until, stirred by prosaic thoughts of breakfast, we returned to the schooner. Hardly had we done so when we caught sight of a string of people walking along the beach, whereupon, gathering together the necessary paraphernalia for an interview, we jumped into a boat and were soon on shore again.

"The party consisted of five men, three women, and three girls—there were no boys or babies in it. They had brought with them several rolls of new bark cloth—pieces about 4 feet by 6 feet—which, when fresh, is much lighter in colour than the old piece we got before; some rattan baskets of various shapes, ear-distenders, and a bundle of spears made of the hard wood of the nibong palm. These spears are about 8 feet long, and half an inch in diameter, tapering towards the butt. The makers have grasped the principle of the sail and surgeon's needle, for the points are triangular, with sharp edges; immediately below them, slight barbs, generally six in number, are carved on the shaft.[79]

"In physique, the men were less robust than the coast people, but at the same time were tough and wiry-looking—the lesser chest and arm development being probably accounted for by the absence of paddling exercise, for they own no canoes.

"In person they were somewhat dirty, more markedly in the case of the women, to whose clothes the odour of stale pandanus-bread clung strongly. All chewed quids of betel, lime, and sireh leaves.

"The teeth of one woman presented a most extraordinary appearance, that at first sight appeared to be a case of macrodontism; the upper row projected outwards at an extreme angle, and, when closely examined, proved to be concreted together by a substance that was apparently a deposit of lime from the ever-renewed quid.

"Their hair, like that of the Nicobarese, varied from wavy to curly, and so slightly did they differ from the coast people that if one did not know who they were, they would pass, unless carefully examined, for ordinary Nicobarese, so far as appearance and mode of life are concerned.

"In proof of this statement it will suffice if I say that the settlement which—with minds primed by tales of bark-garments and triple-storied, fenced-in huts—we had thought to be a camp of the coast people gathering rattan, was, in truth, the village of this identical party.

"Such a mistake was, under the circumstances, almost justifiable—their food, utensils for its preparation, cooking-pots, clothing, and domestic animals, were all exactly similar to those of the Nicobarese.

"It would appear, that, from constant intercourse with the shore people, the Shom Peṅ have adopted many of their customs, and become possessed of similar property. The leader of this party even spoke a few words of Malay.

"All of them willingly submitted to be photographed and measured, especially when they saw that after the process there was a reward of red cotton, or brass cartridge cases, to be used as ear-plugs. Such things as they received in this way, or in payment for baskets and other articles, were immediately handed over to the women.

"They seemed to indicate time by pointing to the sun, and by such a method we made them understand that we should pay another visit to their camp on the morrow."

"March 20.—We reached the Shom Peṅ village early in the morning, and found its occupants variously engaged—some sitting listlessly about, and others busied in splitting and cleaning the rattan which they trade with the coast people.

"The community was well supplied with food, in the shape of coconuts, bananas, and various tubers, besides possessing a plentiful store of pandanus fruit. Several young pigs, all obtained from the litters of wild sows, which are chased with a view to capture, were domiciled in cages within the houses.

"Principal amongst the articles in use were iron-pronged fish-spears, axes, and dáos, with baskets, of which we purchased a selection; but the most interesting object visible, and one that had been overlooked during our former visit, was an apparatus for preparing the food of pandanus paste.

"Some 6 inches above a clay hearth on the floor of the huts, a receptacle, about 3 feet by 3 feet by 6 inches, was formed of five sheets of thin green bark. These, two on a side, and the fifth doubled at the bottom to form a trough, were inserted at either end between split stakes, which—bound tightly together with rattans—pressed the edges of the sheets against each other. The lower part was thickly luted with clay, and where the edges of the bark overlapped, a strip of cane was stretched from stake to stake to compress the join. This ingenious vessel was narrow at the bottom but gaped widely at the mouth.

"In cooking the pandanus, a little water is first poured in, and the fruit piled above it and steamed; when sufficiently done, the bread is prepared by the same method as practised on the coast.

"Several paths led beyond the camp; and following one, we crossed a small stream by a tree bridge (a couple of saplings laid side by side), 300 or 400 yards beyond which we arrived at the bank of the Dagmar River, here a stream about 40 yards wide flowing between low jungle-covered banks.

"Once more by the sea we photographed Awang and his family, bought some of his belongings, and also took possession of about twenty megapodes' eggs which he had collected for us.

"The Shom Peṅ we had seen, he informed us, were all there were in the neighbourhood, although far back in the interior were other, but unfriendly, groups. The only child in the village was his own son, and the same old story was repeated—that where formerly there were two or three men with their families in each house, now there was only one.

"In the afternoon we walked along the shore of Casuarina Bay to the mouth of the Dagmar. Fortunately the tide was low, and exposed a broad strip of hard wet sand, which made the tramp very pleasant, in spite of the hot sun. On the way, we passed the half-dry bed of a small stream, crammed with thousands of a little black red-bellied mud-fish, so crowded together that numbers had died.

"The Dagmar River emerges suddenly from jungle, with banks almost free from mangrove and nipah, and makes its way to the sea through a curving channel in the sand, where at low tide it is very shallow.

"Bundles of rattan hung from several trees, and a small hut full of the same material stood near a path that evidently led to the Shom Peṅ village. More cane was to be seen across the river, and a canoe lay on the bank.

"So much we discovered by a little exploring; then, after climbing a palm and refreshing ourselves with stolen coconuts, we set out on the return walk, in order to avoid being overtaken by darkness."

"March 21.—A light breeze set in shortly after 8 A.M., and we weighed anchor. It soon freshened somewhat, and we worked down the coast, tacking on and off. First we passed the point forming the north extremity of Casuarina Bay, distinguished by a single palm tree which rises high above the jungle, and next came abreast of Kópenhéat, marked by a grove of palms and a hut, finally bringing up at 1.15 P.M. in 9 fathoms, at a spot well protected by a reef from the S.W. swell, with a conspicuous round house bearing E. This anchorage was a little bay formed by the shore running roughly N. and W., and we were in an indentation of the reef, which, when the latter dries at low tide, is about 300 yards wide.

"The village here is called Pulo Nyur (Malay = Coconut Island), seven houses in all, and lies in the shade of palm trees broken into groups by intervening stretches of jungle.

"Going ashore in the afternoon we met in the largest house several men and boys from Pulo Bábi, the next village southward. Of the other buildings, four or five are uninhabited and falling to pieces. There was only one regular inhabitant in the place—a man whose father, brother, and wife had all died six months previously, and who, unless he could get another wife shortly, intended to leave the spot, which will probably soon be deserted, for his female acquaintances—not unnaturally—objected to such a lonely life.

"A year ago a man was killed by the Shom Peṅ on the outskirts of the village, and at the same time the man we saw at Pulo Kunyi barely escaped with his life.

"Several paths lead towards the interior, but the village has no (friendly) relations with the aborigines.

"Behind, and to one side, lay a large stretch of grass-covered swamp, on which a herd of monkeys was playing until we appeared, while numbers of herons, big and little, were perched in the surrounding trees. The morass was composed of a sort of sawdust-like paste, into which one sank up to the knees, yet the feet, when withdrawn, were not in the least soiled. In the jungle we got Nicobar pigeons, and a serpent-eagle that seemed to differ from the variety of Little Nicobar and Kachal (Spilornis, sp. nov.).

"A path from the beach led to a water-hole, which only required clearing out to afford a plentiful supply; the men set to work at this, and when they had got rid of the water, took from the hole a pailful of mudfish and eels.

"Learning in the evening, from people who came on board, that there were Shom Peṅ on the Alexandra River and at Kópenhéat, we determined on an expedition in search of them next day."

"March 22.—At sunrise we put off in the whaleboat, and now rowing and now sailing, as the wind served, and all the time keeping well out from shore, to clear the rollers that occurred at irregular intervals in most unexpected places, reached Casuarina Bay (about 6 miles) at 8 A.M.

"The breakers at the mouth of the Dagmar were too big for us to enter the river without an almost certain wetting, to avoid which we pulled back to the south end of the bay, and first wading ashore with the contents, ran the boat through the surf and quickly beached her. Almost at once we perceived within the jungle a deserted Shom Peṅ village of three huts, of a kind similar to those beyond Pulo Kunyi. In the camp were two or three platforms or lounges, roughly shaded by a few palm leaves, and some odds and ends were lying about; a small pig cage, food baskets made from the butt of a palm leaf, and a rude lamp—a shell, in which lay a bit of greasy rag supported on half a coconut.

"Several paths converged at the village, and these we followed up until each gradually came to an end—bundles and strips of rattan lying along them, showing plainly their raison d'être.

"One path, however, led past a second camp. Some of the huts were merely rough platforms built against the trunk of a tree; but others were evidently of the kind we had been told about at Pulo Milo—one platform above the other, respectively 3 and 7 feet above the ground, both partially protected by a number of long palm leaves leaning butt downwards against the structure. Continuing onward beyond this village we reached the Dagmar River, and searched along the bank for further paths without success.

"By midday, having thoroughly explored the locality, we returned to a tiffin of biscuits and sardines, with unlimited numbers of young coconuts, which one of the men quickly obtained from an adjacent tree. Then the boat was launched and loaded, and with the wind helping for part of the distance we travelled back to the Terrapin.

"As we passed Kópenhéat two men put out in a canoe with palm-leaf sails to inform us that a party of Shom Peṅ was then at their house. But it was now getting late, and the plates for the camera had all been exposed, so, after arranging for the aborigines to remain until next day, we parted from the canoe and proceeded to the schooner."

"March 22.—Off again by boat in the morning to Kópenhéat and met the Shom Peṅ, who had remained overnight; they having come a distance variously estimated at from half a day to two days' journey (!) down the Alexandra River in small canoes of Nicobarese construction.

"The headman, who was of the darkest complexion yet met with—a dull chocolate—spoke a little Malay. All were clothed—in far more garments than the Nicobarese—and generally very dirty.

"Most of these people were afflicted with elephantiasis in various stages—none seriously, however. Nicobar water is reported to be bad; but, considering the state of the water-holes that the Shom Peṅ paths lead to, no surprise can be felt that those who use such a supply should be suffering from this disease. Often the water of the coast natives is unsatisfactory enough in quality, but having plenty of coconuts, they hardly ever use it for drinking purposes.

"After we had finished with the people we gave them presents of cotton and sheath-knives, and then followed a path leading to the Dagmar through forest of a very open character. A walk of half a mile brought us to the bank of the river, here about 30 to 35 yards wide. There was very little current, owing to a sandbar across the mouth, which the natives say is dry at half-tide. The banks were jungle covered, and free from mangroves.

"Before leaving the village we bought some fowls, and a pair of young monkeys, said to be only three or four months old. They were imprisoned in a pig cage, and seemed half-starved, and were certainly very frightened as they sat clinging convulsively to each other.

"There is clear water, 300 or 400 yards wide, before Kópenhéat, with a reef on either side where the sea breaks heavily at high tide, but the anchorage is not so good as at Kunyi or Nyur."

CHAPTER XIV

GREAT NICOBAR—WEST AND SOUTH COASTS

"Domeat"—Malay Traders—Trade Prices—The Shom Peṅ Language—Place Names—Pulo Bábi—The growth of Land—Climbing a Palm Tree—Servitude—Population—Views on Marriage with the Aborigines—Towards the Interior—A Shom Peṅ Village—The Inhabitants—Canoe-building—Barter—The West Coast—South Bay—Walker Island—Chang-ngeh—Up the Galathea River—Water—We leave the Nicobars and sail to Sumatra.

We hove up anchor at 8 a.m.—the hour at which a breeze usually sprang up—and sailed for Pulo Bábi, a few miles down the coast, taking as passenger an old man named Domeat who had been staying at Kópenhéat.

He produced a number of chits for our perusal, and from one we learned that it was Domeat—now a toothless, but sturdy old gentleman, with nutcracker jaws and a benevolent expression—who brought news of the recovery of the body of Captain Elton, commander of the station gunboat, who was drowned in the surf while attempting to land at Trinkat Sambelong[80] village, on the east coast, in March 1881.

Most of the letters were written by Asiatics, and from them it seemed that the last Malay vessel to call at the islands arrived in 1877. Many formerly came to purchase coconuts, but this people, like our own nation, has been ousted from the trade by the inhabitants of China and the Indian Empire.

According to our informant, the Chinese pay the coast natives one packet of tobacco (value 2½d.) for three bundles of rattan, while the Nicobarese, who act merely as middlemen, and have the export trade in their hands, only give the Shom Peṅ one packet for six bundles! The bush aborigines have no settled dwelling-places, but wander about, although they have good gardens established in various localities. Their language is quite distinct from the Nicobarese,[81] but each knows enough of the others' speech to make themselves mutually understood. Asked, however, whether further south we could get a man who knew the Shom Peṅ language, Domeat replied: "When one of us sees a Shom Peṅ he runs away, and when a Shom Peṅ sees a Nicobar man he spears him!"[82]

Misunderstandings frequently occurred when we talked to him about the various places on the coast. The name given on the chart is often not known to the natives: the Chinese have another name, which is not given on the chart, and the natives have a third, but are generally familiar with that used by the traders.

I believe the following to be correct:—

We arrived off the village at 11 a.m., and worked in to an anchorage against a land breeze. The junks in whose company we had been at Kondul were already in the harbour—a square indentation, fringed with coral. With a look-out at the masthead we got in without accident, and anchored in a fairly sheltered position, but some distance outside the other vessels. Small streams debouch in either corner of the bay; but the village, which consists of a dozen or more houses, and is the largest on the west coast, lies to the south of the harbour, with the usual accompaniment of numerous coco palms.

As a heavy surf was breaking on the reef fronting the houses, we rowed up the bay and landed by a small hut, beside which was a well of good water, and from thence reached the village by a path leading through scrub and many screw-pines.

Interviewing the headman, we learnt that a Shom Peṅ settlement lay half a day's journey in the interior, and having arranged with Nyam (the headman) to guide us on the morrow, we set out, accompanied by his brother Puchree, on a stroll through the village.

This really consists of two settlements—that nearest the bay, Pulo Rotan or Koé, and the other to the south, which at high tide is cut off from the mainland by a marshy channel—Pulo Bábi or Kanal. There are more houses, both round and square than appear from seawards, but several are uninhabited and falling to pieces. Graves, placed between the houses, were marked by peeled sticks and young saplings, on which a foot or so of the branches had been left.

The land on which the village stood was of very recent formation, consisting entirely of sand, coral blocks, and débris of the roughest kind.

It would seem that the Nicobars are not only an area of elevation (as shown in Kar Nicobar, Trinkat, etc.), but also one of growth, as appears to be the case in the islands where there is a central mountain mass with radiating arms and shore plains; in these the central high land was first elevated, and formed a core for the extension of land by the agency of fringing reefs where the surrounding sea-bottom has only a slight inclination.

Of this latter phenomenon Pulo Bábi appears to be an example, since, for some distance inland the shore is flat, and composed of coral sand and débris, with a substratum of fresh-looking coral rock. The bay is becoming choked with coral, and between living reef and shore are broad belts of slimy mud, a little lower than some of the coral heads beyond, where the reef, having reached low-water level, has stopped in its growth and died. Meanwhile it is extending outward on its own talus, and at the same time débris and sand are cast continually shoreward, and, with the help of smaller coralline growths, fill up the interstices of the shore coral until a solid bank is formed, which, by further aid from the waves of the sea, and from the land and its vegetation, is raised above high water and in time becomes dry land.

Such action depends on the tides, slope of the sea-bottom, and the relation of one part of the shore to another in regard to contour and position, but particularly on the currents, which in some places would accumulate material and in others remove it.

The crowns of the palm trees were frequented by flocks of the black and white nutmeg-pigeon (Carpophaga bicolor), an uncommon bird in such a situation. Of those we shot, several lodged in the trees and were fetched down by the natives, who climbed with the ankles joined by a belt or piece of rattan, and who, when lifting the feet, did not clasp the trunk with the arms as we should, but placing one round it, pressed against it with the other hand.

We found two Shom Peṅ youths in the village, who seemed to be in a state of easy servitude, and were used for such work as carrying nuts or fetching water.

There were between twenty and thirty men and boys dwelling here, and the skipper (with whom the people were more communicative than with us) said, only four women! Although, by going to Naukauri Harbour, said Puchree, they could obtain wives,—who, however, refused to leave their own homes,—he lamented the almost total impotence of himself and neighbours in the way of offspring. Asked if they ever married Shom Peṅ women, he said, "No, they didn't like them; they were dirty and didn't wash"; and when we suggested that he should catch (tangkap) a young one, and first train her for a year or two, and teach her manners—"Too much trouble."

"March 25.—We met Nyam and a companion at his house about six o'clock, and after a walk of half a mile reached the bank of a little river some 30 feet wide. Here lay a canoe, and paddles being produced we travelled up-stream, wading now and again over the shallows, until, having progressed a mile or so, we landed on the same bank at a spot where a second path commenced. This we followed for 2 miles in a northerly direction, crossing by the way the stream itself and a little tributary by bridges of sapling, and so arrived at the Shom Peṅ village.

"We had already seen two kinds of buildings amongst these people; here we met with a third.

"The houses—five in number, and recently constructed—stood on piles about 12 feet high; in several cases a live tree being built in. These supports were strengthened by diagonal struts—a most uncommon form of scaffolding among savages. The floors were made of saplings placed side by side, and the side walls, about 3 feet high, of split nibong palm; while the roofs, which just afforded head-room at the apex, were roughly thatched with whole palm leaves, piled on butt downwards.

"Each house was about 8 feet square, and at one end of each a small platform was attached, on which was the fireplace, with cooking apparatus of bark sheets covered with large green leaves, to prevent charring. In a corner of each hut was a shelf of split sticks, and a long trough of split and hollowed palm trunk sloped from ground to floor for the dogs and other animals to mount by. The ladders for human use were about 18 inches wide, with cross-pieces fastened on by rattan bindings.

"The village lay at the foot of a hill, above which the sun appeared between nine and ten o'clock, and was bounded on the other side by the bed of a stagnant brook. The trees about the houses were festooned with bundles of rattan, and the ground round them was littered deeply with the refuse scrapings. A few chickens and a miserable pariah cur or two wandered about, and several little pigs were caged in the huts.

"This party seemed less well-to-do than the others we had seen, for their only dress was cotton kissáts and waistcloths, and while possessing several pieces of bark cloth, in which they wrapped themselves at night, they had apparently no further clothing. Strings of coloured beads were worn about the neck, and their ear-lobes were distended by wooden plugs from 1 to 2 inches in diameter.

"They were of a most apathetic disposition. A few words were exchanged with our guides, whom the women immediately supplied with lime and sireh, and then, renewing their own quids, sat crouching in the doorways of the huts, or perhaps attended by request to the head of a neighbour who might be troubled with a parasitical itching. Although free from elephantiasis, the body of each individual was covered with the scaly symptoms of ringworm—tinea circinata tropica.

"After we had measured the whole party, there was sufficient light to photograph the village, to which, in the dark shade of the jungle, I gave an exposure of ten minutes. The portraits of the natives were taken under difficulties, for the only rays of sunlight that filtered through the branches shifted slowly with the rays of the sun, so that by the time the subject was posed and focussed, he was generally outside the patch of sunshine.

"We bought all the little property visible, and then returned to the schooner by path and canoe, having found that the so-called 'half-day's' journey resolved itself into a matter of little more than an hour.

"Later in the day we strolled through the coast village to watch the progress towards completion of a partially-finished canoe we had purchased. With a little supervision it was only a short afternoon's work for three or four men to cut and fit, by means of their dáos, the stem and stern, cross-pieces, outriggers, and float, and quickly do all the fastening required with tough strips of rattan.

"Our guides of the morning were rewarded with a sarong apiece and we purchased with rupees a pair of captive nutmeg-pigeons—somewhat uncommon pets—and a couple of grey-headed parrots (P. caniceps) that had been obtained as fledglings by the villagers.

"Once again on board we found canoes arriving with loads of coconuts and numbers of fowls. Old shoes were the principal articles demanded, but the skipper got six chickens for a white linen coat. Our estimable captain is actuated by a commercial spirit; his invariable greeting to a new arrival is 'Ah, hang sudah datang! apa hang bawa?'—'Ah, you've come! what are you bringing?'"

"March 26.—Spent an hour on shore, and then left with the breeze at 7 A.M. Sailing slowly down the coast we passed Henpoin, Pulo Kotah, and Henhóa, at all of which places are many coco palms, with one or two houses visible. Two or three miles inland a range of hills runs down the coast, and must form the eastern slope of the Galathea Valley; until their foot is reached, the country is low and level.

"Off South Point the wind became very light at midday, and subsequently we worked up and down against a strong north-westerly tide, barely maintaining our position. After a small advance, at 10 P.M. we were back again where we had been at noon, so, getting soundings of 9 fathoms, we anchored for the night."

"March 27.—At daybreak the current was running S.S.W., at 2 knots. This slackened at nine o'clock, and with a light breeze from the N.E. we gradually made our way towards South Bay, until, the wind becoming more easterly, we tacked up it, and anchored towards the top in 7½ fathoms.

"The head, where the Galathea River debouches, is low and flat, but on either side the shores are a continuation of the hills, containing the river. The eastern cape is hilly and broken, but the western extremity tails off in a low stretch of flat land.

"Close to the western shore is Walker Island, a small grey block of rock that has been likened to a fort with sentries—the latter represented by columns of stone protected from detrition by boulders of harder formation, which once, of course, rested on the surface of the islet.

"Coconut trees grow all round the bay, and on the starboard hand we saw a dozen houses forming the village of Chang-ngeh, from which a canoe put off with two men. They, and two others far advanced in decrepitude, are the sole inhabitants of this portion of the island. Formerly there was on the eastern shore a village called Badói, but after some of its inhabitants had been killed by Shom Peṅ, it was deserted.

"We got ashore near the village at a spot sheltered from surf by a projecting reef. Close inspection showed that the houses were far more dilapidated than they appeared to be from the sea.

"Having obtained megapodes, dongos, and sunbirds by a short excursion into the jungle, we walked along the beach to examine the river mouth, in view of a journey up-stream next day.

"Coming from the right, where it runs for some distance parallel to the shore, the river turns suddenly and makes its way to the sea through a stretch of sand, leaving on the left a quiet backwater into which the current swirls. A continuous line of surf broke across the entrance, which was very narrow."

"March 28.—At sunrise, having made all preparations overnight, we loaded the boat with food and bedding, mosquito nets, and collecting apparatus, and put off for the expedition up-river.

"First we pulled ashore and landed some of the cargo, for with it all on board and a crew of five, the boat was too heavy to negotiate the breakers safely. Then we lay off the river's mouth watching the sea; swell after swell came sliding in, until one larger than the rest swung by, leapt up, and with the white foam rippling along its summit, fell over with a thunderous crash. Pulling hard all, we swept along on its top, then passed through the surf, and lay a few moments later on the quiet surface of the river without having shipped a drop of water. When the things landed had been fetched, we reloaded and pulled up-stream; the last glimpse of the sea showing a Chinese junk rounding the eastern extremity of the bay.

"At first the river was about 30 yards wide and ran between low banks covered with stretches of mangroves and forest alternating, both fronted by a border of nipah palms. About 2 miles onward the shores rose a little, and the vegetation changed to a tangle of jungle, with a network of climbing bamboo, rattans, and various kinds of creepers. The course of the stream ran through no heavy forest, and in many places the banks were fairly open, covered with scrub and patches of thick grassy vegetation.

"Never was such a river for twisting and turning, and often as we steered round its S-shaped bends we seemed to swing the sun right round us.

"We rowed along steadily for a couple of hours, and then seeing a lime tree overhanging the stream, stopped to gather a hatful of fruit. A few yards further on—the bank about 12 feet high—one of the men spied a rough hut, a mere platform with a shade of palm leaves; but when we landed, although odds and ends of rattan lay about the ground, it was evident that it had been unoccupied for some time.

"Now and again along the river we saw coco palms and bananas, while kaladies or yams grew plentifully at the water's edge. The banks were covered here with jungle and there with stretches of reeds, looking not unlike clumps of Indian corn.

"Flocks of parrots flew screaming overhead, herons flapped lazily away in front, and now and then a monkey, startled by the unusual sight, cursed us vigorously from a tree. Often a tiny ceyx—a flash of lilac and orange—darted across the stream, and oftener still the little blue bengalensis flitted away before us.[83]

"Once we ran aground on some rocks, and twice had to scramble on fallen tree-trunks spanning the river, and force the boat beneath them. But for such incidents we progressed steadily upwards until eleven o'clock, when we pulled to one of the banks, here only some 15 yards apart, and tying up the boat, proceeded to camp during the heat of midday.

"Then, after breakfast had been disposed of, it was delightful to lie on one's back in the shade of the jungle and watch the waving leaves against the sky; to search with the eyes for graceful ferns and orchids drooping from the branches overhead, and in a dreamy semi-slumber to listen to the calls of the birds, and the faint voices of the men as they rambled about in the forest. Presently, as the sun reached its highest point, all became quiet, and we dozed an hour away, to wake up, and—after boiling the kettle for some tea—start off once more.

"Gradually narrowing, the river maintained the same character, save that the banks became more open. At one fallen tree we had to unload the boat and haul it bodily over; several times we got round or under such obstacles with difficulty; and so, rowing and poling as the stream lessened, we went on, until at about five o'clock, the river, now only 25 feet wide, became so shallow and obstructed by fallen branches that we were forced to cease all attempt at further progress, and so made camp at a spot about 16 miles up-stream, almost in the latitude of Pulo Bábi. In the rainy season it would perhaps be possible to ascend a few miles higher.

"While daylight lasted, the boat was partly unloaded, sticks cut to support the mosquito nets, and supper prepared—heaped-up plates of snowy rice, eked out by various tinned commodities. Then after re-charging the dark slides beneath a rug, and covering the baggage with a tarpaulin in case of rain, we turned in.

"It was a glorious moonlight night and the cicadas sang us to sleep from the trees, while the mosquitoes hummed away vainly and viciously outside the net.

"Now and again, for a time, came the cry of some startled bird and the croaking of the tree-frogs; but when these died away the prevailing silence was broken only by the sound of the dew dripping from the trees, and the occasional fall of dead leaves or rotten branches."

"March 29.—We turned out at daybreak while the river was shrouded in mist, and after chota hazri, started down-stream.

"The water had fallen a foot during the night, and for some distance we could only use the oars to pole with. Presently, however, we were paddling quickly down the river, until we came to the fallen tree, where it was again necessary to unload.

"All the contents were stacked on the bank, and then, while the boat was on the trunk, I walked along the latter to take a snap-shot of the scene from the shore. Just as it was half-way across, our craft stuck fast; all, gathering themselves together, gave a mighty heave, and suddenly it slipped over, taking everyone by surprise. 'Din fell into the water, 'Dul fell into the boat, Mat straddled the tree, and Abbott, by a display of flying, gibbon-like agility, succeeded in landing safely in the stern. It was all very amusing to see from the shore; far too funny, indeed, at the time for me to get my photograph.

"This was the only obstacle, for, thanks to the low tide, we found no difficulty in passing beneath the other fallen trunks. About ten o'clock we were back at the hut and lime-tree, and stopped there for breakfast; then, after gathering a bucketful of fruit, were off again.

"With the sun almost overhead, it now became very hot on the water; but, pushing on, we reached the river-mouth soon after one o'clock and unloaded the boat once more before taking it through the breakers. From inshore they seemed much more formidable than from seaward, whence their height and the curl of falling water were hidden. We lay a short distance from the long, white lines that travelled across the bay, and watched them, backing and pulling to keep our place.

"A series of breakers fell, then in rolled a monster, and as it broke before us, we dashed in the waiting oars and sped forward at the next. Up went the prow, and we were over and in the hollow before a second; then over that and yet another, and we lay on the gently-heaving surface of the bay.

"Back once more beneath the schooner's awnings, we found a welcome supply of thirst-quenching coconuts, brought freshly from the village.

"The junk, after taking in a supply of water, had left the day before. It is customary for these vessels, after their business on the west coast is over, to sail round the north end of the island when leaving for Acheen, in order to make a slight gain to windward; but this one, having learned that we were going direct, decided to take a similar course."

On March 30 we went ashore for the last time and found a good supply of water at Badói, about 100 yards inside the jungle. The stream dies away before reaching the sea, but above the watering-place it can be followed for some distance by wading up the rocky bed.

We were now full up with wood and water, and having obtained a good supply of fowls and coconuts from the village, were ready to put to sea, so left at ten o'clock in the evening, with a light wind, and a tide running S.W.

"March 31.—At 9 A.M. the point below Mataita-âṅla bore W. about 7 miles. Squalls of wind and rain occurred, and a succession of waterspouts travelled across the horizon; between-times and for the rest of the day, we experienced a dead calm, and rolled about on the swell. Position at 4.30 P.M., 8 miles east of Campbell Bay."

"April 1.—There has been scarcely any wind, and we drifted N. by E. until Menchal and Kabra hove in sight. A school of sharks visited the schooner, and one about 7 feet long that was hooked, was given his quietus with a revolver bullet when hauled to the surface.

"Our live stock is flourishing. The three sober-looking parrots down in the cabin are becoming tamer day by day, and the pair of nutmeg pigeons will already eat chopped coconut from our hands.

"The monkeys, however, are of most interest, and are given daily exercise on deck. The male is an adept at the most horrible grimaces, but is an arrant coward, and, when startled, rushes to his companion, and, although the heavier of the two, puts his arms around her and is carried back downwards all over the place. When it is time to re-cage them, we have only to drive them together and they run into each other's arms, clasp convulsively, and incontinently roll over, when, as they lie squealing and grimacing on deck, they may be picked up and put back in their box. On one occasion this manœuvre was executed on the rail, and they fell overboard, sinking without a struggle, locked in a close embrace.

"Fortunately for them, the Terrapin was becalmed at the time, and they were recovered, to be very subdued for a time after the rescue, but none the worse for their experience.

"At 6 P.M. a light breeze sprang up, with signs of a squall from the north, and carried us along at a 2 to 3 knot pace through the night. A porpoise was harpooned under the bow, but broke away before it could be secured.

"On the 2nd the wind was light all day, save for a squall that compelled us to lower the foresail. Towards evening, Mount Thuillier, bearing W. by N., was just visible 50 miles away. The breeze freshened, and with darkness the last sign of the Nicobars dropped below the horizon, while daybreak revealed ahead of us the rounded summit of Pulo Bras."

PART II

CHAPTER I

THE ANDAMAN ISLANDS AND THEIR INHABITANTS

Position—Soundings—Relationship—Islands—Area—Great Andaman Mountains—Little Andaman—-Rivers—Coral Banks—Scenery—Harbours—Timber—Flora—Climate—Cyclones—Geology—Minerals—Subsidence—Earthquakes—History—Aborigines—Convicts and the Penal System—Growth and Resources of the Settlement—Products and Manufactures.

The Andamans, which together with the Nicobars form one of the minor dependencies of our Indian Empire, are situated in the Bengal Sea, between the parallels of 10° 30' and 14° 15' N. latitude, and the meridians 92° 10' and 93° 30' E. longitude, where they lie in a N. by E. direction. To the west the coast of Madras is some 700 miles distant, and eastward Tenasserim, bordered by the islands of the Mergui Archipelago, lies about 320 miles away. Intervening between them and Sumatra to the south lies the Nicobar group, and before Cape Negrais in Burma is reached the little island of Preparis must be passed.

Close to Cape Negrais terminate the Arakan Hills, one of a series of ranges that run down from the Eastern Himalayas; and just south of Acheen Head we have the Gunong Mas, Batu Mukuruh, and other mountains; therefore, looking at a map of the district, it seems difficult to avoid the conclusion that the whole of the islands last enumerated are nothing less than a continuation southward of the Arakan Hills.

But although they form a chain that seems to indicate a past union of Sumatra and Burma, investigation proves that this is far from being the case. For soundings in this part of the ocean show that between the Nicobars and the group of islands adjacent to the north-east point of Sumatra—entering from the open sea to the west, and thence trending north between the Andamans and Malay Peninsula almost as far as the latitude of Narkondam—there runs a long tongue of depressed ocean bed with depths everywhere over 1000 fathoms. This fact, together with the shallowness of the sea-bottom around and connecting the Andamans with the Arakan Yoma Peninsula, suggests the inference that the former were at one time past the termination of a seaward extension from Cape Negrais of the Arakan Yoma Range—a conclusion that is in some degree emphasized by the zoological and botanical conditions common to the two.

The principal islands are, Great and Little Andaman, Rutland and the Labyrinths, the Archipelago, North Sentinel, Interview Island, Landfall Island, and the Cocos, but there are many smaller adjacent, while to the eastward are the off-lying volcanic islets of Narkondam and Barren Island. The total area of the group is 2508 square miles.[84]

Great Andaman—in which may be included Landfall and Rutland Islands, for the whole land mass is so compact and divided up by such narrow shallow straits that it appears to be one single island that has been broken up by subsidence and adjoining volcanic action—is 142 miles long, and 17 miles broad at its widest point.

There are generally stated to be two straits, but as one of them bifurcates, the Great Andaman proper is really cut into four parts.

Austin Strait, which divides North from Middle Andaman, is very narrow and intricate, and not to be traversed by boats at low tide; but the Andaman Strait,—generally 2 to 3 cables wide—which separates South from Middle Andaman at a spot where the hills are lower than elsewhere, although intricate, and possessing a bar at its eastern mouth with a depth of 9 or 10 feet at low water, has depths from 10 to 14 fathoms throughout the narrower part, and nowhere less than 3 fathoms at low water. The stream is never strong, and the R.I.M.S. Investigator passed through three times while surveying the islands in 1888.

Homfray Strait cuts off Báratáng Island from Middle Andaman, and joins the Andaman at its western mouth. It is intricate and rocky, but has good depths, except at the eastern entrance, where there is a broad bar of 8 feet. The tidal stream is weak, and the narrowest part is 60 yards across.

The surface of Great Andaman is extremely irregular, and a central range of mountains runs from north to south, with an escarped face on the east, and a sloping declivity on the west, where marshy localities abound.

The highest point is Saddle Hill (2400 feet) in North Andaman: Mount Harriet (1200 feet) stands on the north shore of Port Blair; and Ford's Peak, in Rutland Island, rises 1400 feet; while there are half a dozen unnamed summits with heights between 1000 feet and 1700 feet.

Narkondam rises 2330 feet, from an oval-shaped base whose greatest diameter is 2 miles, and the crater walls of Barren Island, 2 square miles in area, attain an elevation of 1158 feet.

Little Andaman, some 25 miles south of Rutland, 23 miles long and 17 miles wide, with an area of about 220 square miles, is, on the contrary, level throughout, and gradually rises to a height of 600 feet in the centre. None of the other islands save Rutland attain this elevation.

Owing to its shape and conformation, there are no rivers and but few streams on Great Andaman, and during the dry season—January to April—there is some scarcity of water. Several creeks, however, are of sufficient depth to allow passage of boats for some distance into the interior. In the South Andaman the greater part of the drainage runs into the creeks, which ultimately leads off to the eastern shore, and in the North and Middle Andaman the bulk of the drainage seems to flow through gaps in the eastern range.

Little Andaman is swampy in many parts, and possesses a few small creeks.

On the western side, in which direction Great Andaman slopes gradually, banks of coral occur at distances of 20 and 25 miles from land. There are three of these, varying in length from 9 to 25 miles, all composed of dead coral and sand, with here and there single bunches of live coral 1 or 2 feet high. The water, which is so clear that on a calm day 8 or 9 fathoms looks like 20 feet, varies in its least depths from 3¾ to 6 fathoms, and, judged from the appearance of the bottom and the absence of reef-building coral, it seems probable that the surface débris of the banks is disturbed by the send of the sea, and that the rollers topple and break on the middle bank in the south-west monsoon, though they may not do so on the others.

This western coast is fully exposed to the south-west monsoon, and is by no means a desirable locality to be in at that season.

Dalrymple Bank, of the same nature, lies adjacent to Little Andaman, on the same side; but Invisible Bank, to the eastward, has depths of 17 to 50 fathoms, with a rock awash in the centre. This is of bluish-grey sandstone, so that the Bank, taking into account its irregular surface and the rapidly-increasing depths around, may be considered a submerged mountain-range, of the same formation as the oldest part of the Andamans—of which, Flat Rock, an isolated peak, rises alone above the sea. All these banks probably formed islands, or part of the Andamans, when the latter stood at a higher elevation than they do to-day.

Throughout the Archipelago the scenery is of exceeding beauty. The picturesquely undulating surface is clad everywhere, save where artificial clearings have been made, with the most luxuriant jungle, for, situated within the tropics, with a fertile soil, and a climate that for two-thirds of the year is somewhat moist, the islands are covered from hill-top to sea-beach with an unbroken mantle of dense vegetation, rendered almost impenetrable by cane-brakes and undergrowth of rattans and other creepers. All along the shores are either stretches of yellow sand or brilliant green mangroves, and the seas round the islands are of the clearest water imaginable.

The coast-line is everywhere deeply indented, and affords a number—most unusual for such a small group—of deep-water harbours and other anchorages, where complete shelter can be found for large ships in all weathers and seasons. The most known and the best—although Port Cornwallis is nearly as good, and has the advantage of being some twelve hours' steaming nearer to Calcutta and Rangoon—is Port Blair, where the Settlement has been placed; but on the same coast of Great Andaman are many others, the more important being, Macpherson's Straits, Shoal Bay, Port Meadows, Colebrooke Passage, and Stewart's Sound. On the west coast are situated, Port Andaman, Kwang-tung Harbour, Ports Campbell and Mouat, while in the Archipelago perfect anchorage is to be found either in Outram Harbour or in Charka-Juru,[85] Kwang-tung Strait, or Tadma-Juru.

These are well distributed all along the coasts, and were the Andamans situated in some position of greater political or commercial importance, they would form an invaluable possession for this reason. As it is, the islands are exploited merely as a convict establishment—an Indian Botany Bay—and the only industry of any magnitude appertaining to them is that of timber, for which indeed the harbours are very convenient, as the forests worked are all in the neighbourhood of the seashore, or are so placed that after the trees are felled the logs can be hauled by elephants to the many creeks, and floated down to where the vessels engaged in the business are anchored.

The geographical conditions, and more especially the Tertiary sandstone of which the large area of the islands consists, point to a former connection with Arakan, and, in accordance with these indications, it is found that the bulk of the flora is Burmese; but the forest trees are finer, being very lofty and straight, while not a few purely Malayan species find their northern limit in the Andamans. The flora is not related to that of Hindustan and India proper—a coincidence which can be partly explained by the insular climate and difference of soil.

The forests produce valuable woods, which can be used for many trade purposes—furniture; ship, boat and house building; railway carriages and sleepers; paving blocks, boxes, gun-carriages and stocks, pianos, etc.; and as profitable minor products, there are canes for furniture, rattans for walking-sticks, and gurjan oil. Some of the woods can be obtained in extremely large quantities; all possibly in sufficiency for any trade that may arise with the islands.

Palms abound; the banian and padouk, that resembles mahogany; marble-wood, of a black, mottled appearance; satin-wood; and the iron tree, which turns the edge of an axe, are all found in the forests, in beautiful confusion with cotton-trees, screw-pines, and arborescent euphorbias, and with large clumps of bamboos, 30 and 40 feet high; while all round the coasts, mangroves, the most satisfactory of firewoods, give shelter to lovely orchids.

A very conspicuous feature of the forests is the distribution (apart from the strictly littoral vegetation) into evergreen forest, very full of large gurjan trees (Dipterocarpeæ), and a leaf-shedding forest, containing a large proportion of padouk (Pterocarpus dalbergioides), or into a mixture of these two types.

The great peculiarity of the Andaman flora is that, with the exception of the Cocos Islands, which are covered with them, and thence indeed derive their name, no coconut palms naturally propagated are found in the Archipelago.[86] This is the more strange when it is remembered that all the shores of the Bengal Sea are the home of this tree, and that it simply teems in all the islands of the Nicobar group to the south. During the past thirty-five years advantage has been taken of trips in the Station steamer (or by other means) to plant coconuts at suitable localities[87] along the coasts of Great Andaman, and in recent years at Little Andaman. Great numbers of the nuts were consumed by the aborigines, or by wild pigs, but at several places fruit has been obtainable, for many years past, from trees which escaped destruction.

The climate of the Andamans is equatorial in its uniformity, and greatly resembles that of Tenasserim and Mergui. It is not generally healthy for Europeans, but improves from a hygienic point of view when the forest is cleared from any locality. During the first two months of the dry season strong winds blow from the north-east, causing sickness, and damage to vegetation.

As the islands are exposed to the full force of the south-west monsoon, only four months of fair weather (January to April) can be counted on. December and January are the coolest months, with a mean temperature of 79° and a mean minimum of 75°, while March and April are the warmest, with means of 82° and 83° respectively, and a mean daily maximum of 92° at Port Blair, where throughout the year the mean is 80°, the highest 96°, and the lowest 66°; so that the absolute range is 30°. The mean diurnal range is as much as 14° to 15° in February, March, and April, while between June and September it is only 8° or 9°. The mean temperature throughout the year is about 80°.

The south-west monsoon sets in, accompanied by heavy rain, in the early part of May, but occasionally in April, and lasts till October. March is the driest month, and January and February somewhat less so; but the rainy season lasts from the middle of May till the middle of October, and what is called the moderate season, from October to January. During the latter the average monthly rainfall is about 8 inches; in the rainy season it is 16 inches, with twenty-four rainy days per month; while, on the average, throughout the dry season rain falls on ten days to an extent of 5 inches. At Port Blair the mean humidity is 83 per cent, and the average annual rainfall is 117 inches; but elsewhere it varies from 100 to 155 inches, and there are about 180 wet days in the year.

At the change of the monsoons stormy weather is common, and the neighbourhood of the Andamans is considered to be the birthplace of many of the violent cyclones that occasionally visit the Indian and Burmese coasts of the Bay of Bengal.

The hurricanes generally both originate either between Ceylon or the N.W. portion of the bay, and take various courses, according to the season; but, although situated near the cradle of these storms, the islands are not often traversed by them. In 1864 one is recorded as having visited the locality, and on the night of November 1st, 1891, a violent cyclone passed over Port Blair, which, after travelling north-westward across the bay, did much further damage at the mouth of the Hugli and on the Orissa coast. The maximum velocity of the wind registered at Port Blair on the latter occasion was 111 miles.

Concerning the geology of the islands, it is curious that in the valley of the Irrawadi hot springs and other evidence of volcanic action occur in the same relative position to the Arakan Hills as the two islands of Narkondam and Barren Island occupy in respect to the Andamans. There seems little doubt that these two islands—now respectively extinct and quiescent—belong to the great line of volcanic disturbance that appears in Lower Burma and extends right through Sumatra and Java and the further islands of the Malay Archipelago. Thus it would seem that the Andamans proper, possessed of no volcanoes themselves, lie just outside the line of activity, and, with the Nicobars, occupy the same position with regard to the volcanic track as do the chain of islands west of Sumatra.

Possibly the land now constituting the Andamans first appeared above the sea as an extension of Cape Negrais in the latter part of the Tertiary epoch, at which time occurred the elevation of the Arakan Yoma Hills, and later became isolated by subsidence due to neighbouring volcanic action. As Mr A. R. Wallace points out,[88] the presence of active volcanoes produces subsidence of the surrounding area by the weight of every fresh deposit of materials ejected either in the sea or on land. "The subsidence such materials produce around them will, in time, make a sea if one does not already exist."

The Andamans are of Tertiary formation, and of similar geological structure to the Arakan Yoma Range, the line of elevation connecting them with which is represented by the Alguada Reef and Preparis Island. (The Cocos are an integral part of the Andamans.)

Two sedimentary formations have been distinguished up to the present, the one older, the other newer than the serpentine which intrudes in various localities. They have been called the Port Blair and Archipelago series respectively.[89]

The former, occurring in the south, consists of fine grey sandstone—the characteristic rock, generally non-calcareous—and beds of conglomerate and limestone as subsidiary members; red and green jasper also occur; possibly, however, of an older series than the sandstone in which they crop out. This series seems to be of early Tertiary or later age.

The second series,—Miocene, or even newer—of which the whole of the islands of the Archipelago are formed, consist typically of soft limestone, of coral and shell-sand, soft calcareous sandstones, and soft white clay, with occasionally a band of conglomerate, the pebbles of which seem to have been coral.

The intrusive rocks of the Andamans—similar to those of Manipur and Burma in the north, and the Nicobars to the south, and of later date than the Port Blair series—are of serpentine, often passing into crystalline diorite and gabbro.

The Archipelago series seem to cover a large area of the Andamans, while the Port Blair formation is restricted to the south. The greater part of Rutland Island is formed of serpentine, in which small layers of brown opal have been met with, and which throughout the group seems disseminated with minute crystals of chromium. The Cinques consist of intrusive rocks of serpentine, associated with metamorphosed, indurated, and sedimentary series, mostly calcareous. The rocks of Little Andaman are chiefly lime and sandstone, with a good deal of actual coral rock on the east and south coasts; while occasionally occur outcrops of an igneous nature. At Entry Island and Port Meadows, beds of volcanic origin exist.

In view of the connection with them, the apparent barrenness of the Arakan Hills goes to show that little may be expected from the Andamans in the way of mineral products. Amongst others, however, discoveries have been made of lignite, and the ores of chromium, copper, iron, and sulphur,[90] although not in quantities that would pay commercial development.

It is indubitable, as Kurz has shown,[91] that the Andamans are now undergoing subsidence; but there is ample evidence, in the raised coral beaches that fringe the shores, to show that in the immediate past this has been exceeded by elevation.

The islands have been subjected to earthquakes from time to time. The first recorded took place in August 1868, the next in February 1880, and several slight shocks occurred until December 1881, when a severe earthquake visited the group, made itself felt over a large area of the Bengal Sea and surrounding countries, did much damage to masonry at Port Blair, and raised waves 3 feet high, following each other at fifteen-minute intervals for a period of twenty-one hours. Another slight shock was experienced in February 1882.

The origin of the name Andaman appears to be somewhat doubtful, and it is, of course, a word unknown to the natives. It is, however, very old, and may—as Sir Henry Yule suggests in his Commentary on Marco Polo—perhaps be traced to Ptolemy (who flourished at Alexandria soon after the commencement of the Christian era), and if so, we have by him the first-known reference to the Archipelago, for he mentions a group of islands under the name of Good Fortune, Αγδαιμονος Νηδος, or the like—"The Angdaman Islands"—whence have come the names Agdaman, Angdaman, Andaman. Even at this early date the inhabitants were said to be cannibals.

Doubtless the Chinese knew of the group in comparatively early times, for they have records of the neighbouring Nicobar Islands going back for more than a thousand years.

Skipping a long period, we next come to the ninth century, and there have the accounts of Arab travellers (A.D. 871), which, although of an alarming description, are tolerably correct in some details. "The people eat human flesh quite raw; their complexion is black, their hair frizzled, their countenance and eyes frightful, their feet very large, and almost a cubit in length, and they go quite naked." Those ships, the story goes on to say, which have been set back by contrary winds, and compelled to anchor for the sake of water, commonly lose some of their men on these barbarous coasts, and it is fortunate that the natives have no ships or other vessels, otherwise they would seize and devour all the passengers.[92]

Reference to the Andamans in the thirteenth-century narrative of Marco Polo is very much of a traveller's tale. "Angamanain is a very large island. The people are without a king, and are idolaters, and no better than wild beasts. All the men of this island have heads like dogs, and teeth and eyes likewise; in fact, in face they are just like big mastiff dogs! They have a quantity of spices; but they are a most cruel generation, and eat everybody they can catch not of their own race. They live on flesh, and rice and milk, and have fruits different from ours." Colonel Yule suggests that Angamanain is an Arabic (oblique) dual, indicating "The two Andamans," viz., "The Great and the Little."

In 1563, Master Cæsar Frederike set out on his travels, and returning homeward three years later, passed near the Nicobars on his way from Malacca to Goa. "From Nicobar to Pegu is, as it were, a row or chain of islands, an infinite number, of which many are inhabited with wild people; and they call those islands the Islands of Andemaon, and their people savage or wild, because they eat one another. Also, these islands have war one with another; for they have small barques, and with them they take one another, and eat one another: and if by evil chance any ship be lost on those islands, as many have been, there is not one man of those ships that escapeth uneaten or unslain. These people have not any acquaintance with any other people, neither have they trade with any, but live only on such fruits as the islands yield."[93]

An Italian doctor, John Francis Gemelli, who made a voyage round the world, touched at the Nicobars in 1695, and refers incidentally to the neighbouring group. "Friday the 3rd, we were in sight of the island of Nicobar. The island pays an annual tribute of a certain number of human bodies to the island of Andemaon, to be eaten by the natives of it. These brutes rather than men, use, when they have wounded an enemy, to run greedily to suck the blood that runs. The Dutch are witness of this cruelty of theirs; for they, going with fire-ships to subdue them, and landing 800 men, though they were well entrenched to defend themselves against those wild people, yet they were most of them killed, very few having the good fortune to fly to their ships.... The chief motive of the Dutch to attempt the conquest of that island, was a report spread abroad that there was a well in that island whose water converted iron into gold, and was the true philosopher's stone.... No man in Europe or Asia can give any certain account of it, because those people have no commerce with any nation in the world." This vanished wonder was discovered by an English vessel that was driven to the islands; for a native who was carrying a shell of water accidentally spilt some of the contents on the anchor, and the part so wetted immediately turned into gold! The narrative goes on to say that the unhappy native, who thus by his clumsiness revealed the priceless secret, was immediately killed, not by his countrymen, as might perhaps be expected, but by the strangers! There is no mention of torture; but the well was neither discovered then nor since.[94]

The next historian is an Englishman, for Captain Alexander Hamilton, in his Account of the East Indies,[95] written about 1700, devotes some space to these islands. "The Andamans are surrounded by many dangerous rocks and banks, and they are all inhabited with cannibals, who are so fearless that they will swim off to a boat if she approach near the shore, and attack her with their wooden weapons, notwithstanding the superiority of numbers in the boat and the advantages of missive and defensive arms of iron, steel, and fire."

As an example of this, Hamilton tells of one, Captain Ferguson, whose ship, bound from Malacca to Bengal, in company with another, was driven by a strong current on some rocks, and lost. The second vessel was carried through a channel, and was completely powerless to aid those shipwrecked, "which," says our author, "gave ground to conjecture that they were all devoured by those savage cannibals."