"To starve, or to be left to the tender mercies of the Bajaus and the Bugis," Van Slyck sneered. "That would be more tender-hearted. You would at least transfer the responsibility."
Muller's agitation became more pronounced.
"But we must not let it go on,kapitein," he urged. "It hurts the business. Pretty soon we will have an investigation, one of these gun-boats will pick up one of our proas, somebody will tell, and what will happen to us then?"
"We'll be hung," Van Slyck declared succinctly.
Muller's fingers leaped in an involuntary frantic gesture to his throat, as though he felt cords tightening around his windpipe. His face paled.
"Lieve hemel, kapitein, don't speak of such things," he gasped.
"Then don't talk drivel," Van Slyck snarled. "You can't make big profits without taking big chances. And you can't have piracy without a little blood-letting. We're in this now, and there's no going back. So stop your squealing."
Settling back into his chair, he looked calmly seaward and exhaled huge clouds of tobacco smoke. The frown deepened on Muller's troubled brow as he stared vacantly across the crushed coral-shell highway.
"You can think of no reason why his excellency should be offended with us,kapitein?" he ventured anxiously.
Thecontrolleur'seagerness to include him in his misfortune, evidenced by the use of the plural pronoun, evoked a sardonic flicker in Van Slyck's cold, gray eyes.
"No,mynheer, I cannot conceive why the governor should want to get rid of so valuable a publicservant as you are," he assured ironically. "You have certainly done your best. There have been a few disturbances, of course, some head-hunting, and the taxes have not been paid, but outside of such minor matters everything has done well, very well indeed."
"Donder en bliksem," Muller exclaimed, "how can I raise taxes when those Midianites, the hill Dyaks, will not let my coast Dyaks grow a spear of rice? Has there been a month without a raid? Answer me,kapitein. Have you spent a whole month in the stockade without being called to beat back some of these thieving plunderers and drive them into their hills?"
The sardonic smile flashed across Van Slyck's face again.
"Quite true,mynheer. But sometimes I don't know if I blame the poor devils. They tell me they're only trying to get even because your coast Dyaks and Ah Sing's crowd rob them so. Ah Sing must be making quite a profit out of the slave business. I'll bet he shipped two hundred to China last year."
He glanced quizzically at his associate.
"By the way,mynheer," he observed, "you ought to know something about that. I understand you get a per cent on it."
"I?" Muller exclaimed, and looked affrightedly about him. "I,kapitein?"
"Oh, yes you do," Van Slyck asserted airily. "You've got money invested with Ah Sing in twoproas that are handling that end of the business. And it's the big end just now. The merchandise pickings are small, and that is all I share in."
He looked at Muller meaningly. There was menace in his eyes and menace in his voice as he announced:
"I'm only mentioning this,mynheer, so that if the new resident should happen to be one of us, with a claim to the booty, his share comes out of your pot, not mine. Remember that!"
For once cupidity overcame Muller's fear of the sharp-witted cynical soldier.
"Wat de drommel," he roared, "do you expect me to pay all,kapitein, all? Not in a thousand years! If there must be a division you shall give up your per cent as well as I,stuiverforstuiver,guldenforgulden!"
A hectic spot glowed in each of Van Slyck's cheeks, and his eyes glittered. Muller's anger rose.
"Ah Sing shall decide between us," he cried heatedly. "You cannot rob me in that way,kapitein."
Van Slyck turned on his associate with an oath. "Ah Sing be damned. We'll divide as I say, or—"
The pause was more significant than words. Muller's ruddy face paled. Van Slyck tapped a forefinger significantly on the arm of his chair.
"Just remember, if the worst comes to the worst, there's this one difference between you and me,mynheer. I'm not afraid to die, and you—are!" He smiled.
Muller's breath came thickly, and he stared fascinatedly into the evilly handsome face of the captain, whose eyes were fixed on his with a basilisk glare. Several seconds passed; then Van Slyck said:
"See that you remember these things,mynheer, when our next accounting comes."
The silence that followed was broken by the rhythmic pad-pad of wicker sandals on a bamboo floor. Cho Seng came on the veranda, bearing a tray laden with two glasses of finest crystal and a decanter of colorless liquid, both of which he placed on a small porch table. Drops of dew formed thickly on the chilled surface of the decanter and rolled off while the Chinaman mixed the juices of fruits and crushed leaves with the potent liquor. The unknown discoverer of the priceless recipe he used receives more blessings in the Indies daily than all the saints on the calendar. When Cho Seng had finished, he withdrew. Muller swallowed the contents of his glass in a single gulp. Van Slyck sipped leisurely. Gradually the tension lessened. After a while, between sips, the captain remarked:
"I hear you have a chance to pick up some prize money."
Muller looked up with interest. "So,kapitein!" he exclaimed with forced jocularity. "Have you found a place where guilders grow on trees?"
"Almost as good as that," Van Slyck replied, playing his fish.
Finesse and indirection were not Muller's forte. "Well, tell us about it,kapitein," he demanded bluntly.
Van Slyck's eyes twinkled.
"Catch Koyala," he replied.
The captain's meaning sank into Muller's mind slowly. But as comprehension began to dawn upon him, his face darkened. The veins showed purple under the ruddy skin.
"You are too clever this morning,kapitein," he snarled. "Let me remind you that this is your duty. Thecontrolleursits as judge, he does not hunt the accused."
Van Slyck laughed.
"And let me remind you,mynheer, that I haven't received the governor's orders as yet, although they reached you more than a week ago." Ironically he added: "You must not let your friendship with Koyala blind you to your public duties,mynheer."
Muller's face became darker still. He had not told any one, and the fact that the orders seemed to be public property both alarmed and angered him.
"How did you hear of it?" he demanded.
"Not from you,mynheer," Van Slyck mocked. "I really do not remember who told me." (As a matter of fact it was Wang Fu, the Chinese merchant.)
Muller reflected that officers from the gun-boat which carried Van Schouten's mandate might have told more than they should have at the stockade. But Koyala had received his warning a full week before, so she must be safely hidden in the jungle by now, he reasoned. Pulling himself together, he replied urbanely:
"Well,kapitein, it is true that I have rather neglected that matter. I intended to speak to you to-day. His excellency orders Koyala Bintang Burung's arrest."
"The argus pheasant," Van Slyck observed, "is rarely shot. It must be trapped."
"Nu, kapitein, that is a chance for you to distinguish yourself," Muller replied heartily, confident that Van Slyck could never land Koyala.
Van Slyck flecked the ash from his cigar and looked at the glowing coal thoughtfully.
"It seems to me that you might be of material assistance,mynheer," he observed.
"In what way?"
"I have noticed that the witch-woman is not—er—" He glanced at Muller quizzically, wondering how far he might venture to go—"not altogether indifferent to you."
Muller drew a deep breath. His ruddy face became a grayish purple. His clenched hands gripped each other until the bones crunched and the veins stood in ridges. Drops of perspiration gathered on his forehead, he wiped them away mechanically.
"Kapitein!" he gasped.
Van Slyck looked at him increduously, for he had not dreamed Muller's feelings ran so deeply.
"You think—she—sometimes thinks of me?"
Van Slyck's nimble wits were calculating the value to him of this new weakness of thecontrolleur. Heforesaw infinite possibilities, Muller in love would be clay in his hands.
"I am positive,mynheer," he assured with the utmost gravity.
"Kapitein, do not make a mistake," Muller entreated. His voice trembled and broke. "Are you absolutely sure?"
Van Slyck restrained a guffaw with difficulty. It was so ridiculous—this mountain of flesh, this sweaty, panting porpoise in his unwashed linen in love with the slender, graceful Koyala. He choked and coughed discreetly.
"I am certain,mynheer," he assured.
"Tell me,kapitein, what makes you think so?" Muller begged.
Van Slyck forced himself to calmness and a judicial attitude.
"You know I have seen something of women,mynheer," he replied gravely. "Both women here and in the best houses in Amsterdam, Paris, and London. Believe me, they are all the same—a fine figure of a man attracts them."
He ran his eye over Muller's form in assumed admiration.
"You have a figure any woman might admire,mynheer. I have seen Koyala's eyes rest on you, and I know what she was thinking. You have but to speak and she is yours."
"Say you so,kapitein!" Muller cried ecstatically.
"Absolutely," Van Slyck assured. His eyes narrowed. The devilish humor incarnate in him could not resist the temptation to harrow this tortured soul. Watching Muller closely, he inquired:
"Then I can expect you to spread the net,mynheer?"
The light died in Muller's eyes. A slow, volcanic fury succeeded it. He breathed deeply and exhaled the breath in an explosive gasp. His hands clenched and the veins in his forehead became almost black. Van Slyck and he leaped to their feet simultaneously.
"Kapitein Van Slyck," he cried hoarsely, "you are a scoundrel! You would sell your own mother. Get out of my sight, or God help you, I will break you in two."
The door of thecontrolleur'sdwelling opened. Muller leaped back, and Van Slyck's hand leaped to his holster.
"I am here, Kapitein Van Slyck," a clear, silvery voice announced coolly.
Koyala stood in the doorway.
For a moment no one spoke. Koyala, poised lightly on her feet, her slender, shapely young figure held rigidly and her chin uptilted, gazed steadily at Van Slyck. Her black eyes blazed a scornful defiance. Before her contempt even the proud Amsterdammer's arrogance succumbed. He reddened shamefacedly under his tan.
"I am here, Kapitein Van Slyck," Koyala repeated clearly. She stepped toward him and reached out a slender, shapely arm, bare to the shoulder. "Here is my arm, where are your manacles,kapitein?"
"Koyala!" Muller gasped huskily. His big body was trembling with such violence that the veranda shook.
"This is my affair,mynheer," Koyala declared coldly, without removing her eyes from Van Slyck. She placed herself directly in front of the captain and crossed her wrists.
"If you have no irons, use a cord,kapitein," she taunted. "But bind fast. The Argus Pheasant is not easily held captive."
Van Slyck thrust her roughly aside.
"Let's have done with this foolishness," he exclaimed bruskly.
"What folly,mynheer kapitein?" Koyala demanded frigidly.
"You had no business eavesdropping. If you heard something unpleasant you have only yourself to blame."
Koyala's eyes sparkled with anger.
"Eavesdropping,kapitein? I came here with a message of great importance tomynheerthecontrolleur. Even the birds cock their ears to listen when they hear the hunter approach,kapitein."
Turning her back with scornful indifference on Van Slyck, she crossed over to Muller and placed both her hands on his shoulder. Another fit of trembling seized the acting resident and his eyes swam.
"You will forgive me, will you not,mynheer, for taking such liberties in your house?"
"Of—of course," Muller stammered.
"I heard a little of what was said," Koyala said; "enough to show me that I have a good friend here, a friend on whom I can always rely."
Van Slyck caught the emphasis on the word "friend" and smiled sardonically.
"Well,SisterKoyala," he remarked mockingly, "if you andBrotherMuller will be seated we will hear your important message."
Muller plumped heavily into a chair. Things had been going too rapidly for him, his heavy wits were badly addled, and he needed time to compose himselfand get a fresh grip on the situation. There was only one other chair on the veranda. Perceiving this, Van Slyck sprang forward and placed it for Koyala, smiling satirically as he did so. Koyala frowned with annoyance, hesitated a moment, then accepted it. Van Slyck swung a leg over the veranda rail.
"Your message, my dear Koyala," he prompted. He used the term of endearment lingeringly, with a quick side glance at Muller, but thecontrolleurwas oblivious to both.
"The message is for Mynheer Muller," Koyala announced icily.
"Ah? So?" Van Slyck swung the leg free and rose. "Then I am not needed. I bid the dear bother and sister adieux."
He made an elaborate French bow and started to leave. The embarrassed Muller made a hasty protest.
"Ho,kapitein!" he cried, "do not leave us.Donder en bliksem!the message may be for us both. Who is it from, Koyala?"
Van Slyck was divided between two desires. He saw that Muller was in a panic at the thought of being left alone with Koyala, and for that reason was keenly tempted to get out of sight as quickly as possible. On the other hand he was curious to hear her communication, aware that only a matter of unusual import could have called her from the bush. Undecided, he lingered on the steps.
"It was from Ah Sing," Koyala announced.
Van Slyck's indecision vanished. He stepped briskly back on the porch.
"From Ah Sing?" he exclaimed. "Mynheer Muller and I were just discussing his affairs. Does it concern the new resident we are to have?"
"It does," Koyala acknowledged.
"Who is it?" Muller and the captain cried in the same breath.
Koyala glanced vindictively at Van Slyck.
"You are sure that you will not sell me to him,mynheer kapitein?"
Van Slyck scowled. "Tell us about the resident," he directed curtly.
Koyala's eyes sparkled maliciously.
"The new resident,mynheer kapitein, seems to have a higher opinion of me than you have. You see, he has already persuaded the governor to withdraw the offer he made for my person."
Van Slyck bit his lip, but ignored the thrust.
"Then he's one of us?" he demanded bruskly.
"On the contrary, he is a most dangerous enemy," Koyala contradicted.
"Lieve hemel, don't keep us waiting," Muller cried impatiently. "Who is it, Koyala?"
"A sailor,mynheer," Koyala announced.
"A sailor?" Van Slyck exclaimed incredulously. "Who?"
"Mynheer Peter Gross, of Batavia."
Van Slyck and Muller stared at each other blankly, each vainly trying to recall ever having heard the name before.
"Pieter Gross, Pieter Gross, he must be a newcomer," Van Slyck remarked. "I have not heard of him before, have you,mynheer?"
"There is no one by that name in the colonial service," Muller declared, shaking his head. "You say he is of Batavia, Koyala?"
"Of Batavia,mynheer, but by birth and upbringing, and everything else, a Yankee."
"A Yankee?" her hearers chorused incredulously.
"Yes, a Yankee. Mate on a trading vessel, or so he was a year ago. He has been in the Indies the past seven years."
Van Slyck broke into a roar of laughter.
"Now, by the beard of Nassau, what joke is Chanticleer playing us now?" he cried. "He must be anxious to get that Yankee out of the way."
Neither Koyala nor Muller joined in his mirth. Muller frowned thoughtfully. There was the look in his eyes of one who is striving to recollect some almost forgotten name or incident.
"Pieter Gross, Pieter Gross," he repeated thoughtfully. "Where have I heard that name before?"
"Do you remember what happened to Gogolu of Lombock the time he captured Lieutenant de Koren and his commando?" Koyala asked. "How an American sailor and ten of his crew surprised Gogolu's band, killed a great many of them, and took their prisoners away from them? That was Pieter Gross."
"Donder en bliksem.I knew I had reason to remember that name," Muller cried in alarm. "Wehave no Mynheer de Jonge to deal with this time,kapitein. This Yankee is a fighter."
"Good!" Van Slyck exclaimed with satisfaction. "We will give him his bellyful. There will be plenty for him to do in the bush, eh,mynheer? And if he gets too troublesome there are always ways of getting rid of him." He raised his eyebrows significantly.
"This Yankee is no fool," Muller rejoined anxiously. "I heard about that Lombock affair—it was a master coup. We have a bad man to deal with,kapitein."
Van Slyck smiled cynically.
"Humph,mynheer, you make me tired. From the way you talk one would think these Yankees can fight as well as they can cheat the brown-skins. We will fill him up with Hollands, we will swell his foolish head with praise till it is ready to burst, and then we will engineer an uprising in the hill district. Koyala can manage that for us. When Mynheer, the Yankee, hears of it he will be that thirsty for glory there will be no holding him. We will start him off with our blessings, and then we will continue our business in peace. What do you think of the plan, my dear Koyala?"
"Evidently you don't know Mynheer Gross," Koyala retorted coldly.
"Do you?" Van Slyck asked, quick as a flash.
"I have seen him," Koyala acknowledged. "Once. It was at the mouth of the Abbas River." She described the incident.
"He is no fool," she concluded. "He is a strong man, and an able man, one you will have to look out for."
"And a devilish handsome young man, too, I'll wager," Van Slyck observed maliciously with a sidelong glance at Muller. Thecontrolleur'sruddy face darkened with a quick spasm of jealousy, at which the captain chuckled.
"Yes, a remarkably handsome man," Koyala replied coolly. "We need handsome men in Bulungan, don't we, captain? Handsome white men?"
Van Slyck looked at her quickly. He felt a certain significance in her question that eluded him. It was not the first time she had indulged in such remarks, quite trivial on their face, but invested with a mysterious something the way she said them. He knew her tragic history and was sharp enough to guess that her unholy alliance with Ah Sing grew out of a savage desire to revenge herself on a government which had permitted her to be brought up a white woman and a victim of appetites and desires she could never satisfy. What he did not know, did not even dream, was the depth of her hate against the whole white race and her fixed purpose to sweep the last white man out of Bulungan.
"We do have a dearth of society here in Bulungan," he conceded. "Do you find it so, too?"
The question was a direct stab, for not a white woman in the residency would open her doors to Koyala. The Dyak blood leaped to her face; for a moment it seemed that she would spring at him,then she controlled herself with a powerful effort and replied in a voice studiedly reserved:
"I do,mynheer kapitein, but one must expect to have a limited circle when there are so few that can be trusted."
At this juncture Muller's jealous fury overcame all bounds. Jealousy accomplished what all Van Slyck's scorn and threats could not do, it made him eager to put the newcomer out of the way.
"What are we going to do?" he thundered. "Sit here like turtles on a mud-bank while this Yankee lords it over us and ruins our business?Donder en bliksem, I won't, whatever the rest of you may do.Kapitein, get your wits to work; what is the best way to get rid of this Yankee?"
Van Slyck looked at him in surprise. Then his quick wit instantly guessed the reason for the outburst.
"Well,mynheer," he replied, shrugging his shoulders indifferently, "it seems to me that this is a matter you are more interested in than I. Mynheer Gross does not come to displace me."
"You are ready enough to scheme murders if there is aguldenin it for you, but you have no counsel for a friend, eh?" Muller snarled. "Let me remind you,kapitein, that you are involved just as heavily as I."
Van Slyck laughed in cynical good humor.
"Let it never be said that a Van Slyck is so base as that,mynheer. Supposing we put our headstogether. In the first place, let us give Koyala a chance to tell what she knows. Where did you get the news, Koyala?"
"That makes no difference,mynheer kapitein," Koyala rejoined coolly. "I have my own avenues of information."
Van Slyck frowned with annoyance.
"When does he come here?" he inquired.
"We may expect him any time," Koyala stated. "He is to come when the rainy season closes, and that will be in a few days."
"Donder en bliksem, does Ah Sing know this?" Muller asked anxiously.
Van Slyck's lips curled in cynical amusement at the inanity of the question.
"He knows," Koyala declared.
"Of course he knows," Van Slyck added sarcastically. "The question is, what is he going to do?"
"I do not know," Koyala replied. "He can tell you that himself when he comes here."
"He's coming here?" Van Slyck asked quickly.
"Yes."
"When?"
"I am not in Ah Sing's councils," Koyala declared coldly.
"The deuce you're not," Van Slyck retorted irritably. "You seem to know a lot of things we hadn't heard of. What does Ah Sing expect us to do? Pander to this Yankee deck-scrubber until he comes?"
"We will do what we think best," Muller observed grimly.
Koyala looked at him steadily until his glance fell.
"You will both leave him alone and attend to your own affairs," she announced. "The new resident will be taken care of by Ah Sing—and by me."
Two weeks after receiving his appointment as resident of Bulungan, Peter Gross stood on a wharf along the Batavia water-front and looked wistfully out to sea. It was early evening and quite dark, for the moon had not risen and the eastern sky from the zenith down was obscured by fitful patches of cloud, gray-winged messengers of rain. In the west, Venus glowed with a warm, seductive light, like a lamp in a Spanish garden. A brisk and vigorous breeze roughed the waters of the bay that raced shoreward in long rollers to escape its impetuous wooing.
Peter Gross breathed the salt air deeply and stared steadfastly into the west, for he was sick at heart. Not until now did he realize what giving up the sea meant to him. The sea!—it had been a second mother to him, receiving him into its open arms when he ran away from the drudgery of the farm to satisfy the wanderlust that ached and ached in his boyish heart. Ay, it had mothered him, cradling him at night on its fond bosom while it sang a wild and eerie refrain among sail and cordage, buffeting him in its ill-humor, feeding him, and even clothing him. His first yellow oilskin, heremembered poignantly, had been salvaged from a wreck.
Now he was leaving that mother. He was leaving the life he had lived for ten years. He was denying the dreams and ambitions of his youth. He was casting aside the dream of some day standing on the deck of his own ship with a score of smart sailors to jump at his command. A feeling akin to the home-sickness he had suffered when, a lad of fifteen, he lived through his first storm at sea, in the hold of a cattle-ship, came over him now. Almost he regretted his decision.
Since bidding good-bye to Captain Threthaway two weeks before, he had picked twenty-four of the twenty-five men he intended to take with him for the pacification of Bulungan. The twenty-fifth he expected to sign that night at the home of his quondam skipper, Captain Roderick Rouse, better known as Roaring Rory. Rouse had been a trader in the south seas for many years and was now skipper of a smart little cottage in Ryswyk, the European residence section of Batavia. Peter Gross's presence at the water-front was explained by the fact that he had an hour to spare and naturally drifted to Tanjong Priok, the shipping center.
The selection of the company had not been an easy task. Peter Gross had not expected that it would be. He found the type of men he wanted even scarcer than he anticipated. For the past two weeks beachcombers and loafers along the wharves, and tourists, traders, and gentlemen adventurers at the hotels had looked curiously at the big, well-dressed sailor who always seemed to have plenty of time and money to spend, and was always ready to gossip. Some of them tried to draw him out. To these he talked vaguely about seeing a little of Java before he went sailoring again. Opinion became general that for a sailor Peter Gross was remarkably close-mouthed.
While he was to all appearances idly dawdling about, Peter Gross was in reality getting information concerning hardy young men of adventuresome spirit who might be persuaded to undertake an expedition that meant risk of life and who could be relied upon. Each man was carefully sounded before he was signed, and when signed, was told to keep his mouth shut.
But the major problem, to find a capable leader of such a body of men, was still unsolved. Peter Gross realized that his duties as resident precluded him from taking personal charge. He also recognized his limitations. He was a sailor; a soldier was needed to whip the company in shape, a bush-fighter who knew how to dispose those under him when Dyak arrows and Chinese bullets began to fly overhead in the jungle.
Two weeks of diligent search had failed to unearth any one with the necessary qualifications. Peter Gross was beginning to despair when he thought of his former skipper, Captain Rouse. Looking him up, he explained his predicament.
"By the great Polar B'ar," Roaring Rory bellowed when Peter Gross had finished his recital. "How the dickens do you expect to clean out that hell-hole with twenty-five men? Man, there's a hundred thousand Dyaks alone, let alone those rat-faced Chinks that come snoopin' down like buzzards smellin' carrion, and the cut-throat Bugis, and the bad men the English chased out of Sarawak, and the Sulu pirates, and Lord knows what all. It's suicide."
"I'm not going to Bulungan to make war," Peter Gross explained mildly.
Roaring Rory spat a huge cud of tobacco into a cuspidor six feet away, the better to express his astonishment.
"Then what in blazes are you goin' there for?" he roared.
Peter Gross permitted himself one of his rare smiles. There was a positive twinkle in his eyes as he replied:
"To convince them I am their best friend."
Roaring Rory's eyes opened wide.
"Convince 'em—what?" he gasped.
"That I am their friend."
The old sea captain stared at his ex-mate.
"You're jokin'," he declared.
"I was never more serious in my life," Peter Gross assured gravely.
"Then you're a damn' fool," Roaring Rory asserted. "Yes, sir, a damn' fool. I didn't think it of ye, Peter."
"It will take time, but I believe I see my way,"Peter Gross replied quietly. He explained his plan briefly, and as he described how he expected to win the confidence and support of the hillmen, Roaring Rory became calmer.
"Mebbe you can do it, Peter, mebbe you can do it," he conceded dubiously. "But that devil of an Ah Sing has a long arm, and by the bye, I'd keep indoors after sundown if I were you."
"But this isn't getting me the man I need," Peter Gross pointed out. "Can you recommend any one, captain?"
Roaring Rory squared back in his chair.
"I hain't got the latitude and longitude of this-here proposition of yours figured just yet," he replied, producing a plug of tobacco and biting off a generous portion before passing it hospitably to his visitor. "Just what kind of a man do you want?"
Peter Gross drew his chair a few inches nearer the captain's.
"What I want," he said, "is a man that I can trust—no matter what happens. He doesn't need to know seamanship, but he's got to be absolutely square, a man the sight of gold or women won't turn. He has to be a soldier, an ex-army officer, and a bush-fighter, a man who has seen service in the jungle. A man from the Philippines would just fill the bill. He has to be the sort of a man his men will swear by. And he has to have a clean record."
Roaring Rory grunted. "Ye don't want nothin', do ye? I'd recommend the Angel Gabriel."
"There is such a man," Peter Gross insisted. "There always is. You've got to help me find him, captain."
Rouse scratched his head profoundly and squinted hard. By and bye a big grin overspread his features.
"I've got a nevvy," he announced, "who'd be crazy to be with ye. He's only seventeen, but big for his age. He's out on my plantation now. Hold on," he roared as Peter Gross attempted to interrupt. "I'm comin' to number twenty-five. This nevvy has a particular friend that's with him now out to the plantation. 'Cordin' to his log, this chap's the very man ye're lookin' for. Was a captain o' volunteer infantry and saw service in the Philippines. When his time run out he went to Shanghai for a rubber-goods house, and learned all there is to know about Chinks. He's the best rifle shot in Java. An' he can handle men. He ain't much on the brag order, but he sure is all there."
"That is the sort of a man I have been looking for," Peter Gross observed with satisfaction.
"He's worth lookin' up at any rate," Captain Rouse declared. "If you care to see him and my nevvy, you're in luck. They're comin' back to-night. They had a little business here, so they run down together and will bunk with me. I expect them here at nine o'clock, and if ye're on deck I'll interduce you. What d'ye say?"
"I knew you wouldn't fail me, captain," Peter Gross replied warmly. "I'll be here."
The shrill whistle of a coaster interrupted Peter Gross's melancholy reflections. He recollected with a start that it must be near the time he had promised to be at Captain Rouse's cottage. Leaving the wharves, he ambled along the main traveled highway toward the business district until overtaken by a belated victoria whose driver he hailed.
The cool of evening was descending from the hills as the vehicle turned into the street on which Captain Rouse lived. It was a wide, tree-lined lane, with oil lamps every six or seven hundred feet whose yellow rays struggled ineffectually to banish the somber gloom shed by the huge masses of foliage that shut out the heavens. Feeling cramped from his long ride and a trifle chill, Peter Gross suddenly decided to walk the remainder of the distance, halted his driver, paid the fare, and dismissed him. Whistling cheerily, a rollicking chanty of the sea to which his feet kept time, he walked briskly along.
Cutting a bar of song in the middle, he stopped suddenly to listen. Somewhere in the darkness behind him someone had stumbled into an acacia hedge and had uttered a stifled exclamation of pain. There was no other sound, except the soughing of the breeze through the tree-tops.
"A drunken coolie," he observed to himself. He stepped briskly along and resumed his whistling. The song came to an abrupt close as his keen ears caught a faint shuffling not far behind, a shuffling like the scraping of a soft-soled shoe against the plank walk. He turned swiftly, ears pricked, andlooked steadily in the direction that the sound came from, but the somber shadows defied his searching glance.
"Only coolies," he murmured, but an uneasy feeling came upon him and he quickened his pace. His right hand involuntarily slipped to his coat-pocket for the pistol he customarily carried. It was not there. A moment's thought and he recollected he had left it in his room.
As he reached the next street-lamp he hesitated. Ahead of him was a long area of unlighted thoroughfare. Evidently the lamp-lighter had neglected his duties. Or, Peter Gross reflected, some malicious hand might have extinguished the lights. It was on this very portion of the lane that Captain Rouse's cottage stood, only a few hundred yards farther.
He listened sharply a moment. Back in the shadows off from the lane a piano tinkled, the langorous Dream Waltz from the Tales of Hoffman. A lighted victoria clattered toward him, then turned into a brick-paved driveway. Else not a sound. The very silence was ominous.
Walking slowly, to accustom his eyes to the gloom, Peter Gross left the friendly circle of light. As the shadows began to envelop him he heard the sound of running feet on turf. Some one inside the hedge was trying to overhaul him. He broke into a dog-trot.
A low whistle cut the silence. Leaping forward, he broke into a sprint. Rouse's cottage was only a hundred yards ahead—a dash and he would be there.
A whistle from in front. A like sound from the other side of the lane. The stealthy tap-tapping of feet, sandaled feet, from every direction.
For a moment Peter Gross experienced the sensation of a hunted creature driven to bay. It was only for a moment, however, and then he acquainted himself with his surroundings in a quick, comprehensive glance. On one side of him was the hedge, on the other a line of tall kenari-trees.
Vaulting the hedge, he ran silently and swiftly in its shadow, hugging the ground like a fox in the brush. Suddenly and without warning he crashed full-tilt into a man coming from the opposite direction, caught him low, just beneath the ribs. The man crashed back into the hedge with an explosive gasp.
Ahead were white pickets, the friendly white pickets that enclosed Captain Rouse's grounds. He dashed toward them, but he was too late. Out of a mass of shrubbery a short, squat figure leaped at him. There was the flash of a knife. Peter Gross had no chance to grapple with his assailant. He dropped like a log, an old sailor's trick, and the short, squat figure fell over him. He had an instant glimpse of a yellow face, fiendish in its malignancy, of a flying queue, of fingers that groped futilely, then he rose.
At the same instant a cat-like something sprang on him from behind, twisted its legs around his body, and fastened its talons into his throat. The impact staggered him, but as he found his footinghe tore the claw-like fingers loose and shook the creature off. Simultanelusly two shadows in front of him materialized into Chinamen with gleaming knives. As they leaped at him a red-hot iron seared his right forearm and a bolt of lightning numbed his left shoulder.
A sound like a hoarse, dry cackle came from Peter Gross's throat. His long arms shot out and each of his huge hands caught one of his assailants by the throat. Bringing their heads together with a sound like breaking egg-shells, he tossed them aside.
Before he could turn to flee a dozen shadowy forms semi-circled about him. The starlight dimly revealed gaunt, yellow faces and glaring eyes, the eyes of a wolf-pack. The circle began to narrow. Knives glittered. But none of the crouching forms dared venture within reach of the gorilla arms.
Then the lion arose in Peter Gross. Beside him was an ornamental iron flower-pot. Stooping quickly, he seized it and lifted it high above his head. They shrank from him, those crouching forms, with shrill pipings of alarm, but it was too late. He hurled it at the foremost. It caught two of them and bowled them over like ninepins. Then he leaped at the others. His mighty right caught one under the chin and laid him flat. His left dove into the pit of another's stomach. The unfortunate Chinaman collapsed like a sack of grain.
They ringed him round. A sharp, burning sensation swept across his back—it was the slash of a knife. A blade sank into the fleshy part of histhroat, and he tore it impatiently away. He struck out savagely into the densely packed mass of humanity and a primitive cave-man surge of joy thrilled him at the impact of his fists against human flesh and bone.
But the fight was too unequal. Blood started from a dozen cuts; it seemed to him he was afire within and without. His blows began to lack power and a film came over his eyes, but he struck out the more savagely, furious at his own weakness. The darkness thickened. The figures before him, beside him, behind him, became more confused. Two and three heads bobbed where he thought there was only one. His blows went wild. The jackals were pulling the lion down.
As he pulled himself together for a last desperate effort to plough through to the security of Rouse's home, the sharp crack of a revolver sounded in his ear. At the same instant the lawn leaped into a blinding light, a light in which the gory figures of his assailants stood out in dazed and uncertain relief. The acrid fumes of gunpowder filled his nostrils.
Darting toward the hedges like rats scurrying to their holes, the Chinamen sought cover. Peter Gross hazily saw two men, white men, each of them carrying a flash-light and a pistol, vault the pickets. A third followed, swinging a lantern and bellowing for the "wacht" (police). It was Roaring Rory.
"Are you hurt?" the foremost asked as he approached.
"Not bad, I guess," Peter Gross replied thickly. He lifted his hand to his forehead in a dazed, uncertain way and looked stupidly at the blood that gushed over it. A cleft seemed to open at his feet. He felt himself sinking—down, down, down to the very foundations of the world. Dimly he heard the cry:
"Quick, Paddy, lend a hand."
Then came oblivion.
When Peter Gross recovered consciousness fifteen minutes later he found himself in familiar quarters. He was lying on a cot in Captain Rouse's den, commonly designated by that gentleman as "the cabin." Captain Rouse's face, solemn as an owl's, was leaning over him. As he blinked the captain's lips expanded into a grin.
"Wot did I tell ye, 'e's all right!" the captain roared delightedly. "Demmit, ye can't kill a Sunda schooner bucko mate with a little bloodlettin'. Ah Sing pretty near got ye, eh, Peter?"
The last was to Peter Gross, who was sitting up and taking inventory of his various bandages, also of his hosts. There were two strangers in the room. One was a short, stocky young man with a pugnacious Irish nose, freckly face, and hair red as a burnished copper boiler. His eyes were remarkably like the jovial navigator's, Peter Gross observed. The other was a dark, well-dressed man of about forty, with a military bearing and reserved air. He bore the stamp of gentility.
"Captain Carver," Roaring Rory announced. "My old mate, Peter Gross, the best man as ever served under me."
The elder man stepped forward and clasped Peter Gross's hand. The latter tried to rise, but Carver restrained him.
"You had better rest a few moments, Mr. Gross," he said. There was a quiet air of authority in his voice that instantly attracted the resident, who gave him a keen glance.
"My nevvy, Paddy, Peter, the doggonest young scamp an old sea-horse ever tried to raise," Rouse bellowed. "I wish I could have him for'ard with a crew like we used to have on the oldGloucester Maid." He guffawed boisterously while the younger of the two strangers, his face aglow with a magnetic smile, sprang forward and caught Peter Gross's hand in a quick, dynamic grip.
"Them's the lads ye've got to thank for bein' here," Roaring Rory announced, with evident pride. "If they hadn't heard the fracas and butted in, the Chinks would have got ye sure."
"I rather fancied it was you whom I have to thank for being here," Peter Gross acknowledged warmly. "You were certainly just in time."
"Captain Rouse is too modest," Captain Carver said. "It was he who heard the disturbance and jumped to the conclusion you might be—in difficulty."
The old navigator shook his head sadly. "I warned ye, Peter," he said; "I warned ye against that old devil, Ah Sing. Didn't I tell you to be careful at night? Ye ain't fit to be trusted alone, Peter."
"I think you did," Peter Gross acknowledged with a twinkle. "But didn't you fix our appointment for to-night?"
"Ye should have carried a gun," Roaring Rory reproved. "Leastwise a belayin'-pin. Ye like to use your fists too well, Peter. Fists are no good against knives. I'm a peace-lovin' man, Peter, 'twould be better for ye if ye patterned after me."
Peter Gross smiled, for Roaring Rory's record for getting into scrapes was known the length and breadth of the South Pacific. Looking up, he surprised a merry gleam in Captain Carver's eyes and Paddy striving hard to remain sober.
"I'll remember your advice, captain," Peter Gross assured.
"Humph!" Roaring Rory grunted. "Well, Peter, is your head clear enough to talk business?"
"I think so," Peter Gross replied slowly. "Have you explained the matter I came here to discuss?"
"Summat, summat," Rouse grunted. "I leave the talking to you, Peter."
"Captain Rouse told me you wanted some one to take charge of a company of men for a dangerous enterprise somewhere in the South Pacific," Carver replied. "He said it meant risking life. That might mean anything to piracy. I understand, however, that your enterprise has official sanction."
"My appointment is from the governor-general of the Netherlands East Indies," Peter Gross stated.
"Ah, yes."
"I need a man to drill and lead twenty-five men,all of whom have had some military training. I want a man who knows the Malays and their ways and knows the bush."
"I was in the Philippines for two years as a captain of volunteer infantry," Carver said. "I was in Shanghai for four years and had considerable dealings at that time with the Chinese. I know a little of their language."
"Have you any one dependent on you?"
"I am a bachelor," Captain Carver replied.
"Does twenty-five hundred a year appeal to you?"
"That depends entirely on what services I should be expected to render."
Confident that he had landed his man, and convinced from Captain Rouse's recommendation and his own observations that Carver was the very person he had been seeking, Peter Gross threw reserve aside and frankly stated the object of his expedition and the difficulties before him.
"You see," he concluded, "the game is dangerous, but the stakes are big. I have no doubt but what Governor Van Schouten will deal handsomely with every one who helps restore order in the residency."
Captain Carver was frowning.
"I don't like the idea of playing one native element against another," he declared. "It always breeds trouble. The only people who have ever been successful in pulling it off is the British in India, and they had to pay for it in blood during the Mutiny. The one way to pound the fear of God into the hearts of these benighted browns andblacks is to show them you're master. Once they get the idea the white man can't keep his grip without them, look out for treachery."
"I've thought of that," Peter Gross replied sadly. "But to do as you suggest will take at least two regiments and will cost the lives of several thousand Dyaks. You will have to lay the country bare, and you will sow a seed of hate that is bound to bear fruit. But if I can persuade them to trust me, Bulungan will be pacified. Brooke did it in Sarawak, and I believe I can do it here."
Carver stroked his chin in silence.
"You know the country," he said. "If you have faith and feel you want me, I'll go with you."
"I'll have a lawyer make the contracts at once," Peter Gross replied. "We can sign them to-morrow."
"Can't you take me with you, too, Mr. Gross?" Paddy Rouse asked eagerly.
Peter Gross looked at the lad. The boy's face was eloquent with entreaty.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Seventeen," came the halting acknowledgment. "But I've done a man's work for a year. Haven't I, avunculus?"
Captain Rouse nodded a reluctant assent. "I hate to miss ye, my boy," he said, "but maybe a year out there would get the deviltry out of ye and make a man of ye. If Peter wants ye, he may have ye."
A flash of inspiration came to Peter Gross as he glanced at the boy's tousled shock of fiery-red hair.
"I'll take you on a private's pay," he said. "A thousand a year. Is that satisfactory?"
"I'm signed," Paddy whooped. "Hooray!"
When Peter Gross and his company left Tanjong Priok a fortnight later Captain Rouse bade them a wistful good-bye at the wharf.
"Take care of the lad; he's all I got," he said huskily to the resident. "If it wasn't for the damned plantation I'd go with ye, too."
The Dutch gun-boatPrins Lodewyk, a terror to evil-doers in the Java and Celebes seas, steamed smartly up Bulungan Bay and swung into anchorage a quarter of a mile below the assemblage of junks and Malay proas clustered at the mouth of Bulungan River. She carried a new flag below her ensign, the resident's flag. As she swung around, her guns barked a double salute, first to the flag and then to the resident. Peter Gross and his company were come to Bulungan.
The pert brass cannon of the stockade answered gun for gun. It was the yapping of terrier against mastiff, for the artillery of the fortress was of small caliber and an ancient pattern. Its chief service was to intimidate the natives of the town who had once been bombarded during an unfortunate rebellion and had never quite forgotten the sensation of being under shell-fire.
Peter Gross leaned over the rail of the vessel and looked fixedly shoreward. His strong, firm chin was grimly set. There were lines in his face that had not been there a few weeks before when he was tendered and accepted his appointment as resident.Responsibility was sitting heavily upon his shoulders, for he now realized the magnitude of the task he had so lightly assumed.
Captain Carver joined him. "All's well, so far, Mr. Gross," he observed.
Peter Gross let the remark stand without comment for a moment. "Ay, all's well so far," he assented heavily.
There was another pause.
"Are we going ashore this afternoon?" Carver inquired.
"That is my intention."
"Then you'll want the boys to get their traps on deck. At what hour will you want them?"
"I think I shall go alone," Peter Gross replied quietly.
Carver looked up quickly. "Not alone, Mr. Gross," he expostulated.
Peter Gross looked sternly shoreward at the open water-front of Bulungan town, where dugouts, sampans, and crude bark canoes were frantically shooting about to every point of the compass in helter-skelter confusion.
"I think it would be best," he said.
Carver shook his head. "I don't think I'd do it, Mr. Gross," he advised gravely. "I don't think you ought to take the chance."
"To convince an enemy you are not afraid is often half the fight," Peter Gross observed.
"A good rule, but it doesn't apply to a pack of assassins," Carver replied. "And that's what weseem to be up against. You can't take too big precautions against whelps that stab in the dark."
Peter Gross attempted no contradiction. The ever increasing concourse of scantily clad natives along the shore held his attention. Carver scanned his face anxiously.
"They pretty nearly got you at Batavia, Mr. Gross," he reminded, anxiety overcoming his natural disinclination to give a superior unsolicited advice.
"You may be right," Peter Gross conceded mildly.
Carver pushed his advantage. "If Ah Sing's tong men will take a chance at murdering you in Batavia under the nose of the governor, they won't balk at putting you out of the way in Bulungan, a thousand miles from nowhere. There's a hundred ways they can get rid of a man and make it look like an accident."
"We must expect to take some risks."
Perceiving the uselessness of argument, Carver made a final plea. "At least let me go with you," he begged.
Peter Gross sighed and straightened to his full six feet two. "Thank you, captain," he said, "but I must go alone. I want to teach Bulungan one thing to-day—that Peter Gross is not afraid."
While Captain Carver was vainly trying to dissuade Peter Gross from going ashore, Kapitein Van Slyck hastened from his quarters at the fort to thecontrolleur'shouse. Muller was an uncertain quantity in a crisis, the captain was aware; it was vital that they act in perfect accord. He found hisassociate pacing agitatedly in the shade of a screen of nipa palms between whose broad leaves he could watch the trim white hull and spotless decks of the gun-boat.
Muller was smoking furiously. At the crunch of Van Slyck's foot on the coraled walk he turned quickly, with a nervous start, and his face blanched.
"Oh,kapitein," he exclaimed with relief, "is it you?"
"Who else would it be?" Van Slyck growled, perceiving at once that Muller had worked himself into a frenzy of apprehension.
"I don't know. I thought, perhaps, Cho Seng—"
"You look as though you'd seen a ghost. What's there about Cho Seng to be afraid of?"
"—that Cho Seng had come to tell me Mynheer Gross was here," Muller faltered.
Van Slyck looked at him keenly, through narrowed lids.
"Hum!" he grunted with emphasis. "So it is Mynheer Gross already with you, eh, Muller?"
There was a significant emphasis on the "mynheer."
Muller flushed. "Don't get the notion I'm going to sweet-mouth to him simply because he is resident,kapitein," he retorted, recovering his dignity. "You know me well enough—my foot is in this as deeply as yours."
"Yes, and deeper," Van Slyck replied significantly.
The remark escaped Muller. He was thrustingaside the screen of nipa leaves to peer toward the vessel.
"No," he exclaimed with a sigh of relief, "he has not left the ship yet. There are two civilians at the forward rail—come,kapitein, do you think one of them is he?"
He opened the screen wider for Van Slyck. The captain stepped forward with an expression of bored indifference and peered through the aperture.
"H-m!" he muttered. "I wouldn't be surprised if the big fellow is Gross. They say he has the inches."
"I hope to heaven he stays aboard to-day," Muller prayed fervently.
"He can come ashore whenever he wants to, for all I care," Van Slyck remarked.
Muller straightened and let the leaves fall back.
"Lieve hemel, neen, kapitein," he expostulated. "What would I do if he should question me. My reports are undone, there are a dozen cases to be tried, I have neglected to settle matters with some of the chiefs, and my accounts are in a muddle. I don't see how I am ever going to straighten things out—then there are those other things—what will he say?"
He ran his hands through his hair in nervous anxiety. Van Slyck contemplated his agitation with a darkening frown. "Is the fool going to pieces?" was the captain's harrowing thought. He clapped a hand on Muller's shoulder with an assumption of bluff heartiness.
"'Sufficient unto the day—' You know the proverb,mynheer," he said cheerfully. "There's nothing to worry about—we won't give him a chance at you for two weeks. Kapitein Enckel of thePrinswill probably bring him ashore to-day. We'll receive him here; I'll bring my lieutenants over, and Cho Seng can make us a big dinner.
"To-night there will be schnapps and reminiscences, to-morrow morning a visit of inspection to the fort, to-morrow afternoon abitcharawith the Rajah Wobanguli, and the day after a visit to Bulungan town. At night visits to Wang Fu's house and Marinus Blauwpot's, with cards and Hollands. I'll take care of him for you, and you can get your books in shape. Go to Barang, if you want to, the day we visit Rotterdam—leave word with Cho Seng you were called away to settle an important case. Leave everything to me, and when you get back we'll havemynheerso drunk he won't know a tax statement from an Edammer cheese."
Muller's face failed to brighten at the hopeful program mapped out by his associate. If anything, his agitation increased.
"But he might ask questions to-day,kapitein—questions I cannot answer."
Van Slyck's lips curled. His thought was: "Good God, what am I going to do with this lump of jelly-fish?" But he replied encouragingly:
"No danger of that at all,mynheer. There are certain formalities that must be gone through firstbefore a new resident takes hold. It would not be good form to kick his predecessor out of office without giving the latter a chance to close his books—even a pig of a Yankee knows that. Accept his credentials if he offers them, but tell him business must wait till the morning. Above all, keep your head, say nothing, and be as damnably civil as though he were old Van Schouten himself. If we can swell his head none of us will have to worry."
"But my accounts,kapitein," Muller faltered.
"To the devil with your accounts," Van Slyck exclaimed, losing patience. "Go to Barang, fix them up as best you can."
"I can never get them to balance," Muller cried. "Our dealings—the rattan we shipped—you know." He looked fearfully around.
"There never was acontrolleuryet that didn't line his own pockets," Van Slyck sneered. "But his books never showed it. You are a book-keeper,mynheer, and you know how to juggle figures. Forget these transactions; if you can't, charge the moneys you got to some account. There are no vouchers or receipts in Bulungan. A handy man with figures, like yourself, ought to be able to make a set of accounts that that ferret Sachsen himself could not find a flaw in."
"But that is not the worst," Muller cried despairingly. "There are the taxes, the taxes I should have sent to Batavia, the rice that we sold instead to Ah Sing."
"Good God! Have you grown a conscience?"Van Slyck snarled. "If you have, drown yourself in the bay. Lie, you fool, lie! Tell him the weevils ruined the crop, tell him the floods drowned it, tell him a tornado swept the fields bare, lay it to the hill Dyaks—anything, anything! But keep your nerve, or you'll hang sure."
Muller retreated before the captain's vehemence.
"But thebruinevels,kapitein?" he faltered. "They may tell him something different."
"Wobanguli won't; he's too wise to say anything," Van Slyck asserted firmly. "None of the others will dare to, either—all we've got to do is to whisper Ah Sing's name to them. But there's little danger of any of them except the Rajah seeing him until after thePrinsis gone. Once she's out of the harbor I don't care what they say—no word of it will ever get back to Batavia."
His devilishly handsome smile gleamed sardonically, and he twisted his nicely waxed mustache. Muller's hands shook.
"Kapitein," he replied in an odd, strained voice, "I am afraid of this Peter Gross. I had a dream last night, a horrible dream—I am sure it was him I saw. I was in old de Jonge's room in the residency building—you know the room—and the stranger of my dream sat in old de Jonge's chair.
"He asked me questions, questions of how I came here, and what I have done here, and I talked and talked till my mouth was dry as the marsh grass before the rains begin to fall. All the while he listened, and his eyes seemed to bore through me, asthough they said: 'Judas, I know what is going on in your heart.'
"At last, when I could say no more, he asked me: 'Mynheer, how did Mynheer de Jonge die?' Then I fell on the ground before him and told him all—all. At the last, soldiers came to take me away to hang me, but under the very shadow of the gallows a bird swooped down out of the air and carried me away, away into the jungle. Then I awoke."
Van Slyck broke into scornful laughter.
"Mynheer, you had enough to worry about before you started dreaming," he said bluntly. "If you're going to fill your head with such foolishness I'll leave you to your own devices."
"But,kapitein, it might be a warning," Muller cried desperately.
"Heaven doesn't send ravens to cheat such rogues as you and I from the gallows,mynheer," Van Slyck mocked. "We might as well get ready to meet our new resident. I see a boat putting off from the ship."