We are really in the heart of a small archipelago. All about us are verdure-
covered islands. They are now the homes of native fishermen, but a century ago
they were hiding-places for the fierce Malayan pirates whose sanguinary deeds
made the peninsula a byword in the mouths of Europeans.
A rocky beach extends about the island proper, contracting and expanding as the
tide rises and falls. On this beach a hundred and one varieties of shells glisten in
the salt water, exposing their delicate shades of coloring to the rays of the sun.
Coral formations of endless design and shape come to view through the limpid
spectrum, forming a perfect submarine garden of wondrous beauty. Through the
shrubs, branches, ferns, and sponges of coral, the brilliantly colored fish of the
Southern seas sport like goldfish in some immense aquarium.
We draw out our chairs within the protection of the almond tree, and watch the
sun sink slowly to a level with the masts of a bark that is bound for Java and the
Bornean coasts. The black, dead lava of our island becomes molten for the time,
and the flakes of salt left on the coral reef by the outgoing tide are filled with
suggestions of the gold of the days of ’49. A faint breeze rustles among the long,
fan-like leaves of the palm, and brings out the rich yellow tints with their
background of green. A clear, sweet aroma comes from out the almond tree. The
red sun and the white sheets of the bark sail away together for the Spice Islands
of the South Pacific.
We sleep in a room in the heart of the lighthouse. The stairway leading to it is so
steep that we find it necessary to hold on to a knotted rope as we ascend.
Hundreds of little birds, no larger than sparrows, dash by the windows, flying
into the face of the gale that rages during the night, keeping up all the time a
sharp, high note that sounds like wind blowing on telegraph wires.
Every morning, at six o’clock, Ah Ming clambers up the perpendicular stairway,
with tea and toast. We swallow it hurriedly, wrap a sarong about us, and take a
dip in the sea, the while keeping our eyes open for sharks. Often, after a bath,
while stretched out in a long chair, we see the black fins of a man-eater cruising
just outside the reef. I do not know that I ever hit one, but I have used a good
deal of lead firing at them.
One morning we started on an exploring expedition, in the keeper’s jolly-boat. It
was only a short distance to the first island, a small rocky one, with a bit of