“A nickname given to the children of Americans born in Java, Claud,” answered my father.
“Queer,” said my brother. “But it is no matter what they call her so that she is pretty—I like pretty girls.”
“All of which we shall discover when we reach Java,” replied our father. “But now, boys, get you to your lessons, while I go to make inquiries about a ship.”
“I say, Claud, won’t it be jolly? Father will be rich again, and we shall grow up to be great merchants, like Uncle Adam, and have a cousin, too,” said Martin, merrily; but as the thought passed through his mind that the death of our dear mother had been caused chiefly by our father’s misfortunes, he burst into tears. “Oh! why did God take from us poor dear mamma? Why didn’t this letter come ever so many months ago, and she would have lived!”
Heaven knew that I had felt our loss as deeply as my brother; but for his sake, for the sake of my father, who had never smiled since her death, and who trembled at a word or a thing that brought it fresh again to his memory, I had struggled to suppress any sign of emotion at the chance mentioning of her name. Then, throwing my arms around his neck, I said (I believe with tears in my own eyes):
“Martin, it is wicked to be ever recurring to our loss, when you know how it shocks our father. Remember, mamma is in heaven, and happy.”
“I know it is wicked, but I cannot help it—I won’t help it—I never will stop talking of dear mamma!” and the passionate boy ran from the sitting-room into our sleeping-chamber, and, throwing himself upon the bed, sought relief in a good cry.
Since our mother’s death, such outbreaks of grief had been common with my warm-hearted but impulsive brother. Our uncle’s letter, however, produced a good effect upon his mind, by directing his thoughts to the active, perhaps adventurous, life which seemed before us. But unfortunately we had to wait six months before we could get a ship—a loss of time that, as will be seen hereafter, materially influenced our future. Taking into account this delay, the six months for the coming of the letter, and a similar period for our outward voyage, it will be seen that a year and a half elapsed between the penning of our uncle’s invitation and our anchoring in the roadstead of Batavia. What unexpected events, what misfortunes, may happen in eighteen months! and they did happen.
Ominous, indeed, of misfortune was the night of our arrival in the island. It was the latter end of October, the period of the monsoons. My brother and I were well-nigh frightened to death, most assuredly we never expected to reach the land, for the elements were at war. The sea rose in mountainous heights; the horizon was spread with vast sheets of livid flame; the thunder shook both heaven and earth; and the wind, as it rushed inland in its fury, uprooted the largest trees, and toppled down the huts of peasants and the warehouses of the merchants in the lower town. It was a mercy, indeed, that even the great pier which forms the harbor of Batavia should have escaped.
The hurricane, however, although terrible in its fury, was but of short duration; for by daybreak we were enabled to moor the vessel alongside the pier, and also to procure a messenger, whom my father at once dispatched to advise his brother of our arrival.