“Macassar!” I exclaimed. “Why, Prabu, he is a Balinese chief.”
“He was born in Bali, sahib, but he is descended from a prince of Macassar, who, upon the conquest of that country by the Hollanders, fled with the whole of his tribe, and, by the permission of the then Rajah of Blilling, settled upon this coast and became governor and chief of the district. But listen,” added Prabu, as we heard the sound of drums and brass instruments; “the chief and his principal officers are about to take the oaths. Will the sahibs go with me?”
“Of course, we will see the whole play out, if you will permit us,” said my brother; and then we went to one of the oddest sights I have ever seen, either before that time or since. I will describe it as briefly as possible:—
Some fifty or sixty sub-chiefs, or leaders of divisions, were assembled near the palace in full war-costume, each having around his brow a white fillet—the symbol of hostility: at their head stood the grand chief, and his son Mahomed. At a signal from the former, a huge banner was unfurled; this having been sprinkled with blood, the Chief dipped his creese in a vessel of water and then drank of the liquid; after this he began to dance around the banner with wild, fantastic motions, brandishing all the while his bare weapon, as if about to plunge it into the breast of an enemy; then coming to a standstill, and holding his creese upwards, he proclaimed war and eternal hatred against their oppressors, the Dutch. “And witness, ye men of Bali,” he concluded; “should I violate this oath, I pray that this, my favorite and beloved creese, may prove more injurious to me than to my foe—that my head may be cut off and left upon the field of battle, and that my heart may be devoured by the enemy.”
The ceremony being thus opened, a ring was formed, in which, one by one, the chiefs performed an extraordinary series of dumb motions—a kind of foreshadowing of all they intended to do to the enemy. The following description, however, of the performances of one will answer for all:—
“A chief rushes into the ring with a wild shriek and a ferocious look, with creese in one hand and spear in the other; he traverses the ground, leaping from one side of the ring to the other, and, in a menacing posture, bids defiance to some fancied enemy; then he stamps his feet upon the ground and shakes his head, distorts his features, and makes his teeth chatter again; then he throws his lance, and with his creese hacks and hews at the airy enemy, shrieking all the time. At length, nearly tired out, he flies to the middle of the ring, where, seeming to have his foe at his mercy, with two or three desperate cuts, off goes the imaginary head of the imaginary enemy, and he withdraws triumphantly and amidst the plaudits of his comrades.”
“It’s really very funny,” said my brother, in his usual flippant way.
“Hush, Martin! The Chief is going to speak,” said I, with great difficulty preventing a laugh.
The Chief then—having first bestowed a little particularly strong abuse upon the Hollanders—turning to Prabu, said:
“Observe, O thou servant of the great and patriotic Pangeran of Pugar, and ambassador to our royal master the Rajah of Blilling—I am prepared to live and die with you; I am as a spear in your hands, ready to do execution in whatever quarter directed.”