Day?
The camp was full of great concern the following morning as the news that Tilat and his party had failed to return began to circulate.
Rumours that the men had been captured or even killed by the Dutch or the British armies spread like wildfire and the glare of mistrust began to return to the faces of the Ghadar whenever they looked in my direction. The conversations that we had enjoyed and the manner in which I had convinced them of my sympathy towards their cause now seemed to count for nothing. Furthermore, I seemed to have lost the freedom of movement that I had recently enjoyed. Everywhere that I went, every turn that I made, was now being shadowed by one or even two armed guards and I prayed for Tilat’s safe and prompt return.
By dusk those tensions had reached fever pitch and as their looks of mistrust transformed into glares of hostility I began to regret not having made good my escape at the time when I had been presented with the best opportunity. Eventually the moment arrived when the men, now lacking strong leadership and guidance, decided to vent their fear and anger against me without waiting for their leader’s return.
My harsh bonds were now re-employed and any resistance that I had offered was greeted with sharp blows to my head and body. I was on the point of being dragged away to an unknown fate when a series of loud and joyous cries went up from the guards who had been stationed around the perimeter of the camp.
Flanked by his followers and appearing to be none the worse for his protracted stay in the highlands, Tilat strode purposefully into the camp. He fiercely berated those who had been responsible for trussing me up and then demanded my immediate release. Whilst my bonds were untied both Tilat and I were offered numerous mumbled apologies for the aggressive actions taken against me. These intensified once Tilat explained that the Dutch presence had been brought about by the flight of refugees escaping from the burning city of Aceh. This was a matter of which he was convinced I was totally ignorant.
Tilat assured us that at no time had he and his men been in any danger, as they had been observing the movements of the Dutch from a safe and secluded distance. The delay in returning to camp was brought about by their having decided to take a wide and circular route and Tilat’s desire to confirm that the Dutch were moving in a direction well away from the camp. He was now satisfied that this was so.
He placed a reassuring arm around my shoulder and promised to continue with our conversations the following morning.
Day?
Tilat was as good as his word; during the course of the day the subject of our conversations turned more and more towards his unique form of silat.
I was enthralled to learn that the origins of silat could be traced back to ancient times and that its original inspiration was taken from nature itself. Various Buddhist monks, who had undertaken missionary voyages to the islands, had developed many martial arts and over 1,200 years ago introduced pentjak silat to Sumatra.
The movements of various animals were at its very core, in Tilat’s case those of the Sumatran rat monkey; many of these had been individually named, poetically. As a consequence the criteria of perfection in silat are to be able to attack, but more especially to defend, with poise and with extraordinary skill.
Remarkably, silat spread and developed to such an extent that by the 1870s, when colonization was well under way, the Dutch saw fit to outlaw the use and practice of silat, as they regarded it as a significant threat to their progress. Obviously this explained the fact that much of the practice is undertaken at night time and it can also explain why so many of the movements are carried out close to the ground and in a dancelike motion. Thus may its true and deadly intention be disguised.
I therefore concluded that the current interest of the Dutch in the activities at the Temple of the Three Deities was more to do with the stories of deadly silat practitioners that were now circulating, and had nothing at all to do with Tilat’s true political intentions!
During the course of various demonstrations, which Tilat performed with some of his more senior lieutenants, the graceful, almost balletic movements were more remarkable than the deadlier intents of this form. However the latter soon became obvious, especially in the deadly palm strike, which was of particular interest to me.
Tilat refused to train me in its use as I was so sadly lacking in the essential cultural, spiritual and mental training. Then, of course, there were the physical techniques to learn: tumbling safely, kicking, blocking, all to be performed with sublime agility. Tilat could not devote sufficient time to my training whilst his group were under constant threat of discovery and destruction. Besides which, his plans for returning to India were now well advanced and his cohorts there were beseeching him to make a speedy return to rally his people.
Therefore I spent the majority of my time in meditation and in trying to acquire the martial techniques and the special movements that I had so far observed. I was particularly interested in the unusual, low-stance throws that had been adapted from the movements of small monkeys.
Some of these had evolved from the Hindu grappling techniques that I heard about years before, during my first visit to the Indian highlands and I discovered that the style, unique to western Sumatra, had been used by warriors during the early fighting against the Dutch invaders. During the course of the ensuing weeks, as a result of constant practice and hard work, I began to achieve some substantial progress.
Yet I was becoming uneasy.
On the evening that he had returned from his scouting mission, Tilat had given us assurances regarding the troop movements of the Dutch. Nonetheless, during the course of the past few days, I had noticed an increase in the number of the perimeter guards. I interrupted the course of one of our evening conversations by raising this matter, and with some concern.
At first Tilat laughed off these anxieties of mine, attributing them to my imagination. He even surmised that they might be due, in part, to the intense training that I had been subjecting myself to, of late. However, he knew me well enough by this time to realize that I was not to be put off by such explanations, and he then regarded me with a gravity that chilled me to the core.
His next action took my breath away. He picked up the beladau, ensured that it was tied securely in its pouch, then handed it to me as if he was a mother relinquishing her newborn child. The meaning behind this sacrifice of his was clear. However, he explained that it was now imperative that he break camp immediately and lead his men back to India, before his plans were in full readiness. The Dutch presence was heavier and more threatening than he had previously calculated and his people, encamped just south of Aceh, would lend their aid in effecting his premature exodus.
However, despite these precautions, he felt that it was imperative that the beladau did not fall into the wrong hands. He had planned an escape route for me, which could only be followed safely by a single person. He knew that I would guard the beladau with my life and that one day he would come to England to reclaim it.
He admitted that my escape would be fraught with danger, but that to remain could be more perilous still. He ignored all of my objections to his plan, for I felt that the immense trust that he was placing in me was perhaps unjustified. As if to signify that further arguments would be futile, he proceeded to wrap the beladau in the folds of his ceremonial cape; this package was further protected with some oilskin. He then outlined his plan for my escape.
The Final Day!
To my surprise Tilat confessed to me that his men had discovered my boat within just a few days of my arrival. I laughed at my inept attempts at camouflaging it. Nonetheless, his men were now preparing it with supplies and reinforcements so that it could withstand the ordeal that lay ahead. This work was now close to completion and Tilat advised me to depart immediately it was done. He could not be certain how far away the Dutch were and any delay could prove fatal.
We spent those last hours together, with Tilat divulging to me further secrets of the art of silat, of a depth and nature that he had never passe
d on to another living soul. We then meditated together in the spiritual tranquillity of his sanctum. During the course of this I glanced up at the man whom I now regarded as a brother, and wondered when we might next enjoy such a moment together.
Then word came that my boat was now ready to depart. There was no news of the Dutch or of their immediate whereabouts. The timing of my departure could not have been better set. Tilat and I bowed solemnly to each other and my other farewells were equally brief and formal. Last of all I ensured that the beladau was safely on board before my boat was launched once more upon the waters of Lake Toba.
As I rowed slowly away from the Temple of the Three Deities my head was throbbing as I considered the magnitude of the task and trials that now lay ahead of me. For surely was I not being entrusted with the very symbol of Hindu civilization and the talisman of Indian freedom?! Furthermore, was it not more feasible that Tilat and his men had a better chance to make good their escape than I had?
By the time I had travelled a good half-mile or so, the answer to this last question could be heard echoing towards me from the direction of the Ghadar camp. There was no mistaking the sound of volley after volley of rifle fire. Gradually the frequency of these decreased and I wondered if this was a result of there being diminished resistance from the Ghadar. Perhaps they had been successful in repelling the Dutch assault? Had Tilat made good his escape before the arrival of the Dutch?
Of course, I had no way of knowing; my first reaction to those distant sounds of battle was to turn my craft around and return to the place from where it had been launched. After I had travelled for little more than a hundred yards in that direction, I realized the futility and stupidity of my reaction. I stopped rowing again and just sat there, motionless in the water. On the one hand I felt as if I were betraying my friend; on the other, if I decided to return to his camp, I would be jeopardizing all of his aspirations and only for the sake of making an empty gesture.
I turned the boat around once more and decided to follow Tilat’s directions. The sounds of rifle fire began to fade into the distance and a pillar of grey smoke rising up from the scene of battle told me that the camp of the Ghada movement was no more! However, the fate of its occupants and its leader was impossible for me to divine at this time, perhaps for ever.
So, my dear boy, I perused Tilat’s detailed map and immediately struck out for the north west extremity of Lake Toba. As I have already mentioned, this great lake measures a full fifty miles from east to west. Consequently, as you might well imagine, it was several days before I was able to reach the place where Tilat had directed that I should leave the lake. By this time my energies, as well as my supplies, were at low ebb and the only thoughts that now drove me on were of the unknown fate of Tilat and of his expectations of me.
I could see from the chart that, once again, I was about to take another seat within the lap of the gods! The place that Tilat had chosen for me was the head of another waterfall. These treacherous waters would cascade down into the Alas River. Should I survive that descent, I was destined to spend another indeterminable length of time in meandering through limestone gorges and lush jungles, until the moment that the river transformed into a different kind of beast altogether.
As I was drawn ever closer to Sumatra’s west coast, the river’s gradient would become more extreme. Plunging rapids would follow one after another, until their force would become almost non-negotiable. At the end, when the river eventually spilt out into the Indian Ocean, I would find myself within easy reach of the coastal town of Meulaboh.
The harbour there was of such a depth as to preclude a ship of the size that might have provided me with a passage back to England. However, the occasional mail packet ship provided Meulaboh with some outside contact, and a means by which I might dispatch my papers. But, as I sat there on Lake Toba, still contemplating my next action, I decided not to entrust the beladau to such a fragile vessel. I would proceed with it, still in my precarious possession, until I should reach the more significant port of Banda Aceh.
Impossible!
I had not even given consideration to the fact that, as I still sat there deliberating with myself, the Dutch might already be in pursuit of me. Neither had I given any thought of my securing a passage for myself from Aceh without a penny or any belongings to my name! How was I to negotiate my way through the intense, continual fighting that still raged between the Dutch and the stubborn Aceh Sultanate, as I made my way towards the port? Impossible!
I was on the point of hurling Tilat’s charts and instruction into the lake when I realized the high esteem in which he held me. The fact that he regarded me as capable of succeeding made the undertaking seem more than worthwhile. Should I fail? Well, I have surely lived a thousand lifetimes…!
As you have, no doubt, already realized, I have long since given up any thought of providing precise dates to these records of mine, such as they are, and I can only trust that you might understand the process of my shifting loyalties and priorities.
Should we ever have the opportunity to meet once again, my son, I trust that I might be able to look you squarely in the eye and not see pain and disappointment reflected back into my own. Perhaps Tilat’s secret was supposed to have died with me all along? Perhaps the loss of the beladau will eventually lead to continuing peace and prosperity in a British ruled India? I am not certain that it is even appropriate for one such as I to weigh these lofty considerations. But such is my fate.
Notes
(1) ‘Barisans’ – A range of mountains over-looking Lake Toba in Northern Sumatra
CHAPTER EIGHT
REFLECTIONS ON A CONSULTATION
Daniel Collier concluded reading from his father’s epic journals. As he breathlessly uttered those last poignant words, he allowed the crumpled sheets to fall limply to the floor.
He sank back into his chair as the colour visibly drained away from his already grey and gaunt face and the emotion was plain to see in his eyes. I jumped up immediately and poured him out a large cognac which I handed to him together with a cigarette. He gratefully took both from me, then slowly turned towards Holmes in the hope of receiving some guidance and advice from my friend.
In this he was to be sadly disappointed. In fact, Holmes did not pass even a single comment as to the contents of the letter or its abrupt conclusion. He just stood there silently, by the window, with the stem of his unlit pipe pressed thoughtfully against his forehead.
‘Mr Collier, was there anybody in Cornwall to whom you divulged your destination in London and the reasons behind your visit?’ Holmes then asked suddenly and somewhat surprisingly.
Having just left his father in Sumatra, facing a precarious and unknown fate, Collier was visibly taken aback by a question that appeared so mundane and routine. He was still incapable of an immediate reply, so he lit his cigarette and took a substantial sip from his cognac.
‘Apart from my landlady in St Ives, Mrs Wakeham, there was not another living soul, Mr Holmes, I assure you.’
Holmes appeared to be satisfied by Collier’s answer.
‘Ah, St Ives! From where you were studying those neolithic “waiting stones” that seem to interest you so,’ Holmes surprisingly declared.
‘Holmes,’ I began cautiously, ‘I do not understand. After all that we have just heard, why do you seem to be so interested in Mr Collier’s landlady?’
Holmes turned sharply towards me. He appeared to be disappointed.
‘Watson!’ he snapped. ‘Surely you would know the answer to that question even better than I. We now know that it is most unlikely that we are the only people aware of our young friend’s presence here in London. That fact is of the utmost importance.’
‘I am certain that Mrs Wakeham would not have betrayed my confidence. Besides, I did not divulge, even to her, the true reason behind my coming here,’ Collier said defiantly.
‘Very likely not; however you must understand that her apparent betrayal has, in all likelihood, been purely i
nnocent. Why should she even think it necessary to withhold that information?’ Holmes asked.
Collier shook his head slowly by way of a reply.
‘Now, Mr Collier, I would suggest that you return immediately to your hotel in Russell Square, there to remain unless you receive word from either me or Doctor Watson to the contrary,’ Holmes instructed sternly.
‘Having now heard the conclusion to my father’s letters, have you no further comments to make or advice to impart to me?’ Collier asked, obviously feeling somewhat crestfallen.
‘Have all of your meals sent up to your room, from where you should not remove yourself under any pretext. However, should this prove to be unavoidable you should send a note to the green cab shelter on Russell Square or to the Hansom Cab public house, on the Earl’s Court road. Either of these addresses will find Dave “Gunner” King, soon enough.’ By now Holmes had moved away from the window and he placed his hand reassuringly upon Collier’s left shoulder.
Collier gazed up at Holmes as he asked: ‘In heaven’s name, Mr Holmes, who is Dave “Gunner” King?’
‘Save for Watson and I, he is the only man in London into whose care I would confidently entrust your life. On many occasions he has performed a most sterling service for me; quite often this has been far above the call of duty! Do not be deceived by his bluff, round-faced geniality, for it disguises a steely resolve and the heart of a warrior. Ha! Unless I am very much mistaken he has just pulled up outside our door in a four-wheeler!’ Holmes declared theatrically.
‘Ah, so it was to King that you so furtively dispatched that note earlier,’ I declared. ‘Yet surely, even so, you go too far in claiming to know the type of vehicle in which he has now arrived? You are nowhere near the window!’
Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 12