Part 8

Half a mile away the nipa-thatched huts of Qualla Battoo, built amid a thicket of palms on the sandy shores of a cove where a mountain torrent debouched into the sea, seemed to flicker like a scene on a moving-picture screen in the shifting waves of heat. Immediately at the back of the town rose the green wall of the Sumatran jungle, which bordered the yellow beach in both directions as far as the eye could reach. Behind this impenetrable screen of vegetation, over which the miasma hung in wreathlike clouds, rose the purple peaks of the Bukit Barisan Range, of which Mount Berapi, twelve thousand feet high, is the grim and forbidding overlord. Upon this shore a mighty surf pounds unceasingly. Farming far to seaward, the tremendous rollers come booming in with the speed of an express train, gradually gathering volume as they near the shore until they tower to a height of twenty feet or more, when, striking the beach, they break upon the sands with a roar which on still nights can be heard up-country for many miles. So dangerous is the surf along this coast that when trading vessels drop anchor off its towns to pick up cargoes of pepper, copra, or coffee, they invariably send their boats ashore in charge of natives, who are as familiar with this threatening, thunderous barrier of foam as is a housewife with the cupboards in her kitchen. But even the Malays, marvellously skilful boatmen as they are, can effect a landing only at those places where the mountain streams, of which there are a great number along the western coast of Sumatra, have melted comparatively smooth channels through the angry surf to the open sea. The pepper, which is one of the island’s chief articles of export, is grown on the high table-lands in the interior and is brought down to the trading stations on the coast by means of bamboo rafts, their navigation through the cataracts and rapids which obstruct these mountain streams being a perilous and hair-raising performance.

Thus it came about that while the New England merchantman rocked lazily in the Indian Ocean swells on this scorching afternoon in February, 1831, her master, Mr. Endicott, her second mate, John Barry, and four of her crew, were at the trading station, a short distance up the river from Qualla Battoo, superintending the weighing of the pepper and making sure that it was properly stowed away in the boats where the water could not reach it, for, as Captain Endicott had learned from many and painful experiences, the Malays are not to be trusted in such things. Now, Captain Endicott had not traded along the coasts of Malaysia for a dozen years without learning certain lessons by heart, and one of them was that the lithe and sinewy brown men with whom he was doing business were no less cruel and treacherous than the surf that edged their shores. Hence his suspicions instantly became aroused when he noticed that the first boat, after being loaded at the trading station and starting for the river mouth instead of making straight for the _Friendship_, as it should have done, stopped on its way through the town and took aboard more men. Concluding, however, that the Malay crew required additional oarsmen in order to negotiate the unusually heavy surf, his suspicions were allayed and he turned again to the business of weighing out pepper for the second boat-load, though he took the precaution, nevertheless, of detailing two of his men to keep their eyes on the boat and to instantly report anything which seemed out of the ordinary.

Instead of taking on more oarsmen, as Captain Endicott had supposed, the boat’s crew had exchanged places with double their number of armed warriors, who, concealing their weapons, sent the boat smashing through the wall of surf and then pulled leisurely out toward the unsuspecting merchantman. Though the first mate, who was in charge of the loading, remarked that the boat had an unusually large crew, he drew the same conclusions as the captain and permitted it to come alongside. No sooner was it made fast to the _Friendship’s_ side, however, than the Malays, concealing their _krises_ in their scanty clothing, began to scramble over the bulwarks, until a score or more of them were gathered on the vessel’s decks. The mate, ever fearful of treachery, ordered them back into their boat, but the Malays, pretending not to understand him, scattered over the ship, staring at the rigging and equipment with the open-mouthed curiosity of children. So well did they play their parts, indeed, that the mate decided that his suspicions were unfounded and turned again to the work of checking up the bags of pepper as they came over the side. When the Malays had satisfied themselves as to the strength and whereabouts of the crew, whom they outnumbered three to one, they unostentatiously took the positions their leader assigned to them. Then, choosing a moment when the mate was leaning over the side giving orders to the men in the boat, one of their number, moving across the deck on naked feet with the stealth and silence of a cat, drew back his arm and with a vicious downward sweep buried his razor-edged _kris_ between the American’s brawny shoulders. Though mortally wounded, the mate uttered a scream of warning, whereupon five of the sailors who had been lounging under the forward awning, snatching up belaying-pins and capstan-bars, ran to his assistance. But the Malays were too many for them and too well armed, and after a brief but desperate struggle two other Americans lay dead upon the blood-stained deck, while the other three, less fortunate, were prisoners with a fate too horrible for words in store for them. The four remaining seamen, who had been below, aroused by the noise of the struggle, had rushed on deck in time to witness the fate of their comrades. Realizing the utter helplessness of their position and appreciating that only butchery or torture awaited them if they remained, they burst through the ring of natives who surrounded them and dived into the sea. They quickly discovered, however, that the shore held no greater safety than the ship, for whenever they were lifted on the crest of a wave they could see that the beach was lined with armed warriors, whooping and brandishing their spears. Seeing that to land was but to invite death in one of its most unpleasant forms, the four swimmers held a brief consultation and then, abruptly changing their course, struck out for a rocky promontory several miles away, which offered them at least temporary safety, as the Malays could not readily reach them.

In the meantime, the two seamen who had been detailed by Captain Endicott to keep watch of the boat, observing the confusion on the _Friendship’s_ decks and seeing the sailors jumping overboard, summoned their commander, who quickly surmised what had happened. Endicott realized that there was not an instant to lose. Ordering his second mate and the four seamen into the boat which was then being loaded, they pulled madly for the mouth of the river. Nor were they a second too soon, for, as they swung into that reach of the river which is bordered on either bank by the huts of the town, the Qualla Battooans ran out and attempted to intercept them. But the Americans, spurred on by the knowledge that death awaited them if they were captured, bent to their oars, and, amid a rain of bullets, spears, and arrows, the boat swept through the town as a racing shell sweeps down the Hudson at Poughkeepsie. Though they succeeded by something akin to a miracle in reaching the mouth of the river unharmed, it now looked as though they would perish in the mountain-high surf, for they were ignorant of the channel and had none of the Malay skill for handling a boat in heavy breakers. But at this crucial moment they saw a man’s head bobbing in the water alongside, a familiar voice hailed them in English, and a moment later a friendly Malay named Po Adam, the rajah of a neighboring tribe which was on none too friendly terms with the Qualla Battooans, drew himself into the boat.

“What on earth are you doing here, Adam?” exclaimed Endicott, when he recognized his caller from the sea. “Are you coming with us?”

“Yes, cap’n,” said the Malay; “if they kill you they must kill me first.” Po Adam, it seemed, had come to Qualla Battoo in his armed coasting schooner, had witnessed the capture of the American vessel, and, fearing that the attack might be extended to him because of his known friendship for foreigners, he had swum to the American boat. With him for a pilot they managed, with extreme difficulty, to negotiate the breakers, though no sooner was this danger behind them than another one appeared in front, for the Malays, foiled in their attempt to intercept the Americans as they passed down the river, had put off in several war canoes, which could easily overtake them on the sea. The Americans were defenseless, for in their haste to embark they had left their weapons behind them. Po Adam, however, had managed to cling to his scimitar during his swim, and this he brandished so ferociously and uttered such appalling threats of what his tribesmen would do to the Qualla Battooans if he were molested that they sheered off without attacking.

Realizing that it was foolhardiness to attempt to retake the _Friendship_ with half a dozen men, Captain Endicott, after touching at the promontory to pick up the four sailors who had jumped overboard, regretfully laid his course for Muckie, Po Adam’s capital, twenty miles down the coast. As he departed there rang in his ears the exultant shouts of the Malays who were looting his beloved vessel. Turning, he shook his fist in the direction of Qualla Battoo. “I’ll come back again, my fine fellows,” he muttered, “and when I do you’ll wish to Heaven that you’d never touched Americans.”

Reaching Muckie late that night, the refugees were overjoyed to find in the harbor three American merchantmen. No sooner had Endicott told his story to their commanders than they resolved to attempt the recapture of the _Friendship_, for they recognized the fact that, once the natives found that they could attack with impunity a vessel flying the stars and stripes, no American would be safe upon those coasts. This, remember, was in the days when we had no Asiatic squadron and when Americans doing business in that remote quarter of the globe had, in large measure, to settle such scores for themselves. There have, indeed, been hundreds of occasions on these far-distant seaboards, which the historians have either forgotten, or of which they have never known, when American merchant sailors engaged in as desperate actions and fought with as reckless courage against overwhelming odds as did ever the men who wore the navy blue. This was one of those occasions. In those days, when the fewness of prowling gunboats offered the pirates of Malaysia many opportunities to ply their trade, all merchantmen venturing into those waters went armed, and their crews were as carefully trained in cutlass drill and the handling of guns as they were in boat drill and in handling the sails. Therefore, notwithstanding the fact that their combined crews numbered barely half a hundred men, the three American ships which the next morning bore down on Qualla Battoo were not to be despised.

To the message sent by the American captains to the rajah of Qualla Battoo demanding the immediate surrender of the _Friendship_, he returned the insolent reply: “Why don’t you come and take her--if you can?” As soon as this message was received, the American vessels ran in to the shore as close as they dared and, bringing every gun to bear, opened fire upon the town, the forts at Qualla Battoo, which mounted several heavy guns, replying without effect. Though the bombardment destroyed a number of native huts, the American commanders quickly recognized that it was doing no serious harm and decided to get the business over with by making a boat attack on the _Friendship_ and retaking her at the point of the cutlass. Three boats were accordingly lowered and, loaded with sailors armed to the teeth and eager to avenge their countrymen, steered toward the _Friendship_, whose bulwarks were black with Malays. As the boats drew within range the Malays, who were armed with muskets of an antiquated pattern, greeted them with a heavy fire; several of the crews dropped forward, wounded, and for a moment the progress of the boats was checked. “Give way, men! Give way all!” bellowed the officers, and, thus steadied, the sailors bent again to their oars. As they swung alongside the _Friendship_ the sailors at the bow and stern of each boat held it in place with boat-hooks, while the crews, pistols in their belts and cutlasses between their teeth, swarmed up the side in obedience to the order: “Boarders up and away!” They may have been amateurs at the business, these merchant seamen, but they did the job as though they were seasoned man-of-war’s men with “U. S.” stamped in gilt upon their hatbands. There have been few more gallant or daring actions in the history of the sea, for the boarders numbered less than twoscore men all told, and awaiting them on the decks above were three hundred desperate and well-armed natives. Though bullets and arrows and javelins were rained down upon them, the Americans went up the side with the agility of monkeys; though the Malays slashed at them with scimitars and _krises_ and lunged at them with spears, the seamen, their New England fighting blood now thoroughly aroused, would not be denied. Scrambling over the bulwarks, they fairly hewed their way into the mass of brown men, hacking, stabbing, shooting, cursing, cheering--a line of grim-faced fighters sweeping forward as remorselessly as death. Before the ferocity of their attack the Malays, courageous though they were, became panic-stricken, broke, and ran, until, within five minutes after the Americans had set foot upon the _Friendship’s_ decks, such of the enemy as were not dead or wounded had leaped overboard and were swimming for the shore. Upon examining the vessel, Captain Endicott found that she had been rifled of everything that was portable, including twelve thousand dollars in coin. Even the copper bolts had been taken from her timbers and everything that could not be taken away had been wantonly destroyed. So great was the havoc that had been wrought that it was impossible to continue the voyage; so, after effecting temporary repairs at Muckie, Captain Endicott and the survivors of his crew sailed for home and, with the exception of one of them, out of this story.

If the rajah of Qualla Battoo had been acquainted with the manner of man who at this time occupied the White House, he would probably have thought twice before he molested an American vessel. With far less provocation than that given by the Malays, Andrew Jackson had virtually exterminated the powerful nation of the Creeks; defying the power of Spain, he had invaded the Floridas, captured Spanish forts, seized Spanish towns, and executed Spanish subjects. In fact, he was the very last man who could be affronted with impunity by any sovereign--much less by the ruler of an insignificant state in Malaysia. When the news of the attack on the _Friendship_ and the murder of her American sailors reached Washington, the 44-gun frigate _Potomac_, Captain John Downes, lay in New York harbor waiting to convey Martin Van Buren, the newly appointed minister to the court of St. James, to England. But Jackson, who always wanted quick action, ordered Captain Downes to sail immediately for Sumatran waters and teach the Malays that, merely because they happened to dwell at the antipodes, they could not escape American retribution.

On the 6th of February, 1832--a year to a day after the treacherous attack on the _Friendship_--the _Potomac_ appeared off Qualla Battoo. As Captain Downes had planned to give the Qualla Battooans as much of a surprise as they had given Captain Endicott, he ordered the guns run in, the ports closed, the topmasts housed, and the Danish colors displayed, so that to the untrained native eye the big frigate would have the appearance of an unsuspecting merchantman. Even the officers and men who were sent in a whale-boat to take soundings and to choose a place for a landing were dressed in the nondescript garments of merchant sailors, so that the hundreds of Malays who lined the shore did not hesitate to threaten them with their weapons. John Barry, the second mate of the _Friendship_, had come with the expedition as a guide and from the whale-boat he had indicated to the officers the mouth of the river, where a landing could be effected with comparative ease. Everything being in readiness, Captain Downes issued orders that the landing would take place at midnight. The fact was impressed upon every one that if the Qualla Battooans were to be taken by surprise, the strictest silence must be observed. At the hour appointed, the men assembled at the head of the gangway on the side away from the town and, at the whispered order, noiselessly took their places in the waiting boats. Through a fragrance-laden darkness, under a purple-velvet sky, the line of boats pulled silently for the shore, the occasional creak of an oar-lock or the clank of a cutlass being drowned by the thunder of the surf. As the keels grated on the beach, the men jumped out and formed into divisions in the darkness, the boats, with enough men to handle them, being directed to remain outside the line of breakers until they were needed. No time was lost in forming the column, which was composed of a company of marines, a division of seamen, a division of musketeers and pikemen, and another division of seamen, the rear being brought up by a gun crew dragging a six-pounder which the sailors had dubbed the “Betsy Baker.”

The Qualla Battooans, who were far from being on good terms with the neighboring tribes, had encircled their town with a chain of forts consisting of high stockades of sharpened teakwood logs loopholed for musketry. In the centre of each of these stockaded enclosures stood a platform raised on stilts to a height of fifteen or twenty feet, from which swivel-guns could sweep an attacking force and to which the defenders could retreat for a last desperate stand in case an enemy should succeed in taking the stockade. Barry, who was well acquainted with the defenses of the town, had drawn a map indicating the position of the various forts, so, as soon as the debarkation was completed, the divisions marched off to take up their positions in front of the forts which they had been designated to capture. To Lieutenant Huff, commanding the division of musketeers and pikemen, had been assigned the taking of the fort on the northern edge of the town, which was garrisoned by a strong force of Malays under Rajah Maley Mohammed, one of the most powerful chieftains on the west coast of Sumatra. As the Americans stealthily approached in the hope of taking the garrison by surprise, their presence was discovered by a sentry and an instant later flame spurted from every loophole in the stockade as the defenders opened fire. The Yankee sailors paused only long enough to pour in a single volley and then, their bugles screaming the charge, raced for the stockade gate. It was built of solid teak and defied the efforts of the sailors to batter it down with their axes; whereupon a marine dashed forward with a bag of powder, a fuse was hastily attached and lighted, and when the smoke of the ensuing explosion cleared away the gates had disappeared. Through the breach thus made, the Americans poured and an instant later were at hand-grips with the enemy. For twenty minutes the struggle within the stockade was a bloody one, for the Malays fought with the courage of desperation, asking no quarter and giving none. But their numbers were unavailing against the discipline and determination of the Americans, who, by a series of rushes, drove the enemy before them until they finally retreated to the shelter of their high platform, drawing the ladders up after them. Now the struggle entered upon its most desperate phase, for the defenders, anticipating no mercy, prepared to sell their lives at the highest possible price. From the bamboo poles of which the huts were built the dexterous sailors quickly improvised ladders and, rushing forward under cover of a heavy rifle fire, planted them against the platform on all four sides. Then, while the riflemen picked off every defender who ventured to expose himself, the sailors swarmed up the ladders, firing their pistols pointblank into the savage faces which glared down upon them from the platform’s edge. It was a perilous feat, this assault by ladders on a platform held by a desperate and dangerous foe, but its very daring made it successful, and almost before the Malays realized what had happened the Americans had gained the platform and were at their throats. It was all over save the shouting. Those of the warriors who were not despatched by the sailors leaped from the platform only to be shot by the Americans below. It was a bloody business. The rajah fought with the ferocity of a Sumatran tiger, even after he was dying from a dozen wounds, slashing with his scimitar at every American who came within reach, until a bayonet thrust from a marine sent him to the Moslem paradise. As he fell, a young and beautiful woman, who, from her dress, was evidently one of his wives, sprang forward and, snatching up the scimitar which had dropped from his nerveless fingers, attacked the Americans like a wildcat, laying open one man’s head and slicing off the thumb of another. The sailors, loath to fight a woman--particularly one so young and lovely--fell back in momentary confusion, but as they attempted to surround her, she weakened from loss of blood caused by a stray bullet, the scimitar fell from her hand, and she fell forward dead across the body of her husband.