Blown to Bits: The Lonely Man of Rakata, the Malay Archipelago

by R. M. Ballantyne

“Evidently Rakata is not yet active,” said Nigel, looking up at the grey dust-covered crags as the canoe glided swiftly through the dark water.

“That is more than can be said for the other craters,” returned the hermit. “It seems to me that not only all the old ones are at work, but a number of new ones must have been opened.”

The constant roaring and explosions that filled their ears and the rain of fine ashes bore testimony to the truth of this, though the solid and towering mass of Rakata rose between them and the part of Krakatoa which was in eruption, preventing their seeing anything that was passing except the dense masses of smoke, steam, and dust which rose many miles into the heavens, obstructing the light of day, but forming cloud-masses from which the lurid flames of the volcano were reflected downward.

On reaching the little bay or harbour it was found much as they had left it, save that the rocks and bushes around were thickly covered with dust, and their boat was gone.

“Strange! at such a time one would scarcely have expected thieves to come here,” said the hermit, looking slowly round.

“No t’ief bin here, massa,” said Moses, looking over the side of the canoe. “I see de boat!”

He pointed downwards as he spoke, and on looking over the side they saw the wreck of the boat at the bottom, in about ten feet of water, and crushed beneath a ponderous mass of lava, which must have been ejected from the volcano and afterwards descended upon the boat.

The destruction of the boat rendered it impossible to remove any of the property of the hermit, and Nigel now saw, from his indifference, that this could not have been the cause of his friend’s anxiety and determination to reach his island-home in spite of the danger that such a course entailed. That there was considerable danger soon became very obvious, for, having passed to some extent at this point beyond the shelter of the cliffs of Rakata, and come partly into view of the other parts of the island, the real extent of the volcanic violence burst upon Nigel and Moses as a new revelation. The awful sublimity of the scene at first almost paralysed them, and they failed to note that not only did a constant rain of pumice-dust fall upon them, but that there was also a pretty regular dropping of small stones into the water around them. Their attention was sharply aroused to this fact by the fall of a lump of semi-molten rock, about the size of a cannon-shot, a short distance off, which was immediately followed by not less than a cubic yard of lava which fell close to the canoe and deluged them with spray.

“We must go,” said the hermit quietly. “No need to expose ourselves here, though the watching of the tremendous forces that our Creator has at command does possess a wonderful kind of fascination. It seems to me the more we see of His power as exerted on our little earth, the more do we realise the paltriness of our conception of the stupendous Might that upholds the Universe.”

While he was speaking, Van der Kemp guided the canoe into its little haven, and in a few minutes he and Moses had carried it into the shelter of the cave out of which Nigel had first seen it emerge. Then the lading was carried up, after which they turned into the track which led to the hermit’s home.