Blown to Bits: The Lonely Man of Rakata, the Malay Archipelago by R. M. Ballantyne (red novels TXT) 📖

old-fashioned double-barrelled fowling-piece, muzzle-loading and with percussion locks.

“For you see, Nigel,” the captain had said, “it’s all very well to use breech-loaders when you’ve got towns and railways and suchlike to supply you wi’ cartridges, but when you’ve got to cruise in out-o’-the-way waters, there’s nothin’ like the old style. It’s not difficult to carry a few thousand percussion-caps an’ a bullet-mould about wi’ you wherever you go. As to powder, why, you’ll come across that ’most everywhere, an’ lead too; and, for the matter o’ that, if your life depended on it you could shove a handful of gravel or a pen-knife or tooth-pick into your gun an’ blaze away, but with a breech-loader, if you run out o’ cartridges, where are you?”

So, as Nigel could not say where he was, the percussion-gun had been purchased.

The peak of Rakata—the highest in the island—a little over 2600 feet, came in sight first; gradually the rest of the island rose out of the horizon, and ere long the rich tropical verdure became distinguishable.

Krakatoa—destined so soon to play a thrilling part in the world’s history; to change the aspect of the heavens everywhere; to attract the wondering gaze of nearly all nations, and to devastate its immediate neighbourhood—is of volcanic origin, and, at the time we write of (1883) was beginning to awaken from a long, deep slumber of two hundred years. Its last explosion occurred in the year 1680. Since that date it had remained quiet. But now the tremendous subterranean forces which had originally called it into being were beginning to reassert their existence and their power. Vulcan was rousing himself again and beginning once more to blow his bellows. So said some of the sailors who were constantly going close past the island and through Sunda Straits, which may be styled the narrows of the world’s highway to the China seas.

Subterranean forces, however, are so constantly at work more or less violently in those regions that people took little notice of these indications in the comparatively small island of Krakatoa, which was between five and six miles long by four broad.

As we have said, it was uninhabited, and lying as it does between Sumatra and Java, about sixteen miles from the former and over twenty miles from the latter, it was occasionally visited by fishermen. The hermit whom Nigel was about to visit might, in some sort, be counted an inhabitant, for he had dwelt there many years, but he lived in a cave which was difficult of access, and held communication with no one. How he spent his time was a mystery, for although his negro servant went to the neighbouring town of Anjer in Java for supplies, and sometimes to Batavia, as we have seen, no piece of inanimate ebony from the forest could have been less communicative than he. Indeed, our hero was the first to unlock the door of his lips, with that key of mysterious sympathy to which reference has already been made. Some of the bolder of the young fishermen of the neighbouring coasts had several times made futile efforts to find out where and how the hermit lived, but the few who got a glimpse of him at a distance brought back such a report that a kind of superstitious fear of him was generated which kept them at a respectful distance.

He was ten feet high, some romancers said, with shoulders four feet broad, a chest like a sugar-hogs-head, and a countenance resembling a compound of orang-utan and tiger.

Of course our hero knew nothing of these rumours, and as Moses declined to give any information regarding his master beyond that already given, he was left to the full play of his imagination.

Moses was quite candid about it. He made no pretence to shroud things in mystery.

“You mus’ know, Massa Nadgel,” he said, as they slowly drew near to the island, “I’s ’fraid ob ’im dough I lub ’im.”

“But why do you love him, Moses?”

“’Cause he sabe my life an’ set me free.”

“Indeed? well, that is good reason. And why do you fear him?”

“Da’s what I don’ know, massa,” replied the negro with a puzzled look.

“Is he harsh, then?”

“No.”

“Passionate?”

“No. Gentle as a lamb.”

“Strong?”

“Yes—oh! mighty strong an’ big.”

“Surely you’re not afraid of his giving you a licking, Moses?”

“Oh no,” returned the negro, with a smile of expansive benignity; “I’s not ’fraid ob dat. I’s bin a slabe once, got used to lickin’s. Don’t care nuffin’ at all for a lickin’!”

“Then it must be that you’re afraid of hurting his feelings, Moses, for I know of no other kind of fear.”

“Pr’aps da’s it!” said the negro with a bright look, “now I wouldn’t wonder if you’s right, Massa Nadgel. It neber come into my head in dat light before. I used to be t’ink, t’inkin’ ob nights—when I’s tired ob countin’ my fingers an’ toes. But I couldn’t make nuffin’ ob it. Now I knows! It’s ’fraid I am ob hurtin’ his feelin’s.”

In the excess of his satisfaction at the solution of this long-standing puzzle, Moses threw back his head, shut his eyes, opened his enormous mouth and chuckled.

By the time he had reversed this process they were sufficiently near to Krakatoa to distinguish all its features clearly, and the negro began to point out to Nigel its various localities. There were three prominent peaks on it, he said, named respectively, Perboewatan, about 400 feet high, at the northern end of the island; Danan, near the centre, 1500 feet; and Rakata, at the southern end, over 2600 feet. It was high up on the sides of the last cone that the residence of the hermit was situated.

“And you won’t tell me your master’s name?” said Nigel.

Moses shook his woolly head. “No, sar, no. I’s ’fraid ob him—he! he! I ’fraid ob hurtin’ his feelin’s!”

“Well, never mind; I’ll find it out from himself soon. By the way, what were you telling me about explosions yesterday when that little white gull came to admire your pretty face, and took off our attention?”

“Well, I dun know. Not got much to tell, only dar’s bin rumblin’ an’ grumblin’s an’ heavin’s lately in de mountains as didn’t use to be, an’ cracks like somet’in’ bustin’ down b’low, an’ massa he shook ’is head two or t’ree times an’ look solemn. He don’t often do dat—shook ’is head, I mean—for he mostly always looks solemn.”

A few minutes later the boat, running through a narrow opening among the rocks into a small circular harbour not more than fifty yards in diameter, rested its keel gently on a little bed of pure yellow sand. The shore there was so densely covered with bushes that the harbour might easily have been passed without being observed.

Jumping ashore, Moses made the painter fast to a tree.

“What a quiet, cosy place!” said Nigel, as he sprung on the beach and looked admiringly round.

“Yes, an’ not easy to find if you don’t knows ’im. We will leabe de boat here,—no danger ob bein’ tooked away—an’ den go up to de cave.”

“Is it far?” asked Nigel.

“A good bit—near de top ob de mountain,” answered the negro, who looked at his companion somewhat uneasily.

“Why, what’s the matter, Moses?”

“Nuffin’—oh! nuffin’—but—but when massa axes you who you is, an’ what you bin up to, an’ whar you’re a-gwine to, an’ what wages you want, jist you answer ’im in a sorter permiscuous way, an’ don’t be too partikler.”

“Wages! man, what d’ye mean?”

“Well, you’ll ’scuse me, sar,” returned the negro with an air of profound humility, “but my massa lost a old sarvint—a nigger like myself—only last munt’, an’ he wants to go on one ob his usual expeditions jus’ now, so he sends me to Batavia to git anoder man—‘a good one, you know,’ says massa,—an’ as you, sar, was good ’nuff to ax me what you should do, an’ you looked a pritty smart man, I—”

“You scoundrel!” cried Nigel, interrupting him, “do you really mean to tell me that you’ve brought me here as a hired servant?”

“Well, not zackly,” returned Moses, with solemn simplicity, “you needn’t ax no wages unless you like.”

“But what if I don’t want to take service?” demanded our hero, with a savage frown.

“You kin go home agin,” answered Moses, humbly.

Nigel could contain himself no longer. As he observed the man’s deprecatory air, and thought of his own position, he burst into a fit of hearty laughter, whereupon the negro recovered himself and smiled the smile of the guiltless.

“Come,” said Nigel at last. “Lead on, you rascal! When I see your master I shall know what to say.”

“All right, Massa Nadgel, but mind what you say, else I won’t answer for de consikences. Foller me an’ look arter your feet, for de road is roughish.”

The negro’s last remark was unquestionably true, for the road—if a mere footpath merits the name—was rugged in the extreme—here winding round the base of steep cliffs, there traversing portions of luxuriant forest, elsewhere skirting the margin of the sea.

Moses walked at such a pace that Nigel, young and active though he was, found it no easy matter to keep up with him. Pride, however, forbade him to show the slightest sign of difficulty, and made him even converse now and then in tones of simulated placidity. At last the path turned abruptly towards the face of a precipice and seemed to terminate in a small shallow cave. Any one following the path out of mere curiosity would have naturally imagined that the cave was the termination of it; and a very poor termination too, seeing that it was a rather uninteresting cave, the whole of the interior of which could be seen at a single glance from its mouth.

But this cave served in reality as a blind. Climbing by one or two projecting points, the negro, closely followed by Nigel, reached a narrow ledge and walked along it a short distance. On coming to the end of the ledge he jumped down into a mass of undergrowth, where the track again became visible—winding among great masses of weatherworn lava. Here the ascent became very steep, and Moses put on what sporting men call a spurt, which took him far ahead of Nigel, despite the best efforts of the latter to keep up. Still our hero scorned to run or call out to his guide to wait, and thereby admit himself beaten. He pushed steadily on, and managed to keep the active Moses in view.

Presently the negro stepped upon a platform of rock high up on the cliffs, where his form could be distinctly seen against the bright sky. There Nigel observed that he was joined by a man whose tall commanding figure seemed in such a position to be of gigantic proportions.

The two stood engaged in earnest conversation while watching Nigel. The latter immediately slackened his pace, in order at once to recover breath and approach with a leisurely aspect.

“The wild man of the island, I suppose,” he thought as he drew near; but on coming still nearer he saw that he must be mistaken, for the stranger who advanced to meet him with gracious ease and self-possession was obviously a gentleman, and dressed, not unlike himself, in a sort of mixed travelling and shooting costume.

“I must apologise, Mr Roy, for the presumption of my man, in bringing you here under something like false pretences,” said the stranger, holding out his hand, which Nigel shook heartily. “Moses, I find, has failed to execute my commission, and has partially deceived you; but as you are now here, the least I can do is to bid you welcome, and offer you the hospitality of my roof.”

There was something so courteous and kindly in the tone and manner of the stranger, and something so winning in his soft gentle tones, which contrasted strangely with his grand towering figure and massive bearded countenance, that Nigel felt drawn to him instantly. Indeed there was a peculiar and mysterious something about him which quite fascinated our hero as he