CHAPTER XI
WHAT BEFELL KIRKE AFTER HIS ESCAPE
Kirke had hurried away from Moulmein as fast as he could walk. He knewthat he must make his way northward but there all his knowledge ceased.
He had plenty of English gold with him, for he carried his money in abelt round his waist, and thus had saved it when he lost all else in hishaste to leave the burning ship.
But though he had gold, he had nothing else, nor could he speak a wordof the language.
So great was his desperation, however, that he cared nothing for this.He walked on and on, till he arrived at a small village, where, thoughit was in the middle of the night, the people were all out and aboutstill.
Some girls were squatting behind a lamp blazing in an earthen vesselraised upon three pieces of bamboo. They were smoking--like everyoneelse--and selling sweetmeats and rice.
Kirke made signs that he wished to buy some, and offered a George IV.coin.
The girls stared at him and his money, jabbered together, and shooktheir heads. He did not understand them; but, supposing that they madesome mistake as to the value of the coin, not recognising it as gold,produced another piece. He was naturally reckless of money, and nowwanted food, and silver change with which to proceed on his way.
The girls laughed, nodded, took the second coin, which had the Queen'shead on it, and gave him Indian silver change in profusion for it,besides rice in a red bowl, fruit, and sweetmeats, for which theyreserved a small amount; but they would not have the coin with the man'shead.
Kirke could not comprehend their objection to it, which really was theiridea that only "woman coins" fructify and increase, but he was satisfiedwith the result of his shopping, and proceeded on his way.
His road seemed to lie between a chain of villages; and, fearful ofbeing overtaken upon it, where he would be so easily recognised andcaught, he turned off towards the coast again, soon coming to a stream,across which a man in a canoe took him.
The sun was now high, and he tried to find a place where he might liedown and sleep. With some difficulty he made the boatman understand whathe wanted, and take him to a hut, where they spread a mat for him with arug, and he took a long rest.
He could purchase nothing except rice and fruit upon awaking, but theowner of the hut offered oil and salt with the former, and someunutterable abomination of putrid fish, which he called "ngape," andwhich he seemed surprised to find rejected with disgust.
When the heat of the day was over, his host offered milk and more rice,from which Kirke made a second meal. He would have liked strongerliquor, but could not make himself understood. He then obtained a seatin a native bullock-cart, neither knowing nor caring where it was going,so that it was still northwards, and not to any English station.
So he wandered for some days, aimlessly and drearily, with no objectbefore him, no one to speak to, no settled plan of action. By degrees hebecame used to this existence; youth restored his energies, he becameless afraid of pursuit, learnt a few Burmese words, and liked this lifeso full of new sights and sounds. He came to a large river, the courseof which he followed upwards for several days, for the rapids in itcaused all the people to shake their heads when he tried to get ferriedacross.
He succeeded at last, and congratulated himself now upon being safe, buthere his luck deserted him.
He found that there was gold to be got in this place; and from thecontemptuous air with which the people turned over his coin, and the fewflat flakes which they showed him in return, chiefly worn as amulets, hegathered that their gold was considered much purer than his, but he didnot seem able to find any of it for himself.
The people also evidently endeavoured to dissuade him from wanderingabout alone, making him understand that there was danger from wildbeasts in so doing. This was a hindrance which had never before occurredto him, but was a very sufficient obstacle.
The weather was extremely sultry now, and there had been several violentthunderstorms. The place was mountainous, and the valleys between thehills grew very wet. To his surprise the ground never seemed to dry up;though after a tremendous storm, when the sun blazed out again, itpositively steamed, as a pot of water might steam over a fire.
The storms became more frequent, the deluges of rain heavier and moreconstant, the valleys fuller and fuller of water. All wandering was atan end perforce, except in canoes. The people expressed no surprise,they appeared to be prepared for such a state of things. They all hadboats of some kind or other; old and young, men and women, wereevidently familiar with their management. The huts were raised uponpiles, in some places twelve feet high; even their bullocks and otherlive stock were stabled aloft, and the stench from their closeaccommodation was all but insufferable.
The children fished through holes in the floors of the huts; every foulrefuse was simply upset through them; all objects were damp andill-smelling.
The poor people were very hospitable and kind. They gave Kirke of theirbest, charging him incredibly small sums for his keep. There was nogetting away until the floods abated, but life under such unhealthyconditions was what none but a native could withstand; and in spite ofincessantly smoking, as they did, Kirke had not been two months in thevillage where the rains had surprised him, before he was down in araging fever.
There he lay, in that secluded Burmese village, struggling between lifeand death for a long time. His constitution had been severely tried byhis early excesses, and had he not passed some months upon enforcedabstinence from alcohol on board the poor _Pelican of the North_, sothat he had, in some measure, been restored to a more healthy state ofbody, it is doubtful whether it would have been possible for him to havefought through the terrible fever, which had been induced by hardshipand exposure to malaria.
His chief chance of life lay in the continuance of the impossibility ofobtaining stimulants where he was. The Burmese are a water drinkingrace; and although they do distil a pernicious fiery liquor from rice,it is not much used, or easily procured, in such out-of-the-way placesas those into which he had wandered.
Medical science is very imperfectly understood among this people; andwhen his host fetched a native doctor for the sick stranger, he broughtwith him such strange-looking compounds in gaily-painted joints ofbamboo canes, that Kirke could not bring himself to trust them any morethan the charms, in which the village Galen evidently possessed morefaith himself. Perhaps this was well for him, but he was brought to theverge of the grave before the constantly recurring attacks of ague andfever gradually subsided. And oh, how lonely he felt as he lay on hisbed of sickness now!
God seemed to have forsaken him; left him to his own stubborn, hardheart, and allowed him to take his own way.
But not in reality. Lonely, suffering, weak, with no one to speak to,none to care for him, none to help him, his hour had come at last.Broken in spirit, he repented his evil courses, he sought his God inprayer, and his Father did not despise his humble and contrite heart.
Exhausted by the struggle through the morning's rigor which attended hiscomplaint, he lay prone one day, in what was half sleep, halfunconsciousness, on his mat.
A pleasant breeze had sprung up, which rustled the branches of thetrees, and wafted towards him the scent of flowers, overpowering that ofrotting vegetation which always seemed to pervade everything. It broughtwith it also the gentle tinkle of bells from a pagoda upon a risingground in this valley. In his half awake state, he fancied he smelt theGloire de Dijon roses that grew round the drawing-room bay window in hisfather's rectory, and heard the church bells ringing afar off, callingthe villagers to the Sabbath service.
He remembered how, as a little child, he had been led by his gentlemother's hand through the pleasant garden and shrubbery, to the gatewhich opened thence into the churchyard heaped with grassy mounds. Amongthem was a little white marble cross, over the grave of his baby sisterwho had died. His mother stayed her feet at this place, and laid beforeit the pure white rosebud which she had plucked as they went over thelawn. A tear ran down her chee
k as she did so.
"Jamie," said she, "little Leonora would have been five years old to-dayif God had spared her to us. Oh, my dear little girl, my dear littlelost one!"
His father had come up to them. "Not lost, wifey," said he,--"not lost,but gone before."
Why did he recall all this now, when he had never thought about thescene for so long. His mother had gone before too, ten years ago. He haddespised his father's simple piety because he was not intellectual. Hehad scoffed at his attempts to teach him, scorned his affectionatenature, neglected him for pleasures and friends which had brought him tothis.
What had he done with his stronger mind, his superior talents? Hisfather was beloved, respected, a welcome visitor beside many a dyingsinner's bed. He himself was a fugitive, an outcast, alone in the world.
Pondering these thoughts, he fell asleep, for he was very weak. Hisslumber was not lengthy, nor did he seem to have dreamed through it; buthe started up from it suddenly, as at the call of a trumpet voice,shouting with triumph--
"Not lost, but found!"
Bewildered, confused, this voice seemed to him real. What did it mean?
All at once the barriers of pride gave way; there was no one to see him,and he turned his face to the wall, weeping bitterly.
A softer, better mood succeeded, and a stronger feeling of peace than hehad felt for long. He determined to remain in this place until he wasquite well; and did so, his health gradually returning to him.
Kirke's illness, and long residence among them, had been to these peopleas good as a wreck to the Cornish seaside population of old,--it hadbrought unusual prosperity to them. Small as their charges had appearedto him, they were really four times as high as the true value of thegoods supplied to him had been to them. The simple villager was nosimpleton when matters of trade and finance were in question; and, ifthey prayed at all, their petitions to Guadama, for years afterwards,would have been that the Lord of the White Elephant would be pleased tosend them another sick stranger.
He had paid royally for the medicines in those red and yellow bamboobottles, which the doctor had carried away again as full as he broughtthem. He had paid handsomely for the rice, the ngape, the pickled teawhich he could not eat, and over which his entertainers had enjoyed ahigh old time while their guest's butterfly soul was wandering about theworld, at sport with other butterfly spirits, leaving its lawful ownerunconscious upon his mat.
They were now reaping an abundant harvest, doubtless a part of the luckwhich their hospitality to the stranger had brought to them, and theywere rich. They did not want to be rid of their invalid,--not they. Nohospitality was more genuine than theirs.
If they could only conceal their riches from the knowledge of the dacoitchief,--who commanded his band of scoundrels from a neighbouring villageamong the hills at a little distance,--they might, should their treasureof a sick man recover,--and after all his money was spent, notbefore,--conduct him to the nearest English military station, and bepaid all over again by the innocent white-faced Thakins there for theirkindness to their countryman.
So the virtuous Burman sang and laughed over his work, in his simple_gaite du coeur_; and gathered the jungle flowers and fruit which costhim nothing at all, but which the Thakin would doubtless be so gratefulto them for bringing to him.
And Kirke lay pondering as to what course he must pursue when he shouldrecover.
In the first instance he must write to his father, confess his sense ofthe sins which he had committed, and ask pardon for his conduct.
But, after that, what? Would it be necessary to give himself up toEnglish justice, and to permit the law to take its way with him for hisattempt to lose the raft? That would be a very bitter pill to him,--mustit be swallowed? At anyrate, moving was impossible at present, though hewas recovering fast; that question must wait, but he could write to hisfather and keep the letter by him, waiting for some chance of sendingit. He would be more at peace with himself were the confession made onpaper, even were no one ever to read it. He would feel more in earnestas to his repentance.
Many days were spent over that letter, and it was a very pathetic onewhen finished, for it was simple and manly in its tone. In it heconfessed his sorrow for his past life, and his hope that he might bespared to redeem it, in some measure, by his future career. "If I can,"he wrote, "I would wish to get something to do here, rather than returnhome. I would like to prove to you that I can and will work hard at somehonest employment before asking you to receive me into your presenceagain. I am recovering from a severe attack of jungle fever, and Icannot say where I shall go, or what I must do when I can move; but ifyou forgive me, please write to the Herfords' house in Rangoon, fromwhence I will endeavour to obtain letters as soon as may be. I hope thatGod will give me a fresh chance; but if I die, will you try to believethat I am truly sorry for the past."
He wrote and rewrote this letter, now fearing that it did not expressenough humility and contrition, then dreading lest it should seemservile; but he completed it at last, and laid it carefully aside.