Part 9 (1/2)
”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 Ha.s.sim with eagerness.
”No,” answered Lingard in a sobered tone; ”this, Tuan Ha.s.sim, 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 Ha.s.sim, 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 s.h.i.+p”--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 Ha.s.sim,” 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. Ha.s.sim 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 pa.s.s!”
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 p.o.o.p of the brig with measured steps. The riding lights of s.h.i.+ps twinkled all round him; the lights ash.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+p from home?
And he felt strangely touched at the thought of that s.h.i.+p, weary with months of wandering, and daring not to approach the place of rest. At sunrise, while the big s.h.i.+p 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 sh.o.r.e, Lingard left the roadstead on his way to the eastward.