Zabiyaka clipper. Artist Valery Lensky. Photo: art-helicon.ru
A fabulous tropical night, following the sunset, almost suddenly fell over Batavia.1 And thanks to the breeze blowing in from the sea, it breathed a gentle cool that seemed such bliss after the scorching heat of the day. Myriads of stars sparkled in the sky, and the moon, round and full, poured its silvery light from the height of the velvety dark firmament, and floating slowly, seemed thoughtful and languid.
On that wonderful night, on the eve of the Nativity of Christ, a white cutter from the Zabiyaka (“Bully”) clipper, which stood four or five miles away from the roadstead, was waiting at one of the piers of the lower part of the city for the officers who were on shore.
This lower, “business” part of the city with offices, warehouses, shops, storehouses, and closely crowded houses inhabited only by natives—Malays and Mestizos—and Chinese newcomers, huddled almost by the sea teeming with sharks and caimans, in an unhealthy, damp and swampy area. The real owners of the island of Java, the Dutch, lived up on the mountain in European Batavia—a luxurious and clean city of elegant houses, villas and hotels, drowned in the dense greenery of gardens and parks, where giant palm trees towered. From there, from early dawn, business people walked down into the Malay quarter and at ten in the morning they were already coming back to their cool houses. The infernal heat made them stop their work, which resumed a few hours before sunset and ended at ten in the evening.
The busy and noisy daytime life in the Malay quarter quieted down. The lights in the small houses went out, and the narrow and dirty streets of the lower city, cut through by deadly canals, became deserted. There weren’t even any dark-skinned Malay “fairies” darting around the docks at night to tempt sailors of all nationalities who had not been ashore for a long time, with their very revealing outfits, expressive pantomimes, and the strong, unpleasant smell of coconut oil, which Malay women use lavishly, spreading it on their hair, hands, and necks. There were no people anywhere. Only occasionally, the huge paper lantern of a tardy peddler of all kinds of goods, a Chinese (this merchant class of almost the entire east, returning from the upper city, from the “barbarians”, to his home for rest), would flash out.
Somewhere nearby on the roadstead, on some ship, six bells struck—eleven o’clock. The natives were asleep. There was dead silence at the pier and far around—only the monotonous whisper of the sea surf could be heard, gently licking the viscous sand on the shore. Only at times this solemn, mysterious tranquility of the tropical night was suddenly broken by noisy splashes, when crocodiles, after a day’s sound sleep on the shallows under the piercing rays of sunshine, amused themselves in the water, catching prey.
And again, silence.
The Russian sailors from the Zabiyaka clipper, the cutter rowers, were all on the cutter, waiting for the officers. The moonlight fell on their white shirts and even on some of their faces. Several people stretched themselves under the rowing benches, sleeping soundly. A dark-haired young sailor looked thoughtfully and somehow questioningly now at the twinkling stars, then at the sparkling silver strip of the sea, apparently thinking about something serious, judging by his intensely stern face. At times, when splashes were heard, he started and looked at his comrades fearfully. Six or seven people gathered beside the stern, and sitting on the seats along the sides, were talking in a special, quiet manner, almost in a whisper, as if fearing to break the silence of that wondrous night and as if afraid of its eerie mystery. A puff of smoke from several pipes with the pungent smell of shag pleasantly tickled the chatting rowers’ nostrils.
Apart from the Russian cutter, there was not a single boat at the pier.
The sailors recalled Russia, the celebrations of the feast at home, and expressed the desire to return home as soon as possible—especially those who on their return expected to retire or at least take indefinite leave. They were already celebrating the Nativity of Christ in this “strange” and “hot” land for the third time... They were sick and tired of it... They longed to return home as soon as possible!
And despite a fairly good life, albeit full of dangers (on the clipper ship both the commander and the officers were decent people, and the sailors were not oppressed and were well-fed), each of the sailors was drawn there, to the north, to their faraway homeland with its troubles and need, with ramshackle wooden houses, pines and firs, snow and frost.
After those recollections everyone became quiet. Silence reigned for several minutes.
“Look... A star has fallen... And another one... Where are they falling, brothers?” the dark-haired sailor wondered in a low voice.
“Into the ocean—it is generally known. There’s nowhere else to fall!” an elderly robust sailor answered him in a confident tone.
“And if a star falls on the ground?” someone asked.
“It’s impossible, because everything will be destroyed. For this very reason God lets stars fall into the sea... It’s the right place for them to fall.”
The dark-haired sailor, apparently dissatisfied with this explanation, began to gaze at the sky again.
And the extraordinarily pleasant, deep voice of the stroke Yefremov started speaking:
“God punishes guilty stars... After all, stars rebel too... And a lot of them, brothers, are falling this night particularly...”
“Why, brother?” an elderly and burly sailor wondered in a provocative tone.
“Because, dear brother, they don’t rebel this night, but behave, because on this very night the Savior was born... This is a great night... Our mind can’t fathom it... And once you imagine that He was born in poverty, suffered for unfortunate people and died on the Cross, you realize that all our sorrows are nothing... They aren’t worth a mite!... Yes, brothers, this is a great night. And whoever offends a baby this night will be punished severely... That’s what a divine old man, a wanderer, told me. He said that this was all written in books...”
“How do you like that? You’re a sneaky one!... It’s muddying the waters!” someone said when a splash of water was heard nearby...
“Is that a crocodile?”
“Who else can it be?... Look—its head is above the water...”
Everyone’s eyes were fixed on one dot. In the moonlit strip of water the hideous black head of a caiman was visible, floating quietly not far from the cutter to the shore.
“There’re all sorts of vermin in these parts!... Crocodiles and accursed sharks... They say there is even a tiger in these forests as well... However, it seems our officers have been on the shore for too long, brothers... It’s almost midnight... And you, Zhivkov, why are you staring at the sky? Are you curious? It’s none of our business, brother!” the elderly and burly sailor said, addressing the dark-haired sailor.
At that moment, everybody suddenly heard a plaintive cry from the shore.
The sailors quieted down. One of them said, “It’s a baby crying...”
“Indeed it’s a baby... Somewhere in the vicinity... Listen, the hapless one is shedding floods of tears... He’s gotten lost or something...”
“There must be someone with him...”
The plaintive, helpless crying did not stop.
“Can anyone take the trouble to go and see?” the elderly and burly sailor remarked without moving.
“Who will go? The officers can return any moment, but there is no rower!” the petty officer, who was responsible for supervising junior sailors, said sternly.
“That’s true!” the burly sailor said.
“Can we leave the baby unattended on such a night?” the pleasant tenor voice of the stroke Yefremov rang out. “And what if it’s alone and without help?... It’s very bad, Yegorych…”
“I’ll be back in no time, Andrei Yegorych, I’ll just take a look at why!” the dark-haired sailor said excitedly. “Let me do it...”
“Well, go ahead... But watch out, Zhivkov, don’t get lost...”
“I’ll join him, Yegorych!” Yefremov said.
And both sailors jumped out of the cutter and ran along the deserted shore towards the crying baby...
And very soon, almost at the sea, they saw a tiny black boy in just a shirt, stuck in loose wet sand.
There was nobody around.
The sailors looked at each other in surprise.
“What monsters!... What heartless people they are!... They’ve abandoned the boy... There’s something behind it, Brother Zhivkov... They wanted the child to die... A crocodile would have eaten him up here!... Look at it... It’s swimming here... It must have sensed the boy...”
And Yefremov took the child in his arms.
“What are we going to do with him?”
“What should we do?... Let’s take him on the cutter... We’ll see there!.. Come on, boy, don’t cry!” Yefremov said tenderly, clutching the child to his chest. “The Lord Himself has rescued you...”
Great was the amazement on the cutter when, ten minutes later, both sailors returned with a crying boy in their arms and told everybody how they had found him.
The petty officer had no idea what he ought to do.
“Why did you take him?” he asked sternly, although he knew deep in his heart that they couldn’t leave the child alone.
“And you would have taken him in our place, too!” Yefremov answered softly and cheerfully. “Guys, does anyone have some bread?... He may be hungry...”
All the sailors looked with pity at the boy who was about five years old. Someone found a piece of bread in his pocket, and Yefremov put it in the little Malay’s mouth. He began to gobble it up.
“He’s hungry and he’s eating... Those people who abandoned him are villains!...”
“But still, guys, we won’t be praised for this little boy! A new passenger is on our cutter!” the petty officer remarked again.
“We’ll see,” Yefremov replied calmly and confidently. “Who knows? Maybe we will!”
The child soon fell asleep in Yefremov’s arms. He covered the boy with a sail cover. And his unhandsome, tow-haired face which was already not young shone with incredible tenderness.
The officers soon arrived from the shore in two carriages. Cheerful and slightly tipsy, they sat down on the cutter.
“Shove off!”
“Your Honor,” the petty officer said, addressing the senior officer on the cutter. “I dare to report that a passenger has been taken on board from the shore...”
“What passenger?”
“A Malay boy... So what do you command, Your Honor?...”
“What boy? Where is he?”
“He’s sleeping under Yefremov’s rowing benches, Your Honor...”
And the petty officer explained how the boy had been found.
“Well... Let him go with us... Raise the foresail and the mainsail!” the lieutenant commanded.
The sails were set, and the cutter went smoothly to the clipper with the wind abeam.
Yefremov put the boy in his bunk and hardly slept until morning, constantly coming up to him to see if he was sleeping soundly.
The next morning, the incident was reported to the captain, and he allowed the boy to stay on the clipper while the clipper lay off Batavia. At the same time, he let the governor know about the child, and the latter promised to place the little Malay in an orphanage.
The little boy lived on the clipper ship for a week, and Yefremov cherished him with the tenderness of a mother. They sewed a whole suit for the boy and provided him with shoes. When a police official came to take the boy, the sailors through the boatswain persuaded the senior officer to ask the captain for permission to leave the boy on the clipper.
Yefremov, who had become attached to the child over that time, was waiting for the captain’s answer anxiously and impatiently.
The captain did not consent.
For a long time afterwards, Yefremov remembered that Christmas night and the boy who had been saved from death at the last minute and had found a place in his heart.
