Four miles beyond, after they had rounded a green point of land, a feathery cocoanut-grove ran to the water’s-edge, and they could go no farther. The mate left two men to guard the boat, and the three others went with him; but they were too weak to climb the trees, and had to hack away at the trunks with an ax. Two of them were mere lads who made such bungling work of it that Woodard sent for a couple of the stronger men in the boat, leaving Archibald Miller alone with it. They were busy gathering cocoanuts to carry to sea with them when poor Miller was heard to “scream aloud in the bitterest manner.” The mate ran to the beach and saw his precious boat filled with Malays, who were just shoving off in it. On the sand lay Miller, who had been hacked to death with creeses.
David Woodard and four sailors were therefore marooned with no resources whatever, but they talked it over and agreed to try to get to Macassar by land. Leaving the swampy coast, they slowly toiled toward the blue mountains and, afraid of discovery, concluded to hide themselves in the jungle until night. Then with a star for their guide they bore south, but progress was almost impossible, and they lost their bearings in the dense growth. After blundering about in this manner for several nights, they turned toward the sea again in the hope of finding some kind of native boat. They had existed for thirteen days since losing their ship, and it is evident that the indomitable spirit of the mate kept the other men going.
“Woodard was himself stout in person,” explains the narrative, “and much accustomed to fatigue and exercise, whence he felt less exhausted, particularly from keeping up his spirits and having his mind constantly engaged.”
At length they came to a deep bay between the mountains, and lay hidden all day in a leafy ambush while they watched the Malay fishermen in their canoes. Three of the sailors were taken desperately ill after eating some yellow berries and thought they were about to die; but the mate could not tolerate this kind of behavior, “although his comrades now resembled corpses more than living men.” He used rough language, damned them as worthless swabs if a stomach-ache was to make them lie down and quit, and then went in search of water for them until he found some in a hollow tree. But his strength and courage could haul them along no farther and reluctantly he admitted that they would have to surrender themselves to the natives.
WOODARD RAISED HIS EMPTY HANDS TO ASK FOR PEACE AND MERCY
They went down to the beach of the bay, wondering what their fate might be, John Cole, who was a stripling lad of seventeen, blubbering that he would sooner die in the woods than be killed by the Malays. The canoes had gone away, but three brown-skinned girls were fishing in a brook, and they fled when they saw the tattered castaways. Presently a group of men came down a forest path, and Woodard walked forward to meet them, raising his empty hands to ask for peace and mercy.
The Malays stood silent for a long time, and then the chief advanced to lay down his creese and ceremoniously accept the strangers as captives. They were given food and conducted to a little town of bamboo huts, there to await the pleasure of the rajah in what Woodard called the judgment hall, while all the villagers gathered about them.
Soon the rajah strode in, tall and straight and warlike, a long, naked creese in his hand. These were the first white men that had ever been seen in his wild domain. He gazed admiringly at the stalwart chief mate, who looked him straight in the eyes, while the people murmured approval of the captive’s bearing, for “he was six feet and an inch high, strong in proportion, and the largest-boned person they had ever beheld.”
These were two bold, upstanding men who stood face to face in the judgment hall, and the rajah, after consultation with his chiefs, gave each of the five American sailors a betel-nut to chew as a token of his gracious inclination to spare their lives.