The Road to Glory
Copyright© 2026 by E. Alexander Powell
Chapter 4: The Fight at Qualla Battoo
IT was so hot that the little group of sailors under the forward awnings lay stretched upon the deck, panting like hunted rabbits, while rivers of perspiration coursed down their naked chests and backs. The unshaded portions of the deck were as hot to the touch as the top of a stove; bubbles of pitch had formed along the seams between the planks, and turpentine was exuding, like beads of sweat, from the spars. Though occasional puffs of land-wind stirred the folds of the American flag which drooped listlessly from the taffrail sufficiently to disclose the legend Friendship, of Salem in raised and gilded letters on the stern, they brought about as much relief to the exhausted men as a blast from an open furnace door. Even the naked Malays who were at work under the direction of a profane and sweating first mate, transferring innumerable sacks of pepper from a small boat to the vessel’s hold, showed the effects of the suffocating atmosphere by performing their task with more than ordinary listlessness and indolence.
Half a mile away the nipa-thatched huts of Qualla Battoo, built amid a thicket of palms on the sandy shores of a cove where a mountain torrent debouched into the sea, seemed to flicker like a scene on a moving-picture screen in the shifting waves of heat. Immediately at the back of the town rose the green wall of the Sumatran jungle, which bordered the yellow beach in both directions as far as the eye could reach. Behind this impenetrable screen of vegetation, over which the miasma hung in wreathlike clouds, rose the purple peaks of the Bukit Barisan Range, of which Mount Berapi, twelve thousand feet high, is the grim and forbidding overlord. Upon this shore a mighty surf pounds unceasingly. Farming far to seaward, the tremendous rollers come booming in with the speed of an express train, gradually gathering volume as they near the shore until they tower to a height of twenty feet or more, when, striking the beach, they break upon the sands with a roar which on still nights can be heard up-country for many miles. So dangerous is the surf along this coast that when trading vessels drop anchor off its towns to pick up cargoes of pepper, copra, or coffee, they invariably send their boats ashore in charge of natives, who are as familiar with this threatening, thunderous barrier of foam as is a housewife with the cupboards in her kitchen. But even the Malays, marvellously skilful boatmen as they are, can effect a landing only at those places where the mountain streams, of which there are a great number along the western coast of Sumatra, have melted comparatively smooth channels through the angry surf to the open sea. The pepper, which is one of the island’s chief articles of export, is grown on the high table-lands in the interior and is brought down to the trading stations on the coast by means of bamboo rafts, their navigation through the cataracts and rapids which obstruct these mountain streams being a perilous and hair-raising performance.
Thus it came about that while the New England merchantman rocked lazily in the Indian Ocean swells on this scorching afternoon in February, 1831, her master, Mr. Endicott, her second mate, John Barry, and four of her crew, were at the trading station, a short distance up the river from Qualla Battoo, superintending the weighing of the pepper and making sure that it was properly stowed away in the boats where the water could not reach it, for, as Captain Endicott had learned from many and painful experiences, the Malays are not to be trusted in such things. Now, Captain Endicott had not traded along the coasts of Malaysia for a dozen years without learning certain lessons by heart, and one of them was that the lithe and sinewy brown men with whom he was doing business were no less cruel and treacherous than the surf that edged their shores. Hence his suspicions instantly became aroused when he noticed that the first boat, after being loaded at the trading station and starting for the river mouth instead of making straight for the Friendship, as it should have done, stopped on its way through the town and took aboard more men. Concluding, however, that the Malay crew required additional oarsmen in order to negotiate the unusually heavy surf, his suspicions were allayed and he turned again to the business of weighing out pepper for the second boat-load, though he took the precaution, nevertheless, of detailing two of his men to keep their eyes on the boat and to instantly report anything which seemed out of the ordinary.
Instead of taking on more oarsmen, as Captain Endicott had supposed, the boat’s crew had exchanged places with double their number of armed warriors, who, concealing their weapons, sent the boat smashing through the wall of surf and then pulled leisurely out toward the unsuspecting merchantman. Though the first mate, who was in charge of the loading, remarked that the boat had an unusually large crew, he drew the same conclusions as the captain and permitted it to come alongside. No sooner was it made fast to the Friendship’s side, however, than the Malays, concealing their krises in their scanty clothing, began to scramble over the bulwarks, until a score or more of them were gathered on the vessel’s decks. The mate, ever fearful of treachery, ordered them back into their boat, but the Malays, pretending not to understand him, scattered over the ship, staring at the rigging and equipment with the open-mouthed curiosity of children. So well did they play their parts, indeed, that the mate decided that his suspicions were unfounded and turned again to the work of checking up the bags of pepper as they came over the side. When the Malays had satisfied themselves as to the strength and whereabouts of the crew, whom they outnumbered three to one, they unostentatiously took the positions their leader assigned to them. Then, choosing a moment when the mate was leaning over the side giving orders to the men in the boat, one of their number, moving across the deck on naked feet with the stealth and silence of a cat, drew back his arm and with a vicious downward sweep buried his razor-edged kris between the American’s brawny shoulders. Though mortally wounded, the mate uttered a scream of warning, whereupon five of the sailors who had been lounging under the forward awning, snatching up belaying-pins and capstan-bars, ran to his assistance. But the Malays were too many for them and too well armed, and after a brief but desperate struggle two other Americans lay dead upon the blood-stained deck, while the other three, less fortunate, were prisoners with a fate too horrible for words in store for them. The four remaining seamen, who had been below, aroused by the noise of the struggle, had rushed on deck in time to witness the fate of their comrades. Realizing the utter helplessness of their position and appreciating that only butchery or torture awaited them if they remained, they burst through the ring of natives who surrounded them and dived into the sea. They quickly discovered, however, that the shore held no greater safety than the ship, for whenever they were lifted on the crest of a wave they could see that the beach was lined with armed warriors, whooping and brandishing their spears. Seeing that to land was but to invite death in one of its most unpleasant forms, the four swimmers held a brief consultation and then, abruptly changing their course, struck out for a rocky promontory several miles away, which offered them at least temporary safety, as the Malays could not readily reach them.
In the meantime, the two seamen who had been detailed by Captain Endicott to keep watch of the boat, observing the confusion on the Friendship’s decks and seeing the sailors jumping overboard, summoned their commander, who quickly surmised what had happened. Endicott realized that there was not an instant to lose. Ordering his second mate and the four seamen into the boat which was then being loaded, they pulled madly for the mouth of the river. Nor were they a second too soon, for, as they swung into that reach of the river which is bordered on either bank by the huts of the town, the Qualla Battooans ran out and attempted to intercept them. But the Americans, spurred on by the knowledge that death awaited them if they were captured, bent to their oars, and, amid a rain of bullets, spears, and arrows, the boat swept through the town as a racing shell sweeps down the Hudson at Poughkeepsie. Though they succeeded by something akin to a miracle in reaching the mouth of the river unharmed, it now looked as though they would perish in the mountain-high surf, for they were ignorant of the channel and had none of the Malay skill for handling a boat in heavy breakers. But at this crucial moment they saw a man’s head bobbing in the water alongside, a familiar voice hailed them in English, and a moment later a friendly Malay named Po Adam, the rajah of a neighboring tribe which was on none too friendly terms with the Qualla Battooans, drew himself into the boat.
“What on earth are you doing here, Adam?” exclaimed Endicott, when he recognized his caller from the sea. “Are you coming with us?”
“Yes, cap’n,” said the Malay; “if they kill you they must kill me first.” Po Adam, it seemed, had come to Qualla Battoo in his armed coasting schooner, had witnessed the capture of the American vessel, and, fearing that the attack might be extended to him because of his known friendship for foreigners, he had swum to the American boat. With him for a pilot they managed, with extreme difficulty, to negotiate the breakers, though no sooner was this danger behind them than another one appeared in front, for the Malays, foiled in their attempt to intercept the Americans as they passed down the river, had put off in several war canoes, which could easily overtake them on the sea. The Americans were defenseless, for in their haste to embark they had left their weapons behind them. Po Adam, however, had managed to cling to his scimitar during his swim, and this he brandished so ferociously and uttered such appalling threats of what his tribesmen would do to the Qualla Battooans if he were molested that they sheered off without attacking.
Realizing that it was foolhardiness to attempt to retake the Friendship with half a dozen men, Captain Endicott, after touching at the promontory to pick up the four sailors who had jumped overboard, regretfully laid his course for Muckie, Po Adam’s capital, twenty miles down the coast. As he departed there rang in his ears the exultant shouts of the Malays who were looting his beloved vessel. Turning, he shook his fist in the direction of Qualla Battoo. “I’ll come back again, my fine fellows,” he muttered, “and when I do you’ll wish to Heaven that you’d never touched Americans.”
Reaching Muckie late that night, the refugees were overjoyed to find in the harbor three American merchantmen. No sooner had Endicott told his story to their commanders than they resolved to attempt the recapture of the Friendship, for they recognized the fact that, once the natives found that they could attack with impunity a vessel flying the stars and stripes, no American would be safe upon those coasts. This, remember, was in the days when we had no Asiatic squadron and when Americans doing business in that remote quarter of the globe had, in large measure, to settle such scores for themselves. There have, indeed, been hundreds of occasions on these far-distant seaboards, which the historians have either forgotten, or of which they have never known, when American merchant sailors engaged in as desperate actions and fought with as reckless courage against overwhelming odds as did ever the men who wore the navy blue. This was one of those occasions. In those days, when the fewness of prowling gunboats offered the pirates of Malaysia many opportunities to ply their trade, all merchantmen venturing into those waters went armed, and their crews were as carefully trained in cutlass drill and the handling of guns as they were in boat drill and in handling the sails. Therefore, notwithstanding the fact that their combined crews numbered barely half a hundred men, the three American ships which the next morning bore down on Qualla Battoo were not to be despised.
To the message sent by the American captains to the rajah of Qualla Battoo demanding the immediate surrender of the Friendship, he returned the insolent reply: “Why don’t you come and take her—if you can?” As soon as this message was received, the American vessels ran in to the shore as close as they dared and, bringing every gun to bear, opened fire upon the town, the forts at Qualla Battoo, which mounted several heavy guns, replying without effect. Though the bombardment destroyed a number of native huts, the American commanders quickly recognized that it was doing no serious harm and decided to get the business over with by making a boat attack on the Friendship and retaking her at the point of the cutlass. Three boats were accordingly lowered and, loaded with sailors armed to the teeth and eager to avenge their countrymen, steered toward the Friendship, whose bulwarks were black with Malays. As the boats drew within range the Malays, who were armed with muskets of an antiquated pattern, greeted them with a heavy fire; several of the crews dropped forward, wounded, and for a moment the progress of the boats was checked. “Give way, men! Give way all!” bellowed the officers, and, thus steadied, the sailors bent again to their oars. As they swung alongside the Friendship the sailors at the bow and stern of each boat held it in place with boat-hooks, while the crews, pistols in their belts and cutlasses between their teeth, swarmed up the side in obedience to the order: “Boarders up and away!” They may have been amateurs at the business, these merchant seamen, but they did the job as though they were seasoned man-of-war’s men with “U. S.” stamped in gilt upon their hatbands. There have been few more gallant or daring actions in the history of the sea, for the boarders numbered less than twoscore men all told, and awaiting them on the decks above were three hundred desperate and well-armed natives. Though bullets and arrows and javelins were rained down upon them, the Americans went up the side with the agility of monkeys; though the Malays slashed at them with scimitars and krises and lunged at them with spears, the seamen, their New England fighting blood now thoroughly aroused, would not be denied. Scrambling over the bulwarks, they fairly hewed their way into the mass of brown men, hacking, stabbing, shooting, cursing, cheering—a line of grim-faced fighters sweeping forward as remorselessly as death. Before the ferocity of their attack the Malays, courageous though they were, became panic-stricken, broke, and ran, until, within five minutes after the Americans had set foot upon the Friendship’s decks, such of the enemy as were not dead or wounded had leaped overboard and were swimming for the shore. Upon examining the vessel, Captain Endicott found that she had been rifled of everything that was portable, including twelve thousand dollars in coin. Even the copper bolts had been taken from her timbers and everything that could not be taken away had been wantonly destroyed. So great was the havoc that had been wrought that it was impossible to continue the voyage; so, after effecting temporary repairs at Muckie, Captain Endicott and the survivors of his crew sailed for home and, with the exception of one of them, out of this story.
If the rajah of Qualla Battoo had been acquainted with the manner of man who at this time occupied the White House, he would probably have thought twice before he molested an American vessel. With far less provocation than that given by the Malays, Andrew Jackson had virtually exterminated the powerful nation of the Creeks; defying the power of Spain, he had invaded the Floridas, captured Spanish forts, seized Spanish towns, and executed Spanish subjects. In fact, he was the very last man who could be affronted with impunity by any sovereign—much less by the ruler of an insignificant state in Malaysia. When the news of the attack on the Friendship and the murder of her American sailors reached Washington, the 44-gun frigate Potomac, Captain John Downes, lay in New York harbor waiting to convey Martin Van Buren, the newly appointed minister to the court of St. James, to England. But Jackson, who always wanted quick action, ordered Captain Downes to sail immediately for Sumatran waters and teach the Malays that, merely because they happened to dwell at the antipodes, they could not escape American retribution.
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