They may be friendly at one moment and turn upon one the very next
CHAPTER VII
We Establish Diplomatic Relations
Shall we ever forget that sunrise and how the glow in the east chased the pregnant shadows? Never! We are not afraid, that is, afraid in the usual sense of the term. If the natives had attacked us we should have joyously risen to the occasion and put Mr. Colt to the fore to argue for us. It was the suspense we minded. Those things which we can see and gage with our full consciousness never bother us. It is the unseen and mysterious that we dread. When one does not know what to expect, nor from which direction the danger may come, it is the nerve tension, the high-keyed alertness, that saps the system of its reserve stamina and makes the goose-flesh crawl along the spine at the slightest unidentified sound. It is the intangible, the unseen, the insidious stealthy danger that creeps upon one unawares, that strikes in the dark where one is unable to strike in return, that make the night vigil nerve-racking. Genial old Imagination creates dangers that do not exist. Dawn is welcome to the watcher, always, but doubly so when one is literally between covetous devils and the deep sea.
To control, one must gather things into the grip of one’s own hands. One must take the initiative; therefore, we shall go early this morning to the kampong. We are just making ready the things we shall need while away from camp when there drifts to us on the fresh breeze a wild cadence which quickens the pulse. Whether it is war-cry or song of welcome we do not know, but it sounds ominous to our unaccustomed ears, at any rate. Our heads pop out from the tents concerto, much like those of the impossible policemen of the movies, and our eyes pop also at what we see. In the distance comes the gang. They are making their way toward our camp with considerable esprit de corps, weapons wildly waving and throats roaring. This will bear looking into, we feel, and the Colts are loosened tentatively in their holsters. As the savages draw near we heave a sigh or two of relief, for we realize that this at least is not The Moment.
Those who are not yelling at the top of their leather lungs are laughing and they come to a walk as they approach our sacred demesne. Obedient to our instructions of yesterday, they halt at the furrow in the sand that marks the limits of our arm’s-length hospitality and stand there like a throng of spoiling-for-something children. We advance to meet them and they chatter volubly at us and hold out their hands as though demanding something. One of them, who evidently has heard the Malay traders name the weed in his own tongue, asks—or, rather, shouts,—“Rocco!” which is Malay for “tobacco.” It is the old familiar “rush act” that they are giving us and we are too much relieved at their unwarlike attitude to refuse them.
The open carton is dragged out with despatch and each of the natives is presented with one blue package. The black men cavort around like a lot of exuberant school-boys while awaiting their turn to receive the little present. Finally they begin to cluster too close and as the task of distributing the tobacco becomes difficult and contact with greasy, smelly arms and clutching hands inevitable, we toss the remaining packets over the heads of the nearer ones and there ensues a wild scramble.
Many of them lose out in the mêlée and must do without, while many have received two portions. Those who fail to get any come to the dead-line and with hands outstretched ask for some, but this we refuse. They must be taught decorum. They hang around for a time and finally drift away in the direction of the kampong, where their more successful brothers have gone. Some of them seem to be much put out, and we turn over in our minds the advisability of calling them back and giving each a package of tobacco. A moment’s consideration, however, convinces us that this would be an admission of weakness and would be taken advantage of later. When the white man has concluded a matter he must let the native know that it is settled for all time.
When the last of the cannibals has departed and we reenter our tent to conclude our preparations for the visit to the kampong we encounter Moh. With the coming of the howling crew of savages he dived into the tent to hide, and he now crawls from beneath a cot as nearly white as his olive skin will permit.
Moh believed this to be his last hour on earth and he tried to prolong the agony by hiding. He is speechless with fright, for he could hear the racket outside the tent, but could not see what was transpiring. Never, never again will he leave his fair home in Java to go adventuring with Americans! His cup is brimming over and his voice, when it returns, quavers in a falsetto ecstasy of trepidation. As a fighting-man, Moh is a good cook. That suffices.
Our march to the kampong is one of many thrills. The natives whom we believed to have returned to the village have simply withdrawn to the screening jungle and from its cover watch us with none too friendly interest. They do not like the idea of our visit, for their women are in the village and they are not sure that we may not take a liking to some of them and carry them off. This has been done in times past by other white men in other kampongs and for all we know may have been done right here. Our purpose in coming to their country is, of course, inexplicable to the savages and necessarily we are objects of great distrust.