While Moh clears away the debris of the evening meal we stoke up the old briers and watch the sunset. In the Indies this is usually one of the events of the day. Shortly after nightfall, which comes in these latitudes with surprising rapidity, we peel off our clothes and stretch out on our cots with no other covering than our pajamas. The sky is a diamond-studded canopy above us,—blue velvet, unfathomable in depth. We shall be sound asleep when the moon rises and shall probably miss that, though it is almost worth waiting for. Above us, but a little to the south of the zenith, hangs the Southern Cross, which resembles somewhat a broken kite,—one of those two-sticked kites of boyhood that was diamond-shaped and had one bowed stick. We fall asleep trying to count the stars in one of the constellations. As I drop off I wonder drowsily if it will rain before morning. If it does! Oh, well, what matter? We can change to dry pajamas.
Ula is still on duty at the tiller when we drift into slumber. He has a bottle of cognac beside him for company, and for solace, too, we imagine. He must have hated to leave his lady-love with the courting just begun. He knows full well that there are many other Ulas in her vicinity who will do their best to keep her from pining while he is away. In all probability, though, should he find that in his absence another has taken his place, he will be just as content with her next older sister. It really doesn’t matter much.
Six bells. The air is stifling. There is a loud drumming sound over and around us. As we come wide awake we realize what the matter is. The Nautilus was headed for a heavy squall and Ula called Moh, who, rather than waken us, simply spread a heavy tarpaulin over us to protect us from the rain. It was the smothering and not the storm that roused us. How he got the covering spread without disturbing us we shall never know. We rise up on our elbows and peer out from under it. The rain is coming down in torrents. Ula is still at the tiller. His clothes stick to him and the water is running in a steady stream from the turned-down brim of his brown straw hat. He has tied it upon his head with a string passed underneath his jaw. His water-soaked figure is ludicrous and we burst into laughter. Ula apparently enjoys the situation, himself, and does not seem to mind the wetting. The bottle of cognac is still beside him, so he won’t get cold. His capacity for liquor is a matter of great pride to him; it is the envy of his fellows and the subject of much discussion among them.
Like all tropical storms, the squall passes soon and we are able to toss off the heavy “tarp.” Under it the heat is terrific. We wonder how the Kia Kias up forward are faring, but are not sufficiently interested to go there and find out. If Ula and the crew can stand it, they should be able to. A thorough soaking will do them good, for it is only with rain that their bodies are ever moistened. They have a constitutional dislike for water, even as a beverage. For drink they are quite content with the milk of the cocoanut, the meat of which forms a large part of their diet.
After the squall the air is cool and deliciously sweet. The breeze comes again and fills the dripping sails which have been hanging limp and motionless. Some of the crew are clustered around the fireplace, cooking fish. They spit them upon slivers broken from one of our packing-cases and toast them over the open fire. Moh is squatted among them and seems to be quite at home. Occasional words drift to us, indicating that the topic of discussion is the usual one,—the virtues of their respective women. This is a subject that the Malay never seems to tire of. In the kampongs the women talk likewise of the men. Having nothing else to occupy their thoughts, no business or serious occupation, naturally they are interested chiefly in one another and they discuss with the utmost candor subjects of which the European never speaks.
We listen, and are properly shocked at some of the things said which bring forth bursts of delighted laughter from the listeners; nevertheless we cock our ears so as not to miss any of them. One of the boys is telling how well his sweetheart dances and he gives a demonstration which to us is lewd in the extreme and occasions uproarious laughter. His companions slap him on the back and urge him to continue, but he shakes his head in refusal when Ula calls to him to come and show the Tuans, meaning us. This breaks up the party, for they believed us to be asleep. They are very reserved in the presence of the stranger, for they sense that their ways are not ours.
It is only upon ripe acquaintance that the male native will speak of his family affairs to the white man, though the women seem to be always ready to gossip.
When the whispering begins again Ula looks at us and grins. He wags his head as though to say, “It’s too bad, for he is very funny, but I can’t make him do it.” We are just as well satisfied, and we turn over to our sleep. Ula has just tossed the empty cognac bottle over the side, where it bobs away into the darkness in a wabbly dance. The idle thought drifts through my mind that I should like to cork up some wild message in that bottle on the chance of its being picked up. But white men who could read it seldom visit this lonely coast.
We are the first to come in years, except the few “paradise-hunters.” Some of these have taken the paradise away with them, while others, seeking the one kind of paradise, have found another and have remained after having served as the pièce de résistance of some gastronomic function.