And then he raised his hat once more and calmly returned to his books. My companion and I did not hear what followed. We had to conceal our laughter.
There are hundreds of such anecdotes which one hears – such as the young lady who discovered that the lovely costumes she got to use as lounging jackets were the very special attire of Chinese girls of a very special profession, and the other whose magnificent yellow metal vessel that she got to keep the ferns in in her Middleville home was originally planned for a very different purpose.
I left Hong Kong for the Dutch Indies. I had not gotten over my nervousness about Huan Kai, nor had I satisfied my appetite for the East. I wanted to know more and to see more. And there was still pulling at me that strange and almost magic power that has always called me away into new places, toward new faces, deeper into the Orient, my book, my mirror of people.
Illustration from Two Years in the Jungle: The Experiences of a Hunter and Naturalist in India, Ceylon, the Malay Peninsula and Borneo by William T. Hornday.
✥
This chapter opens in Singapore, winds through Java and plunges me into the heart of Borneo, that fantastic island which legend has famed for a “wild man” who does not exist.
There is no use in dragging out this narrative by following in exact detail my movements and trivial vicissitudes. This is no attempt to write my autobiography, for my life all by itself is no more interesting than anybody else’s life. All I want to do is to report some of the more interesting phases of it and to keep you as well as myself from being bored by it. A vicarious pleasure for a woman who is no longer young: a few smiles, a few flashes of those unusual things that might have happened to anybody, but actually happened to me.
So we go to Singapore in a big jump after running away from Huan Kai and Hong Kong, forgetting, if you please, that it is a long way around the peninsula of Indo-China to the Malay states and that in my day you had to do it by boat, and that a boat ride, even in those curious waters, may be a commonplace business. This one was … But Singapore deserves a little time and picturing.
I stayed there only long enough to look around and plunged ahead on adventure, but, brief as it was, it was a fascinating sojourn.
Bustle, hustle, rustle, rattle. Singapore was then a cauldron of boiling humanity, of all colors, shapes, sizes, and races. All it needed was the motor-cars of today to rival Paris, New York, or Berlin.
The ’rikishas are faster than in Japan, or so they seemed to me. The little Japanese runners were bewildering enough, but their bigger Malay brothers were more so. Furthermore, they were cheaper. If I remember rightly you could be whirled around that city for something like 25 cents an hour. It was as good as Coney Island.
Singapore is distinctly English, despite the population of about 140,000 Chinese. Like Hong Kong’s British capital, Victoria, the European construction was evident even then, for already it had been British for nearly a century.
I remained in the city only long enough to plan the rest of my journey through Java and Sumatra and to engage the necessary passages, but I was lucky enough to make friends who gave me a glimpse of the exotic night-life which rivaled anything I had seen in Paris or elsewhere.
Curious city.
You expect to find the East, and you find only rumor of it. It is as though the whirling ’rikishas, the toiling coolies, the resplendent Chinese merchants and arch-millionaires were sketches hung in an English frame. It is an odd impression. Take Raffles Square, for instance. The Carrefour of the Opera at the business hour of the busiest day in a modern year is not as roaring and raging and teeming as was that famous square in that earlier day. Nor is lower Broadway nor Charlotten-strasse.
I had not come for this. I wanted to push on and to leave this sort of thing behind me. Why go to the other side of the world to see the same old things?
I went on to Java in an immaculate Dutch ship whose cleanliness was so extreme as even to make me a little embarrassed. It was an interesting boat because the officers were fine, keen, order-conscious Dutchmen and the crew were Malays. I find there is a vague idea in the minds of those who have never traveled in that part of the world that Malays and other yellow or brown-skinned races do not make good sailors of the European type. Believe me, this is a myth. That crew was masterful, controlled by the Europeans who knew their business and knew how to handle the men. It was impressive to watch them at work.
From Singapore to Tandjong Priok, which is the port of Batavia, we took about 36 hours of travel through the balmiest air and over the bluest water one could imagine. We crossed the Equator at 11 in the evening, and I remember how everyone seemed to stay up and on deck, almost as though they expected to see an actual line. Funny, humans are.
A djongo, or “boy” followed me from the port of Batavia in the very up-to-date little train, taking care of me and my baggage as though he were to remain with me through life. They are even better than the “boys” in China. This one was fifty years old.
At Batavia … and I mean the New City, or Weltetreden and not the Old City where nobody can live but the natives … I again found a pretty modern place and would have been glad to get away into the interior sooner than I did, but circumstances held me for a while.
In fact, circumstances began right then and there which gave rise to one of the most extraordinary adventures of my life, and I found myself plunged into something that was at least as bad if not worse than my experience with Huan Kai.
My hotel was Dutch, spotless, orderly, comfortable and in general the sort of place one can live in as we do in America or Europe. I spent three weeks in going around that magnificent garden of a city, getting new sensations, new smells of flowers, new food, having my first (and many other) rijstafel or rice-table, which compares favorably with the kitchen of any other country in the world, learning to love the native women in their sarongs of batik and watching them create these unbelievable works of art.
Then one day I met a man.
Shall I call him the Wild Man of Borneo? It would be amusing to continue that legend, but it has nothing to do with Djoet-ta, Prince of Koetai.
A legend of a totally different sort has even grown up about me in connection with this extraordinary young man. It runs to the effect that I became the “friend” of a Dyak head-hunter … not bad for an American girl, but fairly inaccurate.
Djoet-ta was not a head-hunter in the sense that is ordinarily implied. He was a curious mixture of a very handsome young man, truly Dyak by race, but Europeanized by contact and environment. His father was one of the most brilliant native geniuses on the Island of Borneo, and had had the extraordinary intelligence to leave his wild island and to attend the funeral of Queen Victoria. He knew very little of things European, but he came to England and learned a lot. He made a name for himself while in London, brought respect for himself and his little country to a real state of being, purchased everything that pleased or amused him, and sent it back to furnish his palace with.
But it is not with the father we are concerned, but rather with the Prince himself. He had gone to England with his father, as a very young man, had remained there in a good public school, and had been admitted to one of the crack regiments later on.
Djoet-ta, or “Joe,” as English-speaking people called him, had returned to his native land only the year before my visit, bringing with him a yacht which was one of the marvels of the Dutch Indies, three “horseless carriages” (which had no roads to run on), and no end of material that young English gentlemen are supposed to need and have to play with.
The result of all this experience upon a young savage was remarkable, and you can guess for yourself that I was not only amused but very pleased to have made his acquaintance.
Our meeting occurred at the home of the Dutch Resident of Bandoeng who was arranging my papers for me so that I could circulate more freely through the islands. I had scarcely arrived after making the tiresome journey from Batavia by what was called a railroad through a land so fanciful that
I had the impression of being rolled through stage scenery. I was very tired and very much disinterested in people. The Resident was as kind as could be, and made me at home in his own house where his charming old wife fussed over me as though I had been her own daughter.
At dinner I sat opposite a curious-looking young man who seemed half afraid of me, and stared at me with the same expression as you can see in the eyes of a wild animal. He was very tall, very solid, not the rich brown color of the usual Malay, but bronze and of sharper features in a way that suggested the American redskin.
I supposed that the reason why the Resident made no attempt to introduce me was that he spoke only Javanese or some Island language. But there I was wrong.
He had not taken his eyes off me during the whole five minutes that we had been seated at table. Suddenly he spoke and in very good English, too.
“Why did you come to the Indies?” he asked.
He spoke with a strained sort of voice and yet without any inflection. It was an odd voice and an odd question.
The Resident and his wife looked concerned, but said nothing. In fact I had an impression that they had not been at ease all along. But before I could reply to this young man’s sudden question the Resident made the introduction he had delayed so long.
“This is Miss Crocker, Your Highness,” he said, and, turning to me, “The Prince of Koetai favored us with a visit this evening. He has only recently returned from England.”
It was said in a way that made me wonder if he was apologizing for something. Later I learned that the dear old Resident had been afraid I would resent being introduced to a “gentleman of color,” and that by some word or gesture I might express my feelings and so precipitate an “international incident” in miniature.
But the Resident was relieved at once. I answered Prince “Joe,” as I learned to call him later, and made him a reply that was just as important as his question.
“I came here to meet you,” I said.
He took me literally and very seriously.
“But how did you know about me?”
The Resident had to explain in some language I did not understand that I had meant to be humorous. The Prince smiled. He smiled as a little child will grin. He was very much like a little child who was discovering things everywhere. He was very shy, and did not say anything more at all during the meal. But he kept staring at me as though I were something of which he had never seen the like in his life.
After dinner, he disappeared for a time, and I had coffee with the Resident and his wife and learned something of the story of “Prince Joe.” He was a great friend of the Resident and of all the governors, both Dutch and British, throughout the Indies. He traveled about in his yacht with a native crew, and spent about half the year, dressed in European costume, visiting all the officials. The other half he spent in Koetai, his own country on the Island of Borneo, up the Mahakam River. His father was known as the “Wise One” and was the greatest friend of the European dominion, helping to keep relations with the native nations friendly.
Prince Joe came back later, riding a beautiful English horse and leading another.
Would I like to ride? I would, but was not dressed for it. Why did I not dress, then? Simple: like that. He looked at everything directly and saw no reason why things should not be as he wanted them. I was amused. Well, children have their way, and this huge child, half savage, half public-school boy, had his, for I put on some riding things from my luggage and went off with him into the rich flora of Java.
It was one of the queerest evenings I have ever spent.
It was almost without conversation. We simply rode our horses and looked at each other. And it was very pleasant too. This young man really interested me, as much by his strange quiet manner as by a wildness that seemed to be in him. It was something that I could not explain very well, for although he was nearly a savage by birth and early environment, yet he was quite conventional, quite like a very tanned young Englishman. And yet, he was not …
There was something about his eyes. It was most of all noticeable when we had gotten away from the town and into the rich country, reeking with perfume and the smell of the earth. They seemed to light up, as though fires were burning far back inside of him. He said almost nothing, but he looked at me. Constantly.
When it grew really darkish, we went back to the Residence, and Prince Joe said good-night to me, timidly, but in the best English manner.
Next day the Resident’s wife talked to me about Prince Joe. She was really pleased that I had not taken the haughty attitude that most white visitors take towards the natives of the Indies. She told me that the poor young man really suffered because he had lost favor with his own people, having grown more or less European, and on the other hand he felt that he did not belong to the white people he had learned to imitate and to like. Most Americans would do well to put themselves in the place of the negroes to whom they affect to be so superior.
I didn’t see Prince Joe all the next day, but I amused myself by walking about Bandoeng, watching the natives and lazing in the miraculous Javanese climate and landscape.
After dinner, I made up my things ready to leave in the morning, for my papers had all been arranged, and went out into the cool air for a little walk before retiring. It was delicious. All about me were new things, new shapes of trees, new little animals, monkeys chattering, fluttering things, creeping things, friendly things. Bandoeng is not cut into a jungle but touches the water on one side and a fairly dense forest mingles with the town on the other. I had not the slightest fear. The natives are docile and sweet. There are no savage beasts. There was just an ancient fairyland, laden with the perfume of the East. I was in a reverie, utterly happy.
Suddenly, from nowhere at all, appeared four human shapes, indistinct in the dark. Words were spoken in some language. One of them stepped towards me and held his hands out straight towards me, the palms down. I did nothing, could do nothing, not even step back. Then one gave a sharp word of command, and they all stepped to me and laid their hands on me, not roughly, and led me along with them.
You will wonder why I did not scream or resist. Aside from the fact that it would have been useless, since Bandoeng was too far away for anyone to hear, I was perfectly paralyzed. The suddenness, the unexpectedness of it, left me incapable of any thought or action. I simply walked along.
I could not even see my captors clearly in the darkness, but I was able to observe that they did not wear the sarong of the Javanese, and seemed to be naked, or nearly so. We went deep into the wood, I stumbled over the underbrush, and the puttees of my riding habit – which I had decided to adopt as a regular costume – kept catching on twigs and long grass.
Then they stopped, and the one who had held out his hands to me did so again. Then he reached out and lifted me off the ground as though I were a mere doll, and strode forward with me while the others vanished.
It was now that I began to be afraid. I felt myself powerless in the arms of this man. I felt myself alone in a forest with nobody to turn to, nobody to notice before morning that I had gone. I was just a young girl and I was very frightened and I wanted San Francisco and all the things I had been running away from very much indeed.
Then I saw that we were on the banks of a small river, and that the other natives were there in a little black group. The man who carried me stepped down to the edge, and I could see a long boat with outriggers on one side, moored there. He stepped right in with me and deposited me without ceremony on the bottom, and the others pushed off after getting in also, and we were sliding through the forest before I could realize it.
Eerie lights filtered down through the trees. Monkeys in families or tribes were swinging in the branches and screaming. The sound of soft paddles mingled with those of the forest, while I sat there, huddled and trembling.
In twenty minutes we broke out of the wood and the air became suddenly salty, and in a few moments more I saw nothing more about me but water, and knew, from th
e behavior of the canoe, that we were either at sea or in a bay of some kind.
Nothing but silence and the paddles. My abductors had scarcely uttered a word since first I set eyes on them.
A seabird cawed overhead, unseen.
I was very chilly from the cold, and numb with fright. And then, seemingly quite near, I saw a light, and behind the light, dimly appearing, the form of a ship. The men paddled straight for it, driving the boat hard. It was further away than it seemed, and it took us over five minutes to get alongside. I was more bewildered still when I realized that, instead of being a junk or some native boat, it was a modern yacht that might have been built in Glasgow or Havre or New Bedford.
Then, while the leader of the four men was drawing us close to the ship by a line which dangled from the stern, the real truth dawned on me.
Prince Joe!
Was it possible, or was it merely an absurd idea?
I had little time to reflect, however, for we crawled along the hull to the port side, and the head man pointed to a rope ladder which I knew better than to refuse to climb. Up I went, about three feet to the gunwales of the yacht. Other scantily clad natives clustered around and stared at me. But no one touched me. I began to lose my fear.
When the head man came over the side, he led me to a gangway and I followed him down below. There was not much headroom, but I could stand comfortably below decks, and at last there was some light. I could see that my captors were no Javanese, but much taller, much more rugged than the sleek islanders I had seen.
I had scarcely time to look about me, when another voice spoke sharply and the head man vanished. I was left alone in a cramped little cabin, the furnishings executed in leather and mahogany, and I dropped into a seat.
Then the door opened, and a voice that I recognized said:
“I’m very sorry.”
And I'd Do It Again Page 13
