a bit and they are not particularly effusive in their greetings. In fact, they don’t even notice us, but sit huddled together just back of the anchor winch with dirty 55bark-cloth blankets thrown over their heads. We go forward to look them over and they return our gaze with a half-conciliatory, half-annoyed expression that makes us grin.
Our grin seems to be taken as an assurance of good-will, for they in turn smile slightly and one of the women bursts out in a hearty laugh. From that moment we “belong.” Ula seems anxious to get under way and comes stumbling forward with two of the crew. Most of our barang is still on deck, awaiting our orders concerning its disposal, and over this the trio have some difficulty in making their way. The dinghy further complicates matters, for it has been hoisted and deposited edge up beside the rail. One of the crew jumps upon it, as the easiest way, and runs over it, balancing like a tight-rope walker on the narrow rolling edge of the thing as though it were a solid sidewalk. His pride takes a fall, however, for as he jumps from it he finds insecure footing where the water from the dinghy has made the deck slippery and falls flat, to the huge delight of our friends the criminals.
56The boys hoist the sail on the foremast and the Nautilus swings around to break out the anchor. This done, Ula snaps a sharp command in Malay to the boys in the bow, who seize the rusty handles of the winch and slowly bring the old mud-hook to the surface. How they accomplish this is a mystery, for at every turn one of the handles of the winch slips on the shaft, while Ula tries to tighten it with wedges of wood driven into the handle socket.
Our Kia Kia friends are very much interested in the proceedings and gather closely around. This gets on Ula’s nerves to such an extent that he unceremoniously kicks the men out of the way, which they do not seem to resent particularly; they sit down again out of harm’s way, but keep up a lively flow of comment. Ula is much disgusted with them and the glances he gives them make us wonder if they are going to enjoy their trip home.
The town is fast dropping into the hazy distance, and save for the chatter of the crew and the natives, and now and then the thumping 57splash of a husky comber against the bow, all is silent. Moh places our dunnage below in the tiny saloon. He carries the groceries down last, for he will have to cook all of our meals there. The crew cook theirs over a sort of fireplace built right on deck, just aft of the foremast. After inspecting the saloon, which contains two sleeping-bunks, we decide to sleep on deck. The atmosphere of the saloon is hard to describe. It is hot and stuffy and a strong smell of bilge-water comes from beneath the floor. No, it isn’t possible to sleep there. Moh grins when we tell him to place our cots on deck.
We clear the mouth of the river and swing outward on a long tack, for the wind is coming dead against us. This will make the up-coast trip slow, but what care we? We have plenty of time and then we may always console ourselves with the thought, “Well, maybe something will happen.” As we swerve into the trough of the sea the Nautilus begins to roll and a groan comes from the Kia Kias on the forward deck. They are experiencing their first case of seasickness 58and seem very wretched indeed. I have been told that seasickness is wholly mental and that babies are never sick at sea because they have no fear of being so, nor any knowledge of how others are affected. The poor savages by the foremast seem to refute this theory, for though they are grown-ups, they can have had no previous experience of the sea, having come from far inland, and it is not likely that they have ever discussed seasickness. They succumb one by one until all are down.
Moh walks by with a stony glare in his eye, as though all were not right with him, and later becomes a delicate robin’s-egg green around the gills, but he continues at work with a never-say-die expression that wins our admiration. Moh is all right, we whisper to ourselves; he’s game, anyway.
The day wears on, the only diversion being when Ula calls to the men to tack. He is sitting beside us in the stern with the tiller ropes in hand. Now and then we attempt to break the monotony by taking a turn at steering, and 59silently flatter ourselves that we are doing it as skilfully as he. But Ula now and then casts a critical glance aloft and finally takes the ropes from us. A slight tug at one or the other of them and the sails fill, catching all the wind which we have been missing. There is an amused grin on Ula’s face. Moh is asleep on the deck in the shade of the low saloon bulkhead. The sea is very calm and the sky cloudless except for a few low-hanging clouds which fringe the horizon in the west. The easy swells lull us into slumber, from which we are roused—after what seems only ten minutes but is really two hours—by Moh, who is calling us to makanan. This is the Malay word for dinner and is, I believe, the first word of the language learned by the traveler.
He has unpacked our camp table and set it on the deck. Our meal consists of canned goods brought from the good old U. S. A. We purchased a two-months’ supply of them in Java and Moh is delighted, for all he has to do to cook them is to put a great bucket of water on the fire, dump the cans into it, and, when it has 60boiled a sufficient length of time, fish them out and open them. He is thrifty, too, for he saves the hot water in the bucket to wash the dishes with.
We have made only one mistake in picking out our dishes: we purchased aluminum cups. Every time we essay a mouthful of hot coffee—and Moh serves it piping hot—there is a sputter and the air becomes lurid with imprecations. It is astonishing how hot those metal cups can get. Every time we burn our lips on them Moh looks up with a terrified, wondering expression, as though in doubt as to whether we are berating him as a cook or what. The Malay does not understand the soul-satisfaction the white man gets from swearing. He must have some specific object upon which to vent his feelings and his invectives invariably take the form of some terrible expression such as “Babi kow,” meaning “You pig,” or some similarly outrageous figure of speech. Compared with our most conservative epithets the vocabulary of the Malay is singularly amateurish.
61While Moh clears away the debris of the evening meal we stoke up the old briers and watch the sunset. In the Indies this is usually one of the events of the day. Shortly after nightfall, which comes in these latitudes with surprising rapidity, we peel off our clothes and stretch out on our cots with no other covering than our pajamas. The sky is a diamond-studded canopy above us,—blue velvet, unfathomable in depth. We shall be sound asleep when the moon rises and shall probably miss that, though it is almost worth waiting for. Above us, but a little to the south of the zenith, hangs the Southern Cross, which resembles somewhat a broken kite,—one of those two-sticked kites of boyhood that was diamond-shaped and had one bowed stick. We fall asleep trying to count the stars in one of the constellations. As I drop off I wonder drowsily if it will rain before morning. If it does! Oh, well, what matter? We can change to dry pajamas.
Ula is still on duty at the tiller when we drift into slumber. He has a bottle of cognac beside 62him for company, and for solace, too, we imagine. He must have hated to leave his lady-love with the courting just begun. He knows full well that there are many other Ulas in her vicinity who will do their best to keep her from pining while he is away. In all probability, though, should he find that in his absence another has taken his place, he will be just as content with her next older sister. It really doesn’t matter much.
Six bells. The air is stifling. There is a loud drumming sound over and around us. As we come wide awake we realize what the matter is. The Nautilus was headed for a heavy squall and Ula called Moh, who, rather than waken us, simply spread a heavy tarpaulin over us to protect us from the rain. It was the smothering and not the storm that roused us. How he got the covering spread without disturbing us we shall never know. We rise up on our elbows and peer out from under it. The rain is coming down in torrents. Ula is still at the tiller. His 63clothes stick to him and the water is running in a steady stream from the turned-down brim of his brown straw hat. He has tied it upon his head with a string passed underneath his jaw. His water-soaked figure is ludicrous and we burst into laughter. Ula apparently enjoys the situation, himself, and does not seem to mind the wetting. The bottle of cognac is still beside him, so he won’t get cold. His capacity for liquor is a matter of great pride to him; it is the envy of his fellows and the subject of much discussion among them.
Like all tropical storms, the squall passes soon and we are able to toss off the heavy “tarp.” Under it the heat is terrific. We wonder how the Kia Kias up forward are faring, but are not sufficiently interested to go there and find out. If Ula and the crew can stand it, they should be able to. A thorough soaking will do them good, for it is only with rain that their bodies are ever moistened. They have a constitutional dislike for water, even as a beverage. For drink they are quite content with the milk of the cocoanut, 64the meat of which forms a large part of their diet.
After the squall the air is cool and deliciously sweet. The breeze comes again and fills the dripping sails which have been hanging limp and motionless. Some of the crew are clustered around the fireplace, cooking fish. They spit them upon slivers broken from one of our packing-cases and toast them over the open fire. Moh is squatted among them and seems to be quite at home. Occasional words drift to us, indicating that the topic of discussion is the usual one,—the virtues of their respective women. This is a subject that the Malay never seems to tire of. In the kampongs the women talk likewise of the men. Having nothing else to occupy their thoughts, no business or serious occupation, naturally they are interested chiefly in one another and they discuss with the utmost candor subjects of which the European never speaks.
We listen, and are properly shocked at some of the things said which bring forth bursts of delighted laughter from the listeners; nevertheless 65we cock our ears so as not to miss any of them. One of the boys is telling how well his sweetheart dances and he gives a demonstration which to us is lewd in the extreme and occasions uproarious laughter. His companions slap him on the back and urge him to continue, but he shakes his head in refusal when Ula calls to him to come and show the Tuans, meaning us. This breaks up the party, for they believed us to be asleep. They are very reserved in the presence of the stranger, for they sense that their ways are not ours.
It is only upon ripe acquaintance that the male native will speak of his family affairs to the white man, though the women seem to be always ready to gossip.
When the whispering begins again Ula looks at us and grins. He wags his head as though to say, “It’s too bad, for he is very funny, but I can’t make him do it.” We are just as well satisfied, and we turn over to our sleep. Ula has just tossed the empty cognac bottle over the side, where it bobs away into the darkness in a 66wabbly dance. The idle thought drifts through my mind that I should like to cork up some wild message in that bottle on the chance of its being picked up. But white men who could read it seldom visit this lonely coast.
We are the first to come in years, except the few “paradise-hunters.” Some of these have taken the paradise away with them, while others, seeking the one kind of paradise, have found another and have remained after having served as the pièce de résistance of some gastronomic function.