The Isle of Vanishing Men: A Narrative of Adventure in Cannibal-land

by W. F. Alder

From beneath the floor comes the gurgle of a torrent of water which is pouring into the Nautilus through a gaping hole in her bottom. We are high upon a submerged reef of rocky coral, shipwrecked among cannibals! What the tribe is that lives on shore and how friendly it is remain to be seen. The moment is one of those deadly potential eternities that either make one lose all self-control or become cold sober. Luckily, we are not of the hysterical type and our first thought is to get our guns, food, and cameras to a place of safety on shore. The schooner may slide off the reef into deep water at any moment, and then we shall be in a pickle.

Working like mad, we begin heaving our possessions up on deck, and I go up to see that it is properly stowed in the dinghy. The crew are working like demons, and Ula, sobered by the catastrophe, has ordered the men to get the anchor hooked into the reef and the chain drawn taut to hold us there.

I take command and order some of the men to get the dinghy overside, and into it we pack all that it will hold. It is sent ashore, and five trips are necessary to transport the whole of our outfit. We go ashore with the third load to see that it is properly cared for. There is a high surf running, and in order to get the dinghy through it without soaking the baggage we have to jump overboard into waist-deep water and help steer it through the breakers. The barang is piled up just above the reach of the incoming surges, but the tide seems to be rising.

It is necessary to get the stuff higher up, out of reach of the water, and we bend our energies in that direction. The beach seems to be deserted, and we wonder whether or not the natives have discovered our presence. We are soon to be informed as to this, for suddenly we hear a guttural grunt and an explosive, “Uhumen! [Go away!]” coming from the fringe of tall tapa grass that fringes the beach. We gaze in startled surprise in the direction of the sound and even as we look there spring, like mushrooms, from the thick grass a long row of black heads which seem to number hundreds.

We stop work for the moment and stand in indecision, facing the watching line of feather-crowned heads. Three of the natives rise from their crouching position and advance toward us, waving their arms and shouting, “Uhumen!” From their menacing manner it is evident that we are de trop, that they wish us to depart. This is out of the question, for our only means of conveyance is at least temporarily on the rocks. A rapid calculation tells us that we are about three hundred miles from the town of Merauke. To walk to it is out of the question, also, for we could not carry sufficient provender, together with our expensive equipment, to sustain us during the journey. We are between the hammer and the anvil. The only solution of the difficulty is to make friends with the natives.

The best way to do this is to assert ourselves immediately, to show ourselves masters of the situation. If we allow the natives to take the initiative, things will go hard with us. They have all seen white men before, or, if not, have heard much about them and fear them.

We must seem to justify that fear. As the three Kia Kias draw near to us we beckon to them and, pointing to the barang, tell them sternly in Malay, to carry it up out of reach of the tide. The middle one draws himself up proudly at this and again points to the wreck of the Nautilus, saying, “Uhumen!” Again we indicate the barang and order it carried up the beach. The others in the grass have risen now and are watching intently but in silence the action of their chiefs.

The first rule in dealing with the native is never to allow him to disobey the orders of a white man, and we have given an order. It must be carried out. Once more we command them to move the barang, stepping close to the middle chief, who seems to be in authority. He refuses for them all. The time for action has come. He receives a forceful blow on the point of his jaw; without a sound he goes down. His six-foot body stretches out full-length on the sand, lies quiet for the moment; then, his senses slowly returning, he rises painfully and, cowering before us, goes to the pile of barang, selects the lightest of the pieces, carries it to a spot we designate, and deposits it there. Then he turns to the others and calls to them to come and assist him with the work.

We do not understand the meaning of his words and as a precautionary measure draw our Colt “forty-fives,” ready for an emergency. The automatics can speak a rapid language. Spears and war-clubs are not much of a match for them. We know the natives will not stand against firearms. At the first bark of the heavy pistols they would disappear into the jungle, never to return.

Moh seems to have vanished and we turn to look for him. There he is, standing so close behind us that he is like our shadow. His face is positively green. Poor devil! he is scared speechless! With the safe stowage of our equipment we stop to consider for a moment. The spot we are now on is well above the reach of the tide and will make an admirable camp site. It is far enough from the thick-growing cocoanuts to render us safe from surprise attack. We decide to pitch the tents here.