THE LONG ARM OF AH SING
Two weeks after receiving his appointment as resident of Bulungan, Peter
Gross stood on a wharf along the Batavia water-front and looked
wistfully out to sea. It was early evening and quite dark, for the moon
had not risen and the eastern sky from the zenith down was obscured by
fitful patches of cloud, gray-winged messengers of rain. In the west,
Venus glowed with a warm, seductive light, like a lamp in a Spanish
garden. A brisk and vigorous breeze roughed the waters of the bay that
raced shoreward in long rollers to escape its impetuous wooing.
Peter Gross breathed the salt air deeply and stared steadfastly into the
west, for he was sick at heart. Not until now did he realize what giving
up the sea meant to him. The sea!--it had been a second mother to him,
receiving him into its open arms when he ran away from the drudgery of
the farm to satisfy the wanderlust that ached and ached in his boyish
heart. Ay, it had mothered him, cradling him at night on its fond bosom
while it sang a wild and eerie refrain among sail and cordage, buffeting
him in its ill-humor, feeding him, and even clothing him. His first
yellow oilskin, he remembered poignantly, had been salvaged from a
wreck.
Now he was leaving that mother. He was leaving the life he had lived for
ten years. He was denying the dreams and ambitions of his youth. He was
casting aside the dream of some day standing on the deck of his own ship
with a score of smart sailors to jump at his command. A feeling akin to
the home-sickness he had suffered when, a lad of fifteen, he lived
through his first storm at sea, in the hold of a cattle-ship, came over
him now. Almost he regretted his decision.
Since bidding good-bye to Captain Threthaway two weeks before, he had
picked twenty-four of the twenty-five men he intended to take with him
for the pacification of Bulungan. The twenty-fifth he expected to sign
that night at the home of his quondam skipper, Captain Roderick Rouse,
better known as Roaring Rory. Rouse had been a trader in the south seas
for many years and was now skipper of a smart little cottage in Ryswyk,
the European residence section of Batavia. Peter Gross's presence at the
water-front was explained by the fact that he had an hour to spare and
naturally drifted to Tanjong Priok, the shipping center.
The selection of the company had not been an easy task. Peter Gross had
not expected that it would be. He found the type of men he wanted even
scarcer than he anticipated. For the past two weeks beachcombers and
loafers along the wharves, and tourists, traders, and gentlemen
adventurers at the hotels had looked curiously at the big, well-dressed
sailor who always seemed to have plenty of time and money to spend, and
was always ready to gossip. Some of them tried to draw him out. To these
he talked vaguely about seeing a little of Java before he went sailoring
again. Opinion became general that for a sailor Peter Gross was
remarkably close-mouthed.
While he was to all appearances idly dawdling about, Peter Gross was in
reality getting information concerning hardy young men of adventuresome
spirit who might be persuaded to undertake an expedition that meant risk
of life and who could be relied upon. Each man was carefully sounded
before he was signed, and when signed, was told to keep his mouth shut.
But the major problem, to find a capable leader of such a body of men,
was still unsolved. Peter Gross realized that his duties as resident
precluded him from taking personal charge. He also recognized his
limitations. He was a sailor; a soldier was needed to whip the company
in shape, a bush-fighter who knew how to dispose those under him when
Dyak arrows and Chinese bullets began to fly overhead in the jungle.
Two weeks of diligent search had failed to unearth any one with the
necessary qualifications. Peter Gross was beginning to despair when he
thought of his former skipper, Captain Rouse. Looking him up, he
explained his predicament.
"By the great Polar B'ar," Roaring Rory bellowed when Peter Gross had
finished his recital. "How the dickens do you expect to clean out that
hell-hole with twenty-five men? Man, there's a hundred thousand Dyaks
alone, let alone those rat-faced Chinks that come snoopin' down like
buzzards smellin' carrion, and the cut-throat Bugis, and the bad men the
English chased out of Sarawak, and the Sulu pirates, and Lord knows what
all. It's suicide."
"I'm not going to Bulungan to make war," Peter Gross explained mildly.
Roaring Rory spat a huge cud of tobacco into a cuspidor six feet away,
the better to express his astonishment.
"Then what in blazes are you goin' there for?" he roared.
Peter Gross permitted himself one of his rare smiles. There was a
positive twinkle in his eyes as he replied:
"To convince them I am their best friend."
Roaring Rory's eyes opened wide.
"Convince 'em--what?" he gasped.
"That I am their friend."
The old sea captain stared at his ex-mate.
"You're jokin'," he declared.
"I was never more serious in my life," Peter Gross assured gravely.
"Then you're a damn' fool," Roaring Rory asserted. "Yes, sir, a damn'
fool. I didn't think it of ye, Peter."
"It will take time, but I believe I see my way," Peter Gross replied
quietly. He explained his plan briefly, and as he described how he
expected to win the confidence and support of the hillmen, Roaring Rory
became calmer.
"Mebbe you can do it, Peter, mebbe you can do it," he conceded
dubiously. "But that devil of an Ah Sing has a long arm, and by the bye,
I'd keep indoors after sundown if I were you."
"But this isn't getting me the man I need," Peter Gross pointed out.
"Can you recommend any one, captain?"
Roaring Rory squared back in his chair.
"I hain't got the latitude and longitude of this-here proposition of
yours figured just yet," he replied, producing a plug of tobacco and
biting off a generous portion before passing it hospitably to his
visitor. "Just what kind of a man do you want?"
Peter Gross drew his chair a few inches nearer the captain's.
"What I want," he said, "is a man that I can trust--no matter what
happens. He doesn't need to know seamanship, but he's got to be
absolutely square, a man the sight of gold or women won't turn. He has
to be a soldier, an ex-army officer, and a bush-fighter, a man who has
seen service in the jungle. A man from the Philippines would just fill
the bill. He has to be the sort of a man his men will swear by. And he
has to have a clean record."
Roaring Rory grunted. "Ye don't want nothin', do ye? I'd recommend the
Angel Gabriel."
"There is such a man," Peter Gross insisted. "There always is. You've
got to help me find him, captain."
Rouse scratched his head profoundly and squinted hard. By and bye a big
grin overspread his features.
"I've got a nevvy," he announced, "who'd be crazy to be with ye. He's
only seventeen, but big for his age. He's out on my plantation now. Hold
on," he roared as Peter Gross attempted to interrupt. "I'm comin' to
number twenty-five. This nevvy has a particular friend that's with him
now out to the plantation. 'Cordin' to his log, this chap's the very man
ye're lookin' for. Was a captain o' volunteer infantry and saw service
in the Philippines. When his time run out he went to Shanghai for a
rubber-goods house, and learned all there is to know about Chinks. He's
the best rifle shot in Java. An' he can handle men. He ain't much on the
brag order, but he sure is all there."
"That is the sort of a man I have been looking for," Peter Gross
observed with satisfaction.
"He's worth lookin' up at any rate," Captain Rouse declared. "If you
care to see him and my nevvy, you're in luck. They're comin' back
to-night. They had a little business here, so they run down together and
will bunk with me. I expect them here at nine o'clock, and if ye're on
deck I'll interduce you. What d'ye say?"
"I knew you wouldn't fail me, captain," Peter Gross replied warmly.
"I'll be here."
The shrill whistle of a coaster interrupted Peter Gross's melancholy
reflections. He recollected with a start that it must be near the time
he had promised to be at Captain Rouse's cottage. Leaving the wharves,
he ambled along the main traveled highway toward the business district
until overtaken by a belated victoria whose driver he hailed.
The cool of evening was descending from the hills as the vehicle turned
into the street on which Captain Rouse lived. It was a wide, tree-lined
lane, with oil lamps every six or seven hundred feet whose yellow rays
struggled ineffectually to banish the somber gloom shed by the huge
masses of foliage that shut out the heavens. Feeling cramped from his
long ride and a trifle chill, Peter Gross suddenly decided to walk the
remainder of the distance, halted his driver, paid the fare, and
dismissed him. Whistling cheerily, a rollicking chanty of the sea to
which his feet kept time, he walked briskly along.
Cutting a bar of song in the middle, he stopped suddenly to listen.
Somewhere in the darkness behind him someone had stumbled into an acacia
hedge and had uttered a stifled exclamation of pain. There was no other
sound, except the soughing of the breeze through the tree-tops.
"A drunken coolie," he observed to himself. He stepped briskly along and
resumed his whistling. The song came to an abrupt close as his keen ears
caught a faint shuffling not far behind, a shuffling like the scraping
of a soft-soled shoe against the plank walk. He turned swiftly, ears
pricked, and looked steadily in the direction that the sound came from,
but the somber shadows defied his searching glance.
"Only coolies," he murmured, but an uneasy feeling came upon him and he
quickened his pace. His right hand involuntarily slipped to his
coat-pocket for the pistol he customarily carried. It was not there. A
moment's thought and he recollected he had left it in his room.
As he reached the next street-lamp he hesitated. Ahead of him was a long
area of unlighted thoroughfare. Evidently the lamp-lighter had neglected
his duties. Or, Peter Gross reflected, some malicious hand might have
extinguished the lights. It was on this very portion of the lane that
Captain Rouse's cottage stood, only a few hundred yards farther.
He listened sharply a moment. Back in the shadows off from the lane a
piano tinkled, the langorous Dream Waltz from the Tales of Hoffman. A
lighted victoria clattered toward him, then turned into a brick-paved
driveway. Else not a sound. The very silence was ominous.
Walking slowly, to accustom his eyes to the gloom, Peter Gross left the
friendly circle of light. As the shadows began to envelop him he heard
the sound of running feet on turf. Some one inside the hedge was trying
to overhaul him. He broke into a dog-trot.
A low whistle cut the silence. Leaping forward, he broke into a sprint.
Rouse's cottage was only a hundred yards ahead--a dash and he would be
there.
A whistle from in front. A like sound from the other side of the lane.
The stealthy tap-tapping of feet, sandaled feet, from every direction.
For a moment Peter Gross experienced the sensation of a hunted creature
driven to bay. It was only for a moment, however, and then he acquainted
himself with his surroundings in a quick, comprehensive glance. On one
side of him was the hedge, on the other a line of tall kenari-trees.
Vaulting the hedge, he ran silently and swiftly in its shadow, hugging
the ground like a fox in the brush. Suddenly and without warning he
crashed full-tilt into a man coming from the opposite direction, caught
him low, just beneath the ribs. The man crashed back into the hedge with
an explosive gasp.
Ahead were white pickets, the friendly white pickets that enclosed
Captain Rouse's grounds. He dashed toward them, but he was too late. Out
of a mass of shrubbery a short, squat figure leaped at him. There was
the flash of a knife. Peter Gross had no chance to grapple with his
assailant. He dropped like a log, an old sailor's trick, and the short,
squat figure fell over him. He had an instant glimpse of a yellow face,
fiendish in its malignancy, of a flying queue, of fingers that groped
futilely, then he rose.
At the same instant a cat-like something sprang on him from behind,
twisted its legs around his body, and fastened its talons into his
throat. The impact staggered him, but as he found his footing he tore
the claw-like fingers loose and shook the creature off. Simultaneously
two shadows in front of him materialized into Chinamen with gleaming
knives. As they leaped at him a red-hot iron seared his right forearm
and a bolt of lightning numbed his left shoulder.
A sound like a hoarse, dry cackle came from Peter Gross's throat. His
long arms shot out and each of his huge hands caught one of his
assailants by the throat. Bringing their heads together with a sound
like breaking egg-shells, he tossed them aside.
Before he could turn to flee a dozen shadowy forms semi-circled about
him. The starlight dimly revealed gaunt, yellow faces and glaring eyes,
the eyes of a wolf-pack. The circle began to narrow. Knives glittered.
But none of the crouching forms dared venture within reach of the
gorilla arms.
Then the lion arose in Peter Gross. Beside him was an ornamental iron
flower-pot. Stooping quickly, he seized it and lifted it high above his
head. They shrank from him, those crouching forms, with shrill pipings
of alarm, but it was too late. He hurled it at the foremost. It caught
two of them and bowled them over like ninepins. Then he leaped at the
others. His mighty right caught one under the chin and laid him flat.
His left dove into the pit of another's stomach. The unfortunate
Chinaman collapsed like a sack of grain.
They ringed him round. A sharp, burning sensation swept across his
back--it was the slash of a knife. A blade sank into the fleshy part of
his throat, and he tore it impatiently away. He struck out savagely
into the densely packed mass of humanity and a primitive cave-man surge
of joy thrilled him at the impact of his fists against human flesh and
bone.
But the fight was too unequal. Blood started from a dozen cuts; it
seemed to him he was afire within and without. His blows began to lack
power and a film came over his eyes, but he struck out the more
savagely, furious at his own weakness. The darkness thickened. The
figures before him, beside him, behind him, became more confused. Two
and three heads bobbed where he thought there was only one. His blows
went wild. The jackals were pulling the lion down.
As he pulled himself together for a last desperate effort to plough
through to the security of Rouse's home, the sharp crack of a revolver
sounded in his ear. At the same instant the lawn leaped into a blinding
light, a light in which the gory figures of his assailants stood out in
dazed and uncertain relief. The acrid fumes of gunpowder filled his
nostrils.
Darting toward the hedges like rats scurrying to their holes, the
Chinamen sought cover. Peter Gross hazily saw two men, white men, each
of them carrying a flash-light and a pistol, vault the pickets. A third
followed, swinging a lantern and bellowing for the "_wacht_" (police).
It was Roaring Rory.
"Are you hurt?" the foremost asked as he approached.
"Not bad, I guess," Peter Gross replied thickly. He lifted his hand to
his forehead in a dazed, uncertain way and looked stupidly at the blood
that gushed over it. A cleft seemed to open at his feet. He felt himself
sinking--down, down, down to the very foundations of the world. Dimly he
heard the cry:
"Quick, Paddy, lend a hand."
Then came oblivion.