From Egypt to Japan

by Henry M. Field

But our conversation was not limited to this harrowing topic, but ranged over many features of Sumatra—its scenery and climate, soil and vegetation. It is indeed a magnificent island. Over a thousand miles long, and with more square miles than Great Britain and Ireland together, it is large enough for a kingdom. In some parts the scenery is as grand as that of Switzerland. Along the western coast is a range of mountains like the Alps (some peaks are 15,000 feet high), among which is set many an Alpine valley, with its glistening lake. That coast is indented with bays, on one of which is the Dutch capital, Padang. East of the mountains the island spreads out into vast plains, watered by noble rivers. The soil is very rich, yielding all the fruits of the tropics in great abundance. The tobacco especially is of a much finer quality than that of Java, and brings twice as much in the market. This fertility will attract population both from Asia and from Europe, and under a good government this island may yet be the seat of an empire worthy of its greatness.

But just now the Dutch have a task to bring it into subjection. They have an enemy in the North harder to subdue than tigers and wild elephants. These are the terrible Malays, against whom has been kept up for years the war in Acheen—a war waged with such deadly and unrelenting hate and fury, that it has taken on a character of ferocity. Of the right or wrong of this savage contest, I cannot judge, for I hear only one side of the story. I am told that the Malays are a race of pirates, with whom it is impossible to live in good neighborhood, and that there can be no peace till they are subdued. At the same time, one cannot refuse a degree of sympathy even to savages who defend their own country, and who fight with such conspicuous bravery. To this all the Dutch officers bore testimony, saying that they fought "like devils." The Malays are very much like our American Indians, both in features and in character—a proud, high-spirited race, capable of any act of courage or devotion, but full of that hot blood that resents an insult. "If you have a Malay servant," I heard often in the East, "you may scold him or send him away, but never strike him, for that is an indignity which he feels more than a wound; which he never forgets or forgives; but which, if he has an opportunity, he will avenge with blood." Such a people, when they come into battle, sacrifice their lives without a moment's hesitation. They have a great advantage, as they are in their own territory, and can choose their own time and place of attack, or keep out of the way, leaving the enemy to be worn out by the hot climate and by disease. Of course if the Dutch could once bring them within range of their guns, or entice them into a pitched battle, European skill and discipline would be victorious. But the Malays are too wary and active; they hide in the fastnesses of the hills, and start up here and there in unexpected quarters, and after a sudden dash, fly to the mountains. They have a powerful ally in the pestilential climate, which brings on those deadly fevers that kill more than perish in battle. Such a war may drag on for years, during which the Dutch territory will not extend much beyond the places occupied by troops, or the ports defended by the guns of the fleet. If the Dutch hold on with their proverbial tenacity, they may conquer in the end, though at an immense cost in treasure and in life. If the Malays are once subdued, and by a wise and lenient policy converted to some degree of loyalty, they may prove, like the Sikhs in India, the brave defenders of the power against which they fought so well.

With such conversation to lighten the hours, they did not seem long, as we were running through the Java Sea. On the third day from Singapore, we came among the Thousand Islands, and in the afternoon descried on the horizon the mountains of Java, and just at sunset were in the roads of Batavia. There is no harbor, but an open roadstead; and here a whole fleet of ships were riding at anchor—ships of war and merchant ships from all parts of the world. It was two or three miles from the quay, but as the evening drew on, we could see lights along the shore; and at eight o'clock, just as the gun was fired from the flagship of the Dutch Admiral, we put off in a native boat, manned by a Malay crew. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and we seemed to be floating in a dream, as our swarthy boatmen bent to their oars, and we glided silently over a tropical sea to this unknown shore.

At the Custom House a dark-skinned official, whose buttons gave him a military air, received us with dignity, and demanded if we had "pistolets," and being satisfied that we were not attempting an armed invasion of the island, gave but a glance at our trunks, and politely bowed us to a carriage that was standing outside the gates, and away we rattled through the streets of Batavia to the Hotel Nederland.

The next morning at an early hour we were riding about to "take our bearings" and adjust ourselves to the situation. If we had not known where we were, but only that we were in some distant part of the world, we could soon guess that we were in a Dutch rather than in an English colony. Here were the inevitable canals which the Dutch carry with them to all parts of the earth. The city is intersected by these watery streets, and the boats in them might be lying at the quays of Rotterdam or Amsterdam. The city reminds us a good deal of the Hague, in its broad streets lined with trees, and its houses, which have a substantial Dutch look, as if they were built for comfort and not for show. They are low and large, spreading out over a great deal of surface, but not towering ambitiously upwards. A pretty sight it was to see these fine old mansions, standing back from the street, with ample space around them, embowered in trees and shrubbery, with lawns and gardens kept in perfect order; and with all the doors and windows wide open, through which we could see the breakfast tables spread, as if to invite even strangers, such as we were, to enter and share their hospitality. Before we left Java, we were guests in one of these mansions, and found that Dutch hospitality was not merely in name.

Among the ornaments of the city are two large and handsome public squares—the King's Plain and Waterloo Plain. The latter name reminds us that the Dutch had a part in the battle of Waterloo. With pardonable pride they are persuaded that the contingent which they contributed to the army of Wellington had no small part in deciding the issue of that terrible day, and they thus commemorate their victory. This plain is used as a parade-ground, and the Dutch cavalry charge over it with ardor, inspired by such heroic memories.

It may surprise some of my readers accustomed to our new American cities, to learn how old is Batavia. About the time that the Pilgrim Fathers sailed from Holland, another expedition from the same country carried the Dutch flag to the other side of the world, and Batavia was settled the year before the landing on Plymouth Rock. Of course it was a very small beginning of their power in the East, but slowly the petty trading settlement grew into a colony, and its territory was extended by degrees till, more than a hundred years after, it took in the whole island. In the old palace on Waterloo Plain, now used as a museum, are the portraits of Dutch governors who have ruled here for two hundred and fifty years.

But the capital of Java—at least the residence of the Governor-General—is not at Batavia, but at Buitenzorg, nearly forty miles in the interior, to which one can go by railroad in two hours. As we took our seats in the carriage we had the good fortune to meet Mr. Fraser, an English merchant, who has lived many years in Java, and is well known and highly respected throughout the island, who gave us information of the country over which we were passing. The plains near the sea had at this time an appearance of great beauty. They were laid out in rice fields which have a more vivid color than fields of grain, and now shone with an emerald green. It was the time of the gathering of the harvest, and the fields were filled with reapers, men and women, young men and maidens. But one hears not the click of the reaper. I am told that the attempt to introduce a mowing machine or a patent reaper would make a revolution in the island. All the rice of Java is cut by hand, and not even with the sickle, which is an instrument much too coarse for this dainty work, but with a knife three or four inches long, so that the spears are clipped as with a pair of scissors. Taking a few blades gently, they cut them off, and when they have a handful bind it in a tiny sheaf about as large as a bunch of asparagus. When they have cut and bound up five, one is laid aside for the landlord and four go to the cultivators.

This slow progress might make a young American farmer very impatient. Perhaps not, if he knew all the charms of the rice field, which might make a country swain quite willing to linger. Mr. Fraser explained that this season was the time, and the rice field the scene, of the matrimonial engagements made during the year! Ah, now it is all explained. Who can wonder that the gentle reapers linger over the rice blades while they are proposing or answering questions on which their whole life may depend? No doubt in merry England it has often happened that hay-making and love-making have gone on in the fields together. And we cannot wonder that such rural arts should be known in a land warmed by a tropical sun.

But the food of the natives is not found in the rice fields alone; it is brought down from the top of the cocoanut palm, and drawn up from the bottom of caves of the earth. "Do you see yonder small mountain?" said Mr. F. "That is a famous hunting-ground for the edible birds' nests, which are esteemed such a delicacy by the Chinese. The birds are swallows and build their nests in caves, into which the hunters are let down by long bamboo ropes, and drawn up laden with spoil. So great has been the yield, and so highly prized, that the product of that hill exported to China in one year returned a profit of £4,000. Of late this has been much reduced, owing to the diminished production, or that the Chinese are not ready to pay so much for such dainty luxuries."