Littell's Living Age/Volume 166/Issue 2149/The Krakatoa Eruption - Part I

is proposed in the following papers to give an account of the terrible volcanic eruption in the Straits of Soenda which occurred in August, 1883, from the pen of one who was on the spot at the time.

The Dutch island of Java has always been famous for its volcanoes and the frequency of their outbursts. With the exception of Japan, there is no other portion of the world where so many of these fiery monsters are to be found gathered together in so small a compass. Java is a long, narrow island, situate six degrees south of the equator, and although its area is only that of Ireland, it is the unfortunate possessor of more than forty volcanoes. Of course the greater part of these are extinct or inactive, but still there are about a dozen which are liable at any moment to break out afresh in their work of destruction. Running from east to west through the centre of the island is a lofty range of mountains, in many places as much as ten thousand feet above the ocean level. In several parts of this great range, which really forms the backbone of Java, are the volcanic craters which at various periods have been actively at work pouring forth torrents of mud and lava, and devastating the adjacent country for many miles. In the historical records of the island, which I have carefully searched and translated from the Dutch, it would seem that Java has never been free from these outbreaks. One of the earliest on record is the destruction of a Portuguese settlement, as far back as 1586, and every few years has brought a similar catastrophe.

In addition to the mountains in Java itself, there are several adjacent islands upon which volcanoes rise to a still greater height. Those who have travelled by the Queensland mail steamers will not easily forget the beautiful sight presented by the tropical islands of Lombok and Bali, with the lofty volcanic peak on each, richly clad in verdure even to its very summit, and the higher of the two rising more than thirteen thousand feet.

The straits between these islands are both beautiful in the extreme, but the less frequented route through the Strait of Lombok certainly deserves the palm. The navigation there is difficult and dangerous, but I once had the good fortune to sail through it, in a small brigantine, and the sight was not one to be easily forgotten. Rising majestically from the water’s edge, towering grandly up to an immense height, rose a perfect conical-shaped mountain, its green, sloping sides being one dense mass of tropical vegetation and pathless jungle — the undisturbed abode of tigers and other wild animals. Seen by moonlight, as I saw it on that occasion, from the deck of a vessel, hugging the shore, Bali Peak is something to be remembered.

At the opposite end of Java, on the western shore, in the busy Strait of Soenda, is another island somewhat similar to Bali, called Krakatoa, famous now for the great eruption which took place there in 1883. A volcano at rest is one thing, but a volcano at work is a very different sight, as the following description will soon show. The Krakatoa eruption was by no means an ordinary occurrence, even in Java, where such outbursts are so frequent; and as one of the few English who were living in the neighborhood at the time I wish to place on record some of the facts connected with the event. Although months have gone by since it occurred, I do not think an eye-witness’s account of a catastrophe which swept away in a few moments, with scarcely any warning, some fifty thousand souls, as well as destroyed a large territory, can yet be quite devoid of interest.

Krakatoa is a small island about thirty miles from the western shore of Java, and about midway in the strait which separates that country from Sumatra. It is uninhabited, and little is known about the place, except by the few Malays who sail across to its lonely shore in their sampans or fishing-boats. Rising rapidly from the shore of this sea-girt isle is the famous volcano of the same name, more than eight hundred Dutch metres in height, or according to English measurement, about twenty-six hundred and seventy-four feet.

For many years there had been no eruption or volcanic disturbance on the island, and at one time there did not seem much prospect of its ever again being classed among volcanoes at work. But the old proverb about appearances being deceptive proved just as true in Netherlands-India as in more civilized regions. For suddenly, in May, 1883, the dormant volcano roused itself from its long sleep and began to belch forth fire and smoke. On that occasion no damage was done. The spectacle was regarded by the Dutch as a curiosity, and an agreeable excursion was made to the island by one of the mail steamers trading in the Java sea.

This first outburst ended in smoke, but it was a later one which caused the terrible sacrifice of human life. It seemed as if the short-lived notoriety Krakatoa had already gained were not enough, for in a few months came one of the most awful eruptions of modern times.

Sunday, August 26, 1883, was the fatal day on which the work of destruction began, but the most deadly effects were reserved for the following morning. In order not to anticipate, we will confine ourselves at first to what took place at Batavia on that memorable Sunday.

The Dutch capital is scarcely less than ninety miles from the scene of the eruption, and this fact should be kept in mind, as it makes the occurrences about to be recorded all the more remarkable, on account of the distance which intervened. On the day in question everything was much as usual in Batavia. The fierce rays of a tropical sun were beating down upon the busy streets of the city, which always bear an Oriental appearance. It was near the close of the period of the year known as the dry monsoon, and the parched ground and dusty streets told how much rain was needed. For six months at a time, that is from April to October, scarcely any rain ever falls, and in a country such as Java, notorious for its unhealthy climate and damp, unwholesome heat, the commencement of the wet monsoon is always a welcome period. On this Sunday afternoon, therefore, when a distant rumbling noise like thunder was heard in the city, it was generally thought that the first tropical storm of the season was coming earlier than usual. But on examining the sky, strangely enough, all was bright and cloudless, with no sign of an approaching storm. But soon the rumbling noise increased, distant reports were heard as of heavy guns being fired at a distance, and the people in Batavia quickly became aware of the unwelcome fact that something more startling was taking place around them than a mere thunderstorm. “What can it be?” was the oft-repeated question, as the Europeans, that evening, took their usual stroll at sunset under the lovely tamarind avenues which encircle the Konings Plein, the favorite promenade of Batavian citizens, and on all sides was heard the unanimous opinion “that it was another of our volcanoes at work.”

When the sun went down and darkness came on the reports became more loud and distinct, and anxiety increased as to what might happen.

So far no one had for a moment dreamt of distant Krakatoa being the culprit. It was too far away even to be suspected, and the general impression was that one of the adjacent mountains, such as Gedeh or Salak, the nearest volcanoes to Batavia, must be the scene of the disturbance.

As the evening passed by matters grew worse. Louder and more threatening became the distant thundering reports, and at times distinct shocks of explosions could be heard shaking the houses to their very foundations. At eight A.M., when the night gun is always fired from one of the government forts, the report was so faint as scarcely to be heard, being drowned in the din of the atmospheric disturbances. Throughout the night matters continued much the same. Sleep was out of the question, and the long, weary hours of night were spent by many a resident in anxiously watching the course events might take. At one time it was fancied that an earthquake — a by no means uncommon event in Java—was imminent, and many a cautious householder retired from the precincts of a house which he feared at any moment might fall and crush him. An English lady told me afterwards how she had carried her little children into the open air and had kept them outside the house all night. In some parts of the city the walls of the houses shook and quivered so ominously, as shock succeeded shock, that a general rush was made outside.

The streets and houses presented a strange appearance. Many a portly Dutchman could be seen strolling about the streets, in the hope of finding greater safety than in his own dwelling. Whole families of women and children again were huddled together beneath the tropical trees and shrubs in their gardens, whilst others paced with anxious steps the wide marble verandahs surrounding their houses, ready to rush forth at the slightest sign of coming destruction.

Wearily the hours of night dragged on. About 2 A.M., after an explosive shock more severe than the rest, the alarming discovery was made that the gas in Batavia had been affected. In some quarters of the city the street lamps for a considerable distance were suddenly quenched, and in many private houses the gas was also extinguished. The anxiety was naturally increased by the darkness, and it may easily be imagined how eagerly the first ray of morning light was looked for. At last it came — the day which was to bring death and destruction to many thousand homes in Java. But how unlike the usual tropical day it was! There was no bright, dazzling sunshine to scatter away the dark shadows and gloomy forebodings of the previous night. A dull, heavy, leaden sky, completely obscuring the sun, was all that could be seen. The morning also was comparatively cold — a noticeable fact in a trying climate, which seldom varies day or night throughout the whole year more than ten or twelve degrees. The average temperature in Batavia is about seventy-five degrees at night, and eighty-five degrees by day, but then it must be remembered that the Java heat is moist and damp, and consequently much more unhealthy and injurious than an increased range of the thermometer in a drier climate. On this occasion the glass fell to sixty-five degrees in the shade, a fact unknown before in the meteorological annals of the city.

It was a cold, dull morning then as the work of the busy Batavian day commenced. The shocks which had caused so much dismay and terror in the night were now less frequent and more indistinct. Business was beginning as usual. Crowds of natives were wending their way citywards on foot. Steam trains filled with clerks and officials bore their living freight from the various suburbs. Merchants in private carriages or dos à dos (as the public two-wheeled conveyances are called), were rapidly driving to their handsome offices in the Kali-Besar or, chief business centre in Batavia. All were eagerly discussing the previous night’s events, and all sanguine that the worst was over. Nothing, all this time, was definitely known as to which volcano had been the cause of so much alarm. Of course vague surmises were common enough, but still no one thought of looking as much as ninety miles away for the scene of the disturbance.

But in the course of the morning, when all were congratulating themselves that matters were no worse, a marked change began in the aspect of affairs. The sky became darker and more threatening, and after a time a peculiar rain of ashes began to fall. This was of a grey color, and soon the ground and streets were covered with it. For several hours there was a gentle fall — at one time coarse and large as a pin’s head, at another as thin and fine as dust. Some of each kind I have now in my possession, taken up from one of the suburbs of Batavia shortly after it fell. Both kinds were submitted to a Dutch analyst for examination, and to him I am indebted for the names of the component parts. He tells me that the two showers were identical except that the second fall of ash was much finer than the first. It consisted principally of siliceous sand, with sulphuret of iron, phosphates and silicates of lime and magnesium, while the whole had a strong sulphuric smell.

While this rain of ash continued thick darkness enveloped the city. Traffic and business were suspended. Gas was lighted everywhere in the hope that the darkness would soon pass off, but still it continued for several hours. The abject terror of the poor natives, cowering down in the most helpless way, was quite a sight to behold. These followers of Mohammed, clinging tenaciously to their fatalistic creed, calmly said,” It is Allah,” and resigned themselves to their fate. In times of difficulty and danger the natives of Java, and indeed the whole of the Malay archipelago, are some of the most helpless and useless people under the sun.

The Chinese, on the other hand, took a very different view of matters. Unfettered by any fatalistic notions, they plainly showed their belief that while there is life there is hope. Whether this is one of the moral sayings of Confucius I know not, but, with all their faults, the Chinese are certainly a practical and painstaking race. On this occasion they accordingly gathered together all their valuables and cleared out of the city with as much despatch as possible. There are twenty five thousand of them in Batavia alone, and a large proportion of these soon beat a hasty retreat. Some made for the railway station en route for the interior of the island; some took to their boats on the canal, and many crowded themselves into their gaily painted vehicles known as kahars, and drove away as fast as two Sandalwood ponies would carry them.

The Europeans also thought it wiser to suspend business on account of the darkness and to leave the city for their suburban homes. The buildings which they use in Batavia for offices are very old, and though roomy and convenient for their purpose they would easily be overthrown in the event of an earthquake. About noon, therefore, on that eventful Monday (August 27) there was a steady outpour of merchants from Batavia, and the city was soon wearing a deserted appearance. It was well that it did so, for a more startling event had yet to come.

Suddenly, without any warning, a tidal wave (caused, as we shall afterwards see, by the disturbances and upheaval of the island of Krakatoa) made itself felt in the city. The Dutch capital has no harbor, and the only approach to it is by a long canal nearly two miles in length, lined on either side by massive brick walls. In this channel, leading from the roadstead to the city wharves, the water rose at an alarming rate and burst over the adjoining land. This was the first intimation at Batavia of the terrible wave which (as we discovered later on) was the messenger of death to so many thousand inhabitants on the western shores of Java. Its effects in the city were quite bad enough. Although this great torrent of water had travelled nearly ninety miles it dashed up the Batavian canal with great power. In spite of distance, its fury was not then fully spent. In the streets of the capital, adjoining the canals and wharves, the water rose to a depth of several feet, and the people had to run for their lives. Not long afterwards I steamed down the canal in a launch, and saw the destruction which had been caused. In several places the massive brickwork lining, the sides had been swept away, leaving huge gaps in the masonry of many feet. The surrounding country also had been seriously inundated, great pools of water being visible everywhere. Fortunately the loss of life in Batavia was very small, and must have been confined to the natives who are always to be found along the banks of the canal. A little village on the coast, a short drive from the capital, was less fortunate, however. There was nothing there to break the force of the rushing waters as they dashed in all their fury on the northern shore of the island, and the country round being very flat, a serious loss of life occurred. The huge tidal wave broke over the native kampong (or village), and several hundred bodies were subsequently reported by the government resident of the district to be lying dead in the market-place.

Such were the events in the city of Batavia and its suburbs on that memorable Monday. As soon as the wave had spent its fury on the coast, the worst was over. The shower of ashes ceased, and the darkness cleared off. Weaker and weaker grew the distant shocks, and at last they died away altogether. Traffic was once more resumed along the ash-strewn streets, which now had a grey coating some three or four inches in depth. On all sides trees were to be seen with broken branches, weighed down and snapped off, by the great pressure of the ashes which had rested upon them. The fowls which had gone to roost at midday, when the darkness was at its worst, again came forth to begin their day a second time.

An air of thankfulness pervaded all classes. There was a dim foreboding that a terrible calamity had occurred in some part of Java, and the anxiety was universal. All, however, was wrapped in obscurity, for the telegraph wires were broken and no information could be had. And it was not till some considerable time after that the startling news reached Batavia telling how an immense volcanic wave more than a hundred feet in height had devastated the whole north-western coast, sweeping away entirely Anjer and several other towns, and engulfing quite fifty thousand people in a watery grave.

We could scarcely believe in the city the terrible tidings of events which had happened so near to us. The towns destroyed were sixty miles distant from Batavia, and Krakatoa itself ninety miles, so that the volcanic wave must have travelled nearly thirty miles before it burst upon the shore and did its deadly work.

In subsequent papers I shall tell more of what took place on those two days in August on the Java coast, and describe as well a visit I made shortly afterwards to the ruined towns and villages. Such a scene of havoc and desolation it rarely falls to the lot of any one to witness, and once seen such a sight can never be forgotten.