The St. Albans firm took note of this. The home of the new Cypriped was admitted. Sumatra yields a profitable harvest always, even of familiar species, and besides, there is an excellent chance—vastly stronger fifteen years ago—of finding novelties. An intelligent man upon the spot should be able to trace the route of an earlier traveller. One of the St. Albans staff was disengaged. In short, Mr. Ericsson, a Swedish collector of great experience, was commissioned to seek Cypripedium Curtisii. He sailed in 1884. Nearly five years did Ericsson wander up and down the island—that is, in the Dutch territory. Working at leisure from Bencoolin northwards, he searched the range of mountains which bounds it on the east, and often descended the further slope—visiting peoples scarcely known, whom the Dutch had not yet invaded. They proved to be amiable enough. Many fine orchids did he send home, and the issue of the search was patiently awaited at St. Albans.
It did not seem more hopeful as years went by. Mr. Curtis’s footsteps were traced easily enough here and there; but the Dutch frontier officials rarely speak any language but their own and the Malay, nor does their discourse generally turn upon orchids when they have a visitor. It was just as likely as not that Ericsson had already traversed the district he sought, without identifying it. Cypripeds, as a rule, occupy a very narrow area, especially the fine species. They are a doomed race, belonging to the elder world, and slowly following its inhabitants to extinction. That fascinating theme I must not touch; readers interested may refer to Darwin. The point is that a collector may skirt a field of Cypripeds very closely without suspecting his good fortune.
But travel in Sumatra at that time was more limited than it had been—more than it is now. The Achinese still held out—for that matter, while I am writing, comes news of a skirmish wherein three officers and nineteen soldiers lost their lives. Ten years ago that stubborn and fearless people not only defended their own soil but also made forays into the Dutch territory. Desperate patriots allied themselves with the Battas, a cannibal race dwelling between their country and the province of Tapanuli; and hatred to the white man—or rather to the Dutch—carried the Achinese so far, though strict Moslems, that they tempted these savages to move by a promise of surrendering all captives—to be devoured. Thus the northern parts of Dutch Sumatra were very unsafe. When Ericsson desired to explore there he was refused permission. At Padang, the capital, however, in 1887, he made acquaintance with the Controleur—Magistrate, as we should say—of Lubu Sikeping, a district which lies along the Batta country. This gentleman spoke Swedish—an accomplishment grateful beyond expression to Ericsson, who had not heard his native tongue for years. Promptly they made friends.
The Controleur had been summoned to report upon the state of things in his Residency. He presented a long list of outrages and murders. Scores, if not hundreds, of peaceful subjects had been not only plundered and killed, but eaten, on Dutch soil, in the last few months. He represented that active measures must be taken forthwith. The Battas, inhabiting a high tableland beyond the mountains, crept through the defile, ravaged, burnt, massacred, and trooped back, carrying their prisoners away for leisurely consumption. Before news of the inroad reached the nearest outpost they were half-way home. Smaller parties lay in wait along the roads, stopping all communication. They had not yet ventured to assail a post, or even a large village, but the Achin desperadoes urged them to bolder feats, and they grew continually more aggressive. An expedition must be sent. It need not be large, for the cannibals are not fighting men. The Governor was persuaded. He ordered a small force to be equipped, and meantime the Controleur returned to his station.
It was a rare opportunity for Ericsson. He begged permission to accompany his new friend, who good-naturedly presented him to the Governor. An historian may be allowed to say that the hero of this narrative is fat, and there is no offence in supposing that the most exalted functionary has a sense of humour. His Excellency appears to have been tickled. The cannibals would rage with disappointment in beholding this succulent mortal—beyond their reach. He laughed and consented. I have no details of the expedition striking enough to be set down in a brief chronicle like this. It was a slow and toilsome march through jungle and mountain passes, the Barizan range, where a score of determined men might have stopped an army. The Achinese proved that; they held the force at bay for hours in a gorge, though less than a score. But the Battas would not fight even when their capital was reached, on Lake Toba. The Rajahs submitted, paid an indemnity, gave hostages, yielded up the surviving victims, and undertook to have no more dealings with the Achinese. So the matter ended. Ericsson found some new plants in their country, and many old well worth collecting. Doubtless the results would have been far more important could he have wandered freely. But those demons of Achin hung upon the line of march, joyously sacrificing their own lives to kill a Dutchman. If his personal adventures were not so curious, however—perhaps I should rather say so dramatic—that I could single out one of them, Ericsson gained much information about an extraordinary people. I can only set down a few facts.
He says that the Battas themselves do not regard their cannibalism as an immemorial practice. They have a story, not worth repeating, to account for it. But I may observe that if Marco Polo’s ‘kingdom of Mangi, called Concha,’ lay in those parts, as geographers believe, some race of the neighbourhood was cannibal in the thirteenth century. ‘They commonly eat men’s flesh, if the person die not of sickness, as better tasted than others.’ That is the motive still—the only one adduced—mere liking. Elsewhere the practice may be due to superstition in one form or another; among the Battas it is simply gourmandise. The head Rajah questioned gave a matter-of-fact answer. ‘You Dutch eat pig,’ said he, ‘because you like it; we eat man because that is our fancy.’ To be devoured alive is the punishment of four offences among themselves—adultery, robbery after nightfall, unprovoked assault, and marrying within the clan; the last an interesting item of which Sir John Lubbock should certainly take note for his next edition of The Origin of Civilisation. The instinct of ‘exogamy’ has no such striking illustration elsewhere. As for foreigners and strangers there is no rule; they are devoured at sight. And it may well be believed that people so fond of eating one another do not demand unquestionable evidence when a man of low station is charged with one of the four crimes which may give them a meal. I must not repeat the horrors which Ericsson learned. Suffice it that the victim is tied up, and those present exercise their choice of morsels. At a former time, they say, not long ago, the flesh was cooked—a statement which confirms the theory, so far as it goes, of a recent introduction. At this present they dip the slice in salt and pepper and eat it on the spot.
A good many missionaries, English, Dutch, French, and American, have not only settled on the confines of the Batta territory, but have travelled in the interior. The earliest of these, Messrs. Ward and Burton, found the people kindly, which again must be noted as suggesting that they were not so ferocious in 1820. The second party, Messrs. Lyman and Munson, of Massachusetts, were eaten. Mdme. Pfeiffer nearly crossed the tableland unmolested, though the savages were not friendly; but, as she says, they regarded her as a witch. Encouraged by this example, three French priests made an attempt two years later; they were promptly devoured. Two Dutchmen shared their fate not long afterwards, and the Government forbade more experiments.
I have no room for detail, but one very curious point must be indicated. These cannibals unredeemed possess an alphabet of their own, bearing no resemblance to the Malay, which latter is a corrupt amalgamation of Arabian, Persian, and Tamil. The Batta characters are original. They write commonly on strips of bamboo, scratching the letters.
On the return of the expedition, a party of invalids was despatched to the local sanitarium on Selimbang Hill, and Ericsson obtained leave to accompany it. There was no danger now. A few huts had been built there for troops, and a bungalow for officers—who made him welcome, of course. They arrived at dusk. The officers went out early next morning to their duties, and Ericsson lay waiting for his coffee. The rough timbers of the bungalow were concealed by boards, smooth and neat. Invalids quartered there had amused themselves by scribbling their names. Some, more ambitious, added verses, epigrams, and caricatures; others, drawings and even paintings. From his bed-place Ericsson scrutinised these artless memorials in the early light. Presently he observed a flower—a Cypripedium; the shape could not be mistaken. It was coloured, but dimly—the tints had soaked into the wood. With professional interest his eye lingered on this sketch. And then the first sun-ray streamed across the verandah and fell upon the very spot. Its faded colours shone brightly for a moment, green, white margin, vinous purple—Ericsson sprang out of bed.
No room for doubt! To make assurance doubly sure there was an inscription—‘C. C.’s contribution to the adornment of this room.’