PETER GROSS'S RECEPTION
When Peter Gross stepped ashore at the foot of the slope on which the
fort and government buildings stood, three thousand pairs of eyes, whose
owners were securely hidden in the copses and undergrowth for a quarter
of a mile in both directions along the shore-line, watched his every
movement. With the lightning celerity with which big news travels word
had been spread through Bulungan town that the new resident was coming
ashore, and every inhabitant possessed of sound legs to bear him had
run, crawled, or scrambled to a favorable patch of undergrowth where he
could get a first glimpse of the _orang blanda_ chief without being
observed.
Perfectly aware of this scrutiny, but calmly oblivious to it, Peter
Gross stepped out of the boat and directed the sailors who rowed it to
return to their ship. As their oars bit the water he faced the path that
wound up the hillside and walked along it at a dignified and easy pace.
His sharp ears caught the incessant rustle of leaves, a rustle not made
by the breeze, and the soft grinding of bits of coral under the pressure
of naked feet.
Once he surprised a dusky face in the bush, but his glance roved to the
next object in his line of vision in placid unconcern. As he mounted the
rise he made for the _controlleur's_ home, strolling along as calmly as
though he were on a Batavia lane.
"_Duivel noch toe!_" Muller exclaimed as the boat returned to the ship.
"He is coming here alone." His voice had an incredulous ring as though
he half doubted the evidence of his own senses.
Van Slyck's eyes danced with satisfaction, and his saturnine smile was
almost Mephistophelian.
"By Nassau, I was right, after all, _mynheer_," he exclaimed. "He's an
ass of a Yankee that Van Schouten is having some sport with in sending
him here."
"There may be something behind this, _kapitein_," Muller cautioned
apprehensively, but Van Slyck cut him short.
"Behind this, _mynheer_? The fool does not even know how to maintain the
dignity due his office. Would he land this way, like a pedler with his
pack, if he did? Oh, we are going to have some rare sport--"
Van Slyck's merriment broke loose in a guffaw.
"You-you will not do anything violent, _kapitein_?" Muller asked
apprehensively.
"Violent?" Van Slyck exclaimed. "I wouldn't hurt him for a thousand
guilders, _mynheer_. He's going to be more fun than even you."
The frank sneer that accompanied the remark made the captain's meaning
sufficiently clear to penetrate even so sluggish a mind as the
_controlleur's_. He reddened, and an angry retort struggled to his
lips, but he checked it before it framed itself into coherent language.
He was too dependent on Van Slyck, he realized, to risk offending the
latter now, but for the first time in their acquaintanceship his
negative dislike of his more brilliant associate deepened to a positive
aversion.
"What are we going to do, _kapitein_?" he asked quietly.
"Welcome him, _mynheer_!" Again the sardonic smile. "Treat him to some
of your fine cigars and a bottle of your best Hollands. Draw him out,
make him empty his belly to us. When we have sucked him dry and drenched
him with liquor we will pack him back to the _Prins_ to tell Kapitein
Enckel what fine fellows we are. To-morrow we'll receive him with all
ceremony--I'll instruct him this afternoon how a resident is installed
in his new post and how he must conduct himself.
"Enckel will leave here without a suspicion, Mynheer Gross will be ready
to trust even his purse to us if we say the word, and we will have
everything our own way as before. But s-s-st! Here he comes!" He lifted
a restraining hand. "Lord, what a shoulder of beef! Silence, now, and
best your manners, _mynheer_. Leave the talking to me."
Peter Gross walked along the kenari-tree shaded lane between the
evergreen hedges clipped with characteristic Dutch primness to a perfect
plane. Behind him formed a growing column of natives whose curiosity had
gotten the better of their diffidence.
The resident's keen eyes instantly ferreted out Van Slyck and Muller in
the shadows of the veranda, but he gave no sign of recognition. Mounting
the steps of the porch, he stood for a moment in dignified expectancy,
his calm, gray eyes taking the measure of each of its occupants.
An apprehensive shiver ran down Muller's spine as he met Peter Gross's
glance--those gray eyes were so like the silent, inscrutable eyes of the
stranger in de Jonge's chair whom he saw in his dream. It was Van Slyck
who spoke first.
"You were looking for some one, _mynheer_?" he asked.
"For Mynheer Muller, the _controlleur_ and acting resident. I think I
have found him."
The mildness with which these words were spoken restored the captain's
aplomb, momentarily shaken by Peter Gross's calm, disconcerting stare.
"You have a message for us?"
"I have," Peter Gross replied.
"Ah, from Kapitein Enckel, I suppose," Van Slyck remarked urbanely.
"Your name is--" He paused significantly.
"It is from his excellency, the Jonkheer Van Schouten," Peter Gross
corrected quietly.
Peter Gross's tolerance of this interrogation convinced Van Slyck that
he had to do with an inferior intelligence suddenly elevated to an
important position and very much at sea in it.
"And your message, I understand, is for Mynheer Muller, the
_controlleur_?" the captain inquired loftily with a pert uptilt of his
chin.
"For Mynheer Muller, the _controlleur_," Peter Gross acknowledged
gravely.
"Ah, yes. This is Mynheer Muller." He indicated the _controlleur_ with a
flourish. "But you have not yet told us your name."
"I am Peter Gross."
"Ah, yes, Pieter Gross. Pieter Gross." The captain repeated the name
with evident relish. "Pieter Gross. Mynheer Pieter Gross."
There was a subtle emphasis on the _mynheer_--a half-doubtful use of the
word, as though he questioned Peter Gross's right to a gentleman's
designation. It was designed to test the sailor.
Peter Gross's face did not change a muscle. Turning to the
_controlleur_, he asked in a voice of unruffled calm: "May I speak to
you privately, _mynheer_?"
Muller glanced apprehensively at Van Slyck. The fears inspired by his
dreams made him more susceptible to ulterior impressions than the
captain, whose naturally more acute sensibilities were blunted by the
preconceived conviction that he had an ignorant Yankee to deal with. Van
Slyck smiled cynically and observed:
"Am I in the way, Mynheer Gross?" Again the ironic accent to the
_mynheer_. He rose to go, but Muller stayed him with the cry:
"_Neen, neen, kapitein._ Whatever comes from the governor concerns you,
too. Stay with us, and we will see what his excellency has to say."
None knew the importance of first impressions better than the captain.
If the new resident could be thwarted in his purpose of seeing Muller
alone that achievement would exercise its influence on all their future
relations, Van Slyck perceived.
Assuming an expression of indifference, he sank indolently into an easy
chair. When he looked up he found the gray eyes of Peter Gross fixed
full upon him.
"Perhaps I should introduce myself further, captain," Peter Gross said.
"I am Mynheer Gross, of Batavia, your new resident by virtue of his
excellency the Jonkheer Van Schouten's appointment."
Van Slyck's faint, cynical smile deepened a trifle.
"Ah, _mynheer_ has been appointed resident," he remarked
non-committally.
Peter Gross's face hardened sternly.
"It is not the custom in Batavia, captain, for officers of the garrison
to be seated while their superiors stand."
For a moment the astonished captain lost his usual assurance. In that
moment he unwittingly scrambled to his feet in response to the
commanding look of the gray eyes that stared at him so steadily. The
instant his brain cleared he regretted the action, but another lightning
thought saved him from the folly of defying the resident by reseating
himself in the chair he had vacated. Furious at Peter Gross, furious at
himself, he struggled futilely for an effective reply and failed to find
it. In the end he took refuge in a sullen silence.
Peter Gross turned again to Muller.
"Here are my credentials, _mynheer_, and a letter from his excellency,
the governor-general," he announced simply.
With the words he placed in Muller's hands two envelopes plentifully
decorated with sealing-wax stamped with the great seal of the
Netherlands. The _controlleur_ took them with trembling fingers. Peter
Gross calmly appropriated a chair. As he seated himself he remarked:
"Gentlemen, you may sit."
Van Slyck ignored the permission and strolled to one end of the veranda.
He was thinking deeply, and all the while stole covert looks at Peter
Gross. Had he been mistaken, after all, in his estimate of the man? Was
this apparent guilelessness and simplicity a mask? Were Koyala and
Muller right? Or was the resident's sudden assumption of dignity a petty
vanity finding vent in the display of newly acquired powers?
He stole another look. That face, it was so frank and ingenuous, so free
from cunning and deceit, and so youthful. Its very boyishness persuaded
Van Slyck. Vanity was the inspiration for the resident's sudden
assertion of the prerogatives of his office, he decided, the petty
vanity of a boor eager to demonstrate authority. Confidence restored, he
became keenly alert for a chance to humble this froward Yankee.
It was some time before Muller finished reading the documents. He was
breathing heavily the while, for he felt that he was reading his own
death-warrant. There was no doubting their authenticity, for they were
stamped with the twin lions of the house of Orange and the motto, "_Je
Maintiendrai_." The signature at the bottom of each was the familiar
scrawl of Java's gamecock governor.
Muller stared at them blankly for a long time, as though he half hoped
to find some mitigation of the blow that swept his vast administrative
powers as acting resident from him to the magistracy of a district.
Dropping them on his lap at last with a weary sigh, he remarked:
"Welcome, Mynheer Gross, to Bulungan. I wish I could say more, but I
cannot. The most I can say is that I am happy his excellency has at last
yielded to my petition and has relieved me of a portion of my duties. It
is a hard, hard residency to govern, _mynheer_."
"A splendid start," Van Slyck muttered to himself under his breath.
"So I have been informed, _mynheer_," Peter Gross replied gravely.
"Pardon me a moment."
He turned toward Van Slyck: "Captain, I have a letter for you also from
his excellency. It will inform you of my appointment."
"It would be better form, perhaps, _mynheer_, for me to receive his
excellency's commands at Fort Wilhelmina," Van Slyck replied suavely,
delighted at being able to turn the tables.
"Very true, very true, _kapitein_, if you insist," Peter Gross agreed
quietly. "I hope to visit you at the fort within the hour. In the mean
time you will excuse Mynheer Muller and me."
For the second time a cold chill of doubt seized Van Slyck. Was it
possible that he had misjudged his man? If he had, it was doubly
dangerous to leave Muller alone with him. He resolved to force the
issue.
"A thousand pardons, _mynheer_," he apologized smilingly. "Mynheer
Muller just now requested me to remain."
A swift change came into the face of Peter Gross. His chin shot forward;
in place of the frank simplicity on which Van Slyck had based his
estimate was a look of authority.
"Mynheer Muller cancels that invitation at my request," he announced
sternly.
Van Slyck glanced in quick appeal at his associate, but Muller's eyes
were already lowering under Peter Gross's commanding glance. Unable to
find a straw of excuse for holding the captain, the _controlleur_
stammered:
"Certainly, _mynheer_. I will see you later, _kapitein_."
Even then Van Slyck lingered, afraid now to leave Muller alone. But the
cold, gray eyes of Peter Gross followed him; they expressed a decision
from which there was no appeal. Furious at Muller, furious at his own
impotence, the captain walked slowly across the veranda. Half-way down
the steps he turned with a glare of defiance, but thought better of it.
Raging inwardly, and a prey to the blackest passions, he strode toward
the stockade. The unhappy sentinel at the gate, a Javanese colonial, was
dozing against the brass cannon.
"Devil take you, is this the way you keep guard?" Van Slyck roared and
leaped at the man. His sword flashed from its scabbard and he brought
the flat of the blade on the unhappy wretch's head. The Javanese dropped
like a log.
"Bring that carrion to the guard-house and put some one on the gate that
can keep his eyes open," Van Slyck shouted to young Lieutenant Banning,
officer of the day. White to the lips, Banning saluted, and executed the
orders.
In barracks that night the soldiers whispered fearfully to each other
that a _budjang brani_ (evil spirit) had seized their captain again.