not look half as dangerous as a Turkish cimeter; yet it has a history that would
put that of the tomahawk or the scalping-knife to shame. Many a fat Chinaman,
trading between the Java islands and Amoy, has felt its keen edge at his throat
and seen his rich cargo of spices and bird’s-nests rifled, his beloved Joss thrown
overboard, and his queer old junk burnt before his eyes. Many a Dutch and
English merchantman sailed from Batavia and Bombay in the days of the old
East India Company and has never more been heard of until some mutilated
survivor returned with a harrowing tale of Malay piracy and of the lightning-like
work of the dreaded kris.
I do not know whether my kris has ever taken life or not. Had it done so, I do not
think the Sultan would have given it to me, for a kris becomes almost priceless
after its baptism of blood. It is handed down from generation to generation, and
its sanguine history becomes a part of the education of the young. Next to his
Koran the kris is the most sacred thing the Malay possesses. He regards it with
an almost superstitious reverence. My kris is dear to me, not from any
superstitious reasons, but because it was given me by his Highness, the Sultan of
Johore, the only independent sovereign on the peninsula, and because the gold of
its sheath came from the jungle-covered slopes of Mount Ophir.