Blown to Bits: The Lonely Man of Rakata, the Malay Archipelago, R. M. Ballantyne [any book recommendations .txt] 📗

Kemp evidently could not resist, for he flung them scraps of his allowance from time to time.

“If you have plenty of provisions on board, I should like to do that too,” said Nigel.

“Do it,” returned the hermit. “We have plenty of food for some days, and our guns can at any time replenish the store. I like to feed these creatures,” he added, “they give themselves over so thoroughly to the enjoyment of the moment, and seem to be grateful. Whether they are so or not, of course, is matter of dispute. Cynics will tell us that they only come to us and fawn upon us because of the memory of past favours and the hope of more to come. I don’t agree with them.”

“Neither do I,” said Nigel, warmly. “Any man who has ever had to do with dogs knows full well that gratitude is a strong element of their nature. And it seems to me that the speaking eyes of Spinkie, to whom I have just given a bit of biscuit, tell of a similar spirit.”

As he spoke, Nigel was conveying another piece of biscuit to his own mouth, when a small brown hand flashed before him, and the morsel, in the twinkling of an eye, was transferred to the monkey’s already swollen cheek—whereat Moses again became suddenly “’splosive” and red, as well as black in the face, for his capacious mouth was inordinately full as usual.

Clear water, from one of the casks, and poured into a tin mug, washed down their cold collation, and then, refreshed and reinvigorated, the trio resumed their paddles, which were not again laid down till the sun was descending towards the western horizon. By that time they were not far from a small wooded islet near the coast of Java, on which Van der Kemp resolved to spend the night.

During the day they had passed at some distance many boats and prahus and other native vessels, the crews of which ceased to row for a few moments, and gazed with curiosity at the strange craft which glided along so swiftly, and seemed to them little more than a long plank on the water, but these took no further notice of our voyagers. They also passed several ships—part of that constant stream of vessels which pass westward through those straits laden with the valuable teas and rich silks of China and Japan. In some cases a cheer of recognition, as being an exceptional style of craft, was accorded them, to which the hermit replied with a wave of the hand—Moses and Nigel with an answering cheer.

There is something very pleasant in the rest which follows a day of hard and healthful toil.

Our Maker has so ordained it as well as stated it, for is it not written, “The sleep of the labouring man is sweet”? and our travellers experienced the truth of the statement that night in very romantic circumstances.

The small rocky islet, not more than a few hundred yards in diameter, which they now approached, had several sheltered sandy bays on its shore, which were convenient for landing. The centre was clothed with palm-trees and underwood, so that fuel could be procured, and cocoa-nuts.

“Sometimes,” said the hermit, while he stooped to arrange the fire, after the canoe and cargo had been carried to their camping-place at the edge of the bushes,—“sometimes it is necessary to keep concealed while travelling in these regions, and I carry a little spirit-lamp which enables me to heat a cup of tea or coffee without making a dangerous blaze; but here there is little risk in kindling a fire.”

“I should not have thought there was any risk at all in these peaceful times,” said Nigel, as he unstrapped his blanket and spread it on the ground under an overhanging bush.

“There are no peaceful times among pirates,” returned the hermit; “and some of the traders in this archipelago are little better than pirates.”

“Where I puts your bed, massa?” asked Moses, turning his huge eyes on his master.

“There—under the bush, beside Nigel.”

“An’ where would you like to sleep, Massa Spinkie?” added the negro, with a low obeisance to the monkey, which sat on the top of what seemed to be its favourite seat—a water-cask.

Spinkie treated the question with calm contempt, turned his head languidly to one side, and scratched himself.

“Unpurliteness is your k’racter from skin to marrow, you son of a insolent mother!” said Moses, shaking his fist, whereat Spinkie, promptly making an O of his mouth, looked fierce.

The sagacious creature remained where he was till after supper, which consisted of another roast fowl—hot this time—and ship’s-biscuit washed down with coffee. Of course Spinkie’s portion consisted only of the biscuit with a few scraps of cocoa-nut. Having received it he quietly retired to his native wilds, with the intention of sleeping there, according to custom, till morning; but his repose was destined to be broken, as we shall see.

After supper, the hermit, stretching himself on his blanket, filled an enormous meerschaum, and began to smoke. The negro, rolling up a little tobacco in tissue paper, sat down, tailor-wise, and followed his master’s example, while our hero—who did not smoke—lay between them, and gazed contemplatively over the fire at the calm dark sea beyond, enjoying the aroma of his coffee.

“From what you have told me of your former trading expeditions,” said Nigel, looking at his friend, “you must have seen a good deal of this archipelago before you took—excuse me—to the hermit life.”

“Ay—a good deal.”

“Have you ever travelled in the interior of the larger islands?” asked Nigel, in the hope of drawing from him some account of his experiences with wild beasts or wild men—he did not care which, so long as they were wild!

“Yes, in all of them,” returned the hermit, curtly, for he was not fond of talking about himself.

“I suppose the larger islands are densely wooded?” continued Nigel interrogatively.

“They are, very.”

“But the wood is not of much value, I fancy, in the way of trade,” pursued our hero, adopting another line of attack which proved successful, for Van der Kemp turned his eyes on him with a look of surprise that almost forced him to laugh.

“Not of much value in the way of trade!” he repeated—“forgive me, if I express surprise that you seem to know so little about us—but, after all, the world is large, and one cannot become deeply versed in everything.”

Having uttered this truism, the hermit resumed his meerschaum and continued to gaze thoughtfully at the embers of the fire. He remained so long silent that Nigel began to despair, but thought he would try him once again on the same lines.

“I suppose,” he said in a careless way, “that none of the islands are big enough to contain many of the larger wild animals.”

“My friend,” returned Van der Kemp, with a smile of urbanity, as he refilled his pipe, “it is evident that you do not know much about our archipelago. Borneo, to the woods and wild animals of which I hope ere long to introduce you, is so large that if you were to put your British islands, including Ireland, down on it they would be engulfed and surrounded by a sea of forests. New Guinea is, perhaps, larger than Borneo. Sumatra is only a little smaller. France is not so large as some of our islands. Java, Luzon, and Celebes are each about equal in size to Ireland. Eighteen more islands are, on the average, as large as Jamaica, more than a hundred are as large as the Isle of Wight, and the smaller isles and islets are innumerable. In short, our archipelago is comparable with any of the primary divisions of the globe, being full 4000 miles in length from east to west and about 1,300 in breadth from north to south, and would in extent more than cover the whole of Europe.”

It was evident to Nigel that he had at length succeeded in opening the flood-gates. The hermit paused for a few moments and puffed at the meerschaum, while Moses glared at his master with absorbed interest, and pulled at the cigarette with such oblivious vigour that he drew it into his mouth at last, spat it out, and prepared another. Nigel sat quite silent and waited for more.

“As to trade,” continued Van der Kemp, resuming his discourse in a lower tone, “why, of gold—the great representative of wealth—we export from Sumatra alone over 26,000 ounces annually, and among other gold regions we have a Mount Ophir in the Malay Peninsula from which there is a considerable annual export.”

Continuing his discourse, Van der Kemp told a great deal more about the products of these prolific islands with considerable enthusiasm—as one who somewhat resented the underrating of his native land.

“Were you born in this region, Van der Kemp?” asked Nigel, during a brief pause.

“I was—in Java. My father, as my name tells, was of Dutch descent. My mother was Irish. Both are dead.”

He stopped. The fire that had been aroused seemed to die down, and he continued to smoke with the sad absent look which was peculiar to him.

“And what about large game?” asked Nigel, anxious to stir up his friend’s enthusiasm again, but the hermit had sunk back into his usual condition of gentle dreaminess, and made no answer till the question had been repeated.

“Pardon me,” he said, “I was dreaming of the days that are gone. Ah! Nigel; you are yet too young to understand the feelings of the old—the sad memories of happy years that can never return: of voices that are hushed for ever. No one can know till he has felt!”

“But you are not old,” said Nigel, wishing to turn the hermit’s mind from a subject on which it seemed to dwell too constantly.

“Not in years,” he returned; “but old, very old in experience, and—stay, what was it that you were asking about? Ah, the big game. Well, we have plenty of that in some of the larger of the islands; we have the elephant, the rhinoceros, the tiger, the puma, that great man-monkey the orang-utan, or, as it is called here, the mias, besides wild pigs, deer, and innumerable smaller animals and birds—”

The hermit stopped abruptly and sat motionless, with his head bent on one side, like one who listens intently. Such an action is always infectious. Nigel and the negro also listened, but heard nothing.

By that time the fire had died down, and, not being required for warmth, had not been replenished. The faint light of the coming moon, which, however, was not yet above the horizon, only seemed to render darkness visible, so that the figure of Moses was quite lost in the shadow of the bush behind him, though the whites of his solemn eyes appeared like two glow-worms.

“Do you hear anything?” asked Nigel in a low tone.

“Oars,” answered the hermit.

“I hear ’im, massa,” whispered the negro, “but das not su’prisin’—plenty boats about.”

“This boat approaches the island, and I can tell by the sound that it is a large prahu. If it touches here it will be for the purpose of spending the night, and Malay boatmen are not always agreeable neighbours. However, it is not likely they will ramble far from where they land, so we may escape observation if we keep quiet.”

As he spoke he emptied the remains of the coffee on the dying fire and effectually put it out.

Meanwhile the sound of oars had become quite distinct, and, as had been anticipated, the crew ran their boat into one of the sandy bays and leaped ashore with a good deal of shouting and noise. Fortunately they had landed on the opposite side of the islet, and as the bush on it was very dense there was not much probability of any one crossing over. Our voyagers therefore lay close, resolving to be off in the morning before the unwelcome visitors were stirring.

As the three lay there wrapped in their blankets and gazing contemplatively at the now risen moon,