Blown to Bits: The Lonely Man of Rakata, the Malay Archipelago by R. M. Ballantyne (novels for teenagers .TXT) đź“•
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“Hallo, Father!” shouted the one.
“Zounds! Nigel!” exclaimed the other.
Both men glared and were speechless for several seconds. Then Nigel rushed at the captain, and the captain met him halfway, and they shook hands with such hearty goodwill as to arrest in his operations for a few moments a photographer who was hastily setting up his camera!
Yes, science has done much to reveal the marvellous and arouse exalted thoughts in the human mind, but it has also done something to crush enthusiasts and shock the romantic. Veracity constrains us to state that there he was, with his tripod, and his eager haste, and his hideous black cloth, preparing to “take” Perboewatan on a “dry plate”! And he “took” it too! And you may see it, if you will, as a marvellous frontispiece to the volume by the “Krakatoa Committee”—a work which is apparently as exhaustive of the subject of Krakatoa as was the great explosion itself of those internal fires which will probably keep that volcano quiet for the next two hundred years.
But this was not the Great Eruption of Krakatoa—only a rehearsal, as it were.
“What brought you here, my son?” asked the captain, on recovering speech.
“My legs, father.”
“Don’t be insolent, boy.”
“It’s not insolence, father. It’s only poetical licence, meant to assure you that I did not come by ’bus or rail, though you did by steamer! But let me introduce you to my friend, Mr —”
He stopped short on looking round, for Van der Kemp was not there.
“He hoed away wheneber he saw de peepil comin’ up de hill,” said Moses, who had watched the meeting of father and son with huge delight. “But you kin interdooce me instead,” he added, with a crater-like smile.
“True, true,” exclaimed Nigel, laughing. “This is Moses, father, my host’s servant, and my very good friend, and a remarkably free-and-easy friend, as you see. He will guide us back to the cave, since Van der Kemp seems to have left us.”
“Who’s Van der Kemp?” asked the captain.
“The hermit of Rakata, father—that’s his name. His father was a Dutchman and his mother an English or Irish woman—I forget which. He’s a splendid fellow; quite different from what one would expect; no more like a hermit than a hermit-crab, except that he lives in a cave under the Peak of Rakata, at the other end of the island. But you must come with us and pay him a visit. He will be delighted to see you.”
“What! steer through a green sea of leaves like that?” said the captain, stretching his arm towards the vast forest that lay stretched out below them, “and on my legs, too, that have been used all their lives to a ship’s deck? No, my son. I will content myself with this lucky meetin’. But, I say, Nigel, lad,” continued the old man, somewhat more seriously, “what if the Peak o’ Rakata, what’s ’is name, should take to spoutin’ like this one, an you, as you say, livin’ under it?”
“Ha! das ’zackly what I say,” interposed Moses. “Das what I oftin says to massa, but he nebber answers. He only smile. Massa’s not always so purlite as he might be!”
“There is no fear,” said Nigel, “not at present, anyhow, for Van der Kemp says that the force of this eruption is diminishing—”
“It don’t look much like it,” muttered the captain, as the volcano at that moment gave vent to a burst which seemed like a sarcastic laugh at the hermit’s opinion, and sent the more timid of the excursionists sprawling down the cinder-slope in great alarm.
“There’s reason in what you say, father,” said Nigel, when the diminution of noise rendered speech more easy; “and after all, as we start off on our travels to-morrow, your visit could not have been a long one.”
“Where do you go first?” asked the captain.
“Not sure. Do you know, Moses?”
“No; no more’n de man ob de moon. P’r’aps Borneo. He go dar sometimes.”
At this point another roar from the volcano, and a shout from the leader of the excursionists to return on board, broke up the conference.
“Well, lad, I’m glad I’ve seen you. Don’t forget to write your whereabouts. They say there’s a lot o’ wild places as well as wild men and beasts among them islands, so keep your weather-eye open an’ your powder dry. Good-bye, Nigel. Take care of him, Moses, and keep him out o’ mischief if ye can—which is more than ever I could. Good-bye, my boy.”
“Good-bye, father.”
They shook hands vigorously. In another minute the old seaman was sailing down the cinder-cone at the rate of fourteen knots an hour, while his son, setting off under the guidance of Moses towards a different point of the compass, was soon pushing his way through the tangled forest in the direction of the hermit’s cave.
It was early next morning when Van der Kemp and his man left their couches and descended to the shore, leaving their visitor enjoying the benefit of that profound slumber which bids defiance to turmoil and noise, however stupendous, and which seems to be the peculiar privilege of healthy infants and youthful seamen.
Perboewatan had subsided considerably towards morning, and had taken to that internal rumbling, which in the feline species indicates mitigated indignation. The hermit had therefore come to the conclusion that the outburst was over, and went with Moses to make arrangements for setting forth on his expedition after breakfast.
They had scarcely left the cave when Nigel awoke. Feeling indisposed for further repose, he got up and went out in that vague state of mind which is usually defined as “having a look at the weather.” Whether or not he gathered much information from the look we cannot tell, but, taking up his short gun, which stood handy at the entrance of the cave, he sauntered down the path which his host had followed a short time before. Arrived at the shore, he observed that a branch path diverged to the left, and appeared to run in the direction of a high precipice. He turned into it, and after proceeding through the bushes for a short way he came quite unexpectedly on a cavern, the mouth of which resembled, but was much higher and wider than that which led to the hermit’s home.
Just as he approached it there issued from its gloomy depths a strange rumbling sound which induced him to stop and cock his gun. A curious feeling of serio-comic awe crept over him as the idea of a fiery dragon leaped into his mind! At the same time, the fancy that the immense abyss of darkness might be one of the volcanic vents diminished the comic and increased the serious feeling. Ere long the sound assumed the definite tone of footsteps, and the dragon fancy seemed about to become a reality when he beheld a long narrow thing of uncertain form emerging from the darkness.
“It must be coming out tail-foremost!” he muttered, with a short laugh at his semi-credulity.
Another instant and the hermit emerged into the blazing sunshine, and stood pictured against the intense darkness like a being of supernatural radiance, with the end of a long narrow canoe on his shoulder.
As Nigel passed round a bush to reach him he perceived the dark form of Moses emerging from the depths and supporting the body of the canoe.
“I see you are active and an early riser,” said the hermit, with a nod of approval on seeing our hero.
“I almost took you for a Krakatoa monster!” said Nigel, as they came out in front of the cavern and laid the canoe on the ground. “Why, you’ve got here one of the craft which we in England call a Rob Roy canoe.”
“It is fashioned on the same pattern,” said the hermit, “but with one or two alterations of my own devising, and an improvement—as I think—founded on what I have myself seen, when travelling with the Eskimos of Greenland.”
Van der Kemp here pointed out that the canoe was not only somewhat broader than the kind used in England, but was considerably longer, and with three openings or manholes in the deck, so that it was capable of holding three persons. Also, that there was a large rounded mass of wood fixed in front of the three manholes.
“These saddles, as I call them,” said the hermit, “have been suggested to me by the Eskimos, who, instead of wearying their arms by supporting the double-bladed paddle continuously, rest it on the saddle and let it slide about thereon while being used. Thus they are able to carry a much longer and heavier paddle than that used in the Rob Roy canoe, the weight of which, as it rests on the saddle, is not felt. Moreover it does not require nearly so much dip to put it in the water. I have heard of a sort of upright with a universal joint being applied to the English canoe, but it seems to me a much more clumsy and much less effective, because rigid, contrivance than the Eskimo saddle. Inside, under the deck, as I will show you by and by, I have lighter and shorter paddles for use when in narrow rivers, but I prefer the long heavy paddle when traversing great stretches of ocean.”
“You don’t mean to say you ever go to sea in an eggshell like that!” exclaimed Nigel in surprise.
“Indeed we do,” returned the hermit, “and we are fitted out for longish voyages and rough weather. Besides, it is not so much of an eggshell as you suppose. I made it myself, and took care that it should be fit for the work required of it. The wood of which it is made, although light, is very tough, and it is lined with a skin of strong canvas which is fixed to the planks with tar. This makes the craft watertight as well as strong. The ribs also are very light and close together, and every sixth rib is larger and longer than the others and made of tougher wood. All these ribs are bound together by longitudinal pieces, or laths, of very tough wood, yet so thin that the whole machine is elastic without being weak. Besides this, there are two strong oiled-canvas partitions, which divide the canoe into three watertight compartments, any two of which will float it if the third should get filled.”
“Is this then the craft in which you intend to voyage?” asked Nigel.
“It is. We shall start in an hour or two. I keep it in this cave because it is near the landing-place. But come, you will understand things better when you see us making our arrangements. Of course you understand how to manage sails of every kind?”
“If I did not it would ill become me to call myself a sailor,” returned our hero.
“That is well, because you will sit in the middle, from which position the sail is partly managed. I usually sit in the bow to have free range for the use of my gun, if need be, and Moses steers.”
Van der Kemp proceeded down the track as he said this, having, with the negro, again lifted the canoe on his shoulder.
A few minutes’ walk brought them to the beach at the spot where Nigel had originally landed. Here a quantity of cargo lay on the rocks ready to be placed in the canoe. There were several small bags of pemmican, which Van der Kemp had learned to make while travelling on the prairies of North America among the Red Indians,—for this singular being seemed to have visited most parts of the habitable globe during his not yet very long life. There were five small casks of fresh water, two or three canisters of gunpowder, a small box of tea and another of sugar, besides several bags of biscuits. There were also other bags and boxes which did not by their appearance reveal their contents, and
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