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

o’ you, for it’s not like your mother’s poetry by any means, so you needn’t flatter yourself—not built on the same lines by a long way. Well—where was I?”

“Only got the length of the holiday yet, father.”

“Only, indeed. You ungrateful dog! It’s a considerable length to get, that, isn’t it? Well, I also intend to give you some money, to enable you to move about in this curious archipelago—not much, but enough to keep you from starvation if used with economy, so I recommend you to go into the town, make general inquiries about everything and everywhere, an’ settle in your mind what you’ll do, for I give you a rovin’ commission an’ don’t want to be bothered with you for some time to come.”

“Are you in earnest, father?” asked Nigel, who had become more interested while the captain unfolded his plan.

“Never more in earnest in my life—except, p’raps, when I inquired over twenty years ago whether you was a boy or a girl.”

“Well, now, that is good of you, father. Of course I need not say that I am charmed at the prospect you open up to me. And—and when may I start?”

“At once. Up anchor and away to-night if you choose.”

“But—where?”

“Anywhere—everywhere, Java, Sumatra, Borneo—all Malaysia before you where to choose. Now be off, and think over it, for I’ve got too much to do to waste time on you at present,” said the captain, rising, “and, stay—Nigel.”

“Well?” said the youth, looking back as he was about to leave the cabin.

“Whatever you do, don’t grow poetical about it. You know it is said somewhere, that mischief is found for idle hands to do.”

“All right, father. I’ll keep clear of poetry—leave all that sort o’ nonsense to you. I’ll—

“I’ll flee Temptation’s siren voice,
Throw poesy to the crows
And let my soul’s ethereal fire
Gush out in sober prose.”

It need scarcely be said that our hero was not slow to take advantage of the opportunity thus thrown in his way. He went off immediately through the town, armed with the introduction of his father’s well-known name, and made inquiries of all sorts of people as to the nature, the conditions, the facilities, and the prospects of travel in the Malay Archipelago. In this quest he found himself sorely perplexed for the very good reason that “all sorts” of people, having all sorts of ideas and tastes, gave amazingly conflicting accounts of the region and its attractions.

Wearied at last with his researches, he sauntered towards afternoon in the direction of the port, and began in a listless sort of way to watch the movements of a man who was busily engaged with a boat, as if he were making preparations to put to sea.

Now, whatever philosophers may say to the contrary, we hold strongly to the opinion that likings and dislikings among men and women and children are the result of some profound occult cause which has nothing whatever to do with experience. No doubt experience may afterwards come in to modify or intensify the feelings, but it is not the originating cause. If you say it is, how are we to account for love at first sight? Beauty has nothing necessarily to do with it, for men fall in love at first sight with what the world calls plain women—happily! Character is not the cause, for love assails the human breast, oft-times, before the loved object has uttered a word, or perpetrated a smile, or even fulminated a glance to indicate character. So, in like manner, affection may arise between man and man.

It was so on this occasion with Nigel Roy. As he stood abstractedly gazing at the boatman he fell in love with him—at least he took a powerful fancy to him, and this was all the more surprising that the man was a negro,—a woolly-headed, flat-nosed, thick-lipped nigger!

We would not for a moment have it supposed that it is unnatural to love such a man. Quite the reverse. But when such a man is a perfect stranger, has never uttered a word in one’s presence, or vouchsafed so much as a glance, and is gravely, stolidly engaged in the unsavoury work of greasing some of the tackling of a boat, it does seem unaccountable that he should be unwittingly capable of stirring up in another man’s bosom feelings of ardent goodwill, to put it mildly.

After watching him for some time, Nigel, under an almost involuntary impulse, shouted “Hullo!”

“Hullo!” replied the negro, looking up with a somewhat stern frown and a pout of his thick lips, as much as to say—“Who are you?”

Nigel smiled, and made that suggestive motion with his forefinger which signifies “Come here.”

The frown fled and the pout became a smile as the negro approached, wiping his hands on a piece of cotton-waste.

“What you want wi’ me, sar?” he asked.

“Well, upon my word,” said Nigel, somewhat perplexed, “I can’t very well say. I suppose something must have been in my mind, but—anyhow, I felt a desire to have a talk with you; that is, if you can spare the time.”

The first part of this reply induced a slight recurrence of the frown and pout, but at its conclusion the black brow cleared and the mouth expanded to such a gum-and-teeth-exposing extent that Nigel fairly burst into a laugh.

“You’s bery good, sar,” said the man, “an’ I’s hab much pleasure to make your acquaintance.—Der an’t no grease on ’em now.”

The last remark had reference to the enormous black paw which he held out.

Nigel at once grasped it and shook it heartily.

“I’s bery fond ob a talk, sar,” continued the negro, “so as you wants one, heabe ahead.”

Thus encouraged, our hero began by remarking that he seemed to be preparing for a trip.

“Dat’s zackly what I’s a-doin’, sar.”

“A long one?”

“Well, dat depends on what you call short. Goin’ to Sunda Straits, which p’raps you know, sar, is nigh a hundred miles fro’ here.”

“And what may you be going to do there?” asked Nigel.

“Goin’ home to Krakatoa.”

“Why, I thought that was an uninhabited island. I passed close to it on my way here, and saw no sign of inhabitants.”

“Dat’s cause I was absint fro’ home. An’ massa he keeps indoors a good deal.”

“And pray who is massa?” asked Nigel.

“Sar,” said the negro, drawing up his square sturdy frame with a look of dignity; “fair-play is eberyt’ing wid me. You’ve ax me a heap o’ questions. Now’s my turn. Whar you comes fro’?”

“From England,” replied Nigel.

“An’ whar you go to?”

“Well, you’ve posed me now, for I really don’t know where I’m going to. In fact that is the very thing I have been trying to find out all day, so if you’ll help me I’ll be much obliged.”

Here Nigel explained his position and difficulties, and it was quite obvious, judging from the glittering eyes and mobile mouth, that he poured his tale into peculiarly sympathetic ears. When he had finished, the negro stood for a considerable time gazing in meditative silence at the sky.

“Yes,” he said at last, as if communing with himself, “I t’ink—I ain’t quite sure, but I t’ink—I may ventur’.”

“Whatever it is you are thinking about,” remarked Nigel, “you may venture to say anything you like to me.”

The negro, who, although comparatively short of stature, was Herculean in build, looked at the youth with an amused expression.

“You’re bery good, sar, but dat’s not what I’s t’inkin’ ob. I’s t’inkin’ whedder I dar’ ventur’ to introdoce you to my massa. He’s not fond o’ company, an’ it might make ’im angry, but he came by a heaby loss lately an’ p’raps he may cond’send to receibe you. Anyhow you’d be quite safe, for he’s sure to be civil to any friend ob mine.”

“Is he then so fierce?” asked Nigel, becoming interested as well as amused.

“Fierce! no, he’s gentle as a lamb, but he’s awrful when he’s roused—tigers, crokindiles, ’noceroses is nuffin’ to him!”

“Indeed! what’s his name, and what does he do? how does he live?”

The negro shook his head. “Da’s more’n I dar tell till I ax his leave, sar. I kin only say de peepil around calls ’im the hermit ob Rakata, ’cause he libs by his-self (wid me, ob course, but I counts for nuffin’), close under de ole volcano ob Krakatoa. Dey tink—some ob de foolish peepil—dat he hab sold his-self to de dibil, but I knows better. He’s a good man, and you’d hab great fun if you stop wid him. Now, what I’s a-gwine to advise you is, come wid me an’ see de hermit. If he lets you stop, good. If not, I fetch you ober to de main land—whar you please—an’ you kin come back here or go whar you choose. Its wort’ your while to take your chance, anyhow.”

The negro said this with such an earnest look that Nigel made up his mind on the spot to accept this curious invitation.

“I’ll go!” he exclaimed with sudden energy. “When do you start?”

“To-morrer at daybreak, sar.”

“Well, I shall have to talk it over first with my father, but I’m sure he won’t object, so you may look out for me here at daybreak. Shall I have to fetch any provisions with me for the voyage?”

“No, nuffin’. Boat’s crammed wi’ grub. But you’d better bring a gun o’ some sort an’ a ’volver, an’ a big knife, an’ a mortal big appetite, for a man’s no good widout dat.”

“I always carry that about with me,” said the youth, “whatever else I may leave behind; and I’ll see to the other things.—By the way, what’s your name?”

“Moses.”

“Is that all?”

“Isn’t dat enuff?” returned the negro with a look of dignity.

“Quite; but I have the advantage of you there, Moses, for I have two names—Nigel Roy.”

“Well, I don’t see much use ob two, but which does you like to be called by—Nadgel or Roy?”

“Whichever you please, Moses; I’ll answer to either. So now, good-bye for the present, and look out for me to-morrow at daylight.”

“Good-bye, Massa Nadgel, till to-morrer.”

The negro waved his hand and, sauntering slowly back to his boat, remarked in an undertone, “I lub dat young feller!” Saying which, he resumed his greasing operations.

Of course Captain Roy made no objection to his son’s proposal, though he freely gave his opinion that it was a wild-goose chase.

“However, lad, please yourself and you’ll please me,” he added; “and now, be particular to bear in mind that you’ve got to write to me every time you get within hail of a post-office or a passing ship or steamer that may chance to be comin’ this way, and in each letter be sure to tell me where you’re goin’ to next, so as I may send a letter there to you in case I want you to return sudden or otherwise. We mustn’t lose touch, you see. You needn’t write long screeds. I only want to know your whereabouts from time to time. For the rest—you can spin it out in yarns when you come back.”