Kitabı oku: «From Egypt to Japan», sayfa 22

But our voyage was coming to an end. We had already been twice as long on the Bay of Bengal as in crossing the Atlantic. It was the last day of March when the captain of the ship came to me, as I was standing on deck, and said: "Do you see that low point of land, with the trees upon it, coming down to the water? That is the most Southern point of Asia." That great continent, which we saw first at Constantinople, and had followed so far around the globe, ended here. An hour afterward, as we rounded into Singapore, a hand pointed Eastward, and a voice at my side said: "Uncle, there's the Pacific!" She who spoke might perhaps have said rather, "There are the China Seas," but they are a part of the great Ocean which rolls its waters from Asia to America.

Singapore is on an island, at the very end of the peninsula, so that it may be called truly "the jumping-off place." On this point of land, but a degree and a half from the Equator, England has planted one of those colonies by which she keeps guard along the coasts, and over the waters, of Southern Asia. The town, which has a population of nearly a hundred thousand, is almost wholly Chinese, but it is the English power which is seen in the harbor filled with ships, and the fort mounted with guns; and English taste which has laid out the streets and squares, and erected the public buildings. This might be called the Island of Palms, which grow here in great profusion – the tall cocoanut palm with its slender stem, the fan palm with its broad leaves, and many other varieties which mantle the hillsides, forming a rich background for the European bungalows that peer out from under a mass of tropical foliage.

Whoever goes around the world must needs pass by Singapore. It is the one inevitable point in Asia, as San Francisco is in America. One is sure to meet here travellers, mostly English and American, passing to and fro, from India to China, or from China to India, making the Grand Tour. So common are they that they cease to inspire as much awe as Marco Polo or Capt. Cook, and have even received the nickname of "globe-trotters," and are looked upon as quite ordinary individuals. Singapore is a good resting-point for Americans – a convenient half-way house – as it is almost exactly on the other side of the globe from New York. Having "trotted" thus far, we may be allowed to rest, at least over Sunday, before we take a new start, and sail away into the Southern hemisphere.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE ISLAND OF JAVA

Most travellers who touch at Singapore sweep round that point like a race-horse, eager to be on the "home stretch." But in turning north, they turn away from a beauty of which they do not dream. They know not what islands, embowered in foliage, lie in those Southern seas – what visions would reward them if they would but "those realms explore." The Malayan Peninsula is a connecting link between two great divisions of the globe; it is a bridge hundreds of miles long – a real Giants' Causeway, reaching out from the mainland of Asia towards the Island World beyond – a world with an interest all its own, which, now that we were so near, attracted us to its shores. Leaving our fellow-travellers to go on to Siam or to China, we took the steamer of the Netherlands India Company for Java. It was a little boat of but 250 tons, but it shot away like an arrow, and was soon flying like a sea-bird among islands covered with palm groves. On our right was the long coast of Sumatra. Towards evening we entered the Straits of Rhio, and in the night crossed the Equator. When as a child I turned over the globe, I found this line indicated by a brass ring, and rather expected that the ship would get a thump as she passed over it; but she crossed without a shock, or even a jar; ocean melted into ocean; the waters of the China and the Java seas flowed together, and we were in the Southern hemisphere.

The first thing on board which struck us strangely was that we had lost our language. The steamer was Dutch, and the officers spoke only Dutch. But on all these waters will be found passing to and fro gentlemen of intelligence, holding official positions here, but who have lived long in Europe, and who speak English or French. At Rhio we were joined by the Resident, the highest official of that island, and by the Inspector of Schools from Batavia; and the next day, as we entered the Straits of Banca, by the Resident of Palembang in Sumatra – all of whom were very polite to us as strangers. We saw them again in Java, and when we parted, felt almost that they were not only acquaintances, but friends. They were of course thoroughly informed about the new world around us, and were ready to enlighten our ignorance. We sat on deck at evening, and as they puffed their cigars with the tranquillity of true Dutchmen, we listened to their discourse about the islands and people of the Malayan Archipelago.

This part of the world would delight Mr. Darwin by the strange races it contains, some of which approach the animal tribes. In the island of Rhio the Resident assured me there were wild men who lived in trees, and had no language but cries; and in Sumatra the Resident of Palembang said there were men who lived in the forests, with whom not only the Europeans, but even the Malays, could have no intercourse. He himself had never seen one. Yet, strange to say, they have a petty traffic with the outer world, yet not through the medium of speech. They live in the woods, and live by the chase. They hunt tigers, not with the gun, but with a weapon called a sumpitan, which is a long tube, out of which they blow arrows with such force, and that are so keen of point, and touched with such deadly poison, that a wound is almost immediately fatal. These tiger skins or elephant tusks they bring for barter – not for sale – they never sell anything, for money is about the most useless thing they could have; they cannot eat it, or drink it, or wear it. But as they have wants, they exchange; yet they themselves are never seen. They bring what they have to the edge of the forest, and leave it there, and the Malays come and place what they have to dispose of, and retire. If the offer is satisfactory, when the Malays return they find what they brought gone, and take what is left and depart. If not, they add a few trifles more to tempt the eyes of these wild men of the woods, and so at last the exchange is effected, yet all the while the sellers keep themselves invisible. This mode of barter argues great honesty on both sides.

This island of Sumatra is a world in itself. The Resident of Palembang has under him a country as large as the whole of Java. The people of Palembang are Malays and Chinese, thousands of whom live on rafts. In the interior of the island there are different races, speaking a dozen different languages or dialects. But with all its population, the greater part of the country is still given up to forest and jungle, the home of wild beasts – of the tiger and the rhinoceros. Wild elephants range the forests in great numbers. He had often seen them in herds of two or three hundred. It seemed strange that they were not tamed, as in India and Burmah. But such is not the habit of the people, who hunt them for ivory, but never attempt to subdue them, or use them as beasts of burden. Hence they become a great nuisance, as they come about the villages and break into the plantations; and it is only when a grand hunt is organized for their destruction, that a neighborhood can be for a time rid of the pest.

But if these are uncomfortable neighbors, there are others that are more so – the reptiles, which abound here as in India. But familiarity breeds contempt or indifference. The people are not afraid of them, and hardly notice them, but speak of them in an easy sort of way, as if they were the most harmless things in nature – poor innocent creatures, which might almost be pets in the family, and allowed to run about the house at their will. Soberly, there are certain domestic snakes which are indulged with these liberties. Said Mr. K.: "I was once visiting in Sumatra, and spending a night at the house of a friend. I heard a noise overhead, and asked, 'What is that?' 'Oh, nothing,' they said; 'it's only the serpent.' 'What! do you keep a family snake?' 'Yes,' they said; it was a large black snake which frequented the house, and as it did no mischief, and hunted the rats, they let it roam about wherever it liked." Thinking this rather a big story, with which our friend might practise on the credulity of a stranger, I turned to the Resident of Palembang, who confirmed it. He said this domestication of serpents was not uncommon. There was a kind of boa that was very useful as an exterminator of rats, and for this purpose the good Dutch housekeepers allowed it to crawl about or to lie coiled up in the pantry. Sometimes this interesting member of the family was stretched out on the veranda to bask in the sun – a pleasant object to any stranger who might be invited to accept hospitality. I think I should have an engagement elsewhere, however pressing the invitation. I never could "abide" snakes. From the Old Serpent down, they have been my aversion, and I beg to decline their company, though they should be as insinuating as the one that tempted Eve. But an English merchant in Java afterwards assured me that "snakes were the best gardeners; that they devoured the worms and insects and small animals; and that for his part, he was rather pleased than otherwise when he saw a big boa crawling among the vines or in the rice-fields." I thought that the first instance of a serpent's gardening was in Paradise, the effect of which was not encouraging, but there is no disputing about tastes. He said they frequently came around the houses, but did not often enter them, except that they were very fond of music (the dear creatures!); and sometimes in the evening, as doors and windows were left open for coolness, if the music was very fine, a head might be thrust in of a guest that had not been invited.

But our conversation was not limited to this harrowing topic, but ranged over many features of Sumatra – its scenery and climate, soil and vegetation. It is indeed a magnificent island. Over a thousand miles long, and with more square miles than Great Britain and Ireland together, it is large enough for a kingdom. In some parts the scenery is as grand as that of Switzerland. Along the western coast is a range of mountains like the Alps (some peaks are 15,000 feet high), among which is set many an Alpine valley, with its glistening lake. That coast is indented with bays, on one of which is the Dutch capital, Padang. East of the mountains the island spreads out into vast plains, watered by noble rivers. The soil is very rich, yielding all the fruits of the tropics in great abundance. The tobacco especially is of a much finer quality than that of Java, and brings twice as much in the market. This fertility will attract population both from Asia and from Europe, and under a good government this island may yet be the seat of an empire worthy of its greatness.

But just now the Dutch have a task to bring it into subjection. They have an enemy in the North harder to subdue than tigers and wild elephants. These are the terrible Malays, against whom has been kept up for years the war in Acheen – a war waged with such deadly and unrelenting hate and fury, that it has taken on a character of ferocity. Of the right or wrong of this savage contest, I cannot judge, for I hear only one side of the story. I am told that the Malays are a race of pirates, with whom it is impossible to live in good neighborhood, and that there can be no peace till they are subdued. At the same time, one cannot refuse a degree of sympathy even to savages who defend their own country, and who fight with such conspicuous bravery. To this all the Dutch officers bore testimony, saying that they fought "like devils." The Malays are very much like our American Indians, both in features and in character – a proud, high-spirited race, capable of any act of courage or devotion, but full of that hot blood that resents an insult. "If you have a Malay servant," I heard often in the East, "you may scold him or send him away, but never strike him, for that is an indignity which he feels more than a wound; which he never forgets or forgives; but which, if he has an opportunity, he will avenge with blood." Such a people, when they come into battle, sacrifice their lives without a moment's hesitation. They have a great advantage, as they are in their own territory, and can choose their own time and place of attack, or keep out of the way, leaving the enemy to be worn out by the hot climate and by disease. Of course if the Dutch could once bring them within range of their guns, or entice them into a pitched battle, European skill and discipline would be victorious. But the Malays are too wary and active; they hide in the fastnesses of the hills, and start up here and there in unexpected quarters, and after a sudden dash, fly to the mountains. They have a powerful ally in the pestilential climate, which brings on those deadly fevers that kill more than perish in battle. Such a war may drag on for years, during which the Dutch territory will not extend much beyond the places occupied by troops, or the ports defended by the guns of the fleet. If the Dutch hold on with their proverbial tenacity, they may conquer in the end, though at an immense cost in treasure and in life. If the Malays are once subdued, and by a wise and lenient policy converted to some degree of loyalty, they may prove, like the Sikhs in India, the brave defenders of the power against which they fought so well.

With such conversation to lighten the hours, they did not seem long, as we were running through the Java Sea. On the third day from Singapore, we came among the Thousand Islands, and in the afternoon descried on the horizon the mountains of Java, and just at sunset were in the roads of Batavia. There is no harbor, but an open roadstead; and here a whole fleet of ships were riding at anchor – ships of war and merchant ships from all parts of the world. It was two or three miles from the quay, but as the evening drew on, we could see lights along the shore; and at eight o'clock, just as the gun was fired from the flagship of the Dutch Admiral, we put off in a native boat, manned by a Malay crew. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and we seemed to be floating in a dream, as our swarthy boatmen bent to their oars, and we glided silently over a tropical sea to this unknown shore.

At the Custom House a dark-skinned official, whose buttons gave him a military air, received us with dignity, and demanded if we had "pistolets," and being satisfied that we were not attempting an armed invasion of the island, gave but a glance at our trunks, and politely bowed us to a carriage that was standing outside the gates, and away we rattled through the streets of Batavia to the Hotel Nederland.

The next morning at an early hour we were riding about to "take our bearings" and adjust ourselves to the situation. If we had not known where we were, but only that we were in some distant part of the world, we could soon guess that we were in a Dutch rather than in an English colony. Here were the inevitable canals which the Dutch carry with them to all parts of the earth. The city is intersected by these watery streets, and the boats in them might be lying at the quays of Rotterdam or Amsterdam. The city reminds us a good deal of the Hague, in its broad streets lined with trees, and its houses, which have a substantial Dutch look, as if they were built for comfort and not for show. They are low and large, spreading out over a great deal of surface, but not towering ambitiously upwards. A pretty sight it was to see these fine old mansions, standing back from the street, with ample space around them, embowered in trees and shrubbery, with lawns and gardens kept in perfect order; and with all the doors and windows wide open, through which we could see the breakfast tables spread, as if to invite even strangers, such as we were, to enter and share their hospitality. Before we left Java, we were guests in one of these mansions, and found that Dutch hospitality was not merely in name.

Among the ornaments of the city are two large and handsome public squares – the King's Plain and Waterloo Plain. The latter name reminds us that the Dutch had a part in the battle of Waterloo. With pardonable pride they are persuaded that the contingent which they contributed to the army of Wellington had no small part in deciding the issue of that terrible day, and they thus commemorate their victory. This plain is used as a parade-ground, and the Dutch cavalry charge over it with ardor, inspired by such heroic memories.

It may surprise some of my readers accustomed to our new American cities, to learn how old is Batavia. About the time that the Pilgrim Fathers sailed from Holland, another expedition from the same country carried the Dutch flag to the other side of the world, and Batavia was settled the year before the landing on Plymouth Rock. Of course it was a very small beginning of their power in the East, but slowly the petty trading settlement grew into a colony, and its territory was extended by degrees till, more than a hundred years after, it took in the whole island. In the old palace on Waterloo Plain, now used as a museum, are the portraits of Dutch governors who have ruled here for two hundred and fifty years.

But the capital of Java – at least the residence of the Governor-General – is not at Batavia, but at Buitenzorg, nearly forty miles in the interior, to which one can go by railroad in two hours. As we took our seats in the carriage we had the good fortune to meet Mr. Fraser, an English merchant, who has lived many years in Java, and is well known and highly respected throughout the island, who gave us information of the country over which we were passing. The plains near the sea had at this time an appearance of great beauty. They were laid out in rice fields which have a more vivid color than fields of grain, and now shone with an emerald green. It was the time of the gathering of the harvest, and the fields were filled with reapers, men and women, young men and maidens. But one hears not the click of the reaper. I am told that the attempt to introduce a mowing machine or a patent reaper would make a revolution in the island. All the rice of Java is cut by hand, and not even with the sickle, which is an instrument much too coarse for this dainty work, but with a knife three or four inches long, so that the spears are clipped as with a pair of scissors. Taking a few blades gently, they cut them off, and when they have a handful bind it in a tiny sheaf about as large as a bunch of asparagus. When they have cut and bound up five, one is laid aside for the landlord and four go to the cultivators.

This slow progress might make a young American farmer very impatient. Perhaps not, if he knew all the charms of the rice field, which might make a country swain quite willing to linger. Mr. Fraser explained that this season was the time, and the rice field the scene, of the matrimonial engagements made during the year! Ah, now it is all explained. Who can wonder that the gentle reapers linger over the rice blades while they are proposing or answering questions on which their whole life may depend? No doubt in merry England it has often happened that hay-making and love-making have gone on in the fields together. And we cannot wonder that such rural arts should be known in a land warmed by a tropical sun.

But the food of the natives is not found in the rice fields alone; it is brought down from the top of the cocoanut palm, and drawn up from the bottom of caves of the earth. "Do you see yonder small mountain?" said Mr. F. "That is a famous hunting-ground for the edible birds' nests, which are esteemed such a delicacy by the Chinese. The birds are swallows and build their nests in caves, into which the hunters are let down by long bamboo ropes, and drawn up laden with spoil. So great has been the yield, and so highly prized, that the product of that hill exported to China in one year returned a profit of £4,000. Of late this has been much reduced, owing to the diminished production, or that the Chinese are not ready to pay so much for such dainty luxuries."

At Buitenzorg the low land of the coast is exchanged for the hills. We are at the foot of the range of mountains which forms the backbone of the island. To give an idea of the character of the scenery, let me sketch a picture from my own door in the Bellevue Hotel. The rooms, as in all tropical climates, open on a broad veranda. Here, stretched in one of the easy chairs made of bamboo, we look out upon a scene which might be in Switzerland, so many features has it which are Alpine in their character. The hotel stands on a projecting shelf of rock or spur of a hill, overlooking a deep gorge, through which flows, or rather rushes, a foaming mountain torrent, whose ceaseless murmurs come up from below; while in front, only three or four miles distant, rises the broad breast of a mountain, very much like the lower summits or foothills of the Alps, which hang over many a sequestered vale in Switzerland or in the Tyrol.

But here the resemblance ends. For as we descend from the broad outlines of the landscape to closer details, it changes from the rugged features of an Alpine pass, and takes its true tropical character. There are no snow-clad peaks, for we are almost under the Equator. The scene might be in the Andes rather than in the Alps. The mountain before us, the Salak, is a volcano, though not now in action. As we look down from our perch, the eye rests upon a forest such as is never seen in the Alps. Here are no dark pines, such as clothe the sides of the vale of Chamouni. In the foreground, on the river bank, at the foot of the hill, is a cluster of native huts, half hidden by long feathery bamboos and broad-leaved palms. The forest seems to be made up of palms of every variety – the cocoanut palm, the sago palm, and the sugar palm, with which are mingled the bread-fruit tree, and the nutmeg, and the banana; and not least of all, the cinchona, lately imported from South American forests, which yields the famous Peruvian bark. The attempt to acclimatize this shrub, so precious in medicine, has been completely successful, so that the quinine of Java is said to be even better than that of South America. In the middle distance are the rice fields, with their intense green, and farther, on the side of the mountain, are the coffee plantations, for which Java is so famous.

Buitenzorg has a Botanical Garden, the finest by far to be found out of Europe, and the richest in the world in the special department of tropical plants and trees. All that the tropics pour from their bounteous stores; all those forms of vegetable life created by the mighty rains and mightier sun of the Equator – gigantic ferns, like trees, and innumerable orchids (plants that live on air) – are here in countless profusion. One of the glories of the Garden is an india-rubber tree of great size, which spreads out its arms like an English oak, but dropping shoots here and there (for it is a species of banyan) which take root and spring up again, so that the tree broadens its shade, and as the leaves are thick and tough as leather, offers a shield against even the vertical sun. There are hundreds of varieties of palms – African and South American – some of enormous height and breadth, which, as we walked under their shade, seemed almost worthy to stand on the banks of the River of Life.

Such a vast collection offers an attraction like the Garden of Plants in Paris. I met here the Italian naturalist Beccari, who was spending some weeks at Buitenzorg to make a study of a garden in which he had the whole tropics in a space of perhaps a hundred acres. He has spent the last eight years of his life in the Malayan Archipelago, dividing his time, except a few months in the Moluccas, between Borneo and New Guinea. The latter island he considered richer in its fauna and flora than any other equal spot on the surface of the globe, with many species of plants and animals unknown elsewhere. He had his own boat, and sailed along the coast and up the rivers at his will. He penetrated into the forest and the jungle, living among savages, and for the time adopting their habits of life, not perhaps dressing in skins, but sleeping in their huts or on the ground, and living on their food and such game as he could get with his gun. He laughed at the dangers. He was not afraid of savages or wild beasts or reptiles. Indeed he lived in such close companionship with the animal kingdom that he got to be in very intimate, not to say amicable, relations; and to hear him talk of his friends of the forest, one would think he would almost beg pardon of a beast that he was obliged to shoot and stuff in the interest of science. He complained only that he could not find enough of them. Snakes he "doted on," and if he espied a monster coiling round a tree, or hanging from the branches, his heart leaped up as one who had found great spoil, for he thought how its glistening scales would shine in his collection. I was much entertained by his adventures. He left us one morning in company with our host Carlo, who is a famous hunter, on an expedition after the rhinoceros – a royal game, which abounds in the woods of Java.

The beauty of this island is not confined to one part of it. As yet we have seen only Western Java, and but little of that. But there is Middle Java and Eastern Java. The island is very much like Cuba in shape – long and narrow, being near seven hundred miles one way, and less than a hundred the other. Thus it is a great breakwater dividing the Java Sea from the Indian Ocean. To see its general configuration, one needs to sail along the coast to get a distant view; and then, to appreciate the peculiar character of its scenery, he should make excursions into the interior. The Residents of Rhio and Palembang called to see us and made out an itinéraire; and Mr. Levyssohn Norman, the Secretary General, to whom I brought a letter from a Dutch officer whom we met at Naples, gave me letters to the Residents in Middle Java. Thus furnished we returned to Batavia, and took the steamer for Samarang – two days' sail to the eastward along the northern shore. As we put out to sea a few miles, we get the general figure of the island. The great feature in the view is the mountains, a few miles from the coast, some of which are ten and twelve thousand feet high, which make the background of the picture, whose peculiar outline is derived from their volcanic character. Java lies in what may be called a volcano belt, which is just under the Equator, and reaches not only through Java, but through the islands of Bali and Lombok to the Moluccas. Instead of one long chain of equal elevation in every part, or a succession of smooth, rounded domes, there is a number of sharp peaks thrown up by internal fires. Thus the sky line is changing every league. European travellers are familiar with the cone-like shape of Vesuvius, overlooking the Bay of Naples. Here is the same form, repeated nearly forty times, as there are thirty-eight volcanoes in the island. Around the Bay of Samarang are nine in one view! Some of them are still active, and from time to time burst out in fearful eruptions; but just now they are not in an angry mood, but smoking peacefully, only a faint vapor, like a fleecy cloud, curling up against the sky. All who have made the ascent of Vesuvius, remember that its cone is a blackened mass of ashes and scoriæ. But a volcano here is not left to be such a picture of desolation. Nature, as if weary of ruin, and wishing to hide the rents she has made, has mantled its sides with the richest tropical vegetation. As we stand on the deck of our ship, and look landward, the mountains are seen to be covered near their base with forests of palms; while along their breasts float belts of light cloud, above which the peaks soar into the blue heavens.

At the eastern end of the island, near Souraboya, there is a volcano with the largest crater in the world, except that of Kilaccea in the Sandwich Islands. It is three miles across, and is filled with a sea of sand. Descending into this broad space, and wading through the sand, as if on the desert, one comes to a new crater in the centre, a thousand feet wide, which is always smoking. This the natives regard with superstitious dread, as a sign that the powers below are in a state of anger; and once a year they go in crowds to the mountain, dragging a bullock, which is thrown alive into the crater, with other offerings, to appease the wrath of the demon, who is raging and thundering below.

Wednesday morning brought us to Samarang, the chief port of Middle, as Batavia is of Western, and Sourabaya of Eastern Java. As we drew up to the shore, the quay was lined with soldiers, who were going off to the war in Acheen. The regiments intended for that service are brought first to Java, to get acclimated before they are exposed to what would be fatal to fresh European troops. These were now in fine condition, and made a brave sight, drawn up in rank, with the band playing, and the people shouting and cheering. This is the glittering side of war. But, poor fellows! they have hard times before them, of which they do not dream. It is not the enemy they need to fear, but the hot climate and the jungle fever, which will be more deadly than the kris of the Malay. These soldiers are not all Dutch; some are French. On our return to Batavia, the steamer carried down another detachment, in which I found a couple of French zouaves (there may have been others), one of whom told me he had been in the surrender at Sedan, and the other had taken part in the siege of Paris. After their terms had expired in the French army, they enlisted in the Dutch service, and embarked for the other side of the world, to fight in a cause which is not their own. I fear they will never see France again, but will leave their bones in the jungles of Sumatra.