CHAPTER XIII

When we returned to Sarawak, I felt, as it were, a giant refreshed. All symptoms of malaria had gone, and, as we steamed under the landing-place of the Astana, I could see on its broad verandahs my Malay women friends waiting for me. We had lots of things to talk about. Datu Isa was the proud possessor of four more grandchildren, and these were duly presented to me, wrapped in the tight swaddling clothes usual to Malayan babies. I was told that Datu Isa and the other chiefs’ wives were delighted with the behaviour of their lords and masters during my absence, who had not so much as hinted at the possibility of adding an additional wife to their household. Talip was also radiant at our return, as was the redoubtable Subu, present with the yellow umbrella, splendid, as usual, in his executioner’s uniform of gold and green satin shimmering with ornaments. It was about this time, although I do not know just how it came about, that I got to know Subu better than I ever did before. He was an old man then, nearing the end of his career, for he was one of those who had been with the first Rajah Brooke when he was made Rajah of Sarawak. Such stories the old man had to tell of his encounters with pirates, also of the difficulty he had with his wives, for, sad as it may seem to relate, he had embarked on three, one less than the number allowed to good Muhammadans by the great Prophet himself. The youngest wife he had married not so long ago gave him a good deal of trouble. “She will not listen to the exhortations of my wife No. 1,” he would tell me. “This troubles my heart; it makes me sick. She is too wilful and arrogant in her youth. She is pretty, it is true, but she need not always be counting my eldest wife’s wrinkles. It is not the way young people should behave to those who are older than themselves, for even in old wives lie the wisdom of time; young ones are thoughtless, stupid, and unknowing.” Notwithstanding these domestic storms at home, Subu’s wives always called on me together. They would come in strictly in their precedence, No. 1, No. 2, and No. 3, and I am bound to say that so long as they remained with me, the No. 2 and the No. 3 wives always asked permission of the No. 1 wife before they ventured on a remark. These women, however, were not brilliant specimens of the womanhood of Malaya, so, to be quite truthful, I preferred Subu’s visits unaccompanied by these dames.

H.H. THE RANÉE MUDA

THE DAIANG BUNGSU

He used to sit on the floor of my room, on a mat prepared for him, and tell me of many events, fights, and hairbreadth escapes he had encountered in his chequered career. His most interesting stories, however,

related to the victims whom he had dispatched into the next world. They almost all belonged to the same order of criminals. There were a few Chinese murderers, who had killed people through avarice; Malays, who had slain people on account of jealousy, or through temper; but the greater number of the evildoers were Dyaks who had taken heads on their own account, just for the honour and glory of possessing one of these ghastly trophies. As far as Dyak and Malay malefactors went, it appears the same scene was nearly always enacted, but I had better say at once that no man has ever been executed in Sarawak without the Rajah’s sanction, he alone having power over life and death throughout the country. Very often the trial of more serious crimes lasted some days, so thorough were the inquiries set on foot by the Rajah and his ministers.

The trial for murder in Kuching is hedged around by the same precautions when a human life is at stake as it is in the Courts of Law in England. A jury consisting of the culprit’s own countrymen is usually empanelled, and the magistrate of the district (an Englishman), the Rajah’s ministers (generally three in number), and the Rajah himself, weigh the evidence with the most minute care. When the death sentence has to be passed, it is only after all other resources have failed, and the condemned man is usually led out to his doom the morning after the sentence is passed. The criminals are executed by the kris, with which weapon Subu was wonderfully expert. A kris is a curious-looking dagger, straight and flat, the blade double-edged, eighteen inches long, with a sharp point. It is inserted in the cavity of the condemned man’s right shoulder, and thrust diagonally across the body through the heart, causing instantaneous death. “Do they never tremble?” I would ask Subu. “No,” he said; “they do not tremble. They smoke cigarettes while their grave is being dug, and sometimes they eat betel-nut and sirih. Then, when I tell them, they sit on the brink of their grave as though they were sitting on the edge of their bed, prepared to take their afternoon sleep. We always parted good friends,” said Subu, “and very often we talked all the way to the place of execution.”

The condemned men never quite knew when their last moment had come, for they sat placidly smoking until Subu approached from behind them, and with one blow of the kris sent them into eternity. “You white people fret too much about trifles, and that makes you frightened of death,” Subu would say. “We take it just as it comes, and consider that Allah has chosen the best moment to end our lives. Many such murderers have I sent to their peace,” he often said to me. “I am an old man now, but I hope Allah in His mercy will permit me to kris ten more before He gathers me up into His paradise. Just ten more, Rajah Ranee, and then I shall consider my work is done.” Poor old Subu, in spite of his bloodthirsty words he possessed a tender heart. He was gentle and kind to children and animals, indeed, to all who were desolate and oppressed.

The people of Sarawak recognize the justice of capital sentences in the most wonderful way. I remember one case in point. The Rajah has a battalion of drilled men, some five hundred in number, recruited from the Dyaks and Malays of Sarawak, together with a few Sikhs, who voluntarily come forward to join this paid force. The Commandant in charge of this battalion—​called the Sarawak Rangers—​is nearly always a retired officer from the British army, and the Rajah usually engages a retired Gunner from one of His Majesty’s ships, as Instructor, to teach the men the use of guns. The men are very apt at drill, and are as active as cats in the manipulation of guns. They all take great pride in their work, and particularly enjoy the management of field pieces. Their uniform is of white drill with black facings; they wear forage caps, and are armed with Snider carbines. Whenever the Rajah goes on expeditions, and sometimes on his journeys up the rivers, a certain number of these drilled men form his bodyguard. They also act as sentries in the Palace and other Government buildings in Kuching.

One day, one of these Sarawak Rangers, with a gang of his friends, all young men, went on a holiday excursion to some fruit gardens in the suburb of Kuching. They came to a tempting-looking fruit orchard, full of ripe oranges, mangosteens, custard apples, pine-apples, etc., fenced in by rotten railings and owned by an old Chinaman. All fruit is dear to native hearts, for they are essentially a fruit-eating people. The youths, seeing these tempting morsels, demolished the palings, entered the garden, and began eating the fruit. The noise they made hacking at the trees brought the old man out of his house built in the orchard. He remonstrated with the thieves, who took no notice, so he raised his voice in order to elicit the help of passers-by on the road. This so exasperated the youths, who were bent on carrying off some of the old man’s fruit, that in a fit of anger the Ranger drew his parang[8] (he was in mufti), and killed the Chinaman. Realizing what he had done, he took to his heels, followed by his friends, leaving the Chinaman in a pool of blood under the fruit trees, where he was found by the Rajah’s police—​an efficient body of Malays under the command of an English officer. The crime was brought home to the Ranger, who was brought to justice and condemned to death.

On the morning of the man’s execution, the Rajah had arranged to go for a visit to the Batang Lupar River. I was to go with him, and the guard chosen to accompany him happened to include the brother of the man who was to be executed that day. The Instructor in charge of the men informed the Rajah that the prisoner’s brother was in a very excited state, and had been heard by the natives speaking rather wildly in the barracks. I believe he even expressed himself as ready to take vengeance on the Government which had condemned his brother to death. The Instructor suggested to the Rajah that it might not be quite safe to have this man included in his personal bodyguard. “On the contrary,” said the Rajah, “for that very reason let him come with us.” Needless to say, the man did accompany us and behaved himself perfectly, and by the time we returned to Kuching he had proved himself to be one of the most exemplary members of the Rajah’s bodyguard.

Now with regard to the police. It has often been a matter of wonder to me how efficient this body of Malays and Dyaks becomes under the charge of young Englishmen. The Sarawak officers are chosen in a very original way. Many of them fresh from some university have somehow heard of the methods of the Rajah and his Government, and very likely feeling an admiration for the romantic story which has led to the present state of affairs in Sarawak, feel they would like to join the Rajah’s service. Often these men have had no particular training for the work they are called upon to undertake, and yet they grow into it, as it were. The heads of the Rajah’s police (in the person of the officers whom he has chosen) have been, and are, capable of unravelling the most intricate and delicate affairs. I cannot imagine what their methods may be, but plots have been found out, organized by Chinese Secret Societies against the Government, which, if they had been carried into execution, would have set the capital in flames and killed every white person living in Kuching. Thanks to the intelligence, zeal, and unceasing vigilance of these officers, such calamities have been averted. This efficiency says a good deal for the loyalty and devotion of the Rajah’s Englishmen who, in spite of the drawbacks of a tropical climate, of frequent illnesses, lack of amusement, dullness consequent upon no English society to fall back upon in moments of depression, and despite of their very modest salaries, have entered so wholeheartedly into their work. If only their exploits were known and related as they deserve to be in all their details, these English officers would stand in the first rank of heroes, even of those who have won the Victoria Cross. Owing to the little attention given to Sarawak and its affairs, their deeds will never become known to the British public, and although they themselves will not reap the benefit of their unselfishness and loyalty to the Rajah’s country, the seed they have sown in Sarawak has borne fruit in the growing security and contentment of its people.