PART III

CHAPTER ONE

“Yes! Cat, dog, anything that can scratch or bite; as long as it is

harmful enough and mangy enough. A sick tiger would make you happy--of

all things. A half-dead tiger that you could weep over and palm upon

some poor devil in your power, to tend and nurse for you. Never mind

the consequences--to the poor devil. Let him be mangled or eaten up, of

course! You haven’t any pity to spare for the victims of your infernal

charity. Not you! Your tender heart bleeds only for what is poisonous

and deadly. I curse the day when you set your benevolent eyes on him. I

curse it . . .”

“Now then! Now then!” growled Lingard in his moustache. Almayer, who had

talked himself up to the choking point, drew a long breath and went on--

“Yes! It has been always so. Always. As far back as I can remember.

Don’t you recollect? What about that half-starved dog you brought on

board in Bankok in your arms. In your arms by . . . ! It went mad next

day and bit the serang. You don’t mean to say you have forgotten? The

best serang you ever had! You said so yourself while you were helping

us to lash him down to the chain-cable, just before he died in his fits.

Now, didn’t you? Two wives and ever so many children the man left. That

was your doing. . . . And when you went out of your way and risked

your ship to rescue some Chinamen from a water-logged junk in Formosa

Straits, that was also a clever piece of business. Wasn’t it? Those

damned Chinamen rose on you before forty-eight hours. They were

cut-throats, those poor fishermen. You knew they were cut-throats before

you made up your mind to run down on a lee shore in a gale of wind

to save them. A mad trick! If they hadn’t been scoundrels--hopeless

scoundrels--you would not have put your ship in jeopardy for them, I

know. You would not have risked the lives of your crew--that crew you

loved so--and your own life. Wasn’t that foolish! And, besides, you were

not honest. Suppose you had been drowned? I would have been in a pretty

mess then, left alone here with that adopted daughter of yours. Your

duty was to myself first. I married that girl because you promised to

make my fortune. You know you did! And then three months afterwards you

go and do that mad trick--for a lot of Chinamen too. Chinamen! You have

no morality. I might have been ruined for the sake of those murderous

scoundrels that, after all, had to be driven overboard after killing

ever so many of your crew--of your beloved crew! Do you call that

honest?”

“Well, well!” muttered Lingard, chewing nervously the stump of his

cheroot that had gone out and looking at Almayer--who stamped wildly

about the verandah--much as a shepherd might look at a pet sheep in

his obedient flock turning unexpectedly upon him in enraged revolt. He

seemed disconcerted, contemptuously angry yet somewhat amused; and also

a little hurt as if at some bitter jest at his own expense. Almayer

stopped suddenly, and crossing his arms on his breast, bent his body

forward and went on speaking.

“I might have been left then in an awkward hole--all on account of your

absurd disregard for your safety--yet I bore no grudge. I knew your

weaknesses. But now--when I think of it! Now we are ruined. Ruined!

Ruined! My poor little Nina. Ruined!”

He slapped his thighs smartly, walked with small steps this way and

that, seized a chair, planted it with a bang before Lingard, and sat

down staring at the old seaman with haggard eyes. Lingard, returning his

stare steadily, dived slowly into various pockets, fished out at last a

box of matches and proceeded to light his cheroot carefully, rolling it

round and round between his lips, without taking his gaze for a moment

off the distressed Almayer. Then from behind a cloud of tobacco smoke he

said calmly--

“If you had been in trouble as often as I have, my boy, you wouldn’t

carry on so. I have been ruined more than once. Well, here I am.”

“Yes, here you are,” interrupted Almayer. “Much good it is to me. Had

you been here a month ago it would have been of some use. But now! . .

You might as well be a thousand miles off.”

“You scold like a drunken fish-wife,” said Lingard, serenely. He got up

and moved slowly to the front rail of the verandah. The floor shook and

the whole house vibrated under his heavy step. For a moment he stood

with his back to Almayer, looking out on the river and forest of the

east bank, then turned round and gazed mildly down upon him.

“It’s very lonely this morning here. Hey?” he said.

Almayer lifted up his head.

“Ah! you notice it--don’t you? I should think it is lonely! Yes, Captain

Lingard, your day is over in Sambir. Only a month ago this verandah

would have been full of people coming to greet you. Fellows would be

coming up those steps grinning and salaaming--to you and to me. But our

day is over. And not by my fault either. You can’t say that. It’s all

the doing of that pet rascal of yours. Ah! He is a beauty! You should

have seen him leading that hellish crowd. You would have been proud of

your old favourite.”

“Smart fellow that,” muttered Lingard, thoughtfully. Almayer jumped up

with a shriek.

“And that’s all you have to say! Smart fellow! O Lord!”

“Don’t make a show of yourself. Sit down. Let’s talk quietly. I want to

know all about it. So he led?”

“He was the soul of the whole thing. He piloted Abdulla’s ship in. He

ordered everything and everybody,” said Almayer, who sat down again,

with a resigned air.

“When did it happen--exactly?”

“On the sixteenth I heard the first rumours of Abdulla’s ship being in

the river; a thing I refused to believe at first. Next day I could not

doubt any more. There was a great council held openly in Lakamba’s place

where almost everybody in Sambir attended. On the eighteenth the Lord of

the Isles was anchored in Sambir reach, abreast of my house. Let’s see.

Six weeks to-day, exactly.”

“And all that happened like this? All of a sudden. You never heard

anything--no warning. Nothing. Never had an idea that something was up?

Come, Almayer!”

“Heard! Yes, I used to hear something every day. Mostly lies. Is there

anything else in Sambir?”

“You might not have believed them,” observed Lingard. “In fact you ought

not to have believed everything that was told to you, as if you had been

a green hand on his first voyage.”

Almayer moved in his chair uneasily.

“That scoundrel came here one day,” he said. “He had been away from the

house for a couple of months living with that woman. I only heard about

him now and then from Patalolo’s people when they came over. Well one

day, about noon, he appeared in this courtyard, as if he had been jerked

up from hell-where he belongs.”

Lingard took his cheroot out, and, with his mouth full of white smoke

that oozed out through his parted lips, listened, attentive. After a

short pause Almayer went on, looking at the floor moodily--

“I must say he looked awful. Had a bad bout of the ague probably. The

left shore is very unhealthy. Strange that only the breadth of the river

. . .”

He dropped off into deep thoughtfulness as if he had forgotten his

grievances in a bitter meditation upon the unsanitary condition of the

virgin forests on the left bank. Lingard took this opportunity to expel

the smoke in a mighty expiration and threw the stump of his cheroot over

his shoulder.

“Go on,” he said, after a while. “He came to see you . . .”

“But it wasn’t unhealthy enough to finish him, worse luck!” went on

Almayer, rousing himself, “and, as I said, he turned up here with his

brazen impudence. He bullied me, he threatened vaguely. He wanted

to scare me, to blackmail me. Me! And, by heaven--he said you would

approve. You! Can you conceive such impudence? I couldn’t exactly make

out what he was driving at. Had I known, I would have approved him. Yes!

With a bang on the head. But how could I guess that he knew enough to

pilot a ship through the entrance you always said was so difficult. And,

after all, that was the only danger. I could deal with anybody here--but

when Abdulla came. . . . That barque of his is armed. He carries twelve

brass six-pounders, and about thirty men. Desperate beggars. Sumatra

men, from Deli and Acheen. Fight all day and ask for more in the

evening. That kind.”

“I know, I know,” said Lingard, impatiently.

“Of course, then, they were cheeky as much as you please after he

anchored abreast of our jetty. Willems brought her up himself in

the best berth. I could see him from this verandah standing forward,

together with the half-caste master. And that woman was there too. Close

to him. I heard they took her on board off Lakamba’s place. Willems said

he would not go higher without her. Stormed and raged. Frightened them,

I believe. Abdulla had to interfere. She came off alone in a canoe, and

no sooner on deck than she fell at his feet before all hands, embraced

his knees, wept, raved, begged his pardon. Why? I wonder. Everybody in

Sambir is talking of it. They never heard tell or saw anything like it.

I have all this from Ali, who goes about in the settlement and brings me

the news. I had better know what is going on--hadn’t I? From what I

can make out, they--he and that woman--are looked upon as something

mysterious--beyond comprehension. Some think them mad. They live alone

with an old woman in a house outside Lakamba’s campong and are greatly

respected--or feared, I should say rather. At least, he is. He is very

violent. She knows nobody, sees nobody, will speak to nobody but him.

Never leaves him for a moment. It’s the talk of the place. There are

other rumours. From what I hear I suspect that Lakamba and Abdulla are

tired of him. There’s also talk of him going away in the Lord of the

Isles--when she leaves here for the southward--as a kind of Abdulla’s

agent. At any rate, he must take the ship out. The half-caste is not

equal to it as yet.”

Lingard, who had listened absorbed till then, began now to walk with

measured steps. Almayer ceased talking and followed him with his eyes as

he paced up and down with a quarter-deck swing, tormenting and twisting

his long white beard, his face perplexed and thoughtful.

“So he came to you first of all, did he?” asked Lingard, without

stopping.

“Yes. I told you so. He did come. Came to extort money, goods--I don’t

know what else. Wanted to set up as a trader--the swine! I kicked his

hat into the courtyard, and he went after it, and that was the last of

him till he showed up with Abdulla. How could I know that he could do

harm in that way? Or in any way at that! Any local rising I could put

down easy with my own men and with Patalolo’s help.”

“Oh! yes. Patalolo. No good. Eh? Did you try him at all?”

“Didn’t I!” exclaimed Almayer. “I went to see him myself on the twelfth.

That was four days before Abdulla entered the river. In fact, same day

Willems tried to get at me. I did feel a little uneasy then. Patalolo

assured me that there was no human being that did not love me in Sambir.

Looked as wise as an owl. Told me not to listen to the lies of wicked

people from down the river. He was alluding to that man Bulangi, who

lives up the sea reach, and who had sent me word that a strange ship was

anchored outside--which, of course, I repeated to Patalolo. He would not

believe. Kept on mumbling ‘No! No! No!’ like an old parrot, his head all

of a tremble, all beslobbered with betel-nut juice. I thought there was

something queer about him. Seemed so restless, and as if in a hurry to

get rid of me. Well. Next day that one-eyed malefactor who lives with

Lakamba--what’s his name--Babalatchi, put in an appearance here! Came

about mid-day, casually like, and stood there on this verandah chatting

about one thing and another. Asking when I expected you, and so on.

Then, incidentally, he mentioned that they--his master and himself--were

very much bothered by a ferocious white man--my friend--who was hanging

about that woman--Omar’s daughter. Asked my advice. Very deferential and

proper. I told him the white man was not my friend, and that they had

better kick him out. Whereupon he went away salaaming, and protesting

his friendship and his master’s goodwill. Of course I know now the

infernal nigger came to spy and to talk over some of my men. Anyway,

eight were missing at the evening muster. Then I took alarm. Did not

dare to leave my house unguarded. You know what my wife is, don’t you?

And I did not care to take the child with me--it being late--so I sent

a message to Patalolo to say that we ought to consult; that there were

rumours and uneasiness in the settlement. Do you know what answer I

got?”

Lingard stopped short in his walk before Almayer, who went on, after an

impressive pause, with growing animation.

“All brought it: ‘The Rajah sends a friend’s greeting, and does not

understand the message.’ That was all. Not a word more could Ali get

out of him. I could see that Ali was pretty well scared. He hung about,

arranging my hammock--one thing and another. Then just before going

away he mentioned that the water-gate of the Rajah’s place was heavily

barred, but that he could see only very few men about the courtyard.

Finally he said, ‘There is darkness in our Rajah’s house, but no sleep.

Only darkness and fear and the wailing of women.’ Cheerful, wasn’t it?

It made me feel cold down my back somehow. After Ali slipped away I

stood here--by this table, and listened to the shouting and drumming in

the settlement. Racket enough for twenty weddings. It was a little past

midnight then.”

Again Almayer stopped in his narrative with an abrupt shutting of lips,

as if he had said all that there was to tell, and Lingard stood staring

at him, pensive and silent. A big bluebottle fly flew in recklessly into

the cool verandah, and darted with loud buzzing between the two men.

Lingard struck at it with his hat. The fly swerved, and Almayer dodged

his head out of the way. Then Lingard aimed another ineffectual blow;

Almayer jumped up and waved his arms about. The fly buzzed desperately,

and the vibration of minute wings sounded in the peace of the early

morning like a far-off string orchestra accompanying the hollow,

determined stamping of the two men, who, with heads thrown back and

arms gyrating on high, or again bending low with infuriated lunges, were

intent upon killing the intruder. But suddenly the buzz died out in a

thin thrill away in the open space of the courtyard, leaving Lingard

and Almayer standing face to face in the fresh silence of the young day,

looking very puzzled and idle, their arms hanging uselessly by their

sides--like men disheartened by some portentous failure.

“Look at that!” muttered Lingard. “Got away after all.”

“Nuisance,” said Almayer in the same tone. “Riverside is overrun with

them. This house is badly placed . . . mosquitos . . . and these big

flies . . . . last week stung Nina . . . been ill four days . . . poor

child. . . . I wonder what such damned things are made for!”

CHAPTER TWO

After a long silence, during which Almayer had moved towards the table

and sat down, his head between his hands, staring straight before him,

Lingard, who had recommenced walking, cleared his throat and said--

“What was it you were saying?”

“Ah! Yes! You should have seen this settlement that night. I don’t think

anybody went to bed. I walked down to the point, and could see them.

They had a big bonfire in the palm grove, and the talk went on there

till the morning. When I came back here and sat in the dark verandah in

this quiet house I felt so frightfully lonely that I stole in and took

the child out of her cot and brought her here into my hammock. If it

hadn’t been for her I am sure I would have gone mad; I felt so utterly

alone and helpless. Remember, I hadn’t heard from you for four months.

Didn’t know whether you were alive or dead. Patalolo would have nothing

to do with me. My own men were deserting me like rats do a sinking hulk.

That was a black night for me, Captain Lingard. A black night as I sat

here not knowing what would happen next. They were so excited and rowdy

that I really feared they would come and burn the house over my head.

I went and brought my revolver. Laid it loaded on the table. There were

such awful yells now and then. Luckily the child slept through it, and

seeing her so pretty and peaceful steadied me somehow. Couldn’t believe

there was any violence in this world, looking at her lying so quiet and

so unconscious of what went on. But it was very hard. Everything was at

an end. You must understand that on that night there was no government

in Sambir. Nothing to restrain those fellows. Patalolo had collapsed. I

was abandoned by my own people, and all that lot could vent their spite

on me if they wanted. They know no gratitude. How many times haven’t I

saved this settlement from starvation? Absolute starvation. Only three

months ago I distributed again a lot of rice on credit. There was

nothing to eat in this infernal place. They came begging on their

knees. There isn’t a man in Sambir, big or little, who is not in debt to

Lingard & Co. Not one. You ought to be satisfied. You always said

that was the right policy for us. Well, I carried it out. Ah! Captain

Lingard, a policy like that should be backed by loaded rifles . . .”

“You had them!” exclaimed Lingard in the midst of his promenade, that

went on more rapid as Almayer talked: the headlong tramp of a man

hurrying on to do something violent. The verandah was full of dust,

oppressive and choking, which rose under the old seaman’s feet, and made

Almayer cough again and again.

“Yes, I had! Twenty. And not a finger to pull a trigger. It’s easy to

talk,” he spluttered, his face very red.

Lingard dropped into a chair, and leaned back with one hand stretched

out at length upon the table, the other thrown over the back of his

seat. The dust settled, and the sun surging above the forest flooded

the verandah with a clear light. Almayer got up and busied himself in

lowering the split rattan screens that hung between the columns of the

verandah.

“Phew!” said Lingard, “it will be a hot day. That’s right, my boy. Keep

the sun out. We don’t want to be roasted alive here.”

Almayer came back, sat down, and spoke very calmly--

“In the morning I went across to see Patalolo. I took the child with me,

of course. I found the water-gate barred, and had to walk round through

the bushes. Patalolo received me lying on the floor, in the dark, all

the shutters closed. I could get nothing out of him but lamentations

and groans. He said you must be dead. That Lakamba was coming now with

Abdulla’s guns to kill everybody. Said he did not mind being killed,

as he was an old man, but that the wish of his heart was to make a

pilgrimage. He was tired of men’s ingratitude--he had no heirs--he

wanted to go to Mecca and die there. He would ask Abdulla to let him go.

Then he abused Lakamba--between sobs--and you, a little. You prevented

him from asking for a flag that would have been respected--he was right

there--and now when his enemies were strong he was weak, and you were

not there to help him. When I tried to put some heart into him, telling

him he had four big guns--you know the brass six-pounders you left here

last year--and that I would get powder, and that, perhaps, together we

could make head against Lakamba, he simply howled at me. No matter which

way he turned--he shrieked--the white men would be the death of him,

while he wanted only to be a pilgrim and be at peace. My belief is,”

added Almayer, after a short pause, and fixing a dull stare upon

Lingard, “that the old fool saw this thing coming for a long time, and

was not only too frightened to do anything himself, but actually

too scared to let you or me know of his suspicions. Another of your

particular pets! Well! You have a lucky hand, I must say!”

Lingard struck a sudden blow on the table with his clenched hand. There

was a sharp crack of splitting wood. Almayer started up violently, then

fell back in his chair and looked at the table.

“There!” he said, moodily, “you don’t know your own strength. This table

is completely ruined. The only table I had been able to save from

my wife. By and by I will have to eat squatting on the floor like a

native.”

Lingard laughed heartily. “Well then, don’t nag at me like a woman at a

drunken husband!” He became very serious after awhile, and added, “If

it hadn’t been for the loss of the Flash I would have been here three

months ago, and all would have been well. No use crying over that. Don’t

you be uneasy, Kaspar. We will have everything ship-shape here in a very

short time.”

“What? You don’t mean to expel Abdulla out of here by force! I tell you,

you can’t.”

“Not I!” exclaimed Lingard. “That’s all over, I am afraid. Great pity.

They will suffer for it. He will squeeze them. Great pity. Damn it! I

feel so sorry for them if I had the Flash here I would try force. Eh!

Why not? However, the poor Flash is gone, and there is an end of it.

Poor old hooker. Hey, Almayer? You made a voyage or two with me. Wasn’t

she a sweet craft? Could make her do anything but talk. She was better

than a wife to me. Never scolded. Hey? . . . And to think that it should

come to this. That I should leave her poor old bones sticking on a reef

as though I had been a damned fool of a southern-going man who must have

half a mile of water under his keel to be safe! Well! well! It’s only

those who do nothing that make no mistakes, I suppose. But it’s hard.

Hard.”

He nodded sadly, with his eyes on the ground. Almayer looked at him with

growing indignation.

“Upon my word, you are heartless,” he burst out; “perfectly

heartless--and selfish. It does not seem to strike you--in all

that--that in losing your ship--by your recklessness, I am sure--you

ruin me--us, and my little Nina. What’s going to become of me and of

her? That’s what I want to know. You brought me here, made me your

partner, and now, when everything is gone to the devil--through your

fault, mind you--you talk about your ship . . . ship! You can get

another. But here. This trade. That’s gone now, thanks to Willems. . . .

Your dear Willems!”

“Never you mind about Willems. I will look after him,” said Lingard,

severely. “And as to the trade . . . I will make your fortune yet, my

boy. Never fear. Have you got any cargo for the schooner that brought me

here?”

“The shed is full of rattans,” answered Almayer, “and I have about

eighty tons of guttah in the well. The last lot I ever will have, no

doubt,” he added, bitterly.

“So, after all, there was no robbery. You’ve lost nothing actually.

Well, then, you must . . . Hallo! What’s the matter! . . . Here! . . .”

“Robbery! No!” screamed Almayer, throwing up his hands.

He fell back in the chair and his face became purple. A little white

foam appeared on his lips and trickled down his chin, while he lay back,

showing the whites of his upturned eyes. When he came to himself he saw

Lingard standing over him, with an empty water-chatty in his hand.

“You had a fit of some kind,” said the old seaman with much concern.

“What is it? You did give me a fright. So very sudden.”

Almayer, his hair all wet and stuck to his head, as if he had been

diving, sat up and gasped.

“Outrage! A fiendish outrage. I . . .”

Lingard put the chatty on the table and looked at him in attentive

silence. Almayer passed his hand over his forehead and went on in an

unsteady tone:

“When I remember that, I lose all control,” he said. “I told you he

anchored Abdulla’s ship abreast our jetty, but over to the other shore,

near the Rajah’s place. The ship was surrounded with boats. From here it

looked as if she had been landed on a raft. Every dugout in Sambir was

there. Through my glass I could distinguish the faces of people on the

poop--Abdulla, Willems, Lakamba--everybody. That old cringing scoundrel

Sahamin was there. I could see quite plain. There seemed to be much talk

and discussion. Finally I saw a ship’s boat lowered. Some Arab got into

her, and the boat went towards Patalolo’s landing-place. It seems

they had been refused admittance--so they say. I think myself that

the water-gate was not unbarred quick enough to please the exalted

messenger. At any rate I saw the boat come back almost directly. I

was looking on, rather interested, when I saw Willems and some more go

forward--very busy about something there. That woman was also amongst

them. Ah, that woman . . .”

Almayer choked, and seemed on the point of having a relapse, but by a

violent effort regained a comparative composure.

“All of a sudden,” he continued--“bang! They fired a shot into

Patalolo’s gate, and before I had time to catch my breath--I was

startled, you may believe--they sent another and burst the gate open.

Whereupon, I suppose, they thought they had done enough for a while, and

probably felt hungry, for a feast began aft. Abdulla sat amongst

them like an idol, cross-legged, his hands on his lap. He’s too great

altogether to eat when others do, but he presided, you see. Willems kept

on dodging about forward, aloof from the crowd, and looking at my house

through the ship’s long glass. I could not resist it. I shook my fist at

him.”

“Just so,” said Lingard, gravely. “That was the thing to do, of course.

If you can’t fight a man the best thing is to exasperate him.”

Almayer waved his hand in a superior manner, and continued, unmoved:

“You may say what you like. You can’t realize my feelings. He saw me,

and, with his eye still at the small end of the glass, lifted his arm

as if answering a hail. I thought my turn to be shot at would come next

after Patalolo, so I ran up the Union Jack to the flagstaff in the yard.

I had no other protection. There were only three men besides Ali that

stuck to me--three cripples, for that matter, too sick to get away. I

would have fought singlehanded, I think, I was that angry, but there was

the child. What to do with her? Couldn’t send her up the river with the

mother. You know I can’t trust my wife. I decided to keep very quiet,

but to let nobody land on our shore. Private property, that; under a

deed from Patalolo. I was within my right--wasn’t I? The morning was

very quiet. After they had a feed on board the barque with Abdulla most

of them went home; only the big people remained. Towards three o’clock

Sahamin crossed alone in a small canoe. I went down on our wharf with

my gun to speak to him, but didn’t let him land. The old hypocrite said

Abdulla sent greetings and wished to talk with me on business; would I

come on board? I said no; I would not. Told him that Abdulla may write

and I would answer, but no interview, neither on board his ship nor on

shore. I also said that if anybody attempted to land within my fences

I would shoot--no matter whom. On that he lifted his hands to heaven,

scandalized, and then paddled away pretty smartly--to report, I suppose.

An hour or so afterwards I saw Willems land a boat party at the Rajah’s.

It was very quiet. Not a shot was fired, and there was hardly any

shouting. They tumbled those brass guns you presented to Patalolo last

year down the bank into the river. It’s deep there close to. The channel

runs that way, you know. About five, Willems went back on board, and

I saw him join Abdulla by the wheel aft. He talked a lot, swinging his

arms about--seemed to explain things--pointed at my house, then down the

reach. Finally, just before sunset, they hove upon the cable and dredged

the ship down nearly half a mile to the junction of the two branches of

the river--where she is now, as you might have seen.”

Lingard nodded.

“That evening, after dark--I was informed--Abdulla landed for the first

time in Sambir. He was entertained in Sahamin’s house. I sent Ali to the

settlement for news. He returned about nine, and reported that Patalolo

was sitting on Abdulla’s left hand before Sahamin’s fire. There was a

great council. Ali seemed to think that Patalolo was a prisoner, but

he was wrong there. They did the trick very neatly. Before midnight

everything was arranged as I can make out. Patalolo went back to his

demolished stockade, escorted by a dozen boats with torches. It appears

he begged Abdulla to let him have a passage in the Lord of the Isles to

Penang. From there he would go to Mecca. The firing business was alluded

to as a mistake. No doubt it was in a sense. Patalolo never meant

resisting. So he is going as soon as the ship is ready for sea. He went

on board next day with three women and half a dozen fellows as old as

himself. By Abdulla’s orders he was received with a salute of seven

guns, and he has been living on board ever since--five weeks. I doubt

whether he will leave the river alive. At any rate he won’t live to

reach Penang. Lakamba took over all his goods, and gave him a draft on

Abdulla’s house payable in Penang. He is bound to die before he gets

there. Don’t you see?”

He sat silent for a while in dejected meditation, then went on:

“Of course there were several rows during the night. Various fellows

took the opportunity of the unsettled state of affairs to pay off old

scores and settle old grudges. I passed the night in that chair there,

dozing uneasily. Now and then there would be a great tumult and yelling

which would make me sit up, revolver in hand. However, nobody was

killed. A few broken heads--that’s all. Early in the morning Willems

caused them to make a fresh move which I must say surprised me not a

little. As soon as there was daylight they busied themselves in setting

up a flag-pole on the space at the other end of the settlement, where

Abdulla is having his houses built now. Shortly after sunrise there was

a great gathering at the flag-pole. All went there. Willems was standing

leaning against the mast, one arm over that woman’s shoulders. They had

brought an armchair for Patalolo, and Lakamba stood on the right hand

of the old man, who made a speech. Everybody in Sambir was there: women,

slaves, children--everybody! Then Patalolo spoke. He said that by the

mercy of the Most High he was going on a pilgrimage. The dearest wish

of his heart was to be accomplished. Then, turning to Lakamba, he begged

him to rule justly during his--Patalolo’s--absence There was a bit

of play-acting there. Lakamba said he was unworthy of the honourable

burden, and Patalolo insisted. Poor old fool! It must have been bitter

to him. They made him actually entreat that scoundrel. Fancy a man

compelled to beg of a robber to despoil him! But the old Rajah was

so frightened. Anyway, he did it, and Lakamba accepted at last. Then

Willems made a speech to the crowd. Said that on his way to the west the

Rajah--he meant Patalolo--would see the Great White Ruler in Batavia

and obtain his protection for Sambir. Meantime, he went on, I, an Orang

Blanda and your friend, hoist the flag under the shadow of which there

is safety. With that he ran up a Dutch flag to the mast-head. It was

made hurriedly, during the night, of cotton stuffs, and, being heavy,

hung down the mast, while the crowd stared. Ali told me there was a

great sigh of surprise, but not a word was spoken till Lakamba advanced

and proclaimed in a loud voice that during all that day every one

passing by the flagstaff must uncover his head and salaam before the

emblem.”

“But, hang it all!” exclaimed Lingard--“Abdulla is British!”

“Abdulla wasn’t there at all--did not go on shore that day. Yet Ali, who

has his wits about him, noticed that the space where the crowd stood

was under the guns of the Lord of the Isles. They had put a coir warp

ashore, and gave the barque a cant in the current, so as to bring the

broadside to bear on the flagstaff. Clever! Eh? But nobody dreamt of

resistance. When they recovered from the surprise there was a little

quiet jeering; and Bahassoen abused Lakamba violently till one of

Lakamba’s men hit him on the head with a staff. Frightful crack, I

am told. Then they left off jeering. Meantime Patalolo went away, and

Lakamba sat in the chair at the foot of the flagstaff, while the crowd

surged around, as if they could not make up their minds to go. Suddenly

there was a great noise behind Lakamba’s chair. It was that woman, who

went for Willems. Ali says she was like a wild beast, but he twisted her

wrist and made her grovel in the dust. Nobody knows exactly what it was

about. Some say it was about that flag. He carried her off, flung her

into a canoe, and went on board Abdulla’s ship. After that Sahamin

was the first to salaam to the flag. Others followed suit. Before noon

everything was quiet in the settlement, and Ali came back and told me

all this.”

Almayer drew a long breath. Lingard stretched out his legs.

“Go on!” he said.

Almayer seemed to struggle with himself. At last he spluttered out:

“The hardest is to tell yet. The most unheard-of thing! An outrage! A

fiendish outrage!”

CHAPTER THREE

“Well! Let’s know all about it. I can’t imagine . . .” began Lingard,

after waiting for some time in silence.

“Can’t imagine! I should think you couldn’t,” interrupted Almayer. “Why!

. . . You just listen. When Ali came back I felt a little easier in my

mind. There was then some semblance of order in Sambir. I had the Jack

up since the morning and began to feel safer. Some of my men turned up

in the afternoon. I did not ask any questions; set them to work as if

nothing had happened. Towards the evening--it might have been five or

half-past--I was on our jetty with the child when I heard shouts at the

far-off end of the settlement. At first I didn’t take much notice. By

and by Ali came to me and says, ‘Master, give me the child, there is

much trouble in the settlement.’ So I gave him Nina and went in, took

my revolver, and passed through the house into the back courtyard. As

I came down the steps I saw all the serving girls clear out from the

cooking shed, and I heard a big crowd howling on the other side of

the dry ditch which is the limit of our ground. Could not see them on

account of the fringe of bushes along the ditch, but I knew that crowd

was angry and after somebody. As I stood wondering, that Jim-Eng--you

know the Chinaman who settled here a couple of years ago?”

“He was my passenger; I brought him here,” exclaimed Lingard. “A

first-class Chinaman that.”

“Did you? I had forgotten. Well, that Jim-Eng, he burst through the bush

and fell into my arms, so to speak. He told me, panting, that they were

after him because he wouldn’t take off his hat to the flag. He was not

so much scared, but he was very angry and indignant. Of course he had to

run for it; there were some fifty men after him--Lakamba’s friends--but

he was full of fight. Said he was an Englishman, and would not take off

his hat to any flag but English. I tried to soothe him while the crowd

was shouting on the other side of the ditch. I told him he must take one

of my canoes and cross the river. Stop on the other side for a couple of

days. He wouldn’t. Not he. He was English, and he would fight the whole

lot. Says he: ‘They are only black fellows. We white men,’ meaning me

and himself, ‘can fight everybody in Sambir.’ He was mad with passion.

The crowd quieted a little, and I thought I could shelter Jim-Eng

without much risk, when all of a sudden I heard Willems’ voice. He

shouted to me in English: ‘Let four men enter your compound to get that

Chinaman!’ I said nothing. Told Jim-Eng to keep quiet too. Then after

a while Willems shouts again: ‘Don’t resist, Almayer. I give you good

advice. I am keeping this crowd back. Don’t resist them!’ That beggar’s

voice enraged me; I could not help it. I cried to him: ‘You are a liar!’

and just then Jim-Eng, who had flung off his jacket and had tucked up

his trousers ready for a fight; just then that fellow he snatches the

revolver out of my hand and lets fly at them through the bush. There was

a sharp cry--he must have hit somebody--and a great yell, and before I

could wink twice they were over the ditch and through the bush and on

top of us! Simply rolled over us! There wasn’t the slightest chance to

resist. I was trampled under foot, Jim-Eng got a dozen gashes about his

body, and we were carried halfway up the yard in the first rush. My eyes

and mouth were full of dust; I was on my back with three or four fellows

sitting on me. I could hear Jim-Eng trying to shout not very far from

me. Now and then they would throttle him and he would gurgle. I could

hardly breathe myself with two heavy fellows on my chest. Willems came

up running and ordered them to raise me up, but to keep good hold. They

led me into the verandah. I looked round, but did not see either Ali or

the child. Felt easier. Struggled a little. . . . Oh, my God!”

Almayer’s face was distorted with a passing spasm of rage. Lingard moved

in his chair slightly. Almayer went on after a short pause:

“They held me, shouting threats in my face. Willems took down my hammock

and threw it to them. He pulled out the drawer of this table, and found

there a palm and needle and some sail-twine. We were making awnings for

your brig, as you had asked me last voyage before you left. He knew, of

course, where to look for what he wanted. By his orders they laid me out

on the floor, wrapped me in my hammock, and he started to stitch me in,

as if I had been a corpse, beginning at the feet. While he worked he

laughed wickedly. I called him all the names I could think of. He

told them to put their dirty paws over my mouth and nose. I was nearly

choked. Whenever I moved they punched me in the ribs. He went on taking

fresh needlefuls as he wanted them, and working steadily. Sewed me up to

my throat. Then he rose, saying, ‘That will do; let go.’ That woman had

been standing by; they must have been reconciled. She clapped her hands.

I lay on the floor like a bale of goods while he stared at me, and the

woman shrieked with delight. Like a bale of goods! There was a grin on

every face, and the verandah was full of them. I wished myself

dead--‘pon my word, Captain Lingard, I did! I do now whenever I think

of it!”

Lingard’s face expressed sympathetic indignation. Almayer dropped

his head upon his arms on the table, and spoke in that position in an

indistinct and muffled voice, without looking up.

“Finally, by his directions, they flung me into the big rocking-chair.

I was sewed in so tight that I was stiff like a piece of wood. He was

giving orders in a very loud voice, and that man Babalatchi saw that

they were executed. They obeyed him implicitly. Meantime I lay there in

the chair like a log, and that woman capered before me and made faces;

snapped her fingers before my nose. Women are bad!--ain’t they? I never

saw her before, as far as I know. Never done anything to her. Yet she

was perfectly fiendish. Can you understand it? Now and then she would

leave me alone to hang round his neck for awhile, and then she would

return before my chair and begin her exercises again. He looked on,

indulgent. The perspiration ran down my face, got into my eyes--my arms

were sewn in. I was blinded half the time; at times I could see better.

She drags him before my chair. ‘I am like white women,’ she says, her

arms round his neck. You should have seen the faces of the fellows in

the verandah! They were scandalized and ashamed of themselves to see her

behaviour. Suddenly she asks him, alluding to me: ‘When are you going

to kill him?’ Imagine how I felt. I must have swooned; I don’t remember

exactly. I fancy there was a row; he was angry. When I got my wits again

he was sitting close to me, and she was gone. I understood he sent her

to my wife, who was hiding in the back room and never came out during

this affair. Willems says to me--I fancy I can hear his voice, hoarse

and dull--he says to me: ‘Not a hair of your head shall be touched.’ I

made no sound. Then he goes on: ‘Please remark that the flag you have

hoisted--which, by the by, is not yours--has been respected. Tell

Captain Lingard so when you do see him. But,’ he says, ‘you first fired

at the crowd.’ ‘You are a liar, you blackguard!’ I shouted. He winced, I

am sure. It hurt him to see I was not frightened. ‘Anyways,’ he says, ‘a

shot had been fired out of your compound and a man was hit. Still, all

your property shall be respected on account of the Union Jack. Moreover,

I have no quarrel with Captain Lingard, who is the senior partner in

this business. As to you,’ he continued, ‘you will not forget this

day--not if you live to be a hundred years old--or I don’t know your

nature. You will keep the bitter taste of this humiliation to the last

day of your life, and so your kindness to me shall be repaid. I shall

remove all the powder you have. This coast is under the protection of

the Netherlands, and you have no right to have any powder. There are the

Governor’s Orders in Council to that effect, and you know it. Tell me

where the key of the small storehouse is?’ I said not a word, and he

waited a little, then rose, saying: ‘It’s your own fault if there is any

damage done.’ He ordered Babalatchi to have the lock of the office-room

forced, and went in--rummaged amongst my drawers--could not find the

key. Then that woman Aissa asked my wife, and she gave them the key.

After awhile they tumbled every barrel into the river. Eighty-three

hundredweight! He superintended himself, and saw every barrel roll into

the water. There were mutterings. Babalatchi was angry and tried to

expostulate, but he gave him a good shaking. I must say he was perfectly

fearless with those fellows. Then he came back to the verandah, sat down

by me again, and says: ‘We found your man Ali with your little daughter

hiding in the bushes up the river. We brought them in. They are

perfectly safe, of course. Let me congratulate you, Almayer, upon the

cleverness of your child. She recognized me at once, and cried “pig”

as naturally as you would yourself. Circumstances alter feelings. You

should have seen how frightened your man Ali was. Clapped his hands over

her mouth. I think you spoil her, Almayer. But I am not angry. Really,

you look so ridiculous in this chair that I can’t feel angry.’ I made

a frantic effort to burst out of my hammock to get at that scoundrel’s

throat, but I only fell off and upset the chair over myself. He laughed

and said only: ‘I leave you half of your revolver cartridges and take

half myself; they will fit mine. We are both white men, and should back

each other up. I may want them.’ I shouted at him from under the chair:

‘You are a thief,’ but he never looked, and went away, one hand round

that woman’s waist, the other on Babalatchi’s shoulder, to whom he was

talking--laying down the law about something or other. In less than five

minutes there was nobody inside our fences. After awhile Ali came to

look for me and cut me free. I haven’t seen Willems since--nor anybody

else for that matter. I have been left alone. I offered sixty dollars to

the man who had been wounded, which were accepted. They released Jim-Eng

the next day, when the flag had been hauled down. He sent six cases of

opium to me for safe keeping but has not left his house. I think he is

safe enough now. Everything is very quiet.”

Towards the end of his narrative Almayer lifted his head off the table,

and now sat back in his chair and stared at the bamboo rafters of the

roof above him. Lingard lolled in his seat with his legs stretched out.

In the peaceful gloom of the verandah, with its lowered screens, they

heard faint noises from the world outside in the blazing sunshine: a

hail on the river, the answer from the shore, the creak of a pulley;

sounds short, interrupted, as if lost suddenly in the brilliance of

noonday. Lingard got up slowly, walked to the front rail, and holding

one of the screens aside, looked out in silence. Over the water and the

empty courtyard came a distinct voice from a small schooner anchored

abreast of the Lingard jetty.

“Serang! Take a pull at the main peak halyards. This gaff is down on the

boom.”

There was a shrill pipe dying in long-drawn cadence, the song of the men

swinging on the rope. The voice said sharply: “That will do!” Another

voice--the serang’s probably--shouted: “Ikat!” and as Lingard dropped

the blind and turned away all was silent again, as if there had been

nothing on the other side of the swaying screen; nothing but the light,

brilliant, crude, heavy, lying on a dead land like a pall of fire.

Lingard sat down again, facing Almayer, his elbow on the table, in a

thoughtful attitude.

“Nice little schooner,” muttered Almayer, wearily. “Did you buy her?”

“No,” answered Lingard. “After I lost the Flash we got to Palembang in

our boats. I chartered her there, for six months. From young Ford, you

know. Belongs to him. He wanted a spell ashore, so I took charge myself.

Of course all Ford’s people on board. Strangers to me. I had to go to

Singapore about the insurance; then I went to Macassar, of course. Had

long passages. No wind. It was like a curse on me. I had lots of trouble

with old Hudig. That delayed me much.”

“Ah! Hudig! Why with Hudig?” asked Almayer, in a perfunctory manner.

“Oh! about a . . . a woman,” mumbled Lingard.

Almayer looked at him with languid surprise. The old seaman had twisted

his white beard into a point, and now was busy giving his moustaches a

fierce curl. His little red eyes--those eyes that had smarted under the

salt sprays of every sea, that had looked unwinking to windward in the

gales of all latitudes--now glared at Almayer from behind the lowered

eyebrows like a pair of frightened wild beasts crouching in a bush.

“Extraordinary! So like you! What can you have to do with Hudig’s women?

The old sinner!” said Almayer, negligently.

“What are you talking about! Wife of a friend of . . . I mean of a man I

know . . .”

“Still, I don’t see . . .” interjected Almayer carelessly.

“Of a man you know too. Well. Very well.”

“I knew so many men before you made me bury myself in this hole!”

growled Almayer, unamiably. “If she had anything to do with Hudig--that

wife--then she can’t be up to much. I would be sorry for the man,”

added Almayer, brightening up with the recollection of the scandalous

tittle-tattle of the past, when he was a young man in the second capital

of the Islands--and so well informed, so well informed. He laughed.

Lingard’s frown deepened.

“Don’t talk foolish! It’s Willems’ wife.”

Almayer grasped the sides of his seat, his eyes and mouth opened wide.

“What? Why!” he exclaimed, bewildered.

“Willems’--wife,” repeated Lingard distinctly. “You ain’t deaf, are you?

The wife of Willems. Just so. As to why! There was a promise. And I did

not know what had happened here.”

“What is it. You’ve been giving her money, I bet,” cried Almayer.

“Well, no!” said Lingard, deliberately. “Although I suppose I shall have

to . . .”

Almayer groaned.

“The fact is,” went on Lingard, speaking slowly and steadily, “the fact

is that I have . . . I have brought her here. Here. To Sambir.”

“In heaven’s name! why?” shouted Almayer, jumping up. The chair tilted

and fell slowly over. He raised his clasped hands above his head and

brought them down jerkily, separating his fingers with an effort, as if

tearing them apart. Lingard nodded, quickly, several times.

“I have. Awkward. Hey?” he said, with a puzzled look upwards.

“Upon my word,” said Almayer, tearfully. “I can’t understand you at all.

What will you do next! Willems’ wife!”

“Wife and child. Small boy, you know. They are on board the schooner.”

Almayer looked at Lingard with sudden suspicion, then turning away

busied himself in picking up the chair, sat down in it turning his back

upon the old seaman, and tried to whistle, but gave it up directly.

Lingard went on--

“Fact is, the fellow got into trouble with Hudig. Worked upon my

feelings. I promised to arrange matters. I did. With much trouble. Hudig

was angry with her for wishing to join her husband. Unprincipled old

fellow. You know she is his daughter. Well, I said I would see her

through it all right; help Willems to a fresh start and so on. I spoke

to Craig in Palembang. He is getting on in years, and wanted a manager

or partner. I promised to guarantee Willems’ good behaviour. We settled

all that. Craig is an old crony of mine. Been shipmates in the forties.

He’s waiting for him now. A pretty mess! What do you think?”

Almayer shrugged his shoulders.

“That woman broke with Hudig on my assurance that all would be well,”

went on Lingard, with growing dismay. “She did. Proper thing, of course.

Wife, husband . . . together . . . as it should be . . . Smart fellow

. . . Impossible scoundrel . . . Jolly old go! Oh! damn!”

Almayer laughed spitefully.

“How delighted he will be,” he said, softly. “You will make two people

happy. Two at least!” He laughed again, while Lingard looked at his

shaking shoulders in consternation.

“I am jammed on a lee shore this time, if ever I was,” muttered Lingard.

“Send her back quick,” suggested Almayer, stifling another laugh.

“What are you sniggering at?” growled Lingard, angrily. “I’ll work it

out all clear yet. Meantime you must receive her into this house.”

“My house!” cried Almayer, turning round.

“It’s mine too--a little isn’t it?” said Lingard. “Don’t argue,”

he shouted, as Almayer opened his mouth. “Obey orders and hold your

tongue!”

“Oh! If you take it in that tone!” mumbled Almayer, sulkily, with a

gesture of assent.

“You are so aggravating too, my boy,” said the old seaman, with

unexpected placidity. “You must give me time to turn round. I can’t keep

her on board all the time. I must tell her something. Say, for instance,

that he is gone up the river. Expected back every day. That’s it. D’ye

hear? You must put her on that tack and dodge her along easy, while I

take the kinks out of the situation. By God!” he exclaimed, mournfully,

after a short pause, “life is foul! Foul like a lee forebrace on a dirty

night. And yet. And yet. One must see it clear for running before going

below--for good. Now you attend to what I said,” he added, sharply, “if

you don’t want to quarrel with me, my boy.”

“I don’t want to quarrel with you,” murmured Almayer with unwilling

deference. “Only I wish I could understand you. I know you are my

best friend, Captain Lingard; only, upon my word, I can’t make you out

sometimes! I wish I could . . .”

Lingard burst into a loud laugh which ended shortly in a deep sigh. He

closed his eyes, tilting his head over the back of his armchair; and on

his face, baked by the unclouded suns of many hard years, there appeared

for a moment a weariness and a look of age which startled Almayer, like

an unexpected disclosure of evil.

“I am done up,” said Lingard, gently. “Perfectly done up. All night on

deck getting that schooner up the river. Then talking with you. Seems to

me I could go to sleep on a clothes-line. I should like to eat something

though. Just see about that, Kaspar.”

Almayer clapped his hands, and receiving no response was going to call,

when in the central passage of the house, behind the red curtain of the

doorway opening upon the verandah, they heard a child’s imperious voice

speaking shrilly.

“Take me up at once. I want to be carried into the verandah. I shall be

very angry. Take me up.”

A man’s voice answered, subdued, in humble remonstrance. The faces of

Almayer and Lingard brightened at once. The old seaman called out--

“Bring the child. Lekas!”

“You will see how she has grown,” exclaimed Almayer, in a jubilant tone.

Through the curtained doorway Ali appeared with little Nina Almayer in

his arms. The child had one arm round his neck, and with the other she

hugged a ripe pumelo nearly as big as her own head. Her little pink,

sleeveless robe had half slipped off her shoulders, but the long black

hair, that framed her olive face, in which the big black eyes looked out

in childish solemnity, fell in luxuriant profusion over her shoulders,

all round her and over Ali’s arms, like a close-meshed and delicate net

of silken threads. Lingard got up to meet Ali, and as soon as she caught

sight of the old seaman she dropped the fruit and put out both her hands

with a cry of delight. He took her from the Malay, and she laid hold of

his moustaches with an affectionate goodwill that brought unaccustomed

tears into his little red eyes.

“Not so hard, little one, not so hard,” he murmured, pressing with an

enormous hand, that covered it entirely, the child’s head to his face.

“Pick up my pumelo, O Rajah of the sea!” she said, speaking in a

high-pitched, clear voice with great volubility. “There, under the

table. I want it quick! Quick! You have been away fighting with many

men. Ali says so. You are a mighty fighter. Ali says so. On the great

sea far away, away, away.”

She waved her hand, staring with dreamy vacancy, while Lingard looked at

her, and squatting down groped under the table after the pumelo.

“Where does she get those notions?” said Lingard, getting up cautiously,

to Almayer, who had been giving orders to Ali.

“She is always with the men. Many a time I’ve found her with her fingers

in their rice dish, of an evening. She does not care for her mother

though--I am glad to say. How pretty she is--and so sharp. My very

image!”

Lingard had put the child on the table, and both men stood looking at

her with radiant faces.

“A perfect little woman,” whispered Lingard. “Yes, my dear boy, we shall

make her somebody. You’ll see!”

“Very little chance of that now,” remarked Almayer, sadly.

“You do not know!” exclaimed Lingard, taking up the child again,

and beginning to walk up and down the verandah. “I have my plans. I

have--listen.”

And he began to explain to the interested Almayer his plans for the

future. He would interview Abdulla and Lakamba. There must be some

understanding with those fellows now they had the upper hand. Here

he interrupted himself to swear freely, while the child, who had been

diligently fumbling about his neck, had found his whistle and blew a

loud blast now and then close to his ear--which made him wince and laugh

as he put her hands down, scolding her lovingly. Yes--that would be

easily settled. He was a man to be reckoned with yet. Nobody knew that

better than Almayer. Very well. Then he must patiently try and keep some

little trade together. It would be all right. But the great thing--and

here Lingard spoke lower, bringing himself to a sudden standstill before

the entranced Almayer--the great thing would be the gold hunt up the

river. He--Lingard--would devote himself to it. He had been in the

interior before. There were immense deposits of alluvial gold there.

Fabulous. He felt sure. Had seen places. Dangerous work? Of course! But

what a reward! He would explore--and find. Not a shadow of doubt. Hang

the danger! They would first get as much as they could for themselves.

Keep the thing quiet. Then after a time form a Company. In Batavia or

in England. Yes, in England. Much better. Splendid! Why, of course. And

that baby would be the richest woman in the world. He--Lingard--would

not, perhaps, see it--although he felt good for many years yet--but

Almayer would. Here was something to live for yet! Hey?

But the richest woman in the world had been for the last five minutes

shouting shrilly--“Rajah Laut! Rajah Laut! Hai! Give ear!” while the old

seaman had been speaking louder, unconsciously, to make his deep bass

heard above the impatient clamour. He stopped now and said tenderly--

“What is it, little woman?”

“I am not a little woman. I am a white child. Anak Putih. A white child;

and the white men are my brothers. Father says so. And Ali says so too.

Ali knows as much as father. Everything.”

Almayer almost danced with paternal delight.

“I taught her. I taught her,” he repeated, laughing with tears in his

eyes. “Isn’t she sharp?”

“I am the slave of the white child,” said Lingard, with playful

solemnity. “What is the order?”

“I want a house,” she warbled, with great eagerness. “I want a house,

and another house on the roof, and another on the roof--high. High!

Like the places where they dwell--my brothers--in the land where the sun

sleeps.”

“To the westward,” explained Almayer, under his breath. “She remembers

everything. She wants you to build a house of cards. You did, last time

you were here.”

Lingard sat down with the child on his knees, and Almayer pulled out

violently one drawer after another, looking for the cards, as if the

fate of the world depended upon his haste. He produced a dirty double

pack which was only used during Lingard’s visit to Sambir, when he would

sometimes play--of an evening--with Almayer, a game which he called

Chinese bezique. It bored Almayer, but the old seaman delighted in it,

considering it a remarkable product of Chinese genius--a race for which

he had an unaccountable liking and admiration.

“Now we will get on, my little pearl,” he said, putting together with

extreme precaution two cards that looked absurdly flimsy between his big

fingers. Little Nina watched him with intense seriousness as he went on

erecting the ground floor, while he continued to speak to Almayer with

his head over his shoulder so as not to endanger the structure with his

breath.

“I know what I am talking about. . . . Been in California in forty-nine.

. . . Not that I made much . . . then in Victoria in the early days

. . . . I know all about it. Trust me. Moreover a blind man could . . .

Be quiet, little sister, or you will knock this affair down. . . . My hand

pretty steady yet! Hey, Kaspar? . . . Now, delight of my heart, we shall

put a third house on the top of these two . . . keep very quiet. . . .

As I was saying, you got only to stoop and gather handfuls of gold . . .

dust . . . there. Now here we are. Three houses on top of one another.

Grand!”

He leaned back in his chair, one hand on the child’s head, which he

smoothed mechanically, and gesticulated with the other, speaking to

Almayer.

“Once on the spot, there would be only the trouble to pick up the stuff.

Then we shall all go to Europe. The child must be educated. We shall be

rich. Rich is no name for it. Down in Devonshire where I belong, there

was a fellow who built a house near Teignmouth which had as many windows

as a three-decker has ports. Made all his money somewhere out here in

the good old days. People around said he had been a pirate. We boys--I

was a boy in a Brixham trawler then--certainly believed that. He went

about in a bath-chair in his grounds. Had a glass eye . . .”

“Higher, Higher!” called out Nina, pulling the old seaman’s beard.

“You do worry me--don’t you?” said Lingard, gently, giving her a tender

kiss. “What? One more house on top of all these? Well! I will try.”

The child watched him breathlessly. When the difficult feat was

accomplished she clapped her hands, looked on steadily, and after a

while gave a great sigh of content.

“Oh! Look out!” shouted Almayer.

The structure collapsed suddenly before the child’s light breath.

Lingard looked discomposed for a moment. Almayer laughed, but the little

girl began to cry.

“Take her,” said the old seaman, abruptly. Then, after Almayer went

away with the crying child, he remained sitting by the table, looking

gloomily at the heap of cards.

“Damn this Willems,” he muttered to himself. “But I will do it yet!”

He got up, and with an angry push of his hand swept the cards off the

table. Then he fell back in his chair.

“Tired as a dog,” he sighed out, closing his eyes.

CHAPTER FOUR

Consciously or unconsciously, men are proud of their firmness,

steadfastness of purpose, directness of aim. They go straight towards

their desire, to the accomplishment of virtue--sometimes of crime--in an

uplifting persuasion of their firmness. They walk the road of life, the

road fenced in by their tastes, prejudices, disdains or enthusiasms,

generally honest, invariably stupid, and are proud of never losing their

way. If they do stop, it is to look for a moment over the hedges that

make them safe, to look at the misty valleys, at the distant peaks, at

cliffs and morasses, at the dark forests and the hazy plains where other

human beings grope their days painfully away, stumbling over the bones

of the wise, over the unburied remains of their predecessors who died

alone, in gloom or in sunshine, halfway from anywhere. The man of

purpose does not understand, and goes on, full of contempt. He never

loses his way. He knows where he is going and what he wants. Travelling

on, he achieves great length without any breadth, and battered,

besmirched, and weary, he touches the goal at last; he grasps the

reward of his perseverance, of his virtue, of his healthy optimism: an

untruthful tombstone over a dark and soon forgotten grave.

Lingard had never hesitated in his life. Why should he? He had been

a most successful trader, and a man lucky in his fights, skilful in

navigation, undeniably first in seamanship in those seas. He knew it.

Had he not heard the voice of common consent?

The voice of the world that respected him so much; the whole world to

him--for to us the limits of the universe are strictly defined by those

we know. There is nothing for us outside the babble of praise and blame

on familiar lips, and beyond our last acquaintance there lies only

a vast chaos; a chaos of laughter and tears which concerns us not;

laughter and tears unpleasant, wicked, morbid, contemptible--because

heard imperfectly by ears rebellious to strange sounds. To

Lingard--simple himself--all things were simple. He seldom read. Books

were not much in his way, and he had to work hard navigating, trading,

and also, in obedience to his benevolent instincts, shaping stray

lives he found here and there under his busy hand. He remembered the

Sunday-school teachings of his native village and the discourses of

the black-coated gentleman connected with the Mission to Fishermen and

Seamen, whose yawl-rigged boat darting through rain-squalls amongst the

coasters wind-bound in Falmouth Bay, was part of those precious pictures

of his youthful days that lingered in his memory. “As clever a sky-pilot

as you could wish to see,” he would say with conviction, “and the best

man to handle a boat in any weather I ever did meet!” Such were the

agencies that had roughly shaped his young soul before he went away to

see the world in a southern-going ship--before he went, ignorant and

happy, heavy of hand, pure in heart, profane in speech, to give himself

up to the great sea that took his life and gave him his fortune. When

thinking of his rise in the world--commander of ships, then shipowner,

then a man of much capital, respected wherever he went, Lingard in a

word, the Rajah Laut--he was amazed and awed by his fate, that seemed to

his ill-informed mind the most wondrous known in the annals of men.

His experience appeared to him immense and conclusive, teaching him the

lesson of the simplicity of life. In life--as in seamanship--there were

only two ways of doing a thing: the right way and the wrong way. Common

sense and experience taught a man the way that was right. The other

was for lubbers and fools, and led, in seamanship, to loss of spars and

sails or shipwreck; in life, to loss of money and consideration, or

to an unlucky knock on the head. He did not consider it his duty to

be angry with rascals. He was only angry with things he could not

understand, but for the weaknesses of humanity he could find a

contemptuous tolerance. It being manifest that he was wise and

lucky--otherwise how could he have been as successful in life as he had

been?--he had an inclination to set right the lives of other people,

just as he could hardly refrain--in defiance of nautical etiquette--from

interfering with his chief officer when the crew was sending up a new

topmast, or generally when busy about, what he called, “a heavy job.” He

was meddlesome with perfect modesty; if he knew a thing or two there was

no merit in it. “Hard knocks taught me wisdom, my boy,” he used to say,

“and you had better take the advice of a man who has been a fool in his

time. Have another.” And “my boy” as a rule took the cool drink, the

advice, and the consequent help which Lingard felt himself bound in

honour to give, so as to back up his opinion like an honest man. Captain

Tom went sailing from island to island, appearing unexpectedly

in various localities, beaming, noisy, anecdotal, commendatory or

comminatory, but always welcome.

It was only since his return to Sambir that the old seaman had for the

first time known doubt and unhappiness, The loss of the Flash--planted

firmly and for ever on a ledge of rock at the north end of Gaspar

Straits in the uncertain light of a cloudy morning--shook him

considerably; and the amazing news which he heard on his arrival

in Sambir were not made to soothe his feelings. A good many years

ago--prompted by his love of adventure--he, with infinite trouble, had

found out and surveyed--for his own benefit only--the entrances to that

river, where, he had heard through native report, a new settlement of

Malays was forming. No doubt he thought at the time mostly of personal

gain; but, received with hearty friendliness by Patalolo, he soon came

to like the ruler and the people, offered his counsel and his help,

and--knowing nothing of Arcadia--he dreamed of Arcadian happiness for

that little corner of the world which he loved to think all his own.

His deep-seated and immovable conviction that only he--he, Lingard--knew

what was good for them was characteristic of him and, after all, not so

very far wrong. He would make them happy whether or no, he said, and he

meant it. His trade brought prosperity to the young state, and the fear

of his heavy hand secured its internal peace for many years.

He looked proudly upon his work. With every passing year he loved more

the land, the people, the muddy river that, if he could help it, would

carry no other craft but the Flash on its unclean and friendly surface.

As he slowly warped his vessel up-stream he would scan with knowing

looks the riverside clearings, and pronounce solemn judgment upon the

prospects of the season’s rice-crop. He knew every settler on the banks

between the sea and Sambir; he knew their wives, their children; he

knew every individual of the multi-coloured groups that, standing on

the flimsy platforms of tiny reed dwellings built over the water, waved

their hands and shouted shrilly: “O! Kapal layer! Hai!” while the Flash

swept slowly through the populated reach, to enter the lonely stretches

of sparkling brown water bordered by the dense and silent forest,

whose big trees nodded their outspread boughs gently in the faint, warm

breeze--as if in sign of tender but melancholy welcome. He loved it all:

the landscape of brown golds and brilliant emeralds under the dome of

hot sapphire; the whispering big trees; the loquacious nipa-palms that

rattled their leaves volubly in the night breeze, as if in haste to tell

him all the secrets of the great forest behind them. He loved the heavy

scents of blossoms and black earth, that breath of life and of death

which lingered over his brig in the damp air of tepid and peaceful

nights. He loved the narrow and sombre creeks, strangers to sunshine:

black, smooth, tortuous--like byways of despair. He liked even the

troops of sorrowful-faced monkeys that profaned the quiet spots with

capricious gambols and insane gestures of inhuman madness. He loved

everything there, animated or inanimated; the very mud of the riverside;

the very alligators, enormous and stolid, basking on it with impertinent

unconcern. Their size was a source of pride to him. “Immense fellows!

Make two of them Palembang reptiles! I tell you, old man!” he would

shout, poking some crony of his playfully in the ribs: “I tell you,

big as you are, they could swallow you in one gulp, hat, boots and all!

Magnificent beggars! Wouldn’t you like to see them? Wouldn’t you! Ha!

ha! ha!” His thunderous laughter filled the verandah, rolled over the

hotel garden, overflowed into the street, paralyzing for a short moment

the noiseless traffic of bare brown feet; and its loud reverberations

would even startle the landlord’s tame bird--a shameless mynah--into

a momentary propriety of behaviour under the nearest chair. In the big

billiard-room perspiring men in thin cotton singlets would stop the

game, listen, cue in hand, for a while through the open windows, then

nod their moist faces at each other sagaciously and whisper: “The old

fellow is talking about his river.”

His river! The whispers of curious men, the mystery of the thing,

were to Lingard a source of never-ending delight. The common talk of

ignorance exaggerated the profits of his queer monopoly, and, although

strictly truthful in general, he liked, on that matter, to mislead

speculation still further by boasts full of cold raillery. His river!

By it he was not only rich--he was interesting. This secret of his which

made him different to the other traders of those seas gave intimate

satisfaction to that desire for singularity which he shared with the

rest of mankind, without being aware of its presence within his breast.

It was the greater part of his happiness, but he only knew it after its

loss, so unforeseen, so sudden and so cruel.

After his conversation with Almayer he went on board the schooner, sent

Joanna on shore, and shut himself up in his cabin, feeling very unwell.

He made the most of his indisposition to Almayer, who came to visit him

twice a day. It was an excuse for doing nothing just yet. He wanted to

think. He was very angry. Angry with himself, with Willems. Angry at

what Willems had done--and also angry at what he had left undone.

The scoundrel was not complete. The conception was perfect, but

the execution, unaccountably, fell short. Why? He ought to have cut

Almayer’s throat and burnt the place to ashes--then cleared out. Got

out of his way; of him, Lingard! Yet he didn’t. Was it impudence,

contempt--or what? He felt hurt at the implied disrespect of his

power, and the incomplete rascality of the proceeding disturbed him

exceedingly. There was something short, something wanting, something

that would have given him a free hand in the work of retribution. The

obvious, the right thing to do, was to shoot Willems. Yet how could he?

Had the fellow resisted, showed fight, or ran away; had he shown any

consciousness of harm done, it would have been more possible, more

natural. But no! The fellow actually had sent him a message. Wanted

to see him. What for? The thing could not be explained. An unexampled,

cold-blooded treachery, awful, incomprehensible. Why did he do it? Why?

Why? The old seaman in the stuffy solitude of his little cabin on board

the schooner groaned out many times that question, striking with an open

palm his perplexed forehead.

During his four days of seclusion he had received two messages from the

outer world; from that world of Sambir which had, so suddenly and so

finally, slipped from his grasp. One, a few words from Willems written

on a torn-out page of a small notebook; the other, a communication

from Abdulla caligraphed carefully on a large sheet of flimsy paper

and delivered to him in a green silk wrapper. The first he could not

understand. It said: “Come and see me. I am not afraid. Are you? W.”

He tore it up angrily, but before the small bits of dirty paper had the

time to flutter down and settle on the floor, the anger was gone and was

replaced by a sentiment that induced him to go on his knees, pick up

the fragments of the torn message, piece it together on the top of his

chronometer box, and contemplate it long and thoughtfully, as if he had

hoped to read the answer of the horrible riddle in the very form of the

letters that went to make up that fresh insult. Abdulla’s letter he read

carefully and rammed it into his pocket, also with anger, but with anger

that ended in a half-resigned, half-amused smile. He would never give in

as long as there was a chance. “It’s generally the safest way to stick

to the ship as long as she will swim,” was one of his favourite sayings:

“The safest and the right way. To abandon a craft because it leaks is

easy--but poor work. Poor work!” Yet he was intelligent enough to know

when he was beaten, and to accept the situation like a man, without

repining. When Almayer came on board that afternoon he handed him the

letter without comment.

Almayer read it, returned it in silence, and leaning over the taffrail

(the two men were on deck) looked down for some time at the play of the

eddies round the schooner’s rudder. At last he said without looking up--

“That’s a decent enough letter. Abdulla gives him up to you. I told you

they were getting sick of him. What are you going to do?”

Lingard cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, opened his mouth with

great determination, but said nothing for a while. At last he murmured--

“I’ll be hanged if I know--just yet.”

“I wish you would do something soon . . .”

“What’s the hurry?” interrupted Lingard. “He can’t get away. As it

stands he is at my mercy, as far as I can see.”

“Yes,” said Almayer, reflectively--“and very little mercy he deserves

too. Abdulla’s meaning--as I can make it out amongst all those

compliments--is: ‘Get rid for me of that white man--and we shall live in

peace and share the trade.”’

“You believe that?” asked Lingard, contemptuously.

“Not altogether,” answered Almayer. “No doubt we will share the trade

for a time--till he can grab the lot. Well, what are you going to do?”

He looked up as he spoke and was surprised to see Lingard’s discomposed

face.

“You ain’t well. Pain anywhere?” he asked, with real solicitude.

“I have been queer--you know--these last few days, but no pain.” He

struck his broad chest several times, cleared his throat with a powerful

“Hem!” and repeated: “No. No pain. Good for a few years yet. But I am

bothered with all this, I can tell you!”

“You must take care of yourself,” said Almayer. Then after a pause he

added: “You will see Abdulla. Won’t you?”

“I don’t know. Not yet. There’s plenty of time,” said Lingard,

impatiently.

“I wish you would do something,” urged Almayer, moodily. “You know, that

woman is a perfect nuisance to me. She and her brat! Yelps all day. And

the children don’t get on together. Yesterday the little devil wanted to

fight with my Nina. Scratched her face, too. A perfect savage! Like

his honourable papa. Yes, really. She worries about her husband, and

whimpers from morning to night. When she isn’t weeping she is furious

with me. Yesterday she tormented me to tell her when he would be

back and cried because he was engaged in such dangerous work. I said

something about it being all right--no necessity to make a fool of

herself, when she turned upon me like a wild cat. Called me a brute,

selfish, heartless; raved about her beloved Peter risking his life for

my benefit, while I did not care. Said I took advantage of his generous

good-nature to get him to do dangerous work--my work. That he was worth

twenty of the likes of me. That she would tell you--open your eyes as

to the kind of man I was, and so on. That’s what I’ve got to put up with

for your sake. You really might consider me a little. I haven’t robbed

anybody,” went on Almayer, with an attempt at bitter irony--“or sold

my best friend, but still you ought to have some pity on me. It’s like

living in a hot fever. She is out of her wits. You make my house a

refuge for scoundrels and lunatics. It isn’t fair. ‘Pon my word

it isn’t! When she is in her tantrums she is ridiculously ugly and

screeches so--it sets my teeth on edge. Thank God! my wife got a fit of

the sulks and cleared out of the house. Lives in a riverside hut since

that affair--you know. But this Willems’ wife by herself is almost more

than I can bear. And I ask myself why should I? You are exacting and no

mistake. This morning I thought she was going to claw me. Only think!

She wanted to go prancing about the settlement. She might have heard

something there, so I told her she mustn’t. It wasn’t safe outside our

fences, I said. Thereupon she rushes at me with her ten nails up to my

eyes. ‘You miserable man,’ she yells, ‘even this place is not safe, and

you’ve sent him up this awful river where he may lose his head. If he

dies before forgiving me, Heaven will punish you for your crime . . .’

My crime! I ask myself sometimes whether I am dreaming! It will make me

ill, all this. I’ve lost my appetite already.”

He flung his hat on deck and laid hold of his hair despairingly. Lingard

looked at him with concern.

“What did she mean by it?” he muttered, thoughtfully.

“Mean! She is crazy, I tell you--and I will be, very soon, if this

lasts!”

“Just a little patience, Kaspar,” pleaded Lingard. “A day or so more.”

Relieved or tired by his violent outburst, Almayer calmed down, picked

up his hat and, leaning against the bulwark, commenced to fan himself

with it.

“Days do pass,” he said, resignedly--“but that kind of thing makes a

man old before his time. What is there to think about?--I can’t imagine!

Abdulla says plainly that if you undertake to pilot his ship out and

instruct the half-caste, he will drop Willems like a hot potato and be

your friend ever after. I believe him perfectly, as to Willems. It’s so

natural. As to being your friend it’s a lie of course, but we need

not bother about that just yet. You just say yes to Abdulla, and then

whatever happens to Willems will be nobody’s business.”

He interrupted himself and remained silent for a while, glaring about

with set teeth and dilated nostrils.

“You leave it to me. I’ll see to it that something happens to him,” he

said at last, with calm ferocity. Lingard smiled faintly.

“The fellow isn’t worth a shot. Not the trouble of it,” he whispered, as

if to himself. Almayer fired up suddenly.

“That’s what you think,” he cried. “You haven’t been sewn up in your

hammock to be made a laughing-stock of before a parcel of savages. Why!

I daren’t look anybody here in the face while that scoundrel is alive. I

will . . . I will settle him.”

“I don’t think you will,” growled Lingard.

“Do you think I am afraid of him?”

“Bless you! no!” said Lingard with alacrity. “Afraid! Not you. I know

you. I don’t doubt your courage. It’s your head, my boy, your head that

I . . .”

“That’s it,” said the aggrieved Almayer. “Go on. Why don’t you call me a

fool at once?”

“Because I don’t want to,” burst out Lingard, with nervous irritability.

“If I wanted to call you a fool, I would do so without asking your

leave.” He began to walk athwart the narrow quarter-deck, kicking ropes’

ends out of his way and growling to himself: “Delicate gentleman . . .

what next? . . . I’ve done man’s work before you could toddle.

Understand . . . say what I like.”

“Well! well!” said Almayer, with affected resignation. “There’s no

talking to you these last few days.” He put on his hat, strolled to

the gangway and stopped, one foot on the little inside ladder, as if

hesitating, came back and planted himself in Lingard’s way, compelling

him to stand still and listen.

“Of course you will do what you like. You never take advice--I know

that; but let me tell you that it wouldn’t be honest to let that fellow

get away from here. If you do nothing, that scoundrel will leave in

Abdulla’s ship for sure. Abdulla will make use of him to hurt you and

others elsewhere. Willems knows too much about your affairs. He will

cause you lots of trouble. You mark my words. Lots of trouble. To

you--and to others perhaps. Think of that, Captain Lingard. That’s all

I’ve got to say. Now I must go back on shore. There’s lots of work. We

will begin loading this schooner to-morrow morning, first thing. All the

bundles are ready. If you should want me for anything, hoist some kind

of flag on the mainmast. At night two shots will fetch me.” Then

he added, in a friendly tone, “Won’t you come and dine in the house

to-night? It can’t be good for you to stew on board like that, day after

day.”

Lingard did not answer. The image evoked by Almayer; the picture of

Willems ranging over the islands and disturbing the harmony of

the universe by robbery, treachery, and violence, held him silent,

entranced--painfully spellbound. Almayer, after waiting for a little

while, moved reluctantly towards the gangway, lingered there, then

sighed and got over the side, going down step by step. His head

disappeared slowly below the rail. Lingard, who had been staring at him

absently, started suddenly, ran to the side, and looking over, called

out--

“Hey! Kaspar! Hold on a bit!”

Almayer signed to his boatmen to cease paddling, and turned his head

towards the schooner. The boat drifted back slowly abreast of Lingard,

nearly alongside.

“Look here,” said Lingard, looking down--“I want a good canoe with four

men to-day.”

“Do you want it now?” asked Almayer.

“No! Catch this rope. Oh, you clumsy devil! . . . No, Kaspar,” went on

Lingard, after the bow-man had got hold of the end of the brace he had

thrown down into the canoe--“No, Kaspar. The sun is too much for me. And

it would be better to keep my affairs quiet, too. Send the canoe--four

good paddlers, mind, and your canvas chair for me to sit in. Send it

about sunset. D’ye hear?”

“All right, father,” said Almayer, cheerfully--“I will send Ali for a

steersman, and the best men I’ve got. Anything else?”

“No, my lad. Only don’t let them be late.”

“I suppose it’s no use asking you where you are going,” said Almayer,

tentatively. “Because if it is to see Abdulla, I . . .”

“I am not going to see Abdulla. Not to-day. Now be off with you.”

He watched the canoe dart away shorewards, waved his hand in response

to Almayer’s nod, and walked to the taffrail smoothing out Abdulla’s

letter, which he had pulled out of his pocket. He read it over

carefully, crumpled it up slowly, smiling the while and closing his

fingers firmly over the crackling paper as though he had hold there

of Abdulla’s throat. Halfway to his pocket he changed his mind, and

flinging the ball overboard looked at it thoughtfully as it spun round

in the eddies for a moment, before the current bore it away down-stream,

towards the sea.