CHAPTER VI.
Dain was not long in crossing the river after leaving Almayer.
He landed at the water-gate of the stockade enclosing the group
of houses which composed the residence of the Rajah of Sambir.
Evidently somebody was expected there, for the gate was open, and
men with torches were ready to precede the visitor up the
inclined plane of planks leading to the largest house where
Lakamba actually resided, and where all the business of state was
invariably transacted. The other buildings within the enclosure
served only to accommodate the numerous household and the wives
of the ruler.
Lakamba's own house was a strong structure of solid planks,
raised on high piles, with a verandah of split bamboos
surrounding it on all sides; the whole was covered in by an
immensely high-pitched roof of palm-leaves, resting on beams
blackened by the smoke of many torches.
The building stood parallel to the river, one of its long sides
facing the water-gate of the stockade. There was a door in the
short side looking up the river, and the inclined plank-way led
straight from the gate to that door. By the uncertain light of
smoky torches, Dain noticed the vague outlines of a group of
armed men in the dark shadows to his right. From that group
Babalatchi stepped forward to open the door, and Dain entered the
audience chamber of the Rajah's residence. About one-third of
the house was curtained off, by heavy stuff of European
manufacture, for that purpose; close to the curtain there was a
big arm-chair of some black wood, much carved, and before it a
rough deal table. Otherwise the room was only furnished with
mats in great profusion. To the left of the entrance stood a
rude arm-rack, with three rifles with fixed bayonets in it. By
the wall, in the shadow, the body-guard of Lakamba--all friends
or relations--slept in a confused heap of brown arms, legs, and
multi-coloured garments, from whence issued an occasional snore
or a subdued groan of some uneasy sleeper. An European lamp with
a green shade standing on the table made all this indistinctly
visible to Dain.
"You are welcome to your rest here," said Babalatchi, looking at
Dain interrogatively.
"I must speak to the Rajah at once," answered Dain.
Babalatchi made a gesture of assent, and, turning to the brass
gong suspended under the arm-rack, struck two sharp blows.
The ear-splitting din woke up the guard. The snores ceased;
outstretched legs were drawn in; the whole heap moved, and slowly
resolved itself into individual forms, with much yawning and
rubbing of sleepy eyes; behind the curtains there was a burst of
feminine chatter; then the bass voice of Lakamba was heard.
"Is that the Arab trader?"
"No, Tuan," answered Babalatchi; "Dain has returned at last. He
is here for an important talk, bitcharra--if you mercifully
consent."
Evidently Lakamba's mercy went so far--for in a short while he
came out from behind the curtain--but it did not go to the length
of inducing him to make an extensive toilet. A short red sarong
tightened hastily round his hips was his only garment. The
merciful ruler of Sambir looked sleepy and rather sulky. He sat
in the arm-chair, his knees well apart, his elbows on the
arm-rests, his chin on his breast, breathing heavily and waiting
malevolently for Dain to open the important talk.
But Dain did not seem anxious to begin. He directed his gaze
towards Babalatchi, squatting comfortably at the feet of his
master, and remained silent with a slightly bent head as if in
attentive expectation of coming words of wisdom.
Babalatchi coughed discreetly, and, leaning forward, pushed over
a few mats for Dain to sit upon, then lifting up his squeaky
voice he assured him with eager volubility of everybody's delight
at this long-looked-for return. His heart had hungered for the
sight of Dain's face, and his ears were withering for the want of
the refreshing sound of his voice. Everybody's hearts and ears
were in the same sad predicament, according to Babalatchi, as he
indicated with a sweeping gesture the other bank of the river
where the settlement slumbered peacefully, unconscious of the
great joy awaiting it on the morrow when Dain's presence amongst
them would be disclosed. "For"--went on Babalatchi--"what is the
joy of a poor man if not the open hand of a generous trader or of
a great--"
Here he checked himself abruptly with a calculated embarrassment
of manner, and his roving eye sought the floor, while an
apologetic smile dwelt for a moment on his misshapen lips. Once
or twice during this opening speech an amused expression flitted
across Dain's face, soon to give way, however, to an appearance
of grave concern. On Lakamba's brow a heavy frown had settled,
and his lips moved angrily as he listened to his Prime Minister's
oratory. In the silence that fell upon the room when Babalatchi
ceased speaking arose a chorus of varied snores from the corner
where the body-guard had resumed their interrupted slumbers, but
the distant rumble of thunder filling then Nina's heart with
apprehension for the safety of her lover passed unheeded by those
three men intent each on their own purposes, for life or death.
After a short silence, Babalatchi, discarding now the flowers of
polite eloquence, spoke again, but in short and hurried sentences
and in a low voice. They had been very uneasy. Why did Dain
remain so long absent? The men dwelling on the lower reaches of
the river heard the reports of big guns and saw a fire-ship of
the Dutch amongst the islands of the estuary. So they were
anxious. Rumours of a disaster had reached Abdulla a few days
ago, and since then they had been waiting for Dain's return under
the apprehension of some misfortune. For days they had closed
their eyes in fear, and woke up alarmed, and walked abroad
trembling, like men before an enemy. And all on account of Dain.
Would he not allay their fears for his safety, not for
themselves? They were quiet and faithful, and devoted to the
great Rajah in Batavia--may his fate lead him ever to victory for
the joy and profit of his servants! "And here," went on
Babalatchi, "Lakamba my master was getting thin in his anxiety
for the trader he had taken under his protection; and so was
Abdulla, for what would wicked men not say if perchance - "
"Be silent, fool!" growled Lakamba, angrily.
Babalatchi subsided into silence with a satisfied smile, while
Dain, who had been watching him as if fascinated, turned with a
sigh of relief towards the ruler of Sambir. Lakamba did not
move, and, without raising his head, looked at Dain from under
his eyebrows, breathing audibly, with pouted lips, in an air of
general discontent.
"Speak! O Dain!" he said at last. "We have heard many rumours.
Many nights in succession has my friend Reshid come here with bad
tidings. News travels fast along the coast. But they may be
untrue; there are more lies in men's mouths in these days than
when I was young, but I am not easier to deceive now."
"All my words are true," said Dain, carelessly. "If you want to
know what befell my brig, then learn that it is in the hands of
the Dutch. Believe me, Rajah," he went on, with sudden energy,
"the Orang Blanda have good friends in Sambir, or else how did
they know I was coming thence?"
Lakamba gave Dain a short and hostile glance. Babalatchi rose
quietly, and, going to the arm-rack, struck the gong violently.
Outside the door there was a shuffle of bare feet; inside, the
guard woke up and sat staring in sleepy surprise.
"Yes, you faithful friend of the white Rajah," went on Dain,
scornfully, turning to Babalatchi, who had returned to his place,
"I have escaped, and I am here to gladden your heart. When I saw
the Dutch ship I ran the brig inside the reefs and put her
ashore. They did not dare to follow with the ship, so they sent
the boats. We took to ours and tried to get away, but the ship
dropped fireballs at us, and killed many of my men. But I am
left, O Babalatchi! The Dutch are coming here. They are seeking
for me. They are coming to ask their faithful friend Lakamba and
his slave Babalatchi. Rejoice!"
But neither of his hearers appeared to be in a joyful mood.
Lakamba had put one leg over his knee, and went on gently
scratching it with a meditative air, while Babalatchi, sitting
cross-legged, seemed suddenly to become smaller and very limp,
staring straight before him vacantly. The guard evinced some
interest in the proceedings, stretching themselves full length on
the mats to be nearer the speaker. One of them got up and now
stood leaning against the arm-rack, playing absently with the
fringes of his sword-hilt.
Dain waited till the crash of thunder had died away in distant
mutterings before he spoke again.
"Are you dumb, O ruler of Sambir, or is the son of a great Rajah
unworthy of your notice? I am come here to seek refuge and to
warn you, and want to know what you intend doing."
"You came here because of the white man's daughter," retorted
Lakamba, quickly. "Your refuge was with your father, the Rajah
of Bali, the Son of Heaven, the 'Anak Agong' himself. What am I
to protect great princes? Only yesterday I planted rice in a
burnt clearing; to-day you say I hold your life in my hand."
Babalatchi glanced at his master. "No man can escape his fate,"
he murmured piously. "When love enters a man's heart he is like
a child--without any understanding. Be merciful, Lakamba," he
added, twitching the corner of the Rajah's sarong warningly.
Lakamba snatched away the skirt of the sarong angrily. Under the
dawning comprehension of intolerable embarrassments caused by
Dain's return to Sambir he began to lose such composure as he had
been, till then, able to maintain; and now he raised his voice
loudly above the whistling of the wind and the patter of rain on
the roof in the hard squall passing over the house.
"You came here first as a trader with sweet words and great
promises, asking me to look the other way while you worked your
will on the white man there. And I did. What do you want now?
When I was young I fought. Now I am old, and want peace. It is
easier for me to have you killed than to fight the Dutch. It is
better for me."
The squall had now passed, and, in the short stillness of the
lull in the storm, Lakamba repeated softly, as if to himself,
"Much easier. Much better."
Dain did not seem greatly discomposed by the Rajah's threatening
words. While Lakamba was speaking he had glanced once rapidly
over his shoulder, just to make sure that there was nobody behind
him, and, tranquillised in that respect, he had extracted a
siri-box out of the folds of his waist-cloth, and was wrapping
carefully the little bit of betel-nut and a small pinch of lime
in the green leaf tendered him politely by the watchful
Babalatchi. He accepted this as a peace- offering from the
silent statesman--a kind of mute protest against his master's
undiplomatic violence, and as an omen of a possible understanding
to be arrived at yet. Otherwise Dain was not uneasy. Although
recognising the justice of Lakamba's surmise that he had come
back to Sambir only for the sake of the white man's daughter, yet
he was not conscious of any childish lack of understanding, as
suggested by Babalatchi. In fact, Dain knew very well that
Lakamba was too deeply implicated in the gunpowder smuggling to
care for an investigation the Dutch authorities into that matter.
When sent off by his father, the independent Rajah of Bali, at
the time when the hostilities between Dutch and Malays threatened
to spread from Sumatra over the whole archipelago, Dain had found
all the big traders deaf to his guarded proposals, and above the
temptation of the great prices he was ready to give for
gunpowder. He went to Sambir as a last and almost hopeless
resort, having heard in Macassar of the white man there, and of
the regular steamer trading from Singapore--allured also by the
fact that there was no Dutch resident on the river, which would
make things easier, no doubt. His hopes got nearly wrecked
against the stubborn loyalty of Lakamba arising from
well-understood self-interest; but at last the young man's
generosity, his persuasive enthusiasm, the prestige of his
father's great name, overpowered the prudent hesitation of the
ruler of Sambir. Lakamba would have nothing to do himself with
any illegal traffic. He also objected to the Arabs being made
use of in that matter; but he suggested Almayer, saying that he
was a weak man easily persuaded, and that his friend, the English
captain of the steamer, could be made very useful--very likely
even would join in the business, smuggling the powder in the
steamer without Abdulla's knowledge. There again Dain met in
Almayer with unexpected resistance; Lakamba had to send
Babalatchi over with the solemn promise that his eyes would be
shut in friendship for the white man, Dain paying for the promise
and the friendship in good silver guilders of the hated Orang
Blanda. Almayer, at last consenting, said the powder would be
obtained, but Dain must trust him with dollars to send to
Singapore in payment for it. He would induce Ford to buy and
smuggle it in the steamer on board the brig. He did not want any
money for himself out of the transaction, but Dain must help him
in his great enterprise after sending off the brig. Almayer had
explained to Dain that he could not trust Lakamba alone in that
matter; he would be afraid of losing his treasure and his life
through the cupidity of the Rajah; yet the Rajah had to be told,
and insisted on taking a share in that operation, or else his
eyes would remain shut no longer. To this Almayer had to submit.
Had Dain not seen Nina he would have probably refused to engage
himself and his men in the projected expedition to Gunong
Mas--the mountain of gold. As it was he intended to return with
half of his men as soon as the brig was clear of the reefs, but
the persistent chase given him by the Dutch frigate had forced
him to run south and ultimately to wreck and destroy his vessel
in order to preserve his liberty or perhaps even his life. Yes,
he had come back to Sambir for Nina, although aware that the
Dutch would look for him there, but he had also calculated his
chances of safety in Lakamba's hands. For all his ferocious
talk, the merciful ruler would not kill him, for he had long ago
been impressed with the notion that Dain possessed the secret of
the white man's treasure; neither would he give him up to the
Dutch, for fear of some fatal disclosure of complicity in the
treasonable trade. So Dain felt tolerably secure as he sat
meditating quietly his answer to the Rajah's bloodthirsty speech.
Yes, he would point out to him the aspect of his position should
he--Dain--fall into the hands of the Dutch and should he speak
the truth. He would have nothing more to lose then, and he would
speak the truth. And if he did return to Sambir, disturbing
thereby Lakamba's peace of mind, what then? He came to look
after his property. Did he not pour a stream of silver into Mrs.
Almayer's greedy lap? He had paid, for the girl, a price worthy
of a great prince, although unworthy of that delightfully
maddening creature for whom his untamed soul longed in an
intensity of desire far more tormenting than the sharpest pain.
He wanted his happiness. He had the right to be in Sambir.
He rose, and, approaching the table, leaned both his elbows on
it; Lakamba responsively edged his seat a little closer, while
Babalatchi scrambled to his feet and thrust his inquisitive head
between his master's and Dain's. They interchanged their ideas
rapidly, speaking in whispers into each other's faces, very close
now, Dain suggesting, Lakamba contradicting, Babalatchi
conciliating and anxious in his vivid apprehension of coming
difficulties. He spoke most, whispering earnestly, turning his
head slowly from side to side so as to bring his solitary eye to
bear upon each of his interlocutors in turn. Why should there be
strife? said he. Let Tuan Dain, whom he loved only less than his
master, go trustfully into hiding. There were many places for
that. Bulangi's house away in the clearing was best.
Bulangi was a safe man. In the network of crooked channels no
white man could find his way. White men were strong, but very
foolish. It was undesirable to fight them, but deception was
easy. They were like silly women--they did not know the use of
reason, and he was a match for any of them--went on Babalatchi,
with all the confidence of deficient experience. Probably the
Dutch would seek Almayer. Maybe they would take away their
countryman if they were suspicious of him. That would be good.
After the Dutch went away Lakamba and Dain would get the treasure
without any trouble, and there would be one person less to share
it. Did he not speak wisdom? Will Tuan Dain go to Bulangi's
house till the danger is over, go at once?
Dain accepted this suggestion of going into hiding with a certain
sense of conferring a favour upon Lakamba and the anxious
statesman, but he met the proposal of going at once with a
decided no, looking Babalatchi meaningly in the eye. The
statesman sighed as a man accepting the inevitable would do, and
pointed silently towards the other bank of the river. Dain bent
his head slowly.
"Yes, I am going there," he said.
"Before the day comes?" asked Babalatchi.
"I am going there now," answered Dain, decisively. "The Orang
Blanda will not be here before to-morrow night, perhaps, and I
must tell Almayer of our arrangements."
"No, Tuan. No; say nothing," protested Babalatchi. "I will go
over myself at sunrise and let him know."
"I will see," said Dain, preparing to go.
The thunderstorm was recommencing outside, the heavy clouds
hanging low overhead now.
There was a constant rumble of distant thunder punctuated by the
nearer sharp crashes, and in the continuous play of blue
lightning the woods and the river showed fitfully, with all the
elusive distinctness of detail characteristic of such a scene.
Outside the door of the Rajah's house Dain and Babalatchi stood
on the shaking verandah as if dazed and stunned by the violence
of the storm. They stood there amongst the cowering forms of the
Rajah's slaves and retainers seeking shelter from the rain, and
Dain called aloud to his boatmen, who responded with an unanimous
"Ada! Tuan!" while they looked uneasily at the river.
"This is a great flood!" shouted Babalatchi into Dain's ear.
"The river is very angry. Look! Look at the drifting logs! Can
you go?"
Dain glanced doubtfully on the livid expanse of seething water
bounded far away on the other side by the narrow black line of
the forests. Suddenly, in a vivid white flash, the low point of
land with the bending trees on it and Almayer's house, leaped
into view, flickered and disappeared. Dain pushed Babalatchi
aside and ran down to the water-gate followed by his shivering
boatmen.
Babalatchi backed slowly in and closed the door, then turned
round and looked silently upon Lakamba. The Rajah sat still,
glaring stonily upon the table, and Babalatchi gazed curiously at
the perplexed mood of the man he had served so many years through
good and evil fortune. No doubt the one-eyed statesman felt
within his savage and much sophisticated breast the unwonted
feelings of sympathy with, and perhaps even pity for, the man he
called his master. From the safe position of a confidential
adviser, he could, in the dim vista of past years, see himself--a
casual cut-throat--finding shelter under that man's roof in the
modest rice-clearing of early beginnings. Then came a long
period of unbroken success, of wise counsels, and deep plottings
resolutely carried out by the fearless Lakamba, till the whole
east coast from Poulo Laut to Tanjong Batu listened to
Babalatchi's wisdom speaking through the mouth of the ruler of
Sambir. In those long years how many dangers escaped, how many
enemies bravely faced, how many white men successfully
circumvented! And now he looked upon the result of so many years
of patient toil: the fearless Lakamba cowed by the shadow of an
impending trouble. The ruler was growing old, and Babalatchi,
aware of an uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach, put both
his hands there with a suddenly vivid and sad perception of the
fact that he himself was growing old too; that the time of
reckless daring was past for both of them, and that they had to
seek refuge in prudent cunning. They wanted peace; they were
disposed to reform; they were ready even to retrench, so as to
have the wherewithal to bribe the evil days away, if bribed away
they could be. Babalatchi sighed for the second time that night
as he squatted again at his master's feet and tendered him his
betel-nut box in mute sympathy. And they sat there in close yet
silent communion of betel-nut chewers, moving their jaws slowly,
expectorating decorously into the wide-mouthed brass vessel they
passed to one another, and listening to the awful din of the
battling elements outside.
"There is a very great flood," remarked Babalatchi, sadly.
"Yes," said Lakamba. "Did Dain go?"
"He went, Tuan. He ran down to the river like a man possessed of
the Sheitan himself."
There was another long pause.
"He may get drowned," suggested Lakamba at last, with some show
of interest.
"The floating logs are many," answered Babalatchi, "but he is a
good swimmer," he added languidly.
"He ought to live," said Lakamba; "he knows where the treasure
is."
Babalatchi assented with an ill-humoured grunt. His want of
success in penetrating the white man's secret as to the locality
where the gold was to be found was a sore point with the
statesman of Sambir, as the only conspicuous failure in an
otherwise brilliant career.
A great peace had now succeeded the turmoil of the storm. Only
the little belated clouds, which hurried past overhead to catch
up the main body flashing silently in the distance, sent down
short showers that pattered softly with a soothing hiss over the
palm-leaf roof.
Lakamba roused himself from his apathy with an appearance of
having grasped the situation at last.
"Babalatchi," he called briskly, giving him a slight kick.
"Ada Tuan! I am listening."
"If the Orang Blanda come here, Babalatchi, and take Almayer to
Batavia to punish him for smuggling gunpowder, what will he do,
you think?"
"I do not know, Tuan."
"You are a fool," commented Lakamba, exultingly. "He will tell
them where the treasure is, so as to find mercy. He will."
Babalatchi looked up at his master and nodded his head with by no
means a joyful surprise. He had not thought of this; there was a
new complication.
"Almayer must die," said Lakamba, decisively, "to make our secret
safe. He must die quietly, Babalatchi. You must do it."
Babalatchi assented, and rose wearily to his feet. "To-morrow?"
he asked.
"Yes; before the Dutch come. He drinks much coffee," answered
Lakamba, with seeming irrelevancy.
Babalatchi stretched himself yawning, but Lakamba, in the
flattering consciousness of a knotty problem solved by his own
unaided intellectual efforts, grew suddenly very wakeful.
"Babalatchi," he said to the exhausted statesman, "fetch the box
of music the white captain gave me. I cannot sleep."
At this order a deep shade of melancholy settled upon
Babalatchi's features. He went reluctantly behind the curtain
and soon reappeared carrying in his arms a small hand-organ,
which he put down on the table with an air of deep dejection.
Lakamba settled himself comfortably in his arm-chair.
"Turn, Babalatchi, turn," he murmured, with closed eyes.
Babalatchi's hand grasped the handle with the energy of despair,
and as he turned, the deep gloom on his countenance changed into
an expression of hopeless resignation. Through the open shutter
the notes of Verdi's music floated out on the great silence over
the river and forest. Lakamba listened with closed eyes and a
delighted smile; Babalatchi turned, at times dozing off and
swaying over, then catching himself up in a great fright with a
few quick turns of the handle. Nature slept in an exhausted
repose after the fierce turmoil, while under the unsteady hand of
the statesman of Sambir the Trovatore fitfully wept, wailed, and
bade good-bye to his Leonore again and again in a mournful round
of tearful and endless iteration.
