V
"What's the matter with King Tom of late?" would ask someone when, allthe cards in a heap on the table, the traders lying back in their chairstook a spell from a hard gamble.
"Tom has learned to hold his tongue, he must be up to some dam' goodthing," opined another; while a man with hooked features and of Germanextraction who was supposed to be agent for a Dutch crockery house--thefamous "Sphinx" mark--broke in resentfully:
"Nefer mind him, shentlemens, he's matt, matt as a Marsh Hase. Dreemonats ago I call on board his prig to talk pizness. And he says likedis--'Glear oudt.' 'Vat for?' I say. 'Glear oudt before I shuck youoferboard.' Gott-for-dam! Iss dat the vay to talk pizness? I vant sellhim ein liddle case first chop grockery for trade and--"
"Ha, ha, ha! I don't blame Tom," interrupted the owner of a pearlingschooner, who had come into the Roads for stores. "Why, Mosey, thereisn't a mangy cannibal left in the whole of New Guinea that hasn't got acup and saucer of your providing. You've flooded the market, savee?"
Jorgenson stood by, a skeleton at the gaming table.
"Because you are a Dutch spy," he said, suddenly, in an awful tone.
The agent of the Sphinx mark jumped up in a sudden fury.
"Vat? Vat? Shentlemens, you all know me!" Not a muscle moved inthe faces around. "Know me," he stammered with wet lips. "Vat, funfyear--berfegtly acquaint--grockery--Verfluchte sponsher. Ich? Spy. Vatfor spy? Vordamte English pedlars!"
The door slammed. "Is that so?" asked a New England voice. "Why don'tyou let daylight into him?"
"Oh, we can't do that here," murmured one of the players. "Your deal,Trench, let us get on."
"Can't you?" drawled the New England voice. "You law-abiding,get-a-summons, act-of--parliament lot of sons of Belial--can't you?Now, look a-here, these Colt pistols I am selling--" He took the pearleraside and could be heard talking earnestly in the corner. "See--youload--and--see?" There were rapid clicks. "Simple, isn't it? And ifany trouble--say with your divers"--_click, click, click_--"Through andthrough--like a sieve--warranted to cure the worst kind of cussednessin any nigger. Yes, siree! A case of twenty-four or single specimens--asyou like. No? Shot-guns--rifles? No! Waal, I guess you're of no use tome, but I could do a deal with that Tom--what d'ye call him? Where d'yecatch him? Everywhere--eh? Waal--that's nowhere. But I shall find himsome day--yes, siree."
Jorgenson, utterly disregarded, looked down dreamily at the fallingcards. "Spy--I tell you," he muttered to himself. "If you want to knowanything, ask me."
When Lingard returned from Wajo--after an uncommonly longabsence--everyone remarked a great change. He was less talkative andnot so noisy, he was still hospitable but his hospitality was lessexpansive, and the man who was never so happy as when discussingimpossibly wild projects with half a dozen congenial spirits oftenshowed a disinclination to meet his best friends. In a word, hereturned much less of a good fellow than he went away. His visits to theSettlements were not less frequent, but much shorter; and when there hewas always in a hurry to be gone.
During two years the brig had, in her way, as hard a life of it as theman. Swift and trim she flitted amongst the islands of little knowngroups. She could be descried afar from lonely headlands, a whitespeck travelling fast over the blue sea; the apathetic keepers of rarelighthouses dotting the great highway to the east came to know the cutof her topsails. They saw her passing east, passing west. They had faintglimpses of her flying with masts aslant in the mist of a rain-squall,or could observe her at leisure, upright and with shivering sails,forging ahead through a long day of unsteady airs. Men saw her battlingwith a heavy monsoon in the Bay of Bengal, lying becalmed in the JavaSea, or gliding out suddenly from behind a point of land, graceful andsilent in the clear moonlight. Her activity was the subject of excitedbut low-toned conversations, which would be interrupted when her masterappeared.
"Here he is. Came in last night," whispered the gossiping group.
Lingard did not see the covert glances of respect tempered by irony; henodded and passed on.
"Hey, Tom! No time for a drink?" would shout someone.
He would shake his head without looking back--far away already.
Florid and burly he could be seen, for a day or two, getting out ofdusty gharries, striding in sunshine from the Occidental Bank to theHarbour Office, crossing the Esplanade, disappearing down a street ofChinese shops, while at his elbow and as tall as himself, old Jorgensonpaced along, lean and faded, obstinate and disregarded, like a hauntingspirit from the past eager to step back into the life of men.
Lingard ignored this wreck of an adventurer, sticking to him closer thanhis shadow, and the other did not try to attract attention. He waitedpatiently at the doors of offices, would vanish at tiffin time, wouldinvariably turn up again in the evening and then he kept his placetill Lingard went aboard for the night. The police peons on duty lookeddisdainfully at the phantom of Captain H. C. Jorgenson, Barque WildRose, wandering on the silent quay or standing still for hours at theedge of the sombre roadstead speckled by the anchor lights of ships--anadventurous soul longing to recross the waters of oblivion.
The sampan-men, sculling lazily homeward past the black hull of the brigat anchor, could hear far into the night the drawl of the New Englandvoice escaping through the lifted panes of the cabin skylight. Snatchesof nasal sentences floated in the stillness around the still craft.
"Yes, siree! Mexican war rifles--good as new--six in a case--my peoplein Baltimore--that's so. Hundred and twenty rounds thrown in foreach specimen--marked to suit your requirements. Suppose--musicalinstruments, this side up with care--how's that for your taste? No, no!Cash down--my people in Balt--Shooting sea-gulls you say? Waal! It'sa risky business--see here--ten per cent. discount--it's out of my ownpocket--"
As time wore on, and nothing happened, at least nothing that one couldhear of, the excitement died out. Lingard's new attitude was acceptedas only "his way." There was nothing in it, maintained some. Othersdissented. A good deal of curiosity, however, remained and the faintrumour of something big being in preparation followed him into everyharbour he went to, from Rangoon to Hongkong.
He felt nowhere so much at home as when his brig was anchored on theinner side of the great stretch of shoals. The centre of his life hadshifted about four hundred miles--from the Straits of Malacca to theShore of Refuge--and when there he felt himself within the circle ofanother existence, governed by his impulse, nearer his desire. Hassimand Immada would come down to the coast and wait for him on the islet.He always left them with regret.
At the end of the first stage in each trip, Jorgenson waited for himat the top of the boat-stairs and without a word fell into step at hiselbow. They seldom exchanged three words in a day; but one evening aboutsix months before Lingard's last trip, as they were crossing theshort bridge over the canal where native craft lie moored in clusters,Jorgenson lengthened his stride and came abreast. It was a moonlightnight and nothing stirred on earth but the shadows of high clouds.Lingard took off his hat and drew in a long sigh in the tepid breeze.Jorgenson spoke suddenly in a cautious tone: "The new Rajah Tullasmokes opium and is sometimes dangerous to speak to. There is a lot ofdiscontent in Wajo amongst the big people."
"Good! Good!" whispered Lingard, excitedly, off his guard for once.Then--"How the devil do you know anything about it?" he asked.
Jorgenson pointed at the mass of praus, coasting boats, and sampansthat, jammed up together in the canal, lay covered with mats and floodedby the cold moonlight with here and there a dim lantern burning amongstthe confusion of high sterns, spars, masts and lowered sails.
"There!" he said, as they moved on, and their hatted and clothed shadowsfell heavily on the queer-shaped vessels that carry the fortunes ofbrown men upon a shallow sea. "There! I can sit with them, I can talkto them, I can come and go as I like. They know me now--it'stime-thirty-five years. Some of them give a plate of rice and a bit offish to the white man. That's all I get--after thirty-five years--givenup to them."
He
was silent for a time.
"I was like you once," he added, and then laying his hand on Lingard'ssleeve, murmured--"Are you very deep in this thing?"
"To the very last cent," said Lingard, quietly, and looking straightbefore him.
The glitter of the roadstead went out, and the masts of anchored shipsvanished in the invading shadow of a cloud.
"Drop it," whispered Jorgenson.
"I am in debt," said Lingard, slowly, and stood still.
"Drop it!"
"Never dropped anything in my life."
"Drop it!"
"By God, I won't!" cried Lingard, stamping his foot.
There was a pause.
"I was like you--once," repeated Jorgenson. "Five and thirtyyears--never dropped anything. And what you can do is only child's playto some jobs I have had on my hands--understand that--great man as youare, Captain Lingard of the Lightning. . . . You should have seen theWild Rose," he added with a sudden break in his voice.
Lingard leaned over the guard-rail of the pier. Jorgenson came closer.
"I set fire to her with my own hands!" he said in a vibrating tone andvery low, as if making a monstrous confession.
"Poor devil," muttered Lingard, profoundly moved by the tragic enormityof the act. "I suppose there was no way out?"
"I wasn't going to let her rot to pieces in some Dutch port," saidJorgenson, gloomily. "Did you ever hear of Dawson?"
"Something--I don't remember now--" muttered Lingard, who felt a chilldown his back at the idea of his own vessel decaying slowly in someDutch port. "He died--didn't he?" he asked, absently, while hewondered whether he would have the pluck to set fire to the brig--on anemergency.
"Cut his throat on the beach below Fort Rotterdam," said Jorgenson. Hisgaunt figure wavered in the unsteady moonshine as though made of mist."Yes. He broke some trade regulation or other and talked big aboutlaw-courts and legal trials to the lieutenant of the Komet. 'Certainly,'says the hound. 'Jurisdiction of Macassar, I will take your schoonerthere.' Then coming into the roads he tows her full tilt on a ledge ofrocks on the north side--smash! When she was half full of water he takeshis hat off to Dawson. 'There's the shore,' says he--'go and get yourlegal trial, you--Englishman--'" He lifted a long arm and shook his fistat the moon which dodged suddenly behind a cloud. "All was lost. PoorDawson walked the streets for months barefooted and in rags. Then oneday he begged a knife from some charitable soul, went down to take alast look at the wreck, and--"
"I don't interfere with the Dutch," interrupted Lingard, impatiently. "Iwant Hassim to get back his own--"
"And suppose the Dutch want the things just so," returned Jorgenson."Anyway there is a devil in such work--drop it!"
"Look here," said Lingard, "I took these people off when they were intheir last ditch. That means something. I ought not to have meddled andit would have been all over in a few hours. I must have meant somethingwhen I interfered, whether I knew it or not. I meant it then--and didnot know it. Very well. I mean it now--and do know it. When you savepeople from death you take a share in their life. That's how I look atit."
Jorgenson shook his head.
"Foolishness!" he cried, then asked softly in a voice that trembled withcuriosity--"Where did you leave them?"
"With Belarab," breathed out Lingard. "You knew him in the old days."
"I knew him, I knew his father," burst out the other in an excitedwhisper. "Whom did I not know? I knew Sentot when he was King of theSouth Shore of Java and the Dutch offered a price for his head--enoughto make any man's fortune. He slept twice on board the Wild Rose whenthings had begun to go wrong with him. I knew him, I knew all hischiefs, the priests, the fighting men, the old regent who lost heart andwent over to the Dutch, I knew--" he stammered as if the words could notcome out, gave it up and sighed--"Belarab's father escaped with me," hebegan again, quietly, "and joined the Padris in Sumatra. He rose to bea great leader. Belarab was a youth then. Those were the times. I rangedthe coast--and laughed at the cruisers; I saw every battle fought in theBattak country--and I saw the Dutch run; I was at the taking of Singaland escaped. I was the white man who advised the chiefs of Manangkabo.There was a lot about me in the Dutch papers at the time. They said Iwas a Frenchman turned Mohammedan--" he swore a great oath, and, reelingagainst the guard-rail, panted, muttering curses on newspapers.
"Well, Belarab has the job in hand," said Lingard, composedly. "He isthe chief man on the Shore of Refuge. There are others, of course. Hehas sent messages north and south. We must have men."
"All the devils unchained," said Jorgenson. "You have done it andnow--look out--look out. . . ."
"Nothing can go wrong as far as I can see," argued Lingard. "They allknow what's to be done. I've got them in hand. You don't think Belarabunsafe? Do you?"
"Haven't seen him for fifteen years--but the whole thing's unsafe,"growled Jorgenson.
"I tell you I've fixed it so that nothing can go wrong. It would bebetter if I had a white man over there to look after things generally.There is a good lot of stores and arms--and Belarab would bearwatching--no doubt. Are you in any want?" he added, putting his hand inhis pocket.
"No, there's plenty to eat in the house," answered Jorgenson, curtly."Drop it," he burst out. "It would be better for you to jump overboardat once. Look at me. I came out a boy of eighteen. I can speak English,I can speak Dutch, I can speak every cursed lingo of these islands--Iremember things that would make your hair stand on end--but I haveforgotten the language of my own country. I've traded, I've fought, Inever broke my word to white or native. And, look at me. If it hadn'tbeen for the girl I would have died in a ditch ten years ago. Everythingleft me--youth, money, strength, hope--the very sleep. But she stuck bythe wreck."
"That says a lot for her and something for you," said Lingard, cheerily.
Jorgenson shook his head.
"That's the worst of all," he said with slow emphasis. "That's theend. I came to them from the other side of the earth and they took meand--see what they made of me."
"What place do you belong to?" asked Lingard.
"Tromso," groaned out Jorgenson; "I will never see snow again," hesobbed out, his face in his hands.
Lingard looked at him in silence.
"Would you come with me?" he said. "As I told you, I am in want of a--"
"I would see you damned first!" broke out the other, savagely. "I aman old white loafer, but you don't get me to meddle in their infernalaffairs. They have a devil of their own--"
"The thing simply can't fail. I've calculated every move. I've guardedagainst everything. I am no fool."
"Yes--you are. Good-night."
"Well, good-bye," said Lingard, calmly.
He stepped into his boat, and Jorgenson walked up the jetty. Lingard,clearing the yoke lines, heard him call out from a distance:
"Drop it!"
"I sail before sunrise," he shouted in answer, and went on board.
When he came up from his cabin after an uneasy night, it was dark yet. Alank figure strolled across the deck.
"Here I am," said Jorgenson, huskily. "Die there or here--all one. But,if I die there, remember the girl must eat."
Lingard was one of the few who had seen Jorgenson's girl. She had awrinkled brown face, a lot of tangled grey hair, a few black stumpsof teeth, and had been married to him lately by an enterprising youngmissionary from Bukit Timah. What her appearance might have been oncewhen Jorgenson gave for her three hundred dollars and several brassguns, it was impossible to say. All that was left of her youth was apair of eyes, undimmed and mournful, which, when she was alone, seemedto look stonily into the past of two lives. When Jorgenson was nearthey followed his movements with anxious pertinacity. And now within thesarong thrown over the grey head they were dropping unseen tears whileJorgenson's girl rocked herself to and fro, squatting alone in a cornerof the dark hut.
"Don't you worry about that," said Lingard, grasping Jorgenson's hand."She shall want for nothing. All I expect you to do is to look a lit
tleafter Belarab's morals when I am away. One more trip I must make, andthen we shall be ready to go ahead. I've foreseen every single thing.Trust me!"
In this way did the restless shade of Captain H. C. Jorgenson recrossthe water of oblivion to step back into the life of men.