A Royal Smuggler: The Adventures of Two Boys in the Indian Archipelago

“News from Uncle Adam!” cried my brother Martin, as the maid, one morning, placed upon the breakfast-table a letter, bearing a foreign postmark; and the words are still fresh in my memory, for that epistle influenced the fates of my father, brother, and myself. It was addressed to our parent, in reply to one he had sent to Batavia, some twelve months before.

“My dear brother Claud,” it ran, “I have received yours, containing the sad intelligence of the death of your poor wife, and the almost simultaneous loss of your fortune, through the failure of that rogue of a banker. I will not, however, waste time in words of condolence, but at once proceed to business. Well, you are poor—I am rich; you have no occupation—I have too much. You are young—I am getting old; for there are many years’ difference in our ages. Thus, in more ways than one, we may assist each other. I can help you with money, and you can help brother Adam by employing your energies in his commercial affairs out here in Batavia. But, as deeds are better than words, I herewith inclose a draft, and beg that you will, with all convenient speed, take passage for yourself and my two nephews for this island.

“Yours, my dear brother, lovingly,

“Adam Blake.

“P.S.—I am sorry to add, that I cannot offer you and the boys a home in my house, as I am no longer a lonely man, my chief reason for marrying again being for the sake of my dear little Lip-lap, your niece.”

“Won’t it be a jolly voyage! How good of Uncle Adam!” cried Martin.

“A second wife,” murmured my father, sadly, as if pondering upon his own bereavement.

“I wonder,” said I, “what our cousin is like, and why Uncle calls her Lip-lap—Lip-lap, what can it mean?”

“A nickname given to the children of Americans born in Java, Claud,” answered my father.

“Queer,” said my brother. “But it is no matter what they call her so that she is pretty—I like pretty girls.”

“All of which we shall discover when we reach Java,” replied our father. “But now, boys, get you to your lessons, while I go to make inquiries about a ship.”

“I say, Claud, won’t it be jolly? Father will be rich again, and we shall grow up to be great merchants, like Uncle Adam, and have a cousin, too,” said Martin, merrily; but as the thought passed through his mind that the death of our dear mother had been caused chiefly by our father’s misfortunes, he burst into tears. “Oh! why did God take from us poor dear mamma? Why didn’t this letter come ever so many months ago, and she would have lived!”

Heaven knew that I had felt our loss as deeply as my brother; but for his sake, for the sake of my father, who had never smiled since her death, and who trembled at a word or a thing that brought it fresh again to his memory, I had struggled to suppress any sign of emotion at the chance mentioning of her name. Then, throwing my arms around his neck, I said (I believe with tears in my own eyes):

“Martin, it is wicked to be ever recurring to our loss, when you know how it shocks our father. Remember, mamma is in heaven, and happy.”

“I know it is wicked, but I cannot help it—I won’t help it—I never will stop talking of dear mamma!” and the passionate boy ran from the sitting-room into our sleeping-chamber, and, throwing himself upon the bed, sought relief in a good cry.

Since our mother’s death, such outbreaks of grief had been common with my warm-hearted but impulsive brother. Our uncle’s letter, however, produced a good effect upon his mind, by directing his thoughts to the active, perhaps adventurous, life which seemed before us. But unfortunately we had to wait six months before we could get a ship—a loss of time that, as will be seen hereafter, materially influenced our future. Taking into account this delay, the six months for the coming of the letter, and a similar period for our outward voyage, it will be seen that a year and a half elapsed between the penning of our uncle’s invitation and our anchoring in the roadstead of Batavia. What unexpected events, what misfortunes, may happen in eighteen months! and they did happen.

Ominous, indeed, of misfortune was the night of our arrival in the island. It was the latter end of October, the period of the monsoons. My brother and I were well-nigh frightened to death, most assuredly we never expected to reach the land, for the elements were at war. The sea rose in mountainous heights; the horizon was spread with vast sheets of livid flame; the thunder shook both heaven and earth; and the wind, as it rushed inland in its fury, uprooted the largest trees, and toppled down the huts of peasants and the warehouses of the merchants in the lower town. It was a mercy, indeed, that even the great pier which forms the harbor of Batavia should have escaped.