For some time one of my servants kept alluding to several wonderful and most valuable curiosities which this wealthy rajah was so fortunate as to possess—curiosities indeed, according to his glowing descriptions, compared to the shells I was continually buying. At last I asked him to say to the rajah, that I would be greatly obliged to him if he could show me such rare wonders, being careful not to add, that possibly I should like to purchase one or more; for I had a strong suspicion that the rajah had offered to give him all over a certain sum that I might pay for them, if he could induce me to purchase them. In these Eastern lands, when you send a servant to buy any thing, you have the unpleasant certainty in your mind, that a large part of “the price” will certainly lodge in his pocket; however, if you go to purchase yourself, such exorbitant prices will be demanded, that you will either come away without the article you need, or have the unpleasant reflection afterward that you have been cheated worse than if you had sent your servant and allowed him to levy his blackmail.
As I had anticipated, the rajah was not loath to show me his treasures. They were merely half a dozen glass rings, evidently made by cutting off a piece of a glass rod nine or ten inches long, and half an inch in diameter. This piece, having been heated, was bent into a ring and the two ends united by fusion. Instead of expressing surprise and delight, as all who were looking on seemed to expect, I coolly began explaining to the rajah what they were and how they were made. A look of surprise and incredulity appeared on the faces of all, and the rajah at once, in a most solemn manner, averred that so far from their being the work of man, they had been taken out of the heads of snakes and wild boars! Despite the dignified bearing the occasion was supposed to demand, I could not refrain from a smile as I remarked that I had seen many heads of those animals myself, but never before had I heard that they carried such circular jewels in their brains. “Have you ever seen one of these taken out yourself?” I asked. “Oh, no! They come from Tana Ceram (the land or continent of Ceram).” All who were listening, now fearing that their rajah might be worsted in the discussion, and being ready on every occasion to show that they were loyal subjects, abruptly ended the argument by the unqualified assertion that every thing was exactly as the rajah had said; and, as I was his guest, I changed the conversation to another topic. When I returned to the city of Amboina, I looked at once in the “Rariteit Kamer,” confident that Rumphius would explain this remarkable and, as I afterward found, common belief; for, though the rajah probably did not believe what he said, his credulous subjects doubtless never thought before of calling in question such a generally-accepted notion; such a query would, in their view, have indicated a weak instead of an inquiring mind. This is one of the obstacles in the way of advancement among these people. Rumphius says that many rings were brought by the Portuguese and sold to the natives, who prize them very highly. This accounted for their origin; and afterward, when I came to travel over the empire of China, and noticed how that people value similar rings of jade (nephrite), and remembered that the coast of Ceram, opposite Assilulu, was once frequented by the people of that empire, who came to purchase cloves and nutmegs, it occurred to me that possibly it was from them that the Amboinese had learned to place so high a value on such simple objects, and had obtained their first specimens. Java is perhaps the only island in the archipelago where such ornaments could have been made by the natives, but I do not find that they are especially prized there, or that they have been dug up with other relics of previous ages.
Off this coast lie three islands, the Three Brothers, and on their shores the natives found a number of rare shells. In the streets of the village considerable quantities of cloves that had been gathered on the neighboring hill-sides were exposed to the sun on mats between the frequent showers, but the culture of that spice has been so neglected of late years, that this was the only place where I saw the fruit in all the Moluccas. The clove-tree (Carophyllus aromaticus) belongs to the order of myrtles, which also includes the pomegranate, the guava, and the rose-apple. The trunk of the full-grown tree is from eight to twelve inches in diameter, and occasionally much more. Its topmost branches are usually forty or fifty feet from the ground, though I have seen a tree not larger than a cherry-tree fully loaded with fruit. It was originally confined to the five islands off the west coast of Gilolo, which then comprised the whole group known as “the Moluccas,” a name that has since been extended to Buru, Amboina, and the other islands off the south coast of Ceram, where the clove has been introduced and cultivated within a comparatively late period. On those five islands it begins to bear in its seventh or eighth year, and sometimes continues to yield until it has reached an age of nearly one hundred and fifty years; the trees, therefore, are of very different sizes. Here at Amboina it is not expected to bear fruit before its twelfth or fifteenth year, and to cease yielding when it is seventy-five years old. Its limited distribution has always attracted attention, and Rumphius, who describes it as “the most beautiful, the most elegant, and the most precious of all known trees,” remarks: “Hence it appears that the Great Disposer of things in His wisdom, allotting His gifts to the several regions of the world, placed cloves in the kingdom of the Moluccas, beyond which, by no human industry, can they be propagated or perfectly cultivated.” In the last observation, however, he was mistaken, for since his time it has been successfully introduced into the island of Penang, in the Strait of Malacca, and Sumatra, Bourbon, Zanzibar, and the coast of Guiana and the West India Islands. The clove is the flower-bud, and grows in clusters at the ends of the twigs. The annual yield of a good tree is about four pounds and a half, and the yearly crop on Amboina, Haruku, Saparua, and Nusalaut, the only islands where the tree is now cultivated, is 350,000 Amsterdam pounds.[29] It is, however, extremely variable and uncertain—for example, in 1846 it was 869,727 Amsterdam pounds, but in 1849 it was only 89,923, or little more than one-tenth of what it was three years before. Pigafetta informs us that, when the Spanish first came to the Moluccas, there were no restrictions on the culture or sale of the clove. The annual crop at that time, 1521, according to the same authority, reached the enormous quantity of 6,000 bahars, 3,540,000 pounds of “uncleaned,” and 4,000 bahars, 2,360,000 pounds of “cleaned” cloves, about seventeen times the quantity obtained at the present time. Though this statement at first appears incredible, it is strengthened by the fact that the two ships of Magellan’s fleet that reached Tidore, one of the Spice Islands, were filled with cloves during a stay of only twenty-four days. When the buds are young they are nearly white, afterward they change to a light green, and finally to a bright red, when they must at once be gathered, which is done by picking them by hand, or beating them off with bamboos on to cloths spread beneath the trees. They are then simply dried in the sun, and are ready for the market. In drying, their color is changed from red to black, the condition in which we see them. They are gathered twice a year, at about this time, in June, and again in the last of December. The leaves, bark, and young twigs also have some peculiar aroma, and at Zanzibar the stems of the buds are also gathered and find a ready sale. The favorite locations of this tree are the high hill-sides, and it is said that it does not thrive well on low lands, where the loam is fine and heavy. The soil best adapted to it appears to be a loose, sandy loam. In its original habitat it grows chiefly on volcanic soil, but in Amboina and the other islands, where it is now cultivated, it has been found to flourish well on loams formed by the disintegration of recent sandstone and secondary rocks. The native name for this fruit is chenki, perhaps a corruption of the Chinese tkeng-ki, “odoriferous nails.”[30] The Dutch name for clove is kruid-nagel, “herb-nail,” and for the trees nagelen-boomen, “nail-trees.” Our own name clove comes from the Spanish clavo (Latin clavus), a nail, which has also been given them on account of the similarity of these buds to nails.
Although cloves form a favorite condiment among all nations, the natives of these islands where they grow never eat them in any form, and we have no reason to suppose they ever did. The only purpose for which the Amboinese use them, so far as I am aware, is to prepare neat models of their praus and bamboo huts, by running small wire through the buds before they are dried. The Dutch purchase and send to Europe so many of these models, that almost every ethnological museum contains some specimens of this skilful workmanship. The clove probably came into use originally by accident, and I believe the first people who fancied its rich aroma, and warm, pungent taste, were the Chinese. The similarity of the native name to that of the Chinese, and its marked difference, according to De Cauto, from that of the Brahmins or Hindus, lends probability to this view. When the Portuguese first came to these islands, the Chinese, Arabs, Malays, Javanese, and Macassars, were all found here trading in this article. Of the two former nations, the Chinese were probably the first to reach this region, though the Arabs sailed up the China Sea and carried on a large trade with the Chinese at Canpu, a port in Hangchau Bay, south of the present city of Shanghai, in the thirteenth century, or fully two hundred years before the Portuguese and Spaniards arrived in these seas.
The first notice of cloves in Europe occurs in a law passed during the reign of Aurelian the First, between A. D. 175 and 180, where they are mentioned as forming an article of commerce from India to Alexandria; for the Isthmus of Suez and the Red Sea formed at that time the chief highway of Eastern trade. From these islands the cloves were first taken by the Malays and Javanese to the peninsula of Malacca, where they passed into the hands of the Telingas or Klings, who carried them to Calicut, the old Capital of Malabar. Thence they were transported to the western shores of India and shipped across the Arabian Sea, and up the Gulf of Aden and the Red Sea to Cairo. These frequent transfers so increased the original price, that in England, before the discovery of the Cape of Good Hope, thirty shillings were paid for them per pound, or one hundred and sixty-eight pounds sterling per hundred-weight, which was three hundred and sixty times their original price. It was to make this immense profit that the Portuguese, the Spaniards, the Dutch, and the English, were all so anxious to find a passage to the East by sea, and why, when these islands had been discovered, each strove to monopolize the trade itself, and all carried on such a persistent and piratical warfare for many years. So long as cloves were not cultivated elsewhere, and there was no competition in the European markets, the Dutch Government made a handsome profit by means of its monopoly; but when they were raised in other places, the consumption of such a luxury not increasing with the supply, the previous high price began at once to decline, and for many years the income of the government in these islands has not been equal to its expenses in the same region. Some have supposed that a further reduction in the price would be followed with a corresponding greater demand, until its consumption would become as general and as large as that of pepper; but this view is opposed by the common decision of mankind—that pepper is a necessary article of food, and that the clove is only a luxury. If no attempt had been made to keep up the price of this commodity to such a high figure in the European markets, there would have been a less incentive to other nations to introduce it into their own colonies, and thus the market would not have been overstocked so soon, and the price would not have fallen so low as to make the Spice Islands a source of loss instead of profit, except within a recent date.
All the rajahs I met were strict Mohammedans, and, improving the privileges of their sect, had more than one wife. Soon after arriving at each rajah’s house, I was invariably asked whether or not I was married, and for a long time I could not imagine why I was so closely quizzed, until the proverbial jealousy of these people occurred to me. Each wished to know how strict a watch he was to keep over his fascinating harem; and as I was obliged to answer all such queries in the negative, I never even saw one of their wives. At meals only the rajah and myself sat at the table; and as I had two servants, and each of these princes nearly a score, we were always well served, considering our fare. Two articles never failed to appear—chickens and rice—and to these fish was usually added; and for luncheon and dessert always the richest bananas. One kind, the pisang Ambon, or “Amboina banana,” is very common in that region, but the one I soon learned to prefer, and the one that my servants were always ordered to procure if possible, wherever we chanced to halt, was the pisang mas, or “golden banana,” a small variety, with a peculiarly rich, honey-like flavor, and a bright golden skin when it is fully ripe. This rajah, I noticed, was particular to seat me at the table so that I could only look out at the front door. The first query he proposed at dinner was, how we are accustomed to eat in our land, adding that, after all, no style suited him so well as dispensing with knives and forks altogether, and adopting the simpler and more natural mode of using one’s fingers—a style so common, that each rajah usually keeps a supply of finger-bowls, and frequently these are worth more than all the crockery and other glassware on the table beside. While I was most zealously explaining in reply the superiority of our custom, there arose a suppressed giggle behind me; the secret was out—the rajah’s wives had been allowed to leave their close prison and look at me, while I was so placed that I could not, without the greatest rudeness, turn round so as to steal a glance at them. But as this noise was evidently not a part of the proposed programme, I repressed my curiosity, and continued my description. One topic especially they never seemed weary of hearing about, and that was my experience as a soldier. There was something strangely fascinating to their rude imaginations in the scenes of blood through which I have had to pass. At first I had some difficulty in translating my stories into good Malay, but one of my servants fortunately spoke a little Dutch, and supplied me with a word or sentence, as the case demanded.
From Assilulu I set off, during a heavy rain-storm, over a neighboring mountain for the southwest shore, and after a long walk over the rocks, sand, and shingle, we reached Lariki, where there was once a fort with a garrison, but now the ruins of the fort, and a few old, rusty guns are all that remain; and the only official stationed there is an opziener or “overseer.” In two days, at that place, I so increased my collection, that I had to hire eight coolies to transport it, each carrying two baskets—one on either end of a pole about four feet long. The baskets are made of an open framework of bamboo, covered inside with palm-leaves, and are therefore very light and durable. The most common shell there is the little cypræa caput-serpentis, or “serpent’s-head cowry,” which has a close resemblance, both in form and color, to the head of a snake.
From Lariki the opziener accompanied me to the neighboring kampong of Wakasihu. Our narrow footpath wound along the side of a rugged, projecting crag, and the view from the outer point was very imposing. The stormy monsoon was at its height. The heavy swell rolling in from the open ocean broke and flung its white spray and clotted foam far and wide over the black rocks left bare by the ebbing tide. Thick clouds, heavily freighted with rain, were driven by the strong wind against the rugged coast and adjoining mountains. The cocoa-nut palms that grew just above high-water level, and leaned over toward the sea, twisted and shook their plumy crests in a continual strife with the angry storm, and above them the branches of great evergreens moaned and piped as they lashed to and fro in the fitful gusts of the tempests.
At Wakasihu the old white-bearded rajah, hearing of our approach, came out to welcome us. The opziener explained to him the object of my coming, and immediately he ordered a large tifa, that hung under an adjoining shed, to be beaten, as a warning to his people that their rajah required them all to assemble at once before his house. The news quickly spread that a foreigner had come to purchase shells, and the old men, young men, women, and children all came with the treasures that had been accumulating for months, and even years, in their miserable dwellings. Here many perfect specimens of the richly-colored Cassis flammea appeared, and also that strangely-marked shell, the Cypræa mappa, or “map cowry,” so named from the irregular light-colored line over its back where the two edges of the mantle meet when the animal is fully expanded. They had crawled into the bubus that had been sunk for fish at a depth of several fathoms.
The trading was carried on only in Malay, but when I offered a price, which was higher or lower than they had expected, they frequently consulted with each other in their own peculiar dialect or bahasa. This the opziener, who was a native of the city of Amboina, was as totally unable to understand as I. He also assured me that even the natives at Lariki, from which we had walked in half an hour, could only understand an occasional word of the bahasa of this village, and that the people of neither village could understand a word of the bahasa of Assilulu, two or three hours’ walk beyond Lariki. In fact, as a rule, every community that is under one rajah, and this is generally but one village, has its own peculiar dialect, which is so different from the dialects of every adjoining village, that all are obliged to learn Malay in order to carry on any trade or hold any communication with their nearest neighbors. The bahasa is never a written language, and appears to be constantly changing, for, at the city of Amboina, the natives have completely lost their dialect since the foreigners settled among them, and now can only speak with each other in Malay. The great diversity in the native dialects, and the general adoption of Malay, existed at least as early as when the Spaniards first navigated these waters, for De Barros says: “Two facts give reason to believe that the inhabitants of these islands consist of various and diverse nations. The first is the inconstancy, hatred, and suspicion with which they watch each other; and the second, the great variety of their languages; for it is not the same with them and the Bisayans (the inhabitants of Bisaya, one of the Philippines), where one language prevails with all. The variety, on the contrary, is so great that no two places understand each other’s tongue. Even the pronunciation differs widely, for some form their words in the throat, others at the point of the tongue, others between the teeth, and others in the palate. If there be any tongue through which they can understand each other, it is the Malay of Malacca, to which the nobles” (rajahs and capalas) “have lately addicted themselves since the Moors” (Arabs) “have resorted to them for the clove.” The Malays and Javanese probably visited these regions long before the Arabs; and they, and not the Arabs, were the people who first taught these natives the Malay language.