A royal smuggler

Our voyage along the north coast was very tedious, for the wind slackened towards the evening, and we had no other amusement than watching the doings, as well as we could in the distance, of the fishing tribes and salt manufacturers who inhabit the shore. As, however, it is upon these two arts the Javanese depend in a great degree for their supply of food, and their consequent well-being as a people, it was interesting and instructive to observe how they pursued them.

The fishing-boats proceed to sea with the land-breeze at an early hour of the morning, and return a little after noon, with the sea-breeze. Their mode of taking the fish is by drag-nets, and by traps or snares, consisting of enclosures formed, with much skill and labor, by driving stakes or palisades into the water of several fathoms deep, on banks much frequented by fish, and to which nets are secured. The river-fish are taken, sometimes, by spearing, or by first stupefying them, by throwing into the water a plant called tuba, which possesses a strong narcotic property, by which the fish become intoxicated, and float upon the surface of the water, apparently dead, when they are easily taken by the hand.

As for the salt manufacture, it is chiefly carried on in situations on the flat north coast, where the soil is of a clayey nature, and free from dark loam—both requisite qualities toward the success of the process. The salt-water is admitted through a succession of shallow square compartments, in each of which it receives a certain degree of concentration, until, arriving at the last, the water is completely evaporated; and the salt left behind, requiring no further preparation, is fit for immediate use.

Upon the south coast of the island, however, the shelving nature of the shore, and the porous quality of the soil, will not admit of the practice of this cheap method. The natives have recourse, therefore, to the following very singular process. The sand on the beach being raked, and smoothed into the appearance of ridges and furrows, as if intended for cultivation, the manufacturer, having filled a pair of watering-cans from the surge, runs along the furrows, sprinkling the contents in a shower upon the ridges. In a few minutes the powerful effects of the sun’s rays have dried the sand, which is then scraped together with a kind of hoe, and placed in rude funnels, over which is thrown a given quantity of salt-water, by which a strong brine is immediately obtained. The peasants transmit this brine to their hovels, where it is boiled, in small quantities, over an ordinary fire, and a salt is obtained, which is necessarily impure, in consequence of the haste with which the operation is performed; thus the inferior salt costs fourfold as much as the better product of the north coast.

These industrious tribes of the coast also manufacture saltpeter, by boiling the soil obtained from caves frequented by bats and birds, chiefly swallows; the soil itself being the decomposed dung of these animals, which commonly fills the bottom of the caves to a depth of from four to six feet. In this process, however, the labor of the poor fellows is to a great extent wasted, since the supply to be obtained is so precarious and limited, and the cost of the niter consequently so high, that saltpeter and gunpowder may always be more cheaply imported from Bengal.

As I have said, the voyage along the north coast was tedious in the extreme. As, however, we entered the beautiful Straits of Sunda, when every mile’s advance showed to us some one or other of the many islands that embellish that region of perpetual summer, and gave to our view a mountain range, or volcanic peak, of the island of Java, our hearts became filled with delight.

A stiff breeze wafted us merrily through the straits, and in a few days we had rounded that magnificent promontory, at the extreme west of the province of Bantam, known to mariners as “Java Head;” but a week’s run, however, along the south coast, and we had become so short of water, that Prabu ran the prahu into the first inlet or bay for a fresh supply. But our captain had other matters of business ashore with the chief of the village, so, leaving his lieutenant, Kati, to see the casks filled, he landed, inviting my brother and me to accompany him—an invitation we were not unwilling to accept, if only to stretch our legs a little while on land.

The village, which was about half a mile from the sea, was a charming place—a veritable little human paradise. It consisted of some sixty or seventy bamboo cottages, neat and pretty, but the whole completely screened from the scorching sun, and so buried in the foliage of a luxuriant vegetation, that at but a short distance no appearance of a human dwelling could be detected; and in manners the inhabitants seemed no less charming than their village, for no sooner had we passed the belt of trees which led us into the wide verdant space in the front of the cottages, than several came forth from their houses, made obeisance, and begged that, being strangers, we would honor them by partaking of refreshment, and, if need be, a lodging for the night. Indeed, so many and so pressing were these offers, that, not knowing whose to accept, and fearing to offend either by a refusal, we stood in some dread of suffering in our stomachs from an embarras de richesse. Prabu, however, rescued us from the difficulty by picking out one man, with whom he seemed to have had a former acquaintanceship. True, when we did enter the house, we found nothing but rice, fruits, and spiced-water; but, then, the warm-heartedness with which they were offered rendered them more welcome than would have been a banquet at another time, at some other hands.

When we had partaken of our host’s hospitality—for it would have been a breach of Javanese etiquette to have done so before—Prabu desired to be conducted to the chief of the village.

“The ‘Head-man’ is absent, hunting the buffalo,” was the reply; “but the noble captain will honor his servant by taking up this lodging in this house for the night, and in the morning the chief will return to the village, for it is a festival.”

“My brother is good, and his hospitality to strangers will never be forgotten,” replied Prabu; “but the hands are useless without the head; the captain must not leave his ship;” and so, to the chagrin of the worthy man, we returned to the prahu. The next morning, however, we again visited the village, and found it all bustle and excitement. It was a festival in honor of the second marriage of one of the leading inhabitants. The people were all out; the bride and bridegroom, with their friends, for the greater part on horseback, were parading the village, decorated in their gayest attire, decked with jewels, and attended by a band of music.

As the procession passed us, one of the bridegroom’s friends or relations, recognizing in Prabu an old acquaintance, fell out and invited him to the wedding-feast, to which they were then proceeding.

“Won’t it be jolly?” said Martin; “we shall get a look at the bride, for I could not see her just now through the curtains of her litter.”

“There will not be much to interest us, I should think; however, as it would be uncivil to refuse, we will go,” said I.

Arriving at the house about an hour afterwards, we were shown by one of the family into a large chamber, around which were ranged five tables, covered with dishes of curry, rice, and fish, with numerous plates of sugar-cakes. Beyond this apartment was another, very gaudily decorated, in which were sitting, or rather squatting, around bowls of smoking rice, some twenty venerable personages, probably the seniors of the village. Seeing us approach, they good-humoredly bade us be seated at their board. We complied, not so much for the pleasure of partaking of the mess before us, but with a natural curiosity to get a glimpse of the happy couple. Martin, being the most curious, was the first to espy them.

“See,” he said, “there they are; what a couple of guys!”—and he bent his head in the direction of a deep recess on one side of the apartment, where the couple were sitting in silent, solemn state, like a pair of stuffed images, it being the etiquette that they should appear unmoved by whatever was passing. As we quitted the house, Prabu told us a comical story he had heard, touching that demure-looking, mummy-like lady, during the feast.

In that part of Java, when a man marries a second time, it is the custom, at one part of the ceremony, for the bridegroom to advance towards the wife with an ignited brand in his hand, which it is the duty of the bride to extinguish by pouring water over it. Now, this ceremony had been performed in the morning; but the bride—a widow—finding a great difficulty in quenching the flame, became so impatient that she suddenly dashed the contents of the pitcher into her lord’s face.

“And what did he do?” asked Martin, as angrily as if he himself had been the damped husband.

“What could he do?—nothing,” replied Prabu.

“Couldn’t he, though! I tell you what, if it had been me, I would have sent her packing—” but at this moment his thoughts were turned in a very different direction. “Hilloa! what is going on?”

The sight that called forth this remark was a great number of men, women and children, seated in a ring upon a grass-plot, watching the grimaces and gesticulations of two men, each of whom, with a bundle of rattan canes under his arm, was haranguing the audience, at the same time that a band of music was playing.

“Come, Martin, there is nothing worth looking at here,” said I, turning to walk away.

“Isn’t there, though! Why, these two fellows are going to play singlestick,” he replied; and as he spoke, two boys—naked, with the exception of a blue cloth around their waists—stepped into the ring. Each of them being presented with a cane, the men whom we had heard haranguing the audience, and who now acted as seconds, placed the lads face to face, at a yard’s distance from each other, and ordered them to “begin.”

They did begin, as gracefully as fencing-masters, first with a salute, which consisted in touching the ground with the rods, and waving them to the spectators. Next they approached nearer and each one, placing his left hand on the other’s right shoulder, raised his elbow till it nearly met that of his antagonist overhead. In this attitude they frequently continued for several minutes, eyeing one another with the keenest attention, holding their canes extended in the right hand, and watching for a favorable moment to strike.

“Bother!” exclaimed Martin, growing impatient; “why don’t they begin? They look as if one is afraid, and the other dares not.” But not so thought the spectators. To them it was a moment of great excitement, and as, to give effect to the scene, the music lowered its tones so as only just to be heard, and the two seconds withdrew to a distance of several paces, to leave the ground clear for the combatants, they gazed with the most eager and breathless anxiety.

For a time they continued to grapple each other, at the same time performing a sort of waving or bending motion with their bodies, while their feet described circles on the grass; one or the other, seeing his opportunity, gave his antagonist a violent blow, either on the left side, or more generally on the calf of his left leg, accompanying the stroke with a loud yell. The instant the blow fell, its dealer sprang quickly backwards, in order to escape retaliation from the other, who was not slow to return the compliment, which he, in like manner, if successful, graced with a scream.

“That’s plucky!” Martin would exclaim, as each blow fell, and its receiver accepted it without a cry or the movement of a muscle. As for the spectators, at every well-dealt blow, or dextrous avoidance of a blow, they raised a savage yell of delight or admiration that made my blood run cold. Now, I do not care for such unnecessary exhibitions, any more than I do for the brutal “noble science of self-defense,” as it is called, and so I said, “Come, Martin, I have had enough of this.”

“Bother!” again cried my brother, for he used the expression whenever he was vexed; “if they were doing each other any great harm, they would cry out. They are only in play.”

He believed, however, that it was something more than play, when, going into the ring after the contest, we saw that in every instance where the blows had taken effect, a gash, or, rather, a livid ridge of some inches in length, had been left in the flesh.

The boys’ contest was followed by others between men, but by both youngsters and oldsters the combats were carried on with wonderful good temper, considering their sufferings and their naturally hot blood. But proverbially ferocious as are all the races akin to the Malay, during these games they are not permitted to wear dagger or creese, or, indeed, to show “temper.” If ever a real quarrel arises out of these jousts, the spectators rush into the circle, seize the squabblers, and expel them in disgrace from the games.

But now I have to relate a most extraordinary incident—one that was within an ace of abruptly terminating the adventurous career of one of us two brothers.

The games had finished, and the warlike players gone to their homes. The band, however, struck up another tune, for the simple-minded villagers had congregated round a conjuror just about to exhibit his tricks, when Martin, impulsive at all times, began to push his way through the throng, saying,—

“Come, Claud, let us get a good sight of this fellow.”

It would have been as well as if he had failed in the attempt; for, no sooner did his eyes light upon the conjuror, than, with a shriek more like that of some wild animal than a human being, he darted towards him, and, as the people came between them, he cried,—“Let me get at the rogue!”

“The boy is possessed with an evil demon,” cried the conjuror. This was sufficient for the superstitious villagers, who scampered in all directions.

Taking advantage of the break in the crowd, the conjuror ran at the top of his speed through the village, and toward the forest which it skirted. But Martin was at his heels.

“Great Heaven, Prabu,” I cried, “my brother must be mad;” and without another word we rushed after him.

“Run, for thy brother’s life,” cried Prabu; “that fellow is entrapping him into the wood, where he may slay him!”

I wanted no such exhortation; but it seemed, indeed, as if a supernatural speed had been lent both to pursuer and pursued, for at every step they distanced us.

“Martin! Martin! for Heaven’s sake stop; follow not that man into the wood,” I shouted, and likewise shouted Prabu; but it was useless. They reached the forest, and we lost sight of them; still onwards, through bush, underwood, and foliage, till we came to an open space; then again we could see them, but, breathless, we were compelled to rest for an instant. The fugitive had also come to a halt, and leaned against a tree, as if no longer able to continue his flight, at which my brother gave a joyful shout, and then almost leaped forward; but the other, permitting him to approach within a yard, pulled forth from the fold around his waist a cane about six feet in length, and, putting this to his lips, the next instant a small dart or arrow struck my brother in the arm; then, giving a hideous laugh, the hunchback—for it was he—turned and continued his flight with renewed vigor, still followed by my brother.

“The poor boy will be slain!” exclaimed Prabu. “Quick, for his life! Stop! in Allah’s name, stop!” he shouted to Martin; “that arrow was poisoned!” But there was no necessity now for shouting; for suddenly, as if his strength had become exhausted, he stood stock-still, and then fell heavily to the ground.

The instant we reached him, Prabu tore off his jacket, and bared his arm. I could see nothing but a small puncture, with a single drop of blood resting in the wound; but Prabu, knowing the fatal consequences of that trifling wound, if remedies were not immediately applied, knelt down, and for several minutes sucked at it like a leech. Having done this, he bade him get up.

“No,” said Martin, “let me alone. I wish to sleep;” and, indeed, his eyes were closed. “I will go no further; I will remain here.”

“If he sleeps within the next hour, he will never wake more,” said Prabu.

This was enough for me. I helped to force him to his legs.

“Martin! dear Martin! walk, run, make an effort! it is for your life!” I cried; and sensible, but hardly so, he did try; and so, getting him between us, and each taking hold of an arm, we ran him back towards the village. Fortunately, we soon fell in with two native men, and Prabu, crying to them, “The upas! the upas is in his veins!” they relieved us, and, being in full strength, ran forward with him. We followed, and Prabu went into the first cottage, and obtaining a cup of strong rice-spirit, poured it down his throat. The effect of this stimulant was very great, it revived him, and made him sensible that his life depended upon violent exercise, and, under Providence, his life was saved; for, after having run him to and fro for about an hour, he had shaken off that lethargy which, had it continued, must inevitably have destroyed him; and then, and not till then, we permitted him to enjoy a natural sleep, from which, after several hours, he awoke refreshed, and as well as ever.

“You have had a narrow escape,” said I, when he awoke.

“Yes, thanks to you, old fellow, and Prabu; but I wouldn’t mind going through it all again—I mean the terrible agony of being compelled to keep awake, walk, and run, when I felt as if I could willingly have given ten years of my life for a good sleep—if I could only have secured that rascal, who killed our father.”

“But it would be useless, Martin; for, you know, it is only a surmise; we have no proof,” said I, fearing that he had some inclination to go hunchback-hunting again.

“Aye, but we have proof that he robbed Ebberfeld’s home—that he stole Marie!”

“Well, well, we shall come across him again some day, and then we will force him to confess the whole truth,” I replied; not that I did not feel as strongly in the matter as my brother, but that I knew a word from me would have induced him to go in search of the snake-charmer. Fortunately, at that moment Prabu, who had been to have an audience of the chief, returned, and we all three at once made the best of our way to the prahu.

But a few words with my readers respecting this “upas-tree,” the juice of which nearly deprived me of a brother. It is, in a great degree, deserving of its bad reputation, no doubt; nevertheless, it is not by any means so black as it has been painted, notwithstanding all the nonsense that Monsieur Foerst, a French surgeon, invented, and Dr. Darwin promulgated in England, about it; for instance, that a particle of its juice, being inserted into the human body, caused instantaneous death, and that the atmosphere for a vast radius around the tree is fatal to animal life.

In the first place, the word “upas,” as applied only to one tree, is a misnomer; for in the Javanese and some other languages of the Western Archipelago, the word is not a specific term, but the common name for poison of any description whatever. Then, of the plants of the Indian islands, two at least afford a most subtle poison, either taken into the stomach or circulation—the anchar and the chetik. The former, the most common source of the vegetable poison in use, is one of the largest forest trees of the Archipelago, rising to the height of sixty or eighty feet, straight and large, before it sends out a single branch. It proves hurtful to no plant around it, and creepers and parasitical plants are found in abundance about it. The poison is in the outer bark, from which, when wounded, it flows in the form of a milk-white sap. In this state it is as deleterious as when, according to the practice of the natives, it is mixed with the juices of a quantity of extraneous aromatics and other matters, such as black pepper, ginger, arum, galanga, etc. When applied to the external skin, it produces intolerable pain and itching, with a kind of herpetic eruption. The inner bark resembles coarse cloth, and is frequently worn as such by the poorer peasantry, and occasionally converted into strong rope. Great care must, however, be taken in preparing it; for if any particles of the poisonous juice remain adhering to it when the cloth becomes moist, the wearer experiences intolerable itching.

The chetik is a large creeping shrub, with a stem occasionally so big as to approach to the character of a tree. It thrives in black, rich moulds. It is the bark of the root of this plant which affords the upas or poison, which is an extract of nearly the consistence of syrup, obtained by boiling it with water. The chetik is a more intense poison than the anchar, but, as far as we know, it is confined to Java. The anchar, on the contrary, appears to exist in almost every country of the Archipelago, being found in the Malay peninsula, in Sumatra, Borneo, Bali, and in Celebes, as well as in Java. The Malays call this last ipoh. Both are found only in the deepest recesses of the forest.

To produce the fullest effects, the upas poison, of either kind, must be recent and well-preserved; exposure to the air soon destroys its potency; its effects depend on the strength of the animal, and the quantity taken. Three times the quantity taken into the circulation are necessary to produce the same effects taken into the stomach. The momentary application of a small quantity to the blood does not prove fatal. It is necessary that the poison be inserted with a dart; thus applied, the poison of the anchar, in its recent state, kills a mouse in ten minutes, a cat in fifteen, a dog within an hour, and a buffalo—one of the largest of quadrupeds—in something more than two hours. The effects of the poison of the chetik are far more violent and sudden. Fowls, which long resist the poison of the anchar, die often in less than a minute from that of the chetik. It kills a dog in six or seven minutes.

The train of symptoms induced by the operation of the anchar are restlessness, quick breathing, increased flow of saliva, vomiting, alvine discharge, slight twitches, laborious breathing, violent agony, severe convulsions and death. The chetik acts more directly on the nervous system and brain, and after a few primary symptoms, destroys life by one sudden effort.

Referring to the use of poisoned arrows, Mr. Crawford, a long resident in the island of Java, says: “The most barbarous of the Indian islanders, in their wars with Europeans and each other, discharge arrows poisoned with the juice of the anchar. These may, indeed, produce an aggravated wound and much debility; but I doubt whether the wound of a poisoned arrow has ever proved immediately fatal.” Rumphius describes the Dutch soldiers as suffering severely from the effects of this poison in the wars conducted by them, about the middle of the seventeenth century, at Amboyna and Macassar, until a remedy was discovered in the emetic qualities of the Radix toxicaria or bakung. The assertion of the discovery of a remedy throws a doubt upon the whole, for it is surely altogether unreasonable to expect that clearing the stomach by an emetic should prove an antidote to a subtle poison taken into the circulation, and acting upon the nervous system! The Dutch soldiers were probably more frightened than hurt. In the perfidy of the practice of using poisoned weapons, and the mysterious and secret operation of a poison, there is something to appal the stoutest heart, and abundant materials for terror and superstition.

When the soldiers, both Indian and European, proceeded on an expedition to Bali, in 1814, they expressed serious apprehension for the poisoned darts of the Balinese. The same fear was entertained by the same people for the creeses of the Javanese, until we discovered that that people never poisoned their weapons. Such, unhappily for fiction, is the true account of the upas-tree, the bark of which is used by the natives of the countries in which it grows as wearing apparel, and beneath the shade of which the husbandman may repose himself with as much security as under that of cocoa-palm or bamboo.