When daylight came we found the river again within a few hundred yards of our resting place. A good hour afterward we stumbled, more asleep than awake, into a village on the northern bank of a large tributary of the Menam. It was Klong Sua Mak, the home of the lumberman’s subagent; but our letter of introduction served us no purpose, for we could not find the addressee. It did not matter much. The place had so far advanced in civilization as to possess a shop where food was sold. In it we made up for our fast of the night before.
The meal was barely over when we were again in the midst of a village riot. It was all the fault of the natives. We offered them money to row us across the tributary, but they turned scornfully away. When we stepped into one of the dug-outs drawn up on the bank, they charged down upon us, waving their dahs. It was no such burlesque of a fight as that of the day before. But for a pike pole in the boat we might not have continued our wanderings beyond Klong Sua Mak. At the crisis of the conflict a howling fellow, swinging a great knife, bounded suddenly into the craft. James caught him by an arm and a leg. A glistening brown body flashed high in the air; there sounded one long-drawn shriek; and the bold patriot sank in the murky water some distance behind us. When he came again to the surface, unarmed, we had pushed off from the shore.
“Damn niggers!” growled the Australian, catching up a paddle. “Serve ’em right if we kept their bloody old hollow log and went down to Bangkok in her. What say we do?” he cried, “My feet are nothing but two blisters.”
For answer I swung the craft half round and we glided out into the Menam. A boat load of natives put out behind us, but instead of following in our wake they paddled across the river and down the opposite bank. We stretched out in the bottom of the dug-out and, drifting with the current, let them outstrip us. Far down the stream they turned in at a grove above which rose a white building. I dozed a moment and then sat up suddenly with a shout. The boat load had pushed off again, and behind them came a second canoe bearing six khaki-clad soldiers, armed with muskets. The white building was a military post, and a part of the redoubtable Siamese army was on our trail.
“Swing her ashore,” cried James, grasping his paddle. “No naval battles in mine.”
The dug-out grounded on the sloping bank. Between the jungle and the water’s edge was a narrow open space. Adjusting our “swag,” we set off down the bank at any easy pace. The “wild men” beached their boats near the abandoned dug-out and dashed after us, shouting angrily. A few paces away the soldiers drew up a line and leveled five muskets at us. The sergeant shouted an order commandingly. An icy chill ran up and down my spinal column, but we marched on with even stride. Knowing what we did of the Siamese soldier, we were convinced that the little brown fellows would not dare shoot down a white man in cold blood. Nor was our judgment at fault. When we had advanced a few yards the squad ran after us and drew up once more in firing line. The sergeant bellowed in stentorian tones; but the guns hung fire.
Seven times this manœuvre was repeated. We were already a half-mile from the landing place. Suddenly, a villager snatched a musket from a soldier and, running close up on our heels, took deliberate aim. His appearance stamped him as the bold, bad man of that region. My flesh crawled in anticipation of the sting of a bullet. I caught myself wondering in what part of my body it would be lodged. But the fellow vented his anger in shrieking and aiming; he dared not pull the trigger.
Bangkok is a city of many canals
Finding us indifferent to all threats, the sergeant changed his tactics. The scene became ludicrous. One by one the barefooted troopers slipped up behind us and snatched at our packs and jackets. When we turned on them they fell back wild eyed. Their persistence grew annoying.