As we clamber up over the schooner’s low rail we scan the deck. Up forward are our five ex-convicts. Their brief sojourn in the hoosgow has quieted them down a bit and they are not particularly effusive in their greetings. In fact, they don’t even notice us, but sit huddled together just back of the anchor winch with dirty bark-cloth blankets thrown over their heads. We go forward to look them over and they return our gaze with a half-conciliatory, half-annoyed expression that makes us grin.
Our grin seems to be taken as an assurance of good-will, for they in turn smile slightly and one of the women bursts out in a hearty laugh. From that moment we “belong.” Ula seems anxious to get under way and comes stumbling forward with two of the crew. Most of our barang is still on deck, awaiting our orders concerning its disposal, and over this the trio have some difficulty in making their way. The dinghy further complicates matters, for it has been hoisted and deposited edge up beside the rail. One of the crew jumps upon it, as the easiest way, and runs over it, balancing like a tight-rope walker on the narrow rolling edge of the thing as though it were a solid sidewalk. His pride takes a fall, however, for as he jumps from it he finds insecure footing where the water from the dinghy has made the deck slippery and falls flat, to the huge delight of our friends the criminals.
The boys hoist the sail on the foremast and the Nautilus swings around to break out the anchor. This done, Ula snaps a sharp command in Malay to the boys in the bow, who seize the rusty handles of the winch and slowly bring the old mud-hook to the surface. How they accomplish this is a mystery, for at every turn one of the handles of the winch slips on the shaft, while Ula tries to tighten it with wedges of wood driven into the handle socket.
Our Kia Kia friends are very much interested in the proceedings and gather closely around. This gets on Ula’s nerves to such an extent that he unceremoniously kicks the men out of the way, which they do not seem to resent particularly; they sit down again out of harm’s way, but keep up a lively flow of comment. Ula is much disgusted with them and the glances he gives them make us wonder if they are going to enjoy their trip home.
The town is fast dropping into the hazy distance, and save for the chatter of the crew and the natives, and now and then the thumping splash of a husky comber against the bow, all is silent. Moh places our dunnage below in the tiny saloon. He carries the groceries down last, for he will have to cook all of our meals there. The crew cook theirs over a sort of fireplace built right on deck, just aft of the foremast. After inspecting the saloon, which contains two sleeping-bunks, we decide to sleep on deck. The atmosphere of the saloon is hard to describe. It is hot and stuffy and a strong smell of bilge-water comes from beneath the floor. No, it isn’t possible to sleep there. Moh grins when we tell him to place our cots on deck.
We clear the mouth of the river and swing outward on a long tack, for the wind is coming dead against us. This will make the up-coast trip slow, but what care we? We have plenty of time and then we may always console ourselves with the thought, “Well, maybe something will happen.” As we swerve into the trough of the sea the Nautilus begins to roll and a groan comes from the Kia Kias on the forward deck. They are experiencing their first case of seasickness and seem very wretched indeed. I have been told that seasickness is wholly mental and that babies are never sick at sea because they have no fear of being so, nor any knowledge of how others are affected. The poor savages by the foremast seem to refute this theory, for though they are grown-ups, they can have had no previous experience of the sea, having come from far inland, and it is not likely that they have ever discussed seasickness. They succumb one by one until all are down.
Moh walks by with a stony glare in his eye, as though all were not right with him, and later becomes a delicate robin’s-egg green around the gills, but he continues at work with a never-say-die expression that wins our admiration. Moh is all right, we whisper to ourselves; he’s game, anyway.
The day wears on, the only diversion being when Ula calls to the men to tack. He is sitting beside us in the stern with the tiller ropes in hand. Now and then we attempt to break the monotony by taking a turn at steering, and silently flatter ourselves that we are doing it as skilfully as he. But Ula now and then casts a critical glance aloft and finally takes the ropes from us. A slight tug at one or the other of them and the sails fill, catching all the wind which we have been missing. There is an amused grin on Ula’s face. Moh is asleep on the deck in the shade of the low saloon bulkhead. The sea is very calm and the sky cloudless except for a few low-hanging clouds which fringe the horizon in the west. The easy swells lull us into slumber, from which we are roused—after what seems only ten minutes but is really two hours—by Moh, who is calling us to makanan. This is the Malay word for dinner and is, I believe, the first word of the language learned by the traveler.
He has unpacked our camp table and set it on the deck. Our meal consists of canned goods brought from the good old U. S. A. We purchased a two-months’ supply of them in Java and Moh is delighted, for all he has to do to cook them is to put a great bucket of water on the fire, dump the cans into it, and, when it has boiled a sufficient length of time, fish them out and open them. He is thrifty, too, for he saves the hot water in the bucket to wash the dishes with.
We have made only one mistake in picking out our dishes: we purchased aluminum cups. Every time we essay a mouthful of hot coffee—and Moh serves it piping hot—there is a sputter and the air becomes lurid with imprecations. It is astonishing how hot those metal cups can get. Every time we burn our lips on them Moh looks up with a terrified, wondering expression, as though in doubt as to whether we are berating him as a cook or what. The Malay does not understand the soul-satisfaction the white man gets from swearing. He must have some specific object upon which to vent his feelings and his invectives invariably take the form of some terrible expression such as “Babi kow,” meaning “You pig,” or some similarly outrageous figure of speech. Compared with our most conservative epithets the vocabulary of the Malay is singularly amateurish.