A royal smuggler

I must now, as rapidly as possible, sketch the events of two years—events that led to our becoming wanderers in the wilds of Java. Well, about a month after our father’s funeral, the notary, Ebberfeld, read to us the will. By that testament, Uncle Adam had divided his fortune, including money, merchandise, houses—indeed, everything he had possessed—into two portions; the one to go absolutely to his daughter Marie, upon her reaching the age of twenty-one, the second to be divided equally between the widow and his brother. It was also willed that should Marie die unmarried, and the widow be survivor, that her portion should go to the latter. Further, ran the document, “Should my brother outlive my wife, then her share shall go to him; or, in the event of his demise, to his sons: but if my wife outlive my brother and his sons, Claud and Martin, then the portion of the latter shall pass absolutely to her.” It was further willed, that should our father die before the youngest of us boys reached the age of twenty-one, then the widow was to become our guardian.

“Uncle has been very good to us, Claud,” said Martin, the first moment we were alone after hearing the will read; “but I would rather be my own master without the money, than be under her guardianship, and have twice as much.”

“Why, Martin, I thought that, like me, you had begun to like our aunt?”

“Well, not to like her, but not to dislike her so much. However, that is neither here nor there; we sha’n’t be under her guardianship, but under that of Ebberfeld.”

“Nonsense, Martin! what can he have to do with us?”

“Everything, for he will marry her, and so be her master and ours.”

“How could you dream of such a thing, Martin?”

“I did not dream it, Claud. Is it probable that I should dream of such a man at all? Nevertheless, I know it. Prabu told me so.”

“Worse and worse,” said I, laughing. “Is it likely a slave should be acquainted with his mistress’s private affairs?”

“Yes!” replied my brother, triumphantly; “and for a very good reason. ‘My lady’ has promised him his liberty papers upon the day of her marriage. Now, will you believe it?”

There was no reason I should not believe it, for our aunt would not be the first widow who had married again; but so unpalatable was the idea of being under Ebberfeld’s guardianship, that I tried to disbelieve it. It mattered but little, however, what I believed or disbelieved, for married they were, within a month after that conversation; and from the time of that ceremony we dated the two most miserable years of our lives.

Mynheer Ebberfeld, the oily-tongued notary, the patron of young people, proved to be a domestic tyrant of the first water. His word was law, and a Draconic law, too, to all but “my lady” and, strange to say, Prabu. Of the first he was very proud; for although her father was a Dutchman, she was descended by the mother’s side from the Susunans, or ancient sovereigns of Java, and cousin-german to a rich Japanese pangeran, or prince. Himself a half-caste, Mynheer had hitherto, although very rich, been held but in small esteem by the colonists; his marriage, however, rendered him so important in his own estimation, that he became the most arrogant man in the island. But arrogant, exacting, avaricious, tyrannical as he was, Prabu seemed to care but little for him—nay, with such nonchalance did the freed slave treat both master and mistress (for he was still, after a manner, in their service), that at times I used to think he was in possession of some secret that placed them in his power.

To Marie, my brother, and me, this man was more hateful for his tyranny to his slaves, than for any overt acts to ourselves. But I will relate a tragedy that occurred within the first twelve months of his marriage through his brutality, and you may then judge for yourselves the kind of man we had for guardian.

Ebberfeld possessed an estate some ten miles from the upper town. Upon this was a family of slaves, consisting of a man, his wife, and three children, all natives of Bugis, one of the wildest of the Indian islands. The man, although of a race noted for its ferocity, had ever been hard-toiling, docile, and gentle, and, moreover, passionately attached to his wife and children. It was the latter most amiable passion that caused the poor fellow’s ruin, for he became goaded to madness by the wanton cruelty of Ebberfeld to those dear relatives. Unable to witness this brutality any longer, he ran “a muck” among those he so dearly loved, resolved to release them from their sufferings—that is, he slew mother and children with his creese; then, throwing the weapon into a neighboring canal, he ran till he met two Dutch merchants, to whom he surrendered himself, begging that they would kill him.

Now, such is the spirit of revenge, the impatience of restraint, and the repugnance to submit to insults, in the breasts of all the Indian islanders, that these “mucks,” or murders, are of frequent occurrence; and if the perpetrator survive, he is invariably punished with a disgraceful death; but in this case, the Governor-General not only pardoned the poor fellow, in consideration of the fearful provocation he had had, but severely reprimanded Ebberfeld for his wanton cruelty, and, moreover, deprived him of an office of importance to which he had recently been appointed. Deeply resenting the pardoning of a slave that had caused him so great a loss, and perhaps more so the deprivation of his appointment, Mynheer took to courses which led to his ultimate ruin, and that is why I have related this tragedy. But a few words about this peculiar form of revenge, which, although unknown to other people, is yet universal in the Indian islands.

“To run a muck,” says Dr. Johnson, “signifies to run madly, and attack all that we meet.” “A muck” among the Indian islanders means, generally, an act of desperation, in which the individual or individuals devote their lives, with few or no chances of success, for the gratification of their revenge. Sometimes it is confined to the individual who has offered the injury; at other times it is indiscriminate, and the enthusiast, with a total aberration of reason, assails the guilty and the innocent. On other occasions, again, the oppressor escapes, and the muck consists in the oppressed party’s taking the lives of those dearest to him, and then his own, that, as in the instance of Ebberfeld’s slave, they and he may be freed from some insupportable oppression and cruelty.

The most frequent mucks, by far, are those in which the desperado assails indiscriminately friend and foe, and in which, with disheveled hair and frantic look, he murders or wounds all he meets without distinction, until he be himself killed, falls exhausted by loss of blood, or is secured by the application of certain forked instruments, with which experience has suggested the necessity of opposing those who run a muck, and with which, therefore, the officers of police are always furnished. One of the most singular circumstances attending these acts of criminal desperation is the apparently unpremeditated, and always the sudden and unexpected, manner in which they are undertaken. The desperado discovers his intention neither by his gestures, his speech, nor his features; and the first warning is the drawing of the creese, the wild shout which accompanies it, and the commencement of the work of death. In 1814, a chief of Celebes surrendered himself to the British and a party of their allies headed by a chief. He was disarmed and placed under a guard, in a comfortable habitation, and the hostile chief kept him company during the night. His creese was lying on a table at a little distance from him. About twelve o’clock at night, while engaged in conversation, he suddenly started from his seat, ran to his weapon, and, having possessed himself of it, attempted to assassinate his companion, who, having superior strength, returned a mortal stab.

The retainers of the prisoner, who were without, hearing what was going on within, attacked those of the friendly chief and the European sentinels with great courage, and would have mastered them, had not the officer of the guard rushed out with his drawn sword, and overpowered those who were engaged with them. When he entered the apartment where the chiefs were, he found the captive chief expiring, leaning on the arm and supported by the knee of his opponent, who, with his drawn dagger over him, waited to give, if necessary, an additional stab.

In the year 1812, the very day on which the fortified palace of the Sultan of Java was stormed, a certain petty chief, a favorite of the dethroned Sultan, was one of the first to come over to the conquerors, and was active, in the course of the day, in carrying into effect the successful measures pursued for the pacification of the country. At night he was, with many other Javanese, hospitably received into the spacious house of the chief of the Chinese, and appeared to be perfectly satisfied with the new order of things. The house was protected by a strong guard of Sepoys. At night, without any warning, but starting from his sleep, he commenced havoc, and before he had lost his own life, killed and wounded a great number of persons, chiefly his countrymen, who were sleeping in the same apartment.

Now, to Mynheer, as to all arrogant, overbearing men, honor and position were as the breath of life to his nostrils. Thus, the loss of his appointment made him morose and taciturn, and for hours together he would sit communing with himself, like one meditating some deep-laid scheme.

Then, strange to relate, Prabu seemed to have been taken into his confidence; for they would occasionally sit together in close conference in the library. Again, the twain would disappear for a week or two at a time—Prabu, as he would tell us, to go “nest-hunting” on his own account for the Chinese merchants of the Campong, and Ebberfeld to accompany him, for the love of the excitement and the benefit of his health.

“Yes,” said my brother, after having heard this, “it is all very well for Prabu to tell us that story; but it is fudge. It is my opinion they are hatching some conspiracy against the Government.”

“Well,” I replied, “that is a very romantic explanation of the mystery, at all events;” but then I did not, of course, believe anything so improbable, for, although there could be little doubt that our guardian was bad enough for anything, I did not give him credit for brains or pluck enough to take so high a flight in his wickedness; neither did Martin any longer entertain that belief when, one day, that grandee, the Javanese pangeran, or prince, came to our house to remain on a few weeks’ visit, and for a very good reason. His mahogany-colored highness was on terms of amity with the Dutch Government; for, although the latter had deprived him of sovereign power, as an equivalent they paid him a large annual stipend, and permitted him to retain his estates as proprietor.

“There can be little doubt,” I said, “that the Prince would like to exterminate the conquerors of his race, and, like his ancestors, establish barbaric rule over the island; but, then, it is not possible, and he is not mad enough to attempt impossibilities. It would be to resign the substance for the shadow.”

“True, Claud; but then, if there be truth in history, vanity, revenge, and ambition have caused many a man to give up his one bird in hand for a chance of catching the two in the bush.”

“But look you, brother Martin; it is no business of ours, and I vote we don’t bother ourselves about it.”

“Agreed,” replied Martin.

Now we both honestly intended to keep to this agreement, and to trouble our heads with our own affairs alone; but fate would have it otherwise.

A few days after the foregoing conversation, as my brother and I were sitting at our studies in the apartment which had been originally our father’s, but which we had occupied since his death, Marie came running into the room with tears in her eyes, and looking the very picture of terror.

“Cousin Claud! cousin Martin!” she cried, “that wicked, wicked man!”

“What is the matter, Marie? why are you so frightened?” asked Martin.

“Enough to make one frightened—that bad man is going to kill us all—you, Claud, and poor me.”

“Nonsense, Marie. Kill us, indeed! What for?” said I, laughing.

“To get the money my father left us in his will. You know it goes to her, if we all die first.”

“This is indeed foolish, you silly girl,” said Martin. “What can he want with our money? Why, he is as rich as Crœsus.”

“Oh!” she replied, “that is no matter; he wants more than he has of his own, and that grand but wicked-looking Prince wants it, too. But listen, and I will tell you how I found it all out. You must know,” she added, in whispered tones, “that Cæsar” (a favorite dog) “and I were having a game of romps, when suddenly he scampered into Mynheer Ebberfeld’s private garden, which, you know, he has forbidden either of us to enter. Well, not dreaming that Mynheer was there, indeed, quite thoughtlessly, I ran after Cæsar, and found myself close to the pavilion before I knew where I was. Then, hearing two voices—those of the Prince and Mynheer—I could not help going near, quite near, to the woodwork—”

“And listening,” said Martin. “Had you forgotten the fate of Bluebeard’s wives?”

“Oh! I am coming to something quite as bad,” she replied. “The Prince, I suppose, must have been asking for money, for I heard Mynheer tell him that he had already either mortgaged or sold nearly all his private property, and he did not think he could supply any more. ‘But,’ said the Prince, ‘old Adam Black must have left a very large fortune; for he was one of the richest men in Java.’ ‘True,’ answered Mynheer; ‘but one half is left to the chit (“fancy now his calling me a chit!” she interposed, angrily) of a girl, his daughter; the other half he divided between my wife and the father of the two boys, his nephews.’”

“Well, well, go on, Marie,” said I, now all curiosity.

“Then the Prince said, quite coolly, ‘Well, Mynheer, have not you, in right of your wife, as the guardian of these youngsters, any control over the money?’ ‘None, Prince,’ replied Mynheer. ‘True,’ he added; ‘were the girl in legal possession of her fortune, we might make her marry your highness.’”

“The rogue!” exclaimed Martin.

“Yes, cousin, that was a pretty speech, wasn’t it?” she said; “but don’t interrupt me. Well, to this the Prince made some scornful reply about he, a descendant of the ancient Susunans, marrying a Dutch trader’s daughter, the whole of which I did not catch; and the moment after he said, ‘But in the event of the death of this girl and the boys, Mynheer, to whom would the money go?’ ‘To my wife; but that, in fact, means your humble servant, for she is as warmly interested in the success of our plans as your highness and myself,’ he replied. ‘In that case, the difficulty lies in a nutshell, which may be easily cracked,’ replied the Prince. But after that I could hear no more, for they spoke in whispers; but I have no doubt they were hatching some plot to kill us all three.”

“Nonsense, Marie,” I said; “they are bad men, but would not dare kill us. Why, it would be murder.”

“I don’t know about not daring!” cried Martin. “It is, at all events, fortunate that we are now on our guard; but, Marie, did you hear no more—nothing that might give us a clue to their mysterious doings?”

“Be careful, Martin,” I interposed; “mention no names, you may be overheard.” But my caution was too late; for scarcely had Marie uttered the words, “Yes, yes, I know their wicked designs,” than Mynheer himself stalked through the opened windows into the room, and, taking her by the arm, said, sternly, “Come, girl, come, what falsehoods are you telling? what mischief are you three hatching together?”

“She is telling no falsehood; as for mischief, it is more likely to be you who are hatching it than Marie!” exclaimed Martin, savagely.

“Silence, boy, or I will have you punished,” replied Mynheer, fiercely; and without another word he left, taking our cousin with him.

“That man overheard all Marie told us,” I said.

“I pray Heaven no, Claud,” replied my brother. “If he did, many will be the days ere we shall be permitted to see her again, except, at least, in his or her presence. I tell you, brother,” he added, “if it were not for leaving Marie in Ebberfeld’s power, I should vote for at once laying our heads together to run from here.”

“I am of the same opinion; but where could we go?” said I.

“Anywhere. To the sea, to the woods, or, if Prabu would take us with him, ‘nest-hunting.’”