CHAPTER XXV

The day had not risen when Mr. Bampfylde, Bertram, Dr. Langmore, and I, started from Kapit Fort two days after the floods had ceased and the river had resumed its normal aspect. We were followed down the steep steps leading to the river by a great company of Kayans and Dyaks, our Chinese cook, our Malay servants, and Ima, my inseparable attendant when I lived in Sarawak. Mr. Bampfylde, Ima, and I, occupied one of the war-canoes, and Bertram and Dr Langmore another. Our boat was called Bujang Naga (Bachelor Dragon), and was a splendid specimen of a Dyak war-boat. Our crew, amongst whom were the élite of the chiefs staying with us in Kapit Fort, numbered about forty. Salleh was steersman, and stood at the stern with half his body appearing above the roof, his head protected from the sun by a large conical straw hat. The rudders of these boats are like those used by ancient Egyptians, according to the pictures in the British Museum, for they are rigged on the side of the vessel, instead of being fixed on the stern. A covering of palm leaves was stretched from one end of the boat to the other, and I could see from where I sat some twenty-five naked arms paddling as though for dear life. Those seated nearest to us were Unggat, Merum and Grasi, all renowned warriors. Our journey being a peaceful one, the chiefs had discarded their beautiful war accoutrements, and their appearance was homely, not to say dowdy. Hovering Hawk was wrapped in an old tartan petticoat or sarong, The Cobra had a loincloth as his only covering, and their companions followed suit. But the younger warriors were very smart; they had stuck alamanda and hibiscus blossoms in their head-handkerchiefs, and their waistcloths were bewilderingly bright. We paddled on, hour after hour, and I thought it extraordinary that these men could last so long without a break in their fatiguing labour. They appeared as though they enjoyed themselves, and when the rhythmic stroke of the paddles flagged, a shrill scream from the man sitting in the bows, and who directed the speed of the boat, instilled renewed vigour in the crew, especially when the leader plunged his paddle into the water, flung a comet-like spray, reaching beyond the boat’s stern, yelling and shouting, “Paddle, paddle,” “Do not get slow,” “Don’t get soft.” “Ah-a-a,” he would scream again. Sometimes our crew raced Bertram’s boat, and when his boat shot on ahead, Hovering Hawk and Flying Snake gave vent to ejaculations of disgust, abusing our crew roundly, and asking them whether they were asleep or awake. I remember passing a little stream, where, near the bank, about twenty or thirty yards away, a crocodile lay motionless flush with the water. Hovering Hawk pointed it out to me, and the man in the bows stopped the boat. My rifle lay loaded by my side—​I cannot explain why it was there; I suppose I thought it sporting to carry a gun about. Mr. Bampfylde suggested I should try and shoot the crocodile, which I did, whereupon the beast rose in a mighty cataract of water and flopped down again into the stream. This feat of mine was much approved by the crew, who with grunts and ejaculations congratulated me on my exploit! I do not know whether I killed the beast. I do not think a bullet from my rifle could really have ended its life, for crocodiles are difficult to destroy; yet natives say that if a bullet penetrates their thick hide, it leads to their death, on account of the open wound becoming filled with maggots from the rivers, that kill them in time. Being a lover of all animals, I must explain that I have never, before or since, willingly killed any living creature, but a crocodile, with its hideous habits of killing, wounding, and maiming people—​many of whom being people I have known—​made me anxious to try and send one of these monsters to another world. I am not sure I was right in doing so, although I may have been the means of ridding the rivers of Sarawak from a dangerous pest.

At mid-day we stopped on a sandbank to lunch, and to give our crew an hour or two’s rest. The Dyaks had erected a little palm-leaf house to shelter us during the halt, whilst they themselves, under the shade of scattered rocks, set their rice boiling in pots hanging from tripods made from branches of trees cut down in neighbouring forests. Very soon little fires began to spring up all over the sandy expanse. As usual the noonday silence of the tropics reigned, broken only by that bird whose sweet song rivals our nightingale. I think this bird’s song most ravishing; its trills are velvety, soft, and yet so loud that they can be heard for some reaches down the river. Our famous Sarawak naturalist, Dr. Hose, who is an expert in the sounds of birds, disagrees with me; he thinks its note shrill and sometimes disagreeable. I beg respectfully to differ from such an authority, and still maintain that the alligator bird (the name given to the bul-bul by the natives of the country) is among the sweetest songsters of the world.

By three o’clock in the afternoon the crew were ready to proceed. Presently the river became so shallow that poles had to be used instead of paddles. Great trees, growing on rocks, overshadowed the water, where it was difficult to understand how they could live. The river became quite clear, rippling over a pebbly bed. I wish I knew what those pebbles were, for I believe in these river-beds are to be found amethysts, tourmalines, and even sapphires. Dr. Hose told me that on one of his travels up these inland streams, his war-boats floated over the dust of sapphires. An orchid branch drifted towards us, rosy, white, and waxy, looking like a smile upon the water. One of our Dyaks tried to get hold of it for me, but I prevented him. I preferred to think of the flower dying in the fresh cool stream, rather than see it fading in my hot hand.

The great stairway of rock was before us, and the crunch of gravel under our boat’s keel warned us that the water could float it no longer. Some of the crew jumped overboard and made secure long lengths of rattan, in order to drag the boats up the many barriers that lay in our way. The men bounded over these impediments, and we bumped and creaked as the rattan ropes dragged us up these enormous boulders, the water pouring over them in all directions. Sometimes the torrent was so impetuous, and the rocks of such a height, that our boat was poised on the centre of a great boulder, its keel grating backwards and forwards, whilst the muscles of our crew stood out like cords on their necks and limbs, as they pulled at the rattans with all their might. Whenever our boat was safely lodged on a rock, the crew rested for a while and bathed in the deep pools of quiet water lying between the stones. They might have been bronze tritons escaped from fountains, endowed with life, and disporting themselves in these waters. The agility of an old Bukitan, who must have been at least sixty-five years old, amused me much. His crown of plaited straw lay over snow-white bristles, and a fine crop of snow-white hair ornamented one side of his cheek, whilst his other cheek was bare. He was proud of his one whisker, and whenever he rested in his arduous work, he stroked it continually. A towel round his waist was his only covering. The old man bounded from rock to rock, agile as a tiger cat; he frequently held the rattan rope in his teeth in helping to pull the boats up. After about an hour’s such toil, we found ourselves above the first ledge of rocks in this great cataract of Pelagus. We clambered up the rocky banks and stood on the edge of a great forest. Rhododendrons, scarlet with blossom, wild red hibiscus, and convolvuli of all colours, hung over the water, whilst masses of tiny flowers, vaguely reminding us of violets, made a mauve carpet for our feet as we stepped along, and in so doing, alas, helped to spoil the picture. We looked up a great reach of the torrent mounting straight and closing the horizon. At our feet the waters were divided by a small, rocky island, on which grew, in scrappy bits of soil, lofty trees with leafy branches. The water frothed and foamed round this impediment, and Mr. Bampfylde informed me that at this spot many boats are swamped and lives lost every year. Then, beyond the horizon lay numberless rapids, not so dangerous as is that of Pelagus, and before reaching Belaga, the water flows tranquilly along until the upper reaches of the Rejang are reached. Belaga is a great centre for rattans, camphor, and gutta-percha.

As I stood looking at the whirlpool, Hovering Hawk, who was standing near me, pointed with his thumb to the swirling water all flecked with foam. “See there,” he said, “who knows how many eyes lie buried beneath that foam!”

Beyond this foam, on the opposite bank, were quantities of wild sago palms, drooping their metallic green fronds over smaller-leaved forest trees; then, lower down on the rocky banks, were entanglements of red rhododendrons, of scarlet berries and leaves, sprinkled by the spray. The mystery, the strangeness of the place, so like, and yet so unlike, European waterfalls; the groups of Dyaks scattered about, grave and silent, perhaps remembering comrades of theirs who had found their deaths in the whirlpool; the perfumes of moss, damp earth and flowers, and the sound of running water, made us thoughtful, until Face of Day, with a pompous air, pulled his sword from out its wooden sheath, cut a branch of leaves and berries from a shrub near by, and handed it to me. “Its leaves are tongues, and its berries flaming hearts—​manah (beautiful),” he said. His gift somewhat impeded my progress as I struggled down the slippery rocks to our boat, but I managed to carry the branch in safety, and one of its leaves now rests between the pages of St. Francis of Assisi’s Floweret book I always keep by me.

We then embarked for the return—​I looking eagerly for a new experience, that of shooting the rapids. It was very great fun. Salleh stood in the bows with a long pole, and two or three of the crew also took poles, whilst the remainder of the Dyaks sat in their places in the boat, no doubt rejoicing in having nothing to do. We bounded like corks over the crest of the waves; we were carried into pools, from whence we emerged by clever strokes of Salleh’s pole against intervening rocks, and rounded great stones which, a moment before, appeared as though nothing could prevent our boats being dashed against them. It was shady, cool, and peaceful; flowers, leaves, and mosses smelt sweet; pale blue butterflies hovered over the banks, and a hawk hung motionless in the air above our heads. When we had passed in safety the most dangerous part of the cataract, our crew sang their home-coming song, a sort of dirge sounding something like a Gregorian chant. Mr. Bampfylde told me it was a thanksgiving song to the gods for having floated us safely over the dangers of the great Pelagus rapid.

As I write, it all comes back to me as though it only happened yesterday, for the impression was so intense that at times I fancy myself again in that spot, flying down the rapids like a bird. I think if, at the end of my life, I had to give an account of the happiest time I have ever spent, it would be of those too brief minutes when Salleh and his picked crew steered our boat down those foaming waters.