Complete Joseph Conrad

masters.

 CHAPTER VIII.

The news as to the identity of the body lying now in Almayer's compound spread rapidly over the settlement.  During the forenoon most of the inhabitants remained in the long street discussing the mysterious return and the unexpected death of the man who had become known to them as the trader.  His arrival during the north-east monsoon, his long sojourn in their midst, his sudden departure with his brig, and, above all, the mysterious appearance of the body, said to be his, amongst the logs, were subjects to wonder at and to talk over and over again with undiminished interest.  Mahmat moved from house to house and from group to group, always ready to repeat his tale:  how he saw the body caught by the sarong in a forked log; how Mrs. Almayer coming, one of the first, at his cries, recognised it, even before he had it hauled on shore; how Babalatchi ordered him to bring it out of the water.  By the feet I dragged him in, and there was no head, exclaimed Mahmat, and how could the white man's wife know who it was?  She was a witch, it was well known.  And did you see how the white man himself ran away at the sight of the body?  Like a deer he ran!  And here Mahmat imitated Almayer's long strides, to the great joy of the beholders.  And for all his trouble he had nothing.  The ring with the green stone Tuan Babalatchi kept.  Nothing!  Nothing!  He spat down at his feet in sign of disgust, and left that group to seek further on a fresh audience.

The news spreading to the furthermost parts of the settlement found out Abdulla in the cool recess of his godown, where he sat overlooking his Arab clerks and the men loading and unloading the up-country canoes.  Reshid, who was busy on the jetty, was summoned into his uncle's presence and found him, as usual, very calm and even cheerful, but very much surprised.  The rumour of the capture or destruction of Dain's brig had reached the Arab's ears three days before from the sea-fishermen and through the dwellers on the lower reaches of the river.  It had been passed up-stream from neighbour to neighbour till Bulangi, whose clearing was nearest to the settlement, had brought that news himself to Abdulla whose favour he courted.  But rumour also spoke of a fight and of Dain's death on board his own vessel.  And now all the settlement talked of Dain's visit to the Rajah and of his death when crossing the river in the dark to see Almayer.

They could not understand this.  Reshid thought that it was very strange.  He felt uneasy and doubtful.  But Abdulla, after the first shock of surprise, with the old age's dislike for solving riddles, showed a becoming resignation.  He remarked that the man was dead now at all events, and consequently no more dangerous.  Where was the use to wonder at the decrees of Fate, especially if they were propitious to the True Believers?  And with a pious ejaculation to Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate, Abdulla seemed to regard the incident as closed for the present.

Not so Reshid.  He lingered by his uncle, pulling thoughtfully his neatly trimmed beard.

There are many lies, he murmured.  He has been dead once before, and came to life to die again now.  The Dutch will be here before many days and clamour for the man.  Shall I not believe my eyes sooner than the tongues of women and idle men?

They say that the body is being taken to Almayer's compound, said Abdulla.  If you want to go there you must go before the Dutch arrive here.  Go late.  It should not be said that we have been seen inside that man's enclosure lately.

Reshid assented to the truth of this last remark and left his uncle's side.  He leaned against the lintel of the big doorway and looked idly across the courtyard through the open gate on to the main road of the settlement.  It lay empty, straight, and yellow under the flood of light.  In the hot noontide the smooth trunks of palm trees, the outlines of the houses, and away there at the other end of the road the roof of Almayer's house visible over the bushes on the dark background of forest, seemed to quiver in the heat radiating from the steaming earth.  Swarms of yellow butterflies rose, and settled to rise again in short flights before Reshid's half-closed eyes.  From under his feet arose the dull hum of insects in the long grass of the courtyard.  He looked on sleepily.

From one of the side paths amongst the houses a woman stepped out on the road, a slight girlish figure walking under the shade of a large tray balanced on its head.  The consciousness of something moving stirred Reshid's half-sleeping senses into a comparative wakefulness.  He recognised Taminah, Bulangi's slave-girl, with her tray of cakes for sale--an apparition of daily recurrence and of no importance whatever.  She was going towards Almayer's house.  She could be made useful.  He roused himself up and ran towards the gate calling out, Taminah O!  The girl stopped, hesitated, and came back slowly.

Reshid waited, signing to her impatiently to come nearer.

When near Reshid Taminah stood with downcast eyes.  Reshid looked at her a while before he asked--

Are you going to Almayer's house? They say in the settlement that Dain the trader, he that was found drowned this morning, is lying in the white man's campong.

I have heard this talk, whispered Taminah; and this morning by the riverside I saw the body.  Where it is now I do not know.

So you have seen it? asked Reshid, eagerly.  Is it Dain?  You have seen him many times.  You would know him.

The girl's lips quivered and she remained silent for a while, breathing quickly.

I have seen him, not a long time ago, she said at last.  The talk is true; he is dead.  What do you want from me, Tuan?  I must go.

Just then the report of the gun fired on board the steam launch was heard, interrupting Reshid's reply.  Leaving the girl he ran to the house, and met in the courtyard Abdulla coming towards the gate.

The Orang Blanda are come, said Reshid, and now we shall have our reward.

Abdulla shook his head doubtfully.  The white men's rewards are long in coming, he said.  White men are quick in anger and slow in gratitude.  We shall see.

He stood at the gate stroking his grey beard and listening to the distant cries of greeting at the other end of the settlement.  As Taminah was turning to go he called her back

Listen, girl, he said: there will be many white men in Almayer's house.  You shall be there selling your cakes to the men of the sea.  What you see and what you hear you may tell me.  Come here before the sun sets and I will give you a blue handkerchief with red spots.  Now go, and forget not to return.

He gave her a push with the end of his long staff as she was going away and made her stumble.

This slave is very slow, he remarked to his nephew, looking after the girl with great disfavour.

Taminah walked on, her tray on the head, her eyes fixed on the ground.  From the open doors of the houses were heard, as she passed, friendly calls inviting her within for business purposes, but she never heeded them, neglecting her sales in the preoccupation of intense thinking.  Since the very early morning she had heard much, she had also seen much that filled her heart with a joy mingled with great suffering and fear.  Before the dawn, before she left Bulangi's house to paddle up to Sambir she had heard voices outside the house when all in it but herself were asleep.  And now, with her knowledge of the words spoken in the darkness, she held in her hand a life and carried in her breast a great sorrow.  Yet from her springy step, erect figure, and face veiled over by the everyday look of apathetic indifference, nobody could have guessed of the double load she carried under the visible burden of the tray piled up high with cakes manufactured by the thrifty hands of Bulangi's wives.  In that supple figure straight as an arrow, so graceful and free in its walk, behind those soft eyes that spoke of nothing but of unconscious resignation, there slept all feelings and all passions, all hopes and all fears, the curse of life and the consolation of death.  And she knew nothing of it all.  She lived like the tall palms amongst whom she was passing now, seeking the light, desiring the sunshine, fearing the storm, unconscious of either.  The slave had no hope, and knew of no change.  She knew of no other sky, no other water, no other forest, no other world, no other life.  She had no wish, no hope, no love, no fear except of a blow, and no vivid feeling but that of occasional hunger, which was seldom, for Bulangi was rich and rice was plentiful in the solitary house in his clearing.  The absence of pain and hunger was her happiness, and when she felt unhappy she was simply tired, more than usual, after the day's labour.  Then in the hot nights of the south-west monsoon she slept dreamlessly under the bright stars on the platform built outside the house and over the river.  Inside they slept too: Bulangi by the door; his wives further in; the children with their mothers.  She could hear their breathing; Bulangi's sleepy voice; the sharp cry of a child soon hushed with tender words.  And she closed her eyes to the murmur of the water below her, to the whisper of the warm wind above, ignorant of the never-ceasing life of that tropical nature that spoke to her in vain with the thousand faint voices of the near forest, with the breath of tepid wind; in the heavy scents that lingered around her head; in the white wraiths of morning mist that hung over her in the solemn hush of all creation before the dawn.

Such had been her existence before the coming of the brig with the strangers.  She remembered well that time; the uproar in the settlement, the never-ending wonder, the days and nights of talk and excitement.  She remembered her own timidity with the strange men, till the brig moored to the bank became in a manner part of the settlement, and the fear wore off in the familiarity of constant intercourse.  The call on board then became part of her daily round.  She walked hesitatingly up the slanting planks of the gangway amidst the encouraging shouts and more or less decent jokes of the men idling over the bulwarks.  There she sold her wares to those men that spoke so loud and carried themselves so free.  There was a throng, a constant coming and going; calls interchanged, orders given and executed with shouts; the rattle of blocks, the flinging about of coils of rope.  She sat out of the way under the shade of the awning, with her tray before her, the veil drawn well over her face, feeling shy amongst so many men.  She smiled at all buyers, but spoke to none, letting their jests pass with stolid unconcern.  She heard many tales told around her of far-off countries, of strange customs, of events stranger still.  Those men were brave; but the most fearless of them spoke of their chief with fear.  Often the man they called their master passed before her, walking erect and indifferent, in the pride of youth, in the flash of rich dress, with a tinkle of gold ornaments, while everybody stood aside watching anxiously for a movement of his lips, ready to do his bidding.  Then all her life seemed to rush into her eyes, and from under her veil she gazed at him, charmed, yet fearful to attract attention.  One day he noticed her and asked, Who is that girl?  A slave, Tuan!  A girl that sells cakes, a dozen voices replied together.  She rose in terror to run on shore, when he called her back; and as she stood trembling with head hung down before him, he spoke kind words, lifting her chin with his hand and looking into her eyes with a smile.  Do not be afraid, he said.  He never spoke to her any more.  Somebody called out from the river bank; he turned away and forgot her existence.  Taminah saw Almayer standing on the shore with Nina on his arm.  She heard Nina's voice calling out gaily, and saw Dain's face brighten with joy as he leaped on shore.  She hated the sound of that voice ever since.

After that day she left off visiting Almayer's compound, and passed the noon hours under the shade of the brig awning.  She watched for his coming with heart beating quicker and quicker, as he approached, into a wild tumult of newly-aroused feelings of joy and hope and fear that died away with Dain's retreating figure, leaving her tired out, as if after a struggle, sitting still for a long time in dreamy languor.  Then she paddled home slowly in the afternoon, often letting her canoe float with the lazy stream in the quiet backwater of the river.  The paddle hung idle in the water as she sat in the stern, one hand supporting her chin, her eyes wide open, listening intently to the whispering of her heart that seemed to swell at last into a song of extreme sweetness.  Listening to that song she husked the rice at home; it dulled her ears to the shrill bickerings of Bulangi's wives, to the sound of angry reproaches addressed to herself.  And when the sun was near its setting she walked to the bathing-place and heard it as she stood on the tender grass of the low bank, her robe at her feet, and looked at the reflection of her figure on the glass-like surface of the creek.  Listening to it she walked slowly back, her wet hair hanging over her shoulders; laying down to rest under the bright stars, she closed her eyes to the murmur of the water below, of the warm wind above; to the voice of nature speaking through the faint noises of the great forest, and to the song of her own heart.

She heard, but did not understand, and drank in the dreamy joy of her new existence without troubling about its meaning or its end, till the full consciousness of life came to her through pain and anger.  And she suffered horribly the first time she saw Nina's long canoe drift silently past the sleeping house of Bulangi, bearing the two lovers into the white mist of the great river.  Her jealousy and rage culminated into a paroxysm of physical pain that left her lying panting on the river bank, in the dumb agony of a wounded animal.  But she went on moving patiently in the enchanted circle of slavery, going through her task day after day with all the pathos of the grief she could not express, even to herself, locked within her breast.  She shrank from Nina as she would have shrunk from the sharp blade of a knife cutting into her flesh, but she kept on visiting the brig to feed her dumb, ignorant soul on her own despair.  She saw Dain many times.  He never spoke, he never looked.  Could his eyes see only one woman's image?  Could his ears hear only one woman's voice?  He never noticed her; not once.

And then he went away.  She saw him and Nina for the last time on that morning when Babalatchi, while visiting his fish baskets, had his suspicions of the white man's daughter's love affair with Dain confirmed beyond the shadow of doubt.  Dain disappeared, and Taminah's heart, where lay useless and barren the seeds of all love and of all hate, the possibilities of all passions and of all sacrifices, forgot its joys and its sufferings when deprived of the help of the senses.  Her half-formed, savage mind, the slave of her body--as her body was the slave of another's will--forgot the faint and vague image of the ideal that had found its beginning in the physical promptings of her savage nature.  She dropped back into the torpor of her former life and found consolation--even a certain kind of happiness--in the thought that now Nina and Dain were separated, probably for ever.  He would forget.  This thought soothed the last pangs of dying jealousy that had nothing now to feed upon, and Taminah found peace.  It was like the dreary tranquillity of a desert, where there is peace only because there is no life.

And now he had returned.  She had recognised his voice calling aloud in the night for Bulangi.  She had crept out after her master to listen closer to the intoxicating sound.  Dain was there, in a boat, talking to Bulangi.  Taminah, listening with arrested breath, heard another voice.  The maddening joy, that only a second before she thought herself incapable of containing within her fast-beating heart, died out, and left her shivering in the old anguish of physical pain that she had suffered once before at the sight of Dain and Nina.  Nina spoke now, ordering and entreating in turns, and Bulangi was refusing, expostulating, at last consenting.  He went in to take a paddle from the heap lying behind the door.  Outside the murmur of two voices went on, and she caught a word here and there.  She understood that he was fleeing from white men, that he was seeking a hiding-place, that he was in some danger.  But she heard also words which woke the rage of jealousy that had been asleep for so many days in her bosom.  Crouching low on the mud in the black darkness amongst the piles, she heard the whisper in the boat that made light of toil, of privation, of danger, of life itself, if in exchange there could be but a short moment of close embrace, a look from the eyes, the feel of light breath, the touch of soft lips.  So spoke Dain as he sat in the canoe holding Nina's hands while waiting for Bulangi's return; and Taminah, supporting herself by the slimy pile, felt as if a heavy weight was crushing her down, down into the black oily water at her feet.  She wanted to cry out; to rush at them and tear their vague shadows apart; to throw Nina into the smooth water, cling to her close, hold her to the bottom where that man could not find her.  She could not cry, she could not move.  Then footsteps were heard on the bamboo platform above her head; she saw Bulangi get into his smallest canoe and take the lead, the other boat following, paddled by Dain and Nina.  With a slight splash of the paddles dipped stealthily into the water, their indistinct forms passed before her aching eyes and vanished in the darkness of the creek.

She remained there in the cold and wet, powerless to move, breathing painfully under the crushing weight that the mysterious hand of Fate had laid so suddenly upon her slender shoulders, and shivering, she felt within a burning fire, that seemed to feed upon her very life.  When the breaking day had spread a pale golden ribbon over the black outline of the forests, she took up her tray and departed towards the settlement, going about her task purely from the force of habit.  As she approached Sambir she could see the excitement and she heard with momentary surprise of the finding of Dain's body.  It was not true, of course.  She knew it well.  She regretted that he was not dead.  She should have liked Dain to be dead, so as to be parted from that woman--from all women.  She felt a strong desire to see Nina, but without any clear object.  She hated her, and feared her and she felt an irresistible impulse pushing her towards Almayer's house to see the white woman's face, to look close at those eyes, to hear again that voice, for the sound of which Dain was ready to risk his liberty, his life even.  She had seen her many times; she had heard her voice daily for many months past.  What was there in her?  What was there in that being to make a man speak as Dain had spoken, to make him blind to all other faces, deaf to all other voices?

She left the crowd by the riverside, and wandered aimlessly among the empty houses, resisting the impulse that pushed her towards Almayer's campong to seek there in Nina's eyes the secret of her own misery.  The sun mounting higher, shortened the shadows and poured down upon her a flood of light and of stifling heat as she passed on from shadow to light, from light to shadow, amongst the houses, the bushes, the tall trees, in her unconscious flight from the pain in her own heart.  In the extremity of her distress she could find no words to pray for relief, she knew of no heaven to send her prayer to, and she wandered on with tired feet in the dumb surprise and terror at the injustice of the suffering inflicted upon her without cause and without redress.

The short talk with Reshid, the proposal of Abdulla steadied her a little and turned her thoughts into another channel.  Dain was in some danger.  He was hiding from white men.  So much she had overheard last night.  They all thought him dead.  She knew he was alive, and she knew of his hiding-place.  What did the Arabs want to know about the white men?  The white men want with Dain? Did they wish to kill him?  She could tell them all--no, she would say nothing, and in the night she would go to him and sell him his life for a word, for a smile, for a gesture even, and be his slave in far-off countries, away from Nina.  But there were dangers.  The one-eyed Babalatchi who knew everything; the white man's wife--she was a witch.  Perhaps they would tell.  And then there was Nina.  She must hurry on and see.

In her impatience she left the path and ran towards Almayer's dwelling through the undergrowth between the palm trees.  She came out at the back of the house, where a narrow ditch, full of stagnant water that overflowed from the river, separated Almayer's campong from the rest of the settlement.  The thick bushes growing on the bank were hiding from her sight the large courtyard with its cooking shed.  Above them rose several thin columns of smoke, and from behind the sound of strange voices informed Taminah that the Men of the Sea belonging to the warship had already landed and were camped between the ditch and the house.  To the left one of Almayer's slave-girls came down to the ditch and bent over the shiny water, washing a kettle.  To the right the tops of the banana plantation, visible above the bushes, swayed and shook under the touch of invisible hands gathering the fruit.  On the calm water several canoes moored to a heavy stake were crowded together, nearly bridging the ditch just at the place where Taminah stood.  The voices in the courtyard rose at times into an outburst of calls, replies, and laughter, and then died away into a silence that soon was broken again by a fresh clamour.  Now and again the thin blue smoke rushed out thicker and blacker, and drove in odorous masses over the creek, wrapping her for a moment in a suffocating veil; then, as the fresh wood caught well alight, the smoke vanished in the bright sunlight, and only the scent of aromatic wood drifted afar, to leeward of the crackling fires.

Taminah rested her tray on a stump of a tree, and remained standing with her eyes turned towards Almayer's house, whose roof and part of a whitewashed wall were visible over the bushes.  The slave-girl finished her work, and after looking for a while curiously at Taminah, pushed her way through the dense thicket back to the courtyard.  Round Taminah there was now a complete solitude.  She threw herself down on the ground, and hid her face in her hands.  Now when so close she had no courage to see Nina.  At every burst of louder voices from the courtyard she shivered in the fear of hearing Nina's voice.  She came to the resolution of waiting where she was till dark, and then going straight to Dain's hiding-place.  From where she was she could watch the movements of white men, of Nina, of all Dain's friends, and of all his enemies.  Both were hateful alike to her, for both would take him away beyond her reach.  She hid herself in the long grass to wait anxiously for the sunset that seemed so slow to come.

On the other side of the ditch, behind the bush, by the clear fires, the seamen of the frigate had encamped on the hospitable invitation of Almayer.  Almayer, roused out of his apathy by the prayers and importunity of Nina, had managed to get down in time to the jetty so as to receive the officers at their landing.  The lieutenant in command accepted his invitation to his house with the remark that in any case their business was with Almayer--and perhaps not very pleasant, he added.  Almayer hardly heard him.  He shook hands with them absently and led the way towards the house.  He was scarcely conscious of the polite words of welcome he greeted the strangers with, and afterwards repeated several times over again in his efforts to appear at ease.  The agitation of their host did not escape the officer's eyes, and the chief confided to his subordinate, in a low voice, his doubts as to Almayer's sobriety.  The young sub-lieutenant laughed and expressed in a whisper the hope that the white man was not intoxicated enough to neglect the offer of some refreshments.  He does not seem very dangerous, he added, as they followed Almayer up the steps of the verandah.

No, he seems more of a fool than a knave; I have heard of him, returned the senior.

They sat around the table.  Almayer with shaking hands made gin cocktails, offered them all round, and drank himself, with every gulp feeling stronger, steadier, and better able to face all the difficulties of his position.  Ignorant of the fate of the brig he did not suspect the real object of the officer's visit.  He had a general notion that something must have leaked out about the gunpowder trade, but apprehended nothing beyond some temporary inconveniences.  After emptying his glass he began to chat easily, lying back in his chair with one of his legs thrown negligently over the arm.  The lieutenant astride on his chair, a glowing cheroot in the corner of his mouth, listened with a sly smile from behind the thick volumes of smoke that escaped from his compressed lips.  The young sub-lieutenant, leaning with both elbows on the table, his head between his hands, looked on sleepily in the torpor induced by fatigue and the gin.  Almayer talked on--

It is a great pleasure to see white faces here.  I have lived here many years in great solitude.  The Malays, you understand, are not company for a white man; moreover they are not friendly; they do not understand our ways.  Great rascals they are.  I believe I am the only white man on the east coast that is a settled resident.  We get visitors from Macassar or Singapore sometimes--traders, agents, or explorers, but they are rare.  There was a scientific explorer here a year or more ago.  He lived in my house:  drank from morning to night.  He lived joyously for a few months, and when the liquor he brought with him was gone he returned to Batavia with a report on the mineral wealth of the interior.  Ha, ha, ha!  Good, is it not?

He ceased abruptly and looked at his guests with a meaningless stare.  While they laughed he was reciting to himself the old story: Dain dead, all my plans destroyed.  This is the end of all hope and of all things.  His heart sank within him.  He felt a kind of deadly sickness.

Very good.  Capital! exclaimed both officers.  Almayer came out of his despondency with another burst of talk.

Eh! what about the dinner?  You have got a cook with you.  That's all right.  There is a cooking shed in the other courtyard.  I can give you a goose.  Look at my geese--the only geese on the east coast--perhaps on the whole island.  Is that your cook?  Very good.  Here, Ali, show this Chinaman the cooking place and tell Mem Almayer to let him have room there.  My wife, gentlemen, does not come out; my daughter may.  Meantime have some more drink.  It is a hot day.

The lieutenant took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at the ash critically, shook it off and turned towards Almayer.

We have a rather unpleasant business with you, he said.

I am sorry, returned Almayer.  It can be nothing very serious, surely.

If you think an attempt to blow up forty men at least, not a serious matter you will not find many people of your opinion, retorted the officer sharply.

Blow up!  What?  I know nothing about it exclaimed Almayer.  Who did that, or tried to do it?

A man with whom you had some dealings, answered the lieutenant.  He passed here under the name of Dain Maroola.  You sold him the gunpowder he had in that brig we captured.

How did you hear about the brig? asked Almayer.  I know nothing about the powder he may have had.

An Arab trader of this place has sent the information about your goings on here to Batavia, a couple of months ago, said the officer.  "We were waiting for the brig outside, but he slipped past us at the mouth of the river, and we had to chase the fellow to the southward.  When he sighted us he ran inside the reefs and put the brig ashore.  The crew escaped in boats before we could take possession.  As our boats neared the craft it blew up with a tremendous explosion; one of the boats being too near got swamped.  Two men drowned--that is the result of your speculation, Mr. Almayer.  Now we want this Dain.  We have good grounds to suppose he is hiding in Sambir.  Do you know

where he is?  You had better put yourself right with the authorities as much as possible by being perfectly frank with me.  Where is this Dain?"

Almayer got up and walked towards the balustrade of the verandah.  He seemed not to be thinking of the officer's question.  He looked at the body laying straight and rigid under its white cover on which the sun, declining amongst the clouds to the westward, threw a pale tinge of red.  The lieutenant waited for the answer, taking quick pulls at his half-extinguished cigar.  Behind them Ali moved noiselessly laying the table, ranging solemnly the ill-assorted and shabby crockery, the tin spoons, the forks with broken prongs, and the knives with saw-like blades and loose handles.  He had almost forgotten how to prepare the table for white men.  He felt aggrieved; Mem Nina would not help him.  He stepped back to look at his work admiringly, feeling very proud.  This must be right; and if the master afterwards is angry and swears, then so much the worse for Mem Nina.  Why did she not help?  He left the verandah to fetch the dinner.

Well, Mr. Almayer, will you answer my question as frankly as it is put to you? asked the lieutenant, after a long silence.

Almayer turned round and looked at his interlocutor steadily.  If you catch this Dain what will you do with him? he asked.

The officer's face flushed.  This is not an answer, he said, annoyed.

And what will you do with me? went on Almayer, not heeding the interruption.

Are you inclined to bargain? growled the other.  It would be bad policy, I assure you.  At present I have no orders about your person, but we expected your assistance in catching this Malay.

Ah! interrupted Almayer, just so: you can do nothing without me, and I, knowing the man well, am to help you in finding him.

This is exactly what we expect, assented the officer.  You have broken the law, Mr. Almayer, and you ought to make amends.

And save myself?

Well, in a sense yes.  Your head is not in any danger, said the lieutenant, with a short laugh.

Very well, said Almayer, with decision, I shall deliver the man up to you.

Both officers rose to their feet quickly, and looked for their side-arms which they had unbuckled.  Almayer laughed harshly.

Steady, gentlemen! he exclaimed.  In my own time and in my own way.  After dinner, gentlemen, you shall have him.

This is preposterous, urged the lieutenant.  Mr. Almayer, this is no joking matter.  The man is a criminal.  He deserves to hang.  While we dine he may escape; the rumour of our arrival--

Almayer walked towards the table.  I give you my word of honour, gentlemen, that he shall not escape; I have him safe enough.

The arrest should be effected before dark, remarked the young sub.

I shall hold you responsible for any failure.  We are ready, but can do nothing just now without you, added the senior, with evident annoyance.

Almayer made a gesture of assent.  On my word of honour, he repeated vaguely.  And now let us dine, he added briskly.

Nina came through the doorway and stood for a moment holding the curtain aside for Ali and the old Malay woman bearing the dishes; then she moved towards the three men by the table.

Allow me, said Almayer, pompously.  This is my daughter.  Nina, these gentlemen, officers of the frigate outside, have done me the honour to accept my hospitality.

Nina answered the low bows of the two officers by a slow inclination of the head and took her place at the table opposite her father.  All sat down.  The coxswain of the steam launch came up carrying some bottles of wine.

You will allow me to have this put upon the table? said the lieutenant to Almayer.

What! Wine! You are very kind.  Certainly, I have none myself.  Times are very hard.

The last words of his reply were spoken by Almayer in a faltering voice.  The thought that Dain was dead recurred to him vividly again, and he felt as if an invisible hand was gripping his throat.  He reached for the gin bottle while they were uncorking the wine and swallowed a big gulp.  The lieutenant, who was speaking to Nina, gave him a quick glance.  The young sub began to recover from the astonishment and confusion caused by Nina's unexpected appearance and great beauty.  She was very beautiful and imposing, he reflected, but after all a half-caste girl. This thought caused him to pluck up heart and look at Nina sideways.  Nina, with composed face, was answering in a low, even voice the elder officer's polite questions as to the country and her mode of life.  Almayer pushed his plate away and drank his guest's wine in gloomy silence.

 CHAPTER IX.

Can I believe what you tell me? It is like a tale for men that listen only half awake by the camp fire, and it seems to have run off a woman's tongue.

Who is there here for me to deceive, O Rajah? answered Babalatchi.  Without you I am nothing.  All I have told you I believe to be true.  I have been safe for many years in the hollow of your hand.  This is no time to harbour suspicions.  The danger is very great.  We should advise and act at once, before the sun sets.

Right.  Right, muttered Lakamba, pensively.

They had been sitting for the last hour together in the audience chamber of the Rajah's house, for Babalatchi, as soon as he had witnessed the landing of the Dutch officers, had crossed the river to report to his master the events of the morning, and to confer with him upon the line of conduct to pursue in the face of altered circumstances.  They were both puzzled and frightened by the unexpected turn the events had taken.  The Rajah, sitting crosslegged on his chair, looked fixedly at the floor; Babalatchi was squatting close by in an attitude of deep dejection.

And where did you say he is hiding now? asked Lakamba, breaking at last the silence full of gloomy forebodings in which they both had been lost for a long while.

In Bulangi's clearing--the furthest one, away from the house.  They went there that very night.  The white man's daughter took him there.  She told me so herself, speaking to me openly, for she is half white and has no decency.  She said she was waiting for him while he was here; then, after a long time, he came out of the darkness and fell at her feet exhausted.  He lay like one dead, but she brought him back to life in her arms, and made him breathe again with her own breath.  That is what she said, speaking to my face, as I am speaking now to you, Rajah.  She is like a white woman and knows no shame.

He paused, deeply shocked.  Lakamba nodded his head.  Well, and then? he asked.

They called the old woman, went on Babalatchi, and he told them all--about the brig, and how he tried to kill many men.  He knew the Orang Blanda were very near, although he had said nothing to us about that; he knew his great danger.  He thought he had killed many, but there were only two dead, as I have heard from the men of the sea that came in the warship's boats.

And the other man, he that was found in the river? interrupted Lakamba.

That was one of his boatmen.  When his canoe was overturned by the logs those two swam together, but the other man must have been hurt.  Dain swam, holding him up.  He left him in the bushes when he went up to the house.  When they all came down his heart had ceased to beat; then the old woman spoke; Dain thought it was good.  He took off his anklet and broke it, twisting it round the man's foot.  His ring he put on that slave's hand.  He took off his sarong and clothed that thing that wanted no clothes, the two women holding it up meanwhile, their intent being to deceive all eyes and to mislead the minds in the settlement, so that they could swear to the thing that was not, and that there could be no treachery when the white-men came.  Then Dain and the white woman departed to call up Bulangi and find a hiding-place.  The old woman remained by the body.

Hai! exclaimed Lakamba.  She has wisdom.

Yes, she has a Devil of her own to whisper counsel in her ear, assented Babalatchi.  She dragged the body with great toil to the point where many logs were stranded.  All these things were done in the darkness after the storm had passed away.  Then she waited.  At the first sign of daylight she battered the face of the dead with a heavy stone, and she pushed him amongst the logs.  She remained near, watching.  At sunrise Mahmat Banjer came and found him.  They all believed; I myself was deceived, but not for long.  The white man believed, and, grieving, fled to his house.  When we were alone I, having doubts, spoke to the woman, and she, fearing my anger and your might, told me all, asking for help in saving Dain.

He must not fall into the hands of the Orang Blanda, said Lakamba; but let him die, if the thing can be done quietly.

It cannot, Tuan!  Remember there is that woman who, being half white, is ungovernable, and would raise a great outcry.  Also the officers are here.  They are angry enough already.  Dain must escape; he must go.  We must help him now for our own safety.  Are the officers very angry? inquired Lakamba, with interest.

They are.  The principal chief used strong words when speaking to me--to me when I salaamed in your name.  I do not think, added Babalatchi, after a short pause and looking very worried--I do not think I saw a white chief so angry before.  He said we were careless or even worse.  He told me he would speak to the Rajah, and that I was of no account.

Speak to the Rajah! repeated Lakamba, thoughtfully.  Listen, Babalatchi: I am sick, and shall withdraw; you cross over and tell the white men.

Yes, said Babalatchi, I am going over at once; and as to Dain?

You get him away as you can best.  This is a great trouble in my heart, sighed Lakamba.

Babalatchi got up, and, going close to his master, spoke earnestly.

There is one of our praus at the southern mouth of the river.  The Dutch warship is to the northward watching the main entrance.  I shall send Dain off to-night in a canoe, by the hidden channels, on board the prau.  His father is a great prince, and shall hear of our generosity.  Let the prau take him to Ampanam.  Your glory shall be great, and your reward in powerful friendship.  Almayer will no doubt deliver the dead body as Dain's to the officers, and the foolish white men shall say, 'This is very good; let there be peace.' And the trouble shall be removed from your heart, Rajah.

True! true! said Lakamba.

And, this being accomplished by me who am your slave, you shall reward with a generous hand.  That I know!  The white man is grieving for the lost treasure, in the manner of white men who thirst after dollars.  Now, when all other things are in order, we shall perhaps obtain the treasure from the white man.  Dain must escape, and Almayer must live.

Now go, Babalatchi, go! said Lakamba, getting off his chair.  I am very sick, and want medicine.  Tell the white chief so.

But Babalatchi was not to be got rid of in this summary manner.  He knew that his master, after the manner of the great, liked to shift the burden of toil and danger on to his servants' shoulders, but in the difficult straits in which they were now the Rajah must play his part.  He may be very sick for the white men, for all the world if he liked, as long as he would take upon himself the execution of part at least of Babalatchi's carefully thought-of plan.  Babalatchi wanted a big canoe manned by twelve men to be sent out after dark towards Bulangi's clearing.  Dain may have to be overpowered.  A man in love cannot be expected to see clearly the path of safety if it leads him away from the object of his affections, argued Babalatchi, and in that case they would have to use force in order to make him go.  Would the Rajah see that trusty men manned the canoe?  The thing must be done secretly.  Perhaps the Rajah would come himself, so as to bring all the weight of his authority to bear upon Dain if he should prove obstinate and refuse to leave his hiding-place.  The Rajah would not commit himself to a definite promise, and anxiously pressed Babalatchi to go, being afraid of the white men paying him an unexpected visit.  The aged statesman reluctantly took his leave and went into the courtyard.

Before going down to his boat Babalatchi stopped for a while in the big open space where the thick-leaved trees put black patches of shadow which seemed to float on a flood of smooth, intense light that rolled up to the houses and down to the stockade and over the river, where it broke and sparkled in thousands of glittering wavelets, like a band woven of azure and gold edged with the brilliant green of the forests guarding both banks of the Pantai.  In the perfect calm before the coming of the afternoon breeze the irregularly jagged line of tree-tops stood unchanging, as if traced by an unsteady hand on the clear blue of the hot sky.  In the space sheltered by the high palisades there lingered the smell of decaying blossoms from the surrounding forest, a taint of drying fish; with now and then a whiff of acrid smoke from the cooking fires when it eddied down from under the leafy boughs and clung lazily about the burnt-up grass.

As Babalatchi looked up at the flagstaff over-topping a group of low trees in the middle of the courtyard, the tricolour flag of the Netherlands stirred slightly for the first time since it had been hoisted that morning on the arrival of the man-of-war boats.  With a faint rustle of trees the breeze came down in light puffs, playing capriciously for a time with this emblem of Lakamba's power, that was also the mark of his servitude; then the breeze freshened in a sharp gust of wind, and the flag flew out straight and steady above the trees.  A dark shadow ran along the river, rolling over and covering up the sparkle of declining sunlight.  A big white cloud sailed slowly across the darkening sky, and hung to the westward as if waiting for the sun to join it there.  Men and things shook off the torpor of the hot afternoon and stirred into life under the first breath of the sea breeze.

Babalatchi hurried down to the water-gate; yet before he passed through it he paused to look round the courtyard, with its light and shade, with its cheery fires, with the groups of Lakamba's soldiers and retainers scattered about.  His own house stood amongst the other buildings in that enclosure, and the statesman of Sambir asked himself with a sinking heart when and how would it be given him to return to that house.  He had to deal with a man more dangerous than any wild beast of his experience: a proud man, a man wilful after the manner of princes, a man in love.  And he was going forth to speak to that man words of cold and worldly wisdom.  Could anything be more appalling?  What if that man should take umbrage at some fancied slight to his honour or disregard of his affections and suddenly amok?  The wise adviser would be the first victim, no doubt, and death would be his reward.  And underlying the horror of this situation there was the danger of those meddlesome fools, the white men.  A vision of comfortless exile in far-off Madura rose up before Babalatchi.  Wouldn't that be worse than death itself?  And there was that half-white woman with threatening eyes.  How could he tell what an incomprehensible creature of that sort would or would not do?  She knew so much that she made the killing of Dain an impossibility.  That much was certain.  And yet the sharp, rough-edged kriss is a good and discreet friend, thought Babalatchi, as he examined his own lovingly, and put it back in the sheath, with a sigh of regret, before unfastening his canoe.  As he cast off the painter, pushed out into the stream, and took up his paddle, he realised vividly how unsatisfactory it was to have women mixed up in state affairs.  Young women, of course.  For Mrs. Almayer's mature wisdom, and for the easy aptitude in intrigue that comes with years to the feminine mind, he felt the most sincere respect.

He paddled leisurely, letting the canoe drift down as he crossed towards the point.  The sun was high yet, and nothing pressed.  His work would commence only with the coming of darkness.  Avoiding the Lingard jetty, he rounded the point, and paddled up the creek at the back of Almayer's house.  There were many canoes lying there, their noses all drawn together, fastened all to the same stake.  Babalatchi pushed his little craft in amongst them and stepped on shore.  On the other side of the ditch something moved in the grass.

Who's that hiding? hailed Babalatchi.  Come out and speak to me.

Nobody answered.  Babalatchi crossed over, passing from boat to boat, and poked his staff viciously in the suspicious place.  Taminah jumped up with a cry.

What are you doing here? he asked, surprised.  I have nearly stepped on your tray.  Am I a Dyak that you should hide at my sight?

I was weary, and--I slept, whispered Taminah, confusedly.

You slept! You have not sold anything to-day, and you will be beaten when you return home, said Babalatchi.

Taminah stood before him abashed and silent.  Babalatchi looked her over carefully with great satisfaction.  Decidedly he would offer fifty dollars more to that thief Bulangi.  The girl pleased him.

Now you go home.  It is late, he said sharply.  Tell Bulangi that I shall be near his house before the night is half over, and that I want him to make all things ready for a long journey.  You understand?  A long journey to the southward.  Tell him that before sunset, and do not forget my words.

Taminah made a gesture of assent, and watched Babalatchi recross the ditch and disappear through the bushes bordering Almayer's compound.  She moved a little further off the creek and sank in the grass again, lying down on her face, shivering in dry-eyed misery.

Babalatchi walked straight towards the cooking-shed looking for Mrs. Almayer.  The courtyard was in a great uproar.  A strange Chinaman had possession of the kitchen fire and was noisily demanding another saucepan.  He hurled objurgations, in the Canton dialect and bad Malay, against the group of slave-girls standing a little way off, half frightened, half amused, at his violence.  From the camping fires round which the seamen of the frigate were sitting came words of encouragement, mingled with laughter and jeering.  In the midst of this noise and confusion Babalatchi met Ali, an empty dish in his hand.

Where are the white men? asked Babalatchi.

They are eating in the front verandah, answered Ali.  Do not stop me, Tuan.  I am giving the white men their food and am busy.

Where's Mem Almayer?

Inside in the passage.  She is listening to the talk.

Ali grinned and passed on; Babalatchi ascended the plankway to the rear verandah, and beckoning out Mrs. Almayer, engaged her in earnest conversation.  Through the long passage, closed at the further end by the red curtain, they could hear from time to time Almayer's voice mingling in conversation with an abrupt loudness that made Mrs. Almayer look significantly at Babalatchi.

Listen, she said.  He has drunk much.

He has, whispered Babalatchi.  He will sleep heavily to-night.

Mrs. Almayer looked doubtful.

Sometimes the devil of strong gin makes him keep awake, and he walks up and down the verandah all night, cursing; then we stand afar off, explained Mrs. Almayer, with the fuller knowledge born of twenty odd years of married life.

But then he does not hear, nor understand, and his hand, of course, has no strength.  We do not want him to hear to-night.

No, assented Mrs. Almayer, energetically, but in a cautiously subdued voice.  If he hears he will kill.

Babalatchi looked incredulous.

Hai Tuan, you may believe me.  Have I not lived many years with that man?  Have I not seen death in that man's eyes more than once when I was younger and he guessed at many things.  Had he been a man of my own people I would not have seen such a look twice; but he--

With a contemptuous gesture she seemed to fling unutterable scorn on Almayer's weak-minded aversion to sudden bloodshed.

If he has the wish but not the strength, then what do we fear? asked Babalatchi, after a short silence during which they both listened to Almayer's loud talk till it subsided into the murmur of general conversation.  What do we fear? repeated Babalatchi again.

To keep the daughter whom he loves he would strike into your heart and mine without hesitation, said Mrs. Almayer.  When the girl is gone he will be like the devil unchained.  Then you and I had better beware.

I am an old man and fear not death, answered Babalatchi, with a mendacious assumption of indifference.  But what will you do?

I am an old woman, and wish to live, retorted Mrs. Almayer.  She is my daughter also.  I shall seek safety at the feet of our Rajah, speaking in the name of the past when we both were young, and he--

Babalatchi raised his hand.

Enough.  You shall be protected, he said soothingly.

Again the sound of Almayer's voice was heard, and again interrupting their talk, they listened to the confused but loud utterance coming in bursts of unequal strength, with unexpected pauses and noisy repetitions that made some words and sentences fall clear and distinct on their ears out of the meaningless jumble of excited shoutings emphasised by the thumping of Almayer's fist upon the table.  On the short intervals of silence, the high complaining note of tumblers, standing close together and vibrating to the shock, lingered, growing fainter, till it leapt up again into tumultuous ringing, when a new idea started a new rush of words and brought down the heavy hand again.  At last the quarrelsome shouting ceased, and the thin plaint of disturbed glass died away into reluctant quietude.

Babalatchi and Mrs. Almayer had listened curiously, their bodies bent and their ears turned towards the passage.  At every louder shout they nodded at each other with a ridiculous affectation of scandalised propriety, and they remained in the same attitude for some time after the noise had ceased.

This is the devil of gin, whispered Mrs. Almayer.  Yes; he talks like that sometimes when there is nobody to hear him.

What does he say? inquired Babalatchi, eagerly.  You ought to understand.

I have forgotten their talk.  A little I understood.  He spoke without any respect of the white ruler in Batavia, and of protection, and said he had been wronged; he said that several times.  More I did not understand.  Listen!  Again he speaks!

Tse! tse! tse! clicked Babalatchi, trying to appear shocked, but with a joyous twinkle of his solitary eye.  There will be great trouble between those white men.  I will go round now and see.  You tell your daughter that there is a sudden and a long journey before her, with much glory and splendour at the end.  And tell her that Dain must go, or he must die, and that he will not go alone.

No, he will not go alone, slowly repeated Mrs. Almayer, with a thoughtful air, as she crept into the passage after seeing Babalatchi disappear round the corner of the house.

The statesman of Sambir, under the impulse of vivid curiosity, made his way quickly to the front of the house, but once there he moved slowly and cautiously as he crept step by step up the stairs of the verandah.  On the highest step he sat down quietly, his feet on the steps below, ready for flight should his presence prove unwelcome.  He felt pretty safe so.  The table stood nearly endways to him, and he saw Almayer's back; at Nina he looked full face, and had a side view of both officers; but of the four persons sitting at the table only Nina and the younger officer noticed his noiseless arrival.  The momentary dropping of Nina's eyelids acknowledged Babalatchi's presence; she then spoke at once to the young sub, who turned towards her with attentive alacrity, but her gaze was fastened steadily on her father's face while Almayer was speaking uproariously.

. . . disloyalty and unscrupulousness!  What have you ever done to make me loyal?  You have no grip on this country.  I had to take care of myself, and when I asked for protection I was met with threats and contempt, and had Arab slander thrown in my face.  I! a white man!

Don't be violent, Almayer, remonstrated the lieutenant; I have heard all this already.

Then why do you talk to me about scruples?  I wanted money, and I gave powder in exchange.  How could I know that some of your wretched men were going to be blown up?  Scruples!  Pah!

He groped unsteadily amongst the bottles, trying one after another, grumbling to himself the while.

No more wine, he muttered discontentedly.

You have had enough, Almayer, said the lieutenant, as he lighted a cigar.  Is it not time to deliver to us your prisoner? I take it you have that Dain Maroola stowed away safely somewhere.  Still we had better get that business over, and then we shall have more drink.  Come! don't look at me like this.

Almayer was staring with stony eyes, his trembling fingers fumbling about his throat.

Gold, he said with difficulty.  Hem!  A hand on the windpipe, you know.  Sure you will excuse.  I wanted to say--a little gold for a little powder.  What's that?

I know, I know, said the lieutenant soothingly.

No! You don't know.  Not one of you knows! shouted Almayer.  The government is a fool, I tell you.  Heaps of gold.  I am the man that knows; I and another one.  But he won't speak.  He is--

He checked himself with a feeble smile, and, making an unsuccessful attempt to pat the officer on the shoulder, knocked over a couple of empty bottles.

Personally you are a fine fellow, he said very distinctly, in a patronising manner.  His head nodded drowsily as he sat muttering to himself.

The two officers looked at each other helplessly.

This won't do, said the lieutenant, addressing his junior.  Have the men mustered in the compound here.  I must get some sense out of him.  Hi!  Almayer! Wake up, man.  Redeem your word.  You gave your word.  You gave your word of honour, you know.

Almayer shook off the officer's hand with impatience, but his ill-humour vanished at once, and he looked up, putting his forefinger to the side of his nose.

You are very young; there is time for all things, he said, with an air of great sagacity.

The lieutenant turned towards Nina, who, leaning back in her chair, watched her father steadily.

Really I am very much distressed by all this for your sake, he exclaimed.  I do not know; he went on, speaking with some embarrassment, whether I have any right to ask you anything, unless, perhaps, to withdraw from this painful scene, but I feel that I must--for your father's good--suggest that you should--I mean if you have any influence over him you ought to exert it now to make him keep the promise he gave me before he--before he got into this state.

He observed with discouragement that she seemed not to take any notice of what he said sitting still with half-closed eyes.

I trust-- he began again.

What is the promise you speak of? abruptly asked Nina, leaving her seat and moving towards her father.

"Nothing that is not