PETER GROSS'S PLEDGE
The afternoon sun was pouring its full strength on the coral highway to
Bulungan when Peter Gross rode to the council. He was mounted on a
thoroughbred that he had brought with him from Java, and was in
full-dress uniform. On his breast gleamed several decorations awarded
him by Governor-General Van Schouten. It was the first time he had used
them, and it was not vanity that inspired him to pin them on his coat.
He realized the importance of employing every artifice to impress the
native mind favorably toward its new ruler. Paddy Rouse was in
field-service uniform, and rode a chestnut borrowed from the military
stables.
The terrific din created by several thousand gongs of brass, copper, and
wood, beaten in every part of Bulungan to testify to the holiday, was
plainly audible as they cantered along the road.
"Sounds like the Fourth of July," Paddy remarked cheerfully.
When they neared the village two Gustis, youthful Dyak chiefs with
reputations yet to make, charged toward them with bared krisses. As the
hoofs of their jet-black steeds thundered toward Peter Gross, Paddy gave
his horse the spur and shot it half a length ahead of the resident. His
hand was on the butt of his pistol when a low-voiced warning from his
chief restrained him. Just as it seemed that they would be ridden down
the horsemen parted and flashed by with krisses lifted to salute. They
wheeled instantly and fell in behind the resident.
"Whew," Paddy whistled softly. "I thought they meant business."
"It was meant to do us honor," Peter Gross explained.
More native princes spurred from the town to join the procession. In
each instance the demonstration the same. Paddy noted that every one was
mounted on a black horse and carried a kris whose handle was of either
gold or ivory, and was studded with gems. None used saddles, but each
horse was caparisoned with a gayly colored saddle-cloth embroidered with
gold thread. The bridles were of many-colored cords and the bits of
silver. He pointed out these things to Peter Gross in an undertone.
"That shows that they are all of princely rank," Peter Gross informed
him.
The din from the gongs became almost deafening as they entered the
outskirts of the town. The crowd thickened also, and it became
increasingly difficult to break through the press. Paddy Rouse's eyes
swam as he looked into the sea of black and brown faces grimacing and
contorting. The scene was a riot of color; every native was dressed in
his holiday best, which meant garments of the gaudiest and brightest
dyes that his means enabled him to procure. Paddy noticed a patriarch in
a pea-green velvet jacket, blue and orange chawat, or waist-cloth, and
red, yellow, and blue kerchief head-dress. Most of the kerchief
head-dresses, worn turban-fashion, were in three colors, blue
predominating, he observed.
"Big reception they're giving us," Paddy remarked.
Peter Gross's reply was noncommittal. He felt a little of the forces
that were at work beneath the surface, and realized how quickly this
childishly curious, childishly happy mob could be converted into a
bedlam of savagery.
As they neared the huge twin Hindu deities, carved in stone, that formed
the gate-posts of Wobanguli's palace grounds and the council-hall
enclosure, the crowd massed so thickly that it was impossible for them
to proceed. Paddy drove his horse into the press and split an aisle by a
vicious display of hoofs and the liberal use of his quirt-stock. The
crowd gave way sullenly, those behind refusing to give way for those in
front. Paddy leaned sidewise in his saddle as they passed between the
scowling gods.
"Into the lion's den," he whispered to Peter Gross. His eye was
sparkling; roughing the natives had whetted his appetite for action.
Peter Gross sprang from his horse lightly--he had learned to ride before
he went to sea--and entered the dimly lit hall. Rouse remained at the
entrance and began looking about for Inchi. The little Malay was rubbing
down a horse, but gave no sign of recognition when Rouse's glance met
his. As Paddy looked away, his face, too, sobered. Only his eyes were
more keenly alert.
As Peter Gross became accustomed to the semi-darkness, he distinguished
about forty chiefs and princes seated along the side walls of the
building. There were two Europeans in the room in one corner. Peter
Gross guessed their identity before he could distinguish their faces;
they were Muller and Van Slyck.
At the farther end of the hall was a platform. Two chairs of European
make had been placed upon it. Wobanguli occupied one, the other was
vacant. The hall was thick with smoke, for those who were not chewing
betel were laboring on big Dutch pipes, introduced by their white
rulers.
Silence greeted Peter Gross as he slowly walked the length of the hall,
and none rose to do him the customary honor. Instead of mounting the
platform he remained standing at its base and looked sternly into the
face of the Rajah. In a voice suspiciously sweet he asked:
"Is it so long since a son of the white father has come to Bulungan that
you have forgotten how he must be received, O Rajah?"
There was a moment's pregnant pause, a moment when the royal mind did
some quick thinking. Then Wobanguli rose and said:
"We have heard the call and we are here, resident."
The moment Wobanguli rose a quick rustle and the clicking of steel
apprised Peter Gross that the others also had risen. Although he knew it
was not in his honor--custom forbade lesser chiefs from sitting while
the Rajah stood--he accepted it as such. He did not look around until he
had mounted the platform. Then he gazed at each man individually.
Something in his silent scrutiny sent a cold chill into the hearts of
more than one of the chiefs who had endured it, but most of them
returned it boldly and defiantly.
Not until each of the forty had felt the power of his mesmeric glance
did Peter Gross speak.
"You may tell the council the purpose of this meting, Rajah," he
announced, turning to Wobanguli, and then seated himself in the vacant
chair.
As Wobanguli came forward, Peter Gross had an opportunity to measure his
man. The Rajah was tall, quite tall for a Bornean, powerfully built, but
a trifle stoop-shouldered. His features were pronouncedly Malay rather
than Dyak; there was a furtive look in his half-shut eyes that suggested
craft and cunning, and his ever-ready smile was too suavely pleasant to
deceive the resident.
"A panther; he will be hard to tame," was Peter Gross's unspoken
thought.
Wobanguli began speaking in sonorous tones, using Malay-Dyak dialect,
the _lingua franca_ of the residency.
"Rajahs, Custis, Datus, and Kapalas, to-day hath Allah and the Hanu
Token and the great god Djath given a new ruler to Bulungan."
Peter Gross's brow contracted thoughtfully. It was apparent from
Wobanguli's exordium that he was striving to please the adherents of
every faith represented among the natives present. The Rajah continued:
"In the days when the great fire mountains poured their rivers of flame
into the boiling ocean our forefathers, led by the great god Djath, came
to Borneo. They built villages and begat children. The fire mountains
belched flame and molten rock, the great floods came to drown the
mountains, the earth shook, and whole jungles were swallowed up; but
ever our fathers clung to the island they had come to possess. Then
Djath said: 'This is a strong people. I shall make it my own, my chosen
people, and give to them and to their children's children forever the
land of Borneo.'
"From the seed of our fathers sprang many tribes. New nations came from
over the sea and found habitation with us, and we called them 'brother.'
Last of all came the white man. He sold us guns, and knives, and metals,
and fine horses, and the drink that Allah says we must not touch, and
opium. By and bye, when he was strong and we were weak, he said: 'I will
give you a resident who shall be a father unto you. There will be no
more killings, but every man shall have plenty of gongs and brass rings
for his wives, and many bolts of brilliantly colored cloth, and much
tobacco.' So we let the white man give us a ruler."
There was an ominous stirring among the assembled chiefs. Peter Gross's
face maintained an inscrutable calm, but he was thinking rapidly.
Wobanguli's speech had all the elements of nitroglycerine, he realized.
"It is now many moons since the first white father came to dwell with
us," Wobanguli continued. "Three times has the great fire mountain
belched flame and smoke to show she was angry with us, and three times
have we given of our gifts to appease the spirits. We are poor. Our
women hide their nakedness with the leaves of palm-trees. Our tribesmen
carve their kris-handles from the branches of the ironwood-tree."
He paused. The air was electric. Another word, a single passionate plea,
would unsheath forty krisses, Peter Gross perceived. Wobanguli was
looking at him, savage exultation leering in his eyes, but Peter Gross's
face did not change a muscle, and he waited with an air of polite
attention. Wobanguli faced the assembly again:
"Our elder brother from over the sea, who was sent to us by the little
father at Batavia, will tell us to-day how he will redeem the promises
made to us," he announced. "I have spoken."
So abrupt was the climax that Peter Gross scarcely realized the Rajah
had concluded until he was back in his chair. There was a moment's
dramatic hush. Conscious that Wobanguli had brought him to the very
edge of a precipice as a test, conscious, too, that the Rajah was
disappointed because his intended victim had failed to reveal the
weakness he had expected to find, Peter Gross rose slowly and
impressively to meet the glances of the forty chiefs now centered so
hostilely upon him.
"Princes of our residency of Bulungan"--he began; there was a stir in
the crowd; he was using the native tongue, the same dialect Wobanguli
had used--"the Rajah Wobanguli has told you the purpose of this meeting.
He has told you of the promises made by those who were resident here
before me. He has reminded you that these promises have not been
fulfilled. But he has not told you why they were not fulfilled. I am
here to-day to tell you the reason."
A low, whistling sound, the simultaneous sharp intake of breath through
the nostrils of forty men, filled the room. Pipes and betel and sirih
were laid aside. Rajahs, governors, and princes craned their heads and
looked ominously over the shafts of their spears at their resident.
"There are in this land three peoples, or perhaps four," Peter Gross
said. "Only two of these are the real owners of Borneo, the people whose
fathers settled this island in the early days, as your Rajah has told
you. They are the hill Dyaks and the sea Dyaks, who are one people
though two nations. The Malays are outlanders. The Chinese are
outlanders. They have the same right to live here that the white man
has--no more, no less. That right comes from the increase in riches
they bring and the trade they bring."
A hoarse murmur arose. The Malay Datus' scowls were blacker. The Dyaks
looked sullenly at their arch-enemies, the brown immigrants from
Malacca.
"Long before the first white man came here, the two nations of
Dyaks--the Dyaks of the sea and the Dyaks of the hills--were at war with
each other. The skulls of the people of each nation decorated the
lodge-poles of their enemies. The Dyaks of the sea made treaties with
the Bajaus, the Malays, the Bugis, and the Chinese sea-rovers. Together
these people have driven the Dyaks of the hills far inland, almost to
the crest of the great fire mountains. But the price they pay is the
surrender of their strong men to row the proas of their masters, the
pirates. The spring rains come, but the rice is left unsowed, for a fair
crop attracts the spoilers, and only the poor are left in peace. Poverty
has come upon your Dyaks. Your kris-handles are of wood, while those of
your masters are of gold and jewels."
Peter Gross paused. The Dyaks were glaring at the Malays, the Malays
looked as fiercely back. Several chiefs were fingering their
kris-handles. Muller was watching the tribesmen in anxious bewilderment;
Van Slyck hid in the shadows.
"Forget your feuds and listen to me," Peter Gross thundered in a voice
of authority that focused instant attention upon him. "Let me tell you
what I have come to do for Bulungan."
He turned to a group of short, lithely built men armed with spears.
"To you, hill Dyaks, I bring peace and an end of all raiding. No more
shall the coast-rovers cross your borders. Your women will be safe while
you hunt dammar gum and resin in the forests; the man who steals a woman
against her will shall hang. I, your resident, have spoken."
He turned toward the delegation of coast natives.
"To you, Dyaks of the sea, I bring liberation from your masters who make
slaves of your young men. There will be no more raids; you may grow your
crops in peace."
To the scowling Malays he said:
"Merchants of Malacca, think not that my heart is bitter against you,
for I bring rich gifts to you also. I bring you the gift of a happy and
contented people, rich in the produce of this fertile island, eager to
buy the things you bring to them in trade. The _balas_ money which you
now pay the pirates will be counted with your profits, for I will drive
the pirates from these seas.
"These are my commands to all of you. Keep your houses in order. If a
Dyak of the hills slay a Dyak of the sea, keep your krisses sheathed and
come and tell me. If a man take a woman that is not his own, keep your
krisses sheathed and come and tell me. If your neighbor arm his people
and drive your people to the jungle and burn their village, come and
tell me. I will do justice. But swift and terrible will be my vengeance
on him who breaks the law."
An ominous rumble of angry dissent filled the hall. It was instantly
quelled. Towering over them, his powerful frame lifted to its full
height, Peter Gross glared at them so fiercely that the stoutest hearts
among them momentarily quailed and shrank back. Taking instant advantage
of the silence, he announced sternly:
"I am now ready to hear your grievances, princes of the residency. You
may speak one by one in the order of your rank."
Calmly turning his back on them, he walked back to his chair.
There was a tense silence of several minutes while Datu looked at Rajah
and Rajah at Datu. Peter Gross saw the fierce sway of passions and
conflicting opinions. Muller looked from face to face with an anxious
frown, striving to ascertain the drift of the tide, and Van Slyck
grinned saturninely.
A powerful Malay suddenly leaped to his feet, and glared defiantly at
Peter Gross.
"Hear me, princes of Bulungan," he shouted. "Year after year the
servants of him who rules in Batavia have come to us and said: 'Give us
a tenth of your rice, of your dammar gum, give us bamboo, and rattan,
and cocoanuts as tribute money and we will protect you from your
enemies.' Year after year have our fields been laid waste by the Dyaks
of the hills, by the Beggars of the sea, till our people are poor and
starve in the jungles, but no help has come from the white man. Twice
has my village been burned by men from the white man's ships that throw
fire and iron; not once have those ships come to save me from the sea
Beggars. Then one day a light came. Grogu, I said, make a peace with the
great Datu of the rovers of the sea, give him a part of each harvest.
Three great rains have now passed since I made that peace. He has kept
my coasts free from harm, he has punished the people of the hills who
stole my cattle. With whom I ask you, princes of Bulungan, shall I chew
the betel of friendship?"
"Ai-yai-yai-yai," was the angry murmur that filled the hall in a rising
assent.
A wizened old Malay, with a crooked back and bereft of one eye, rose and
shook a spear venomously. His three remaining teeth were ebon from
excessive betel-chewing.
"I had forty buffaloes," he cried in a shrill, crackly voice. "The white
man in the house on the hill came and said: 'I must have ten for the
balas (tribute money).' The white kris-bearer from the war-house on the
hill came and said: 'I must have ten for my firestick-bearers.' The
white judge came and said: 'I must have ten for a fine because your
people killed a robber from the hills.' Then came the sea-rovers and
said: 'Give us the last ten, but take in exchange brass gongs, and
copper-money, and silks from China.' Whom must I serve, my brothers,
the thief who takes and gives or the thief who takes all and gives
nothing?"
The tumult increased. A tall and dignified chief in the farther corner
of the hall, who had kept aloof from the others to this time, now rose
and lifted a hand for silence. The poverty of his dress and the lack of
gay trappings showed that he was a hill Dyak, for no Dyak of the sea was
so poor that he had only one brass ring on his arm. Yet he was a man of
influence, Peter Gross observed, for every face at once turned in his
direction.
"My brothers, there has been a feud between my people of the hill and
your people of the coasts for many generations," he said. "Yet we are
all of one father, and children in the same house. It is not for me to
say to-day who is right and who is wrong. The white chief bids us give
each other the sirih and betel. He tells us he will make us both rich
and happy. The white chief's words are good. Let us listen and wait to
see if his deeds are good."
There was a hoarse growl of disapproval. Peter Gross perceived with a
sinking heart that most of those present joined in it. He looked toward
Wobanguli, but that chieftain sedulously avoided his glance and seemed
satisfied to let matters drift.
A young Dyak chief suddenly sprang to the middle of the floor. His
trappings showed that he was of Gusti rank.
"I have heard the words of the white chief and they are the words of a
master speaking to his slaves," he shouted. "When the buck deserts his
doe to run from the hunter, when the pheasant leaves the nest of eggs
she has hatched to the mercy of the serpent, when the bear will no
longer fight for her cubs, then will the Sadong Dyaks sit idly by while
the robber despoils their villages and wait for the justice of the white
man, but not before. This is my answer, white chief!"
Whipping his kris from his girdle, he hurled it at the floor in front of
Peter Gross. The steel sank deeply into the wood, the handle quivering
and scintillating in a shaft of sunlight that entered through a crack in
the roof.
An instant hush fell on the assembly. Through the haze and murk Peter
Gross saw black eyes that flamed with hate, foaming lips, and
passion-distorted faces. The lust for blood was on them, a moment more
and nothing could hold them back, he saw. He sprang to the center of the
platform.
"Men of Bulungan, hear me," he shouted in a voice of thunder. "Your
measure of wickedness is full. You have poisoned the men sent here to
rule you, you have strangled your judges and thrown their bodies to the
crocodiles, you have killed our soldiers with poisoned arrows. To-day I
am here, the last messenger of peace the white man will send you. Accept
peace now, and you will be forgiven. Refuse it, and your villages will
be burned, your people will be hunted from jungle to swamp and swamp to
highland, there will be no brake too thick and no cave too deep to hide
them from our vengeance. The White Father will make the Dyaks of
Bulungan like the people of the lands under the sea--a name only. Choose
ye, what shall it be?"
For a moment his undaunted bearing and the terrible threat he had
uttered daunted them. They shrank back like jackals before the lion,
their voices stilled. Then a deep guttural voice, that seemed to come
through the wall behind the resident's chair, cried:
"Kill him, Dyaks of Bulungan. He speaks with two tongues to make you
slaves on the plantations."
Peter Gross sprang toward the wall and crashed his fist through the
bamboo. A section gave way, revealing an enclosed corridor leading to
another building. The corridor was empty.
The mischief had been done, however, and the courage of the natives
revived. "Kill the white man, kill him," the hoarse cry arose. A dozen
krisses flashed. A spear was hurled, it missed Peter Gross by a hair's
breadth. Dyaks and Malays surged forward, Wobanguli alone was between
him and them. Paddy Rouse sprang inside with drawn pistol, but a hand
struck up his pistol arm and his harmless shot went through the roof. A
half-dozen sinewy forms pinned him to the ground.
At the same instant Peter Gross drew his automatic and leaped toward
Wobanguli. Before the Rajah could spring aside the resident's hand
closed over his throat and the resident's pistol pressed against his
head.
"One move and I shoot," Peter Gross cried.
The brown wave stopped for a moment, but it was only a moment, Peter
Gross realized, for life was cheap in Borneo, even a Rajah's life. He
looked wildly about--then the tumult stilled as suddenly as though every
man in the hall had been simultaneously stricken with paralysis.
Gross's impressions of the next few moments were rather vague. He dimly
realized that some one had come between him and the raging mob. That
some one was waving the natives back. It was a woman. He intuitively
sensed her identity before he perceived her face--it was Koyala.
The brown wave receded sullenly, like the North sea backing from the
dikes of Holland. Peter Gross replaced his pistol in its holster and
released Wobanguli--Koyala was speaking. In the morgue-like silence her
silvery voice rang with startling clearness.
"Are you mad, my children of Bulungan?" she asked sorrowfully. "Have you
lost your senses? Would the taking of this one white life compensate for
the misery you would bring on our people?"
She paused an instant. Every eye was riveted upon her. Her own glorious
orbs turned heavenward, a mystic light shone in them, and she raised her
arms as if in invocation.
"Hear me, my children," she chanted in weird, Druidical tones. "Into the
north flew the Argus Pheasant, into the north, through jungle and swamp
and canebrake, by night and by day, for the Hanu Token were her guides
and the great god Djath and his servants, the spirits of the Gunong
Agong called her. She passed through the country of the sea Dyaks, and
she saw no peace; she passed through the country of the hill Dyaks, and
she saw no peace. Up, up she went, up the mountain of the flaming fires,
up to the very edge of the pit where the great god Djath lives in the
flames that never die. There she saw Djath, there she heard his voice,
there she received the message that he bade her bring to his children,
his children of Bulungan. Here is the message, chiefs of my people,
listen and obey."
Every Dyak groveled on the ground and even the Malay Mahometans crooked
their knees and bowed their heads almost to the earth. Swaying from side
to side, Koyala began to croon:
"Hear my words, O princes of Bulungan, hear my words I send you by the
Bintang Burung. Lo, a white man has come among you, and his face is fair
and his words are good and his heart feels what his lips speak. Lo, I
have placed him among you to see if in truth there is goodness and
honesty in the heart of a white man. If his deeds be as good as his
words, then will you keep him, and guard him, and honor him, but if his
heart turns false and his lips speak deceitfully, then bring him to me
that he may burn in the eternal fires that dwell with me. Lo, that ye
may know him, I have given him a servant whose head I have touched with
fire from the smoking mountain."
At that moment Paddy, hatless and disheveled, plunged through the crowd
toward Peter Gross. A ray of sunlight coming through the roof fell on
his head. His auburn hair gleamed like a burst of flame. Koyala pointed
at him and cried dramatically:
"See, the servant with the sacred flame."
"The sacred flame," Dyaks and Malays both muttered awesomely, as they
crowded back from the platform.
"Who shall be the first to make blood-brother of this white man?" Koyala
cried. The hill Dyak chieftain who had counseled peace came forward.
"Jahi of the Jahi Dyaks will," he said. Peter Gross looked at him
keenly, for Jahi was reputed to be the boldest raider and head-hunter in
the hills. The Dyak chief opened a vein in his arm with a dagger and
gave the weapon to Peter Gross. Without hesitating, the resident did the
same with his arm. The blood intermingled a moment, then they rubbed
noses and each repeated the word: "Blood-brother," three times.
One by one Dyaks and Malays came forward and went through the same
ceremony. A few slipped out the door without making the brotherhood
covenant, Peter Gross noticed. He was too elated to pay serious
attention to these; the battle was already won, he believed.
In the shadows in the rear of the hall Van Slyck whispered in the ear of
a Malay chieftain. The Malay strode forward after the ceremonies were
over, and said gravely:
"Blood-brother, we have made you one of us and our ruler, as the great
god Djath hath commanded. But there was one condition in the god's
commands. If you fail, you are to be delivered to Djath for judgment,
and no evil shall come upon our people from your people for that
sentence. Will you pledge us this?"
They were all looking at him, Malay, hill Dyak, and sea Dyak, and every
eye said: "Pledge!" Peter Gross realized that if he would keep their
confidence he must give his promise. But a glance toward Van Slyck had
revealed to him the Malay's source of inspiration, and he sensed the
trick that lay beneath the demand.
"Will you pledge, brother?" the Malay demanded again.
"I pledge," Peter Gross replied firmly.