He flung his stick at the nearest pair of black shoulders and stopped short. The tall grasses swayed themselves into a rest, a chorus of yells and piercing shrieks died out in a dismal howl, and all at once the wooded shores and the blue bay seemed to fall under the spell of a luminous stillness. The change was as startling as the awakening from a dream. The sudden silence struck Lingard as amazing.
He broke it by lifting his voice in a stentorian shout, which arrested the pursuit of his men. They retired reluctantly, glaring back angrily at the wall of a jungle where not a single leaf stirred. The strangers, whose opportune appearance had decided the issue of that adventure, did not attempt to join in the pursuit but halted in a compact body on the ground lately occupied by the savages.
Lingard and the young leader of the Wajo traders met in the splendid light of noonday, and amidst the attentive silence of their followers, on the very spot where the Malay seaman had lost his life. Lingard, striding up from one side, thrust out his open palm; Hassim responded at once to the frank gesture and they exchanged their first hand-clasp over the prostrate body, as if fate had already exacted the price of a death for the most ominous of her gifts — the gift of friendship that sometimes contains the whole good or evil of a life.
“I’ll never forget this day,” cried Lingard in a hearty tone; and the other smiled quietly.
Then after a short pause — ”Will you burn the village for vengeance?” asked the Malay with a quick glance down at the dead Lascar who, on his face and with stretched arms, seemed to cling desperately to that earth of which he had known so little.
Lingard hesitated.
“No,” he said, at last. “It would do good to no one.”
“True,” said Hassim, gently, “but was this man your debtor — a slave?”
“Slave?” cried Lingard. “This is an English brig. Slave? No. A free man like myself.”
“Hai. He is indeed free now,” muttered the Malay with another glance downward. “But who will pay the bereaved for his life?”
“If there is anywhere a woman or child belonging to him, I — my serang would know — I shall seek them out,” cried Lingard, remorsefully.
“You speak like a chief,” said Hassim, “only our great men do not go to battle with naked hands. O you white men! O the valour of you white men!”
“It was folly, pure folly,” protested Lingard, “and this poor fellow has paid for it.”
“He could not avoid his destiny,” murmured the Malay. “It is in my mind my trading is finished now in this place,” he added, cheerfully.
Lingard expressed his regret.
“It is no matter, it is no matter,” assured the other courteously, and after Lingard had given a pressing invitation for Hassim and his two companions of high rank to visit the brig, the two parties separated.
The evening was calm when the Malay craft left its berth near the shore and was rowed slowly across the bay to Lingard’s anchorage. The end of a stout line was thrown on board, and that night the white man’s brig and the brown man’s prau swung together to the same anchor.
The sun setting to seaward shot its last rays between the headlands, when the body of the killed Lascar, wrapped up decently in a white sheet, according to Mohammedan usage, was lowered gently below the still waters of the bay upon which his curious glances, only a few hours before, had rested for the first time. At the moment the dead man, released from slip-ropes, disappeared without a ripple before the eyes of his shipmates, the bright flash and the heavy report of the brig’s bow gun were succeeded by the muttering echoes of the encircling shores and by the loud cries of sea birds that, wheeling in clouds, seemed to scream after the departing seaman a wild and eternal good-bye. The master of the brig, making his way aft with hanging head, was followed by low murmurs of pleased surprise from his crew as well as from the strangers who crowded the main deck. In such acts performed simply, from conviction, what may be called the romantic side of the man’s nature came out; that responsive sensitiveness to the shadowy appeals made by life and death, which is the groundwork of a chivalrous character.
Lingard entertained his three visitors far into the night. A sheep from the brig’s sea stock was given to the men of the prau, while in the cabin, Hassim and his two friends, sitting in a row on the stern settee, looked very splendid with costly metals and flawed jewels. The talk conducted with hearty friendship on Lingard’s part, and on the part of the Malays with the well-bred air of discreet courtesy, which is natural to the better class of that people, touched upon many subjects and, in the end, drifted to politics.
“It is in my mind that you are a powerful man in your own country,” said Hassim, with a circular glance at the cuddy.
“My country is upon a far-away sea where the light breezes are as strong as the winds of the rainy weather here,” said Lingard; and there were low exclamations of wonder. “I left it very young, and I don’t know about my power there where great men alone are as numerous as the poor people in all your islands, Tuan Hassim. But here,” he continued, “here, which is also my country — being an English craft and worthy of it, too — I am powerful enough. In fact, I am Rajah here. This bit of my country is all my own.”
The visitors were impressed, exchanged meaning glances, nodded at each other.
“Good, good,” said Hassim at last, with a smile. “You carry your country and your power with you over the sea. A Rajah upon the sea. Good!”
Lingard laughed thunderously while the others looked amused.
“Your country is very powerful — we know,” began again Hassim after a pause, “but is it stronger than the country of the Dutch who steal our land?”
“Stronger?” cried Lingard. He opened a broad palm. “Stronger? We could take them in our hand like this — ” and he closed his fingers triumphantly.
“And do you make them pay tribute for their land?” enquired Hassim with eagerness.
“No,” answered Lingard in a sobered tone; “this, Tuan Hassim, you see, is not the custom of white men. We could, of course — but it is not the custom.”
“Is it not?” said the other with a sceptical smile. “They are stronger than we are and they want tribute from us. And sometimes they get it — even from Wajo where every man is free and wears a kris.”
There was a period of dead silence while Lingard looked thoughtful and the Malays gazed stonily at nothing.
“But we burn our powder amongst ourselves,” went on Hassim, gently, “and blunt our weapons upon one another.”
He sighed, paused, and then changing to an easy tone began to urge Lingard to visit Wajo “for trade and to see friends,” he said, laying his hand on his breast and inclining his body slightly.
“Aye. To trade with friends,” cried Lingard with a laugh, “for such a ship” — he waved his arm — ”for such a vessel as this is like a household where there are many behind the curtain. It is as costly as a wife and children.”
The guests rose and took their leave.
“You fired three shots for me, Panglima Hassim,” said Lingard, seriously, “and I have had three barrels of powder put on board your prau; one for each shot. But we are not quits.”
The Malay’s eyes glittered with pleasure.
“This is indeed a friend’s gift. Come to see me in my country!”
“I promise,” said Lingard, “to see you — some day.”
The calm surface of the bay reflected the glorious night sky, and the brig with the prau riding astern seemed to be suspended amongst the stars in a peace that was almost unearthly in the perfection of its unstirring silence. The last hand-shakes were exchanged on deck, and the Malays went aboard their own craft. Next morning, when a breeze sprang up soon after sunrise, the brig and the prau left the bay together. When clear of the land Lingard made all sail and sheered alongside to say good-bye before parting company — the brig, of course, sailing three feet to the prau’s one. Hassim stood on the high deck aft.
“Prosperous road,” hailed Lingard
.
“Remember the promise!” shouted the other. “And come soon!” he went on, raising his voice as the brig forged past. “Come soon — lest what perhaps is written should come to pass!”
The brig shot ahead.
“What?” yelled Lingard in a puzzled tone, “what’s written?”
He listened. And floating over the water came faintly the words:
“No one knows!”
III
“My word! I couldn’t help liking the chap,” would shout Lingard when telling the story; and looking around at the eyes that glittered at him through the smoke of cheroots, this Brixham trawler-boy, afterward a youth in colliers, deep-water man, gold-digger, owner and commander of “the finest brig afloat,” knew that by his listeners — seamen, traders, adventurers like himself — this was accepted not as the expression of a feeling, but as the highest commendation he could give his Malay friend.
“By heavens! I shall go to Wajo!” he cried, and a semicircle of heads nodded grave approbation while a slightly ironical voice said deliberately — ”You are a made man, Tom, if you get on the right side of that Rajah of yours.”
“Go in — and look out for yourself,” cried another with a laugh.
A little professional jealousy was unavoidable, Wajo, on account of its chronic state of disturbance, being closed to the white traders; but there was no real ill-will in the banter of these men, who, rising with handshakes, dropped off one by one. Lingard went straight aboard his vessel and, till morning, walked the poop of the brig with measured steps. The riding lights of ships twinkled all round him; the lights ashore twinkled in rows, the stars twinkled above his head in a black sky; and reflected in the black water of the roadstead twinkled far below his feet. And all these innumerable and shining points were utterly lost in the immense darkness. Once he heard faintly the rumbling chain of some vessel coming to an anchor far away somewhere outside the official limits of the harbour. A stranger to the port — thought Lingard — one of us would have stood right in. Perhaps a ship from home? And he felt strangely touched at the thought of that ship, weary with months of wandering, and daring not to approach the place of rest. At sunrise, while the big ship from the West, her sides streaked with rust and grey with the salt of the sea, was moving slowly in to take up a berth near the shore, Lingard left the roadstead on his way to the eastward.
A heavy gulf thunderstorm was raging, when after a long passage and at the end of a sultry calm day, wasted in drifting helplessly in sight of his destination, Lingard, taking advantage of fitful gusts of wind, approached the shores of Wajo. With characteristic audacity, he held on his way, closing in with a coast to which he was a stranger, and on a night that would have appalled any other man; while at every dazzling flash, Hassim’s native land seemed to leap nearer at the brig — and disappear instantly as though it had crouched low for the next spring out of an impenetrable darkness. During the long day of the calm, he had obtained from the deck and from aloft, such good views of the coast, and had noted the lay of the land and the position of the dangers so carefully that, though at the precise moment when he gave the order to let go the anchor, he had been for some time able to see no further than if his head had been wrapped in a woollen blanket, yet the next flickering bluish flash showed him the brig, anchored almost exactly where he had judged her to be, off a narrow white beach near the mouth of a river.
He could see on the shore a high cluster of bamboo huts perched upon piles, a small grove of tall palms all bowed together before the blast like stalks of grass, something that might have been a palisade of pointed stakes near the water, and far off, a sombre background resembling an immense wall — the forest-clad hills. Next moment, all this vanished utterly from his sight, as if annihilated and, before he had time to turn away, came back to view with a sudden crash, appearing unscathed and motionless under hooked darts of flame, like some legendary country of immortals, withstanding the wrath and fire of Heaven.
Made uneasy by the nature of his holding ground, and fearing that in one of the terrific off-shore gusts the brig would start her anchor, Lingard remained on deck to watch over the safety of his vessel. With one hand upon the lead-line which would give him instant warning of the brig beginning to drag, he stood by the rail, most of the time deafened and blinded, but also fascinated, by the repeated swift visions of an unknown shore, a sight always so inspiring, as much perhaps by its vague suggestion of danger as by the hopes of success it never fails to awaken in the heart of a true adventurer. And its immutable aspect of profound and still repose, seen thus under streams of fire and in the midst of a violent uproar, made it appear inconceivably mysterious and amazing.
Between the squalls there were short moments of calm, while now and then even the thunder would cease as if to draw breath. During one of those intervals. Lingard, tired and sleepy, was beginning to doze where he stood, when suddenly it occurred to him that, somewhere below, the sea had spoken in a human voice. It had said, “Praise be to God — ” and the voice sounded small, clear, and confident, like the voice of a child speaking in a cathedral. Lingard gave a start and thought — I’ve dreamed this — and directly the sea said very close to him, “Give a rope.”
The thunder growled wickedly, and Lingard, after shouting to the men on deck, peered down at the water, until at last he made out floating close alongside the upturned face of a man with staring eyes that gleamed at him and then blinked quickly to a flash of lightning. By that time all hands in the brig were wildly active and many ropes-ends had been thrown over. Then together with a gust of wind, and, as if blown on board, a man tumbled over the rail and fell all in a heap upon the deck. Before any one had the time to pick him up, he leaped to his feet, causing the people around him to step back hurriedly. A sinister blue glare showed the bewildered faces and the petrified attitudes of men completely deafened by the accompanying peal of thunder. After a time, as if to beings plunged in the abyss of eternal silence, there came to their ears an unfamiliar thin, far-away voice saying:
“I seek the white man.”
“Here,” cried Lingard. Then, when he had the stranger, dripping and naked but for a soaked waistcloth, under the lamp of the cabin, he said, “I don’t know you.”
“My name is Jaffir, and I come from Pata Hassim, who is my chief and your friend. Do you know this?”
He held up a thick gold ring, set with a fairly good emerald.
“I have seen it before on the Rajah’s finger,” said Lingard, looking very grave.
“It is the witness of the truth I speak — the message from Hassim is — ’Depart and forget!’“
“I don’t forget,” said Lingard, slowly. “I am not that kind of man. What folly is this?”
It is unnecessary to give at full length the story told by Jaffir. It appears that on his return home, after the meeting with Lingard, Hassim found his relative dying and a strong party formed to oppose his rightful successor. The old Rajah Tulla died late at night and — as Jaffir put it — before the sun rose there were already blows exchanged in the courtyard of the ruler’s dalam. This was the preliminary fight of a civil war, fostered by foreign intrigues; a war of jungle and river, of assaulted stockades and forest ambushes. In this contest, both parties — according to Jaffir — displayed great courage, and one of them an unswerving devotion to what, almost from the first, was a lost cause. Before a month elapsed Hassim, though still chief of an armed band, was already a fugitive. He kept up the struggle, however, with some vague notion that Lingard’s arrival would turn the tide.
“For weeks we lived on wild rice; for days we fought with nothing but water in our bellies,” declaimed Jaffir in the tone of a true fire-eater.
And then he went on to relate, how, driven steadily down to the sea, Hassim, with a small band of followers, had been for days holding the stockade by the waterside.
“But every night some men disappeared,” confessed Jaffir. “They were weary and hungry and they went to eat with their enemies. We are only te
n now — ten men and a woman with the heart of a man, who are tonight starving, and to-morrow shall die swiftly. We saw your ship afar all day; but you have come too late. And for fear of treachery and lest harm should befall you — his friend — the Rajah gave me the ring and I crept on my stomach over the sand, and I swam in the night — and I, Jaffir, the best swimmer in Wajo, and the slave of Hassim, tell you — his message to you is ‘Depart and forget’ — and this is his gift — take!”
He caught hold suddenly of Lingard’s hand, thrust roughly into it the ring, and then for the first time looked round the cabin with wondering but fearless eyes. They lingered over the semicircle of bayonets and rested fondly on musket-racks. He grunted in admiration.
“Ya-wa, this is strength!” he murmured as if to himself. “But it has come too late.”
“Perhaps not,” cried Lingard.
“Too late,” said Jaffir, “we are ten only, and at sunrise we go out to die.” He went to the cabin door and hesitated there with a puzzled air, being unused to locks and door handles.
“What are you going to do?” asked Lingard.
“I shall swim back,” replied Jaffir. “The message is spoken and the night can not last forever.”
“You can stop with me,” said Lingard, looking at the man searchingly.
“Hassim waits,” was the curt answer.
“Did he tell you to return?” asked Lingard.
“No! What need?” said the other in a surprised tone.
Lingard seized his hand impulsively.
“If I had ten men like you!” he cried.
“We are ten, but they are twenty to one,” said Jaffir, simply.
Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) Page 427