Our Rather Dismal Procession Started At Seven, Mr.
Hayward Leading The Way, Carrying A Torch Made Of Strips Of Palm
Branches bound tightly together and dipped in gum dammar, a most
inflammable resin; then a policeman; the sick girl, moaning
And
stumbling, leaning heavily on her sister and me; Babu, who had grown
very plucky; a train of policemen carrying our baggage; and lastly,
several torch-bearers, the torches dripping fire as we slowly and
speechlessly passed along. It looked like a funeral or something
uncanny. We crawled dismally for fully three-quarters of a mile to cut
off some considerable windings of the river, crossed a stream on a
plank bridge, and found our boat lying at a very high pier with a
thatched roof.
The mystery of night in a strange place was wildly picturesque; the
pale, greenish, undulating light of fireflies, and the broad, red
waving glare of torches flashing fitfully on the skeleton pier, the
lofty jungle trees, the dark, fast-flowing river, and the dark, lithe
forms of our half-naked boatmen.
The prahu was a flattish-bottomed boat about twenty-two and a half feet
long by six and a half feet broad, with a bamboo gridiron flooring
resting on the gunwale for the greater part of its length. This was
covered for seven feet in the middle by a low, circular roof, thatched
with attap. It was steered by a broad paddle loosely lashed, and poled
by three men who, standing at the bow, planted their poles firmly in
the mud and then walked half-way down the boat and back again.
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