The White Rajah (1961)

by Monsarrat, Nicholas

  ii

  Their enemy advanced towards them across the bay in a wide semicircle, keeping station on the centre ship which, as it drew nearer, could be seen to be a great ornamental state barge, propelled by sixteen ponderous sweeps on either side. The sun caught its high gilded prow, and the purple-and-gold canopy amidships. Through his glass, Richard could make out no heavy armament on board; but under the canopy were a score of men in scarlet tunics, their spears glinting restlessly as the barge advanced. They might have been a ceremonial guard, but they were armed men none the less … His own crew crowded the bulwarks, not speaking, their muskets primed and ready, their cutlasses close at hand; up in the bows, the Lucinda D’s single cannon was loaded and run out, aimed towards the centre of this motley fleet. To be thus alert was second nature; now, it was a simple question as to how near they should allow this fleet to approach, before they took steps to question its intent.

  Richard waited, while the distance decreased – to eighty yards, to fifty. He could hear the steady beat of drums, giving the stroke to the rowers; he could see the helmsman, high in the stern, straining his splendid muscles against his long oar; among the scarlet guard, a figure of a different kind could now be made out – a seated figure in white, wearing a green turban. Richard held his hand, until the barge and its attendant convoy were some thirty yards off; then he called out to Nick Garrett, stationed at the gun.

  ‘Put a shot under his bows! But aim wide!’

  The slow-match came down to touch the primer; the gun roared out; as the echoes began to return to them, a tall splash of grey–green water leapt high in the air, halfway between the barge and the Lucinda D. There was a pause, while the thudding of the drum died away; then, from the barge and from all the other craft, a forest of green seemed to spring up, and to move gently to and fro, waving like banners in the wind. But the banners were tree branches, palm leaves, fronded foliage of strange shape – the traditional emblems of peace.

  ‘Run up a white flag!’ Richard called out, and within a moment the flag fluttered to the yardarm. But there was no need to warn his crew that the green symbols of peace might be a trick; the bristling row of arms along the bulwarks continued to point formidably at the oncoming craft, and the long-barrelled bow gun, reloaded, was trained now on the crowded deck of the barge. This continued to move forward with its own momentum, until it was a bare ship’s length from the Lucinda D; then there was a double drumbeat, and a swirl of oars, backing water, brought it to an exact stop. It floated, in all its gilded magnificence, within easy hail.

  ‘Watch the canoes,’ warned Richard loudly. ‘If they come closer, or begin to circle round us, give them a musket volley.’ He jumped up and took his stand on the bulwarks, holding on to the mainmast stays. From there he called out to the barge: ‘What’s your business with us?’

  The turbaned man in white rose from his chair under the canopy. He was a small man, and old; among the splendour of the scarlet-tunicked guard, he seemed frail and feeble. But clearly he was a person of consequence; the silver spears clashed for him as he rose, and he had no need to call for silence. He spoke in a reedy voice, though plainly: ‘I bring you greetings from His Highness.’

  Richard stared back at him, without speaking. He was impressed by everything within his view upon this fantastic seascape – the guard, the dignity of the old man who spoke, and the magnificence of the rowing barge which, close to, was seen to be beautifully fashioned in a great curving sweep from stem to stern, richly ornamented with gold leaf and purple hangings. Whatever else Makassang had, it had riches, and ceremonial state. He looked about him swiftly. The prahus and the other craft were making no effort to approach nearer; the forest of green branches still waved gently in peaceful greeting. He turned back towards the barge.

  ‘What highness is that?’ he called out.

  ‘The Rajah of Makassang,’ came the answer, on a note of ancient pride.

  ‘I return his greetings,’ said Richard formally.

  The old, white-robed man bowed, and Richard bowed back; the tremendous lustre of the scene robbed their exchange of any hint of foolishness. Richard remained where he was, standing straddled on the bulwark, above the long line of his crew and their ready weapons; and after an interval, the old man on the barge spoke again: ‘I would talk further with you,’ he said. He had a curious lilting accent, as if he had learned the English tongue from someone who had been long in exile. ‘I will draw near, if you permit it.’

  Richard nodded his head, but his only speech was to his crew. ‘Let them come alongside,’ he called out. ‘But keep your guns at the ready.’

  The barge, skilfully propelled, edged nearer, setting its stern at an angle till it was nearly touching the Lucinda D. The oarsmen (who were likely to be slaves, in this part of the world) were below the deck level, and could not be seen; the scarlet guard numbered some twenty men, but they seemed peaceful and without guile, and their spears remained grounded. Upon an impulse, Richard hailed the old man again: ‘You are welcome to come aboard – yourself alone.’

  The old man, who had moved out from beneath the canopy, stared back at him. ‘I go nowhere alone,’ he answered, with the assurance of pride. ‘My bodyguard is twenty men.’

  ‘You need no bodyguard aboard my ship.’

  ‘My bodyguard is twenty men,’ repeated the old man.

  ‘You may bring six,’ said Richard.

  ‘Ten,’ countered the old man. Beneath its hauteur, there was a certain humorous appeal in his voice, and Richard suddenly warmed to it.

  ‘Ten,’ he agreed, and signed to John Keston and the others to rig a ladder.

  When the old man stood at last on the deck of the Lucinda D backed by his bodyguard, he was indeed an imposing presence. His white robe was of the rarest silk; in the gathered folds of his green turban, a single fiery jewel which, if it were indeed a ruby, must have been priceless, flashed and glittered when caught by the early sunlight. In this splendid setting, his face, though old and shrivelled, had great pride of bearing; he looked about him as if accustomed to command. His bodyguard of ten men had formed their ranks and grounded their spears a few paces behind him. They wore, as headdress, black fezzes with bright red tassels, and their tunic-uniform was completed by loose-cut breeches and gaiters, copied (it seemed) from the Spahi regiments of northern Africa. Their captain, a tall young man whose badge of rank was an aiguillette of looped gold cords, gave his brief commands in the Malay tongue.

  Richard Marriott, confronting this brave array without any ceremony to match it, was not outfaced. Nor did he mourn his lack of consequence. His men had guns, the equal of any show of polished spears and trim uniforms … He waited for the old man, the guest, to speak first, and after the customary moment of silence, his visitor addressed him.

  ‘I am Amin Bulong,’ said the old man. ‘Commander-in-Chief to his Royal Highness.’

  Richard inclined his head. Titles were only titles, he thought privately; they could honour a great man, or disguise a small one. ‘I am Captain Richard Marriott,’ he answered, ‘and this is my ship, the Lucinda D.’

  ‘We have heard much of your famous ship,’ said Amin Bulong. There seemed a trace of irony in his thin voice, but his next action belied it. He gestured over his shoulder, with a small, scarcely perceptible movement of the hand, and one of his bodyguard came forward, bearing a cushion of blue silk, with a covering laid upon its top. ‘I bring you a gift of welcome from the hand of his Royal Highness.’

  Richard Marriott turned his eyes towards the cushion, as Amin Bulong drew aside the covering. On it rested an elephant tusk, its ivory of purest white, exquisitely carved in filigree, and tipped with a sheath of beaten gold. Dazzling in itself, its workmanship was rarely beautiful. He stretched out his right hand to touch it – the traditional sign of acceptance. Some of his crew, attracted by the movement, turned to look at it, and there was an audible intake of breath from many of the men as they saw the offering.

  Richard considered sw
iftly. He could think of nothing on board which could match the munificence of the gift; yet it might be necessary to match it, to preserve peace and keep a pattern of friendship. He motioned to John Keston, who took the cushion and laid it on one side. Then he spoke, putting all the warmth he could into his voice.

  ‘Please convey to his Royal Highness my thanks for this splendid gift of welcome,’ he said. ‘It will be my endeavour to send him a gift in return, though I cannot hope to rival the beauty of this one.’

  Amin Bulong, who had been watching his face carefully, gestured with his hand. ‘That is no matter,’ he answered. ‘But his Royal Highness would perhaps expect you to convey your thanks in person.’

  At that, Richard frowned, for with Amin Bulong’s words, the climate of the occasion had subtly changed. What had seemed a gift of rare courtesy had developed undertones of something else – of gentle pressure, of enticement. He had not wanted to go ashore, to greet the Rajah or for any other purpose; he wanted, at the most, to top up the freshwater barrels, to make his repairs, and then to leave. But the magnificent present of the elephant tusk seemed likely to deny these simple plans. It was more than a present, apparently; it was at best an innocent entanglement which would delay him needlessly, and at worst a clear signal of danger. For once ashore, on whatever errand, he could become a hostage; and hostages did not fare well, in this misbegotten corner of the globe.

  Richard could not gauge, with any certainty, the motive for the Rajah’s welcome; but, whatever its source, he now liked it far less than the shower of spears which might well have taken its place. Some of these uneasy thoughts must have shown in his face; for as he did not reply, Amin Bulong continued: ‘It is no more than our custom here, to bear greetings and exchange gifts.’

  ‘I know that,’ answered Richard. ‘But I fear my visit will be too brief for me to return this call in person. I must ask you to make my excuses.’

  Amin Bulong, reacting to his tone, answered tartly: ‘No visit can be so brief as to exclude courtesy.’

  Richard inclined his head. ‘You mistake my meaning,’ he said, as reasonably as he could. ‘The Rajah’s gift is a splendid one, and I am deeply grateful for it. But I had not intended to make a visit ashore, and my plans unfortunately will render it impossible.’

  Amin Bulong looked about him, his glance supercilious. ‘What are your plans?’ he asked, as if so minor a person as the captain of a small brigantine would have no plans which could not be changed at will. ‘Indeed, why have we been honoured with this visit, in the first place?’

  ‘There is no special reason. My ship is on passage to the Moluccas. We have anchored here for a short while. We may take on water, and fresh fruit if it is available. Surely you would not dispute our right to do so?’

  Amin Bulong’s expression seemed to sharpen suddenly. ‘You have anchored’ – he gave ironic emphasis to the word– ‘within the territorial waters of the island of Makassang. His Royal Highness takes no exception to this, as his gift of welcome shows. But in return for this accommodation, he would certainly expect you to present your compliments in person. Indeed’ – the old man’s tone was now almost hostile – ‘he would insist on such a personal visit.’

  ‘I regret–’ began Richard.

  ‘Your ship is aground,’ interrupted Amin Bulong. ‘We were able to observe as much, last night. Our information is that you ran ashore at dawn, on the western reef, and are so severely damaged that your pumps cannot keep pace with it.’

  ‘Not so,’ said Richard easily. ‘We must caulk a seam or two – that is all.’

  ‘Your ship is aground,’ repeated Amin Bulong. He tapped his foot gently on the deck. ‘By the feel of this, she is badly holed. You intend to bring her closer inshore, and careen her. Of course you are free to do so – with the Rajah’s permission. But otherwise–’

  ‘Otherwise, what?’ asked Richard sharply.

  Amin Bulong gave a wave of his hand. ‘Let us only talk of pleasant things.’

  ‘Otherwise, what?’ repeated Richard.

  Amin Bulong shrugged his shoulders. ‘You have seen the war-prahus which attended me,’ he said. The transition to hardness in his voice was very swift. ‘They are a small part of our force. If you remain here without the express permission of the Rajah – which you can only obtain in person – they will have orders to attack.’ There was tremendous dignity and force in the old man’s voice as he spoke thus directly. ‘They will harass you by day and by night. They will make your repairs impossible. Finally they will take your ship.’

  ‘A fine welcome for a friendly stranger!’ said Richard sarcastically. ‘Pray, what do you do to your enemies?’

  ‘I have said already that a visit of courtesy is the best alternative.’

  ‘My crew is armed, and determined.’

  ‘We are not defenceless ourselves.’

  ‘You will lose many men, if you try to take my ship.’

  ‘His Royal Highness has a hundred thousand loyal subjects, who are ready to lay down their lives at a single word.’

  Richard Marriott took a pace forward. He had intended only to come closer to the old man, to resolve this wordy conflict by a more direct approach; but as he moved, the captain of the bodyguard, standing a few paces behind Amin Bulong, moved also. His spear arm came up, and the glittering weapon, poised for the throw, was aimed exactly at Richard’s throat. Richard made a conscious effort to disregard it as he said: ‘Why does the Rajah wish to see me?’

  Amin Bulong stared back at him, equally direct. ‘He has a matter to discuss with you.’

  ‘What matter?’

  ‘A private matter.’

  So that was it … The present had been a bribe, to bring him peaceably ashore; the show of force was intended to buttress the bribe with a hint of something else; and the open threats, politely screened to begin with, now took their place in the pattern of persuasion. He was to come ashore, whether he liked it or no … Richard could not guess what was the purpose behind all this; only the facts were clear – and the chief fact was that he and his crew could be out-numbered, and his ship, momentarily powerless, might be damaged beyond hope of salvage, by an enemy force which, most unexpectedly, seemed disciplined and well-directed. He looked past Amin Bulong, to meet the eyes of the young captain of the guard; his spear was still poised, and his appearance was more than warlike – it was unwinkingly confident and determined. If Richard reached for his pistols, that shining spear would be sunk in his throat before he had time to cock them.

  He made his decision suddenly, with as good a grace as he could muster. ‘I will be glad to thank his Royal Highness in person,’ he said, turning back to Amin Bulong, ‘and to discuss any matter he chooses. However, in view of this’ – he gestured towards the captain of the guard, and then to the long line of war-prahus and sampans which confronted the Lucinda D, ‘this warlike preparation, there must be certain precautions before I agree to go ashore with you.’

  Amin Bulong, clearly a man of decision himself, went straight to the heart of the matter. ‘You would wish me to leave some hostage behind?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The captain of my bodyguard will be glad to remain on board, while we are absent.’

  ‘One man is hardly enough.’

  ‘The one man is my grandson,’ said Amin Bulong.

  Richard inclined his head, glancing from the old man to the proud young warrior whose spear was still lifted. ‘I might have guessed as much … He does you credit … Furthermore, I must be attended by my own bodyguard.’

  It was now Amin Bulong’s turn to assent. ‘Naturally. Shall we say – ten men?’

  Richard Marriott smiled privately, enjoying the exchange in the same way as his adversary was doing. Ten men was nearly half his crew; he could not possibly weaken his ship’s defences by withdrawing so large a number. He knew this instinctively, and Amin Bulong probably guessed it also.

  ‘I am not so proud,’ answered Richard airily, ‘that I must be attended b
y ten men when I go ashore. Three will be ample for my needs.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And I will first discuss this matter with my second-in-command.’

  Amin Bulong allowed himself a brief smile. ‘You would be very wise to do so … With your permission, I will await you in my barge.’

  ‘But I must go!’ said Richard impatiently, to Nick Garrett. They had drawn aside, out of hearing of the crew, close to the wheelhouse; but many glances followed in their direction, and Richard strove to seem as calm as possible, even though he had much on his mind … ‘I don’t know what the Rajah intends, but I have to go to find out – he has made that much clear. I have no choice in the matter. We can do nothing else.’

  ‘We can fight,’ answered Nick Garrett, with equal impatience. From the first, he had been opposed to any contact with the shore, and he had now turned truculent and argumentative. ‘You said so yourself! Or were those just brave words, to bolster up our spirits?’

  ‘Certainly I said we can fight. And it is still true. But I can see now what the cost would be. Look at the bodyguard! Look how those boats are drawn up! By God, if these are man-eating savages, I wish I had a hundred of them on board! We could take Batavia itself!’

  ‘Then we should put to sea again,’ said Nick Garrett. ‘For you to go ashore is neither one thing nor the other. Either we fight them, or we sheer off as soon as possible.’

  ‘You know we cannot leave, till we have made our repairs.’

  ‘We can repair her roughly, without careening. We can rig a canvas patch over the side, enough to hold the water till we reach a different island.’

  ‘And go straight to the bottom in the first gale!’ Richard faced the tall figure standing in the shadow of the wheelhouse. ‘We are wasting time, Nick, with this arguing. I am going ashore, now. With John Keston, and Burnside, and Peter Ramsay. Aye, Ramsay – it will give him a taste of headhunting! What have I to fear, in any case? They are leaving us a hostage. And if they are planning some treachery, why should they waste so magnificent a gift?’