A royal smuggler

Onward, onward, for days, weeks; nay, more than two months we traveled through forests so dense, that without immense toil and a cunning guide they would have been impassable. Gigantic teak trees, thickets of colossal ferns, bamboos, rattans, the wild laurel, gum-trees—across rivers and perilous rapids, through valleys rendered deadly to man from the neighborhood of those solfataros or semi-extinct volcanoes which, from the fume of carbonic acid gas escaping, asphyxiate all living creatures who dare to rest within its influence. Along the ridges of that immense volcanic range, named by travelers the blue mountains, and whose crests soar to a height of nine thousand feet above the level of the sea—by day seeking our food from the wild pigs, deer, and pheasants, which ever and anon crossed our path; by night two of us sleeping, within a circle of fire, lighted partly to preserve us from the pestiferous damps, or prowling tigers, and fed with fuel by the other two, who kept watch and ward.

The journey was indeed painful, wearisome. Would it ever come to an end?—But another day and—hurrah! our hearts beat with joy, such a joy I had never felt. We had at length reached the neighborhood of human habitations—the land of man was visible around. We had entered a vast valley shut in by wooded hills, and moistened by pleasant brooks and rivers, the sides of which for miles were studded with trees in groves. We had in fact come to a sago plantation, and thus knew that a village or town must be at hand—a few miles more along the banks of the widest of the streams, and we had reached a little village of huts, which we afterwards found formed a kind of outpost to the city of Marang itself. Speedily our toils were forgotten in the warm hospitality of the natives, who regaled us with their choicest fruits, coffee, and sago cakes, and, greatest luxury of all, after so long a sojourn in the wilds, sleeping-mats and pillows, to say nothing of a separate hut, which the head-man of the village, who constituted himself our host, had placed at our disposal.

Now, as I have told you, it is the custom in Java for the women to do all the field work; accordingly, they quit their huts at a very early hour of the day. But the morning after reaching the village, when we left our sleeping-hut, we were surprised to see both women and men idling about, and tricked out in their best finery.

“What is the meaning of all this, is it a jollification day, I wonder?” asked Martin of Prabu; but the latter, as if no less surprised, addressing the head-man, our host, asked,—

“What day is this, oh my brother?”

“Can my elder brother have suddenly fallen from the moon, that he knows not that this is the twelfth of the month of Rabbi ul awal?”[D]

“Allah! and the Prophet pardon a miserable wretch for having forgotten it,” exclaimed Prabu, adding very truly, “but we must have lost our reckoning of time in the wilds, for I thought it wanted two more days to it. But Allah be thanked that we are yet in time for the festival.”

“My elder brother,” replied the head-man, “has committed no sin, for the day has only come, not passed; but,” he added, “let my brother attire himself fittingly, and accompany my party to Marang, for the day will be a great one, greater than usual, to do honor to the newly-arrived envoy from the unbelieving Dutch chief at Batavia.”

“When, O my elder brother, did this Dutch envoy arrive in Marang?” asked Prabu, with evident vexation, if not fear, depicted upon his countenance.

“Three days since. It is believed that it was to receive this Hollander, his highness the Pangeran left Pugar, and came to his great palace of Marang.”

“Will the Hollander attend the ceremonies at the palace?” asked Prabu.

“It is not known, but if my elder brother and his two friends will join our party they will see,” replied the head-man, and then again he offered to lend us the holiday attire of villagers that we might make an appropriate appearance, and to don these we went into his house.

“I say, Prabu,” said Martin while we were attiring ourselves, “isn’t it a little foolhardy for us, and you especially, to venture too near this Dutchman; won’t it be to walk into the lion’s mouth?”

“Not so, sahib; he will not recognize us, even if he has ever seen us before, for he cannot dream that we are in this part of the island.”

“But why go at all into the city until this envoy has quitted it, if there be any danger?” I asked.

“Because, Sahib Claud,” replied Prabu, sternly, “there is treachery at work in a quarter where I least expected to find it, and I must scent it out; still, if the sahibs fear, they can remain here.”

But the latter suggestion we would not listen to, and so we were soon on our way with the villagers, and upon the road to the city we were joined by many hundreds of others, all journeying to witness the grand reception of the chief nobles by their Prince. But as this ceremony takes place annually, a general description of it must suffice.

At an early hour of the day, each chief, accompanied by his retainers attired in their gala dresses and fully armed, and attended by drums and other musical instruments, proceeds to the great square of the palace, there to await the coming of the Prince. I must here premise that every portion of the ceremony is an outrage upon Mahomedan decorum, at least as established in other countries; but then the Javanese, although followers of the Prophet, are extremely lax in all religious matters. When the Prince makes his appearance, it is in the idolatrous garb of his Hindoo ancestors, decorated with ponderous golden bracelets, armlets, and finger-rings set with diamonds. His retinue consists of persons whimsically dressed in the ancient costume of Java, including a great number of women, a strange contradiction to the fastidiousness of the Mahomedans of other countries. The most conspicuous of the latter are his Highness’s ladies of the household—these bear the ancient regalia. The latter, by the way, according to American notion of regalia, is somewhat extraordinary, consisting, for instance of old creeses, the golden figures of a snake, a goose, and a deer;—equally curious is the regalia of the Prince of Macassar or Celebes, which consists of the Book of the laws of God, the fragment of a small gold chain, a pair of Chinese dishes, an enchanted stone, a pop-gun, some creeses and spears; and, above all, a revered weapon, called sudang; i. e., a kind of cleaver or hanger, the object of which, according to the naked language of the people themselves, is to rip open bellies. But to return to the Java prince.

After the ladies came several old women, bearing arms in their hands, called langan-astru, very appropriately too, for the meaning is soldiers in play. The Prince, having arrived at the Sitingil, or terrace of ceremonies, takes his seat upon the throne, the chiefs of all ranks, from the highest to the lowest, squatting on the bare ground, the heir to the throne only being admitted to a higher seat. The troops of all descriptions, whether those of the household, or the rabble militia of the princes, then pass before the Prince in review, moving mostly according to the manners of the country, in a strutting or dancing attitude, and exhibiting costumes the most grotesque and ludicrous. Some appear in ancient dress, others in the more modern garb of the country. One portion of the ceremony consists of a public charity according to the institution of the Prophet. This consists of dressed food, chiefly rice, piled up into a conical mass, of four or five feet high, tastefully decorated with flowers, and each mass supported in a separate litter, borne amidst the sounds of a hundred bands of native music by porters dressed for the occasion. From their shape and size, and still more, because they are thought to be emblematic of the bounty of the sovereign, these masses of food are emphatically and figuratively denominated mountains.

The method of distributing these viands is as curious as it is, to say the least, ungracious; for, after being duly exhibited in the procession, the mountains are carried to the houses of the nobles of rank, according to their size and qualities, and being thrown down in their courtyards, there ensues, among the retainers of the chiefs, an indecent but amicable scramble for them.

There is, however, one portion of the festivities that seriously outrages the institutions of the Prophet. It is at the latter part of the day, when wine is served plentifully, and the Prince quaffs some half a dozen bumpers off to the health of his good friends and allies. Now, this latter ceremony was the only portion of the festival to which we could not be eyewitnesses, as it took place in the banqueting-hall of the palace, and in the presence only of the guests and attendants. It appeared, however, to be the only portion that Prabu was very desirous of witnessing. To do this, he offered a bribe to one of the principal slaves, but as it would have been at the risk of his life, the man refused. Thus he was obliged to wait in the city till the conclusion of the banquet, and then content himself with its description from the mouth of one of the attendants. This the man did very circumstantially and tediously, and Prabu listened attentively for some time, but at the sentence—“and then his Highness, taking a flagon of wine in both hands, stood up, and drank it to the dregs to the health of the Dutch envoy, and his masters, the Government at Batavia, between whom and himself there was, and ever had been, a good and completely peaceful understanding”—our captain, losing all self-control, gnashed his teeth, and clutched the handle of his creese, exclaiming,—

“False-hearted tyrant and coward, he has betrayed his country!”

But the astonishment depicted upon the countenance of the reciter of the speech at such treasonous words restored him to his self-possession, and, taking the man by the shoulder, he said,—

“A long journey has made me mad. Not a word of this to a living soul, as you value your life, for”—the rest he whispered in his ear.

“The son of Surapati,” exclaimed the man, and stricken and falling upon his knees, he added—“Allah be praised! the people, oh, prince! wail thee as dead, or, worse, in the power of the Dutch.”

Then dismissing him with a wave of his hand, Prabu said to us,—

“Now, Sahib, you return to the village, I will remain; but before I lay my head upon my pillow this night, I must have speech with this Pangeran.”

“Madness, Prabu!” cried I; “for if he has betrayed your cause, he will deliver you into the hands of this envoy.”

“Even this attendant may betray you,” said Martin.

“Go not, I pray—it is a wild scheme.”

“It is not madness—it is wisdom,” he replied, coolly.

“Sahib Martin,” he added, “no native-born subject of this prince will betray the son of Surapati,” so saying he left us, and we returned with our host, the head-man, and his people to the village.

Now, notwithstanding Prabu’s confidence in the wisdom of his seeking an interview that evening with the Prince, my brother and I felt seriously alarmed for his safety. “For,” said Martin, “if this Prince, who has for some time past been plotting against the Government, has patched up a peace with the latter, like all Asiatic tyrants in general, he will not scruple to betray his recent friends.”

“I fear it may be so, Martin; yet let us hope the best. Prabu is not wanting in cunning; he would not wantonly and without some great object thrust his head into the lion’s jaws. After all, this warm welcome given to the envoy, and professions of amity with his master, may be but a ruse on the part of the Prince to gain time—who knows?”

“Who knows indeed?” repeated Martin. And for three or four hours we sat thus conversing and cogitating, till at length, fairly worn out with fatigue, I proposed that we should stretch ourselves upon our mats, as there seemed but little probability that the subject of our thoughts would return that night.

“True, Claud,” replied my brother, “I do not think he will return to-night—still, I don’t like sleeping before I know the result of his interview.”

“Suppose the Prince has caused him to be seized, Martin.” But at the same moment the door of the hut flew open, and Prabu stood before us, not only free and unharmed, but with every mark of satisfaction upon his countenance.

“Thank God, you are safe!” exclaimed my brother.

“Allah be praised for all things!” he replied. “But,” he added, “what harm could happen to the son of Surapati in the palace of the Pangeran of Pugar and Marang?”

“Then his Highness is still thy friend?” I said.

“He is more, Sahib—he is a true-hearted Javanese; for which Allah be forever praised!”

“Yet,” said Martin, incredulously, “he is giving a warm welcome to the envoy of his greatest enemies.”

“Sahib,” he replied, “there are some things that may not be poured into every ear—this is one of them.”

“A satisfactory reply, truly,” replied Martin. “I tell you what,” he added, “this Prince has been found out, and is thus compelled to make terms with the Dutch.”

“It matters not—it matters not,” replied Prabu, “the storm has passed over, yet the thunder is still in the air, the bolt ready to fall. But,” he added, as if anxious to get rid of an unpleasant subject, “has the sahib Martin forgotten his cousin?”

“Prabu,” replied my brother firmly, “you know I have not. Placing full reliance upon your promise to restore her to us, I have not since mentioned her name. But why that question? You are not one to utter idle words. Is she in this city? In Heaven’s name, tell me.”

“Let the sahib stretch his patience to a length of three more days, and Prabu’s promise shall be fulfilled.”

“Three days!” repeated Martin, bitterly, “why not to-morrow?”

“It cannot be: to-morrow the Prince and the envoy attend a great tiger-hunt.”

“Then she is in the power of this Prince?”

“I said not so, Sahib; but rest content—my words have gone forth, and shall not prove idle wind. In the meanwhile, know that she is well cared for and happy.”

This information was good, but it was tantalizing, and filled us with anxiety—an anxiety, indeed, that would have been unbearable had we not possessed such entire confidence in the integrity of Prabu. Then the latter, guessing our thoughts and feelings, said,—

“The sahib Martin longs to join in a tiger-hunt. Treachery disappointed him in Bali. He shall go with the hunters to-morrow.”

“Bother! my mind is occupied with other things,” was the surly reply. But the next minute he said: “What must be, must, and I suppose I must go. You go, of course, Claud, for it will at least serve to divert our thoughts.”

And to this I consented, although such scenes have no attraction for me.