When Peter Gross stepped ashore at the foot of the slope on which the fort and government buildings stood, three thousand pairs of eyes, whose owners were securely hidden in the copses and undergrowth for a quarter of a mile in both directions along the shore-line, watched his every movement. With the lightning celerity with which big news travels word had been spread through Bulungan town that the new resident was coming ashore, and every inhabitant possessed of sound legs to bear him had run, crawled, or scrambled to a favorable patch of undergrowth where he could get a first glimpse of theorang blandachief without being observed.
Perfectly aware of this scrutiny, but calmly oblivious to it, Peter Gross stepped out of the boat and directed the sailors who rowed it to return to their ship. As their oars bit the water he faced the path that wound up the hillside and walked along it at a dignified and easy pace. His sharp ears caught the incessant rustle of leaves, a rustle not made by the breeze, and the soft grinding of bits of coral under the pressure of naked feet.
Once he surprised a dusky face in the bush, buthis glance roved to the next object in his line of vision in placid unconcern. As he mounted the rise he made for thecontrolleur'shome, strolling along as calmly as though he were on a Batavia lane.
"Duivel noch toe!" Muller exclaimed as the boat returned to the ship. "He is coming here alone." His voice had an incredulous ring as though he half doubted the evidence of his own senses.
Van Slyck's eyes danced with satisfaction, and his saturnine smile was almost Mephistophelian.
"By Nassau, I was right, after all,mynheer," he exclaimed. "He's an ass of a Yankee that Van Schouten is having some sport with in sending him here."
"There may be something behind this,kapitein," Muller cautioned apprehensively, but Van Slyck cut him short.
"Behind this,mynheer? The fool does not even know how to maintain the dignity due his office. Would he land this way, like a pedler with his pack, if he did? Oh, we are going to have some rare sport—"
Van Slyck's merriment broke loose in a guffaw.
"You-you will not do anything violent,kapitein?" Muller asked apprehensively.
"Violent?" Van Slyck exclaimed. "I wouldn't hurt him for a thousand guilders,mynheer. He's going to be more fun than even you."
The frank sneer that accompanied the remark made the captain's meaning sufficiently clear to penetrate even so sluggish a mind as thecontrolleur's.He reddened, and an angry retort struggled to his lips, but he checked it before it framed itself into coherent language. He was too dependent on Van Slyck, he realized, to risk offending the latter now, but for the first time in their acquaintanceship his negative dislike of his more brilliant associate deepened to a positive aversion.
"What are we going to do,kapitein?" he asked quietly.
"Welcome him,mynheer!" Again the sardonic smile. "Treat him to some of your fine cigars and a bottle of your best Hollands. Draw him out, make him empty his belly to us. When we have sucked him dry and drenched him with liquor we will pack him back to thePrinsto tell Kapitein Enckel what fine fellows we are. To-morrow we'll receive him with all ceremony—I'll instruct him this afternoon how a resident is installed in his new post and how he must conduct himself.
"Enckel will leave here without a suspicion, Mynheer Gross will be ready to trust even his purse to us if we say the word, and we will have everything our own way as before. But s-s-st! Here he comes!" He lifted a restraining hand. "Lord, what a shoulder of beef! Silence, now, and best your manners,mynheer. Leave the talking to me."
Peter Gross walked along the kenari-tree shaded lane between the evergreen hedges clipped with characteristic Dutch primness to a perfect plane. Behind him formed a growing column of natives whose curiosity had gotten the better of their diffidence.
The resident's keen eyes instantly ferreted out Van Slyck and Muller in the shadows of the veranda, but he gave no sign of recognition. Mounting the steps of the porch, he stood for a moment in dignified expectancy, his calm, gray eyes taking the measure of each of its occupants.
An apprehensive shiver ran down Muller's spine as he met Peter Gross's glance—those gray eyes were so like the silent, inscrutable eyes of the stranger in de Jonge's chair whom he saw in his dream. It was Van Slyck who spoke first.
"You were looking for some one,mynheer?" he asked.
"For Mynheer Muller, thecontrolleurand acting resident. I think I have found him."
The mildness with which these words were spoken restored the captain's aplomb, momentarily shaken by Peter Gross's calm, disconcerting stare.
"You have a message for us?"
"I have," Peter Gross replied.
"Ah, from Kapitein Enckel, I suppose," Van Slyck remarked urbanely. "Your name is—" He paused significantly.
"It is from his excellency, the Jonkheer Van Schouten," Peter Gross corrected quietly.
Peter Gross's tolerance of this interrogation convinced Van Slyck that he had to do with an inferior intelligence suddenly elevated to an important position and very much at sea in it.
"And your message, I understand, is for Mynheer Muller, thecontrolleur?" the captain inquired loftily with a pert uptilt of his chin.
"For Mynheer Muller, thecontrolleur," Peter Gross acknowledged gravely.
"Ah, yes. This is Mynheer Muller." He indicated thecontrolleurwith a flourish. "But you have not yet told us your name."
"I am Peter Gross."
"Ah, yes, Pieter Gross. Pieter Gross." The captain repeated the name with evident relish. "Pieter Gross. Mynheer Pieter Gross."
There was a subtle emphasis on themynheer—a half-doubtful use of the word, as though he questioned Peter Gross's right to a gentleman's designation. It was designed to test the sailor.
Peter Gross's face did not change a muscle. Turning to thecontrolleur, he asked in a voice of unruffled calm: "May I speak to you privately,mynheer?"
Muller glanced apprehensively at Van Slyck. The fears inspired by his dreams made him more susceptible to ulterior impressions than the captain, whose naturally more acute sensibilities were blunted by the preconceived conviction that he had an ignorant Yankee to deal with. Van Slyck smiled cynically and observed:
"Am I in the way, Mynheer Gross?" Again the ironic accent to themynheer. He rose to go, but Muller stayed him with the cry:
"Neen, neen, kapitein.Whatever comes from the governor concerns you, too. Stay with us, and we will see what his excellency has to say."
None knew the importance of first impressionsbetter than the captain. If the new resident could be thwarted in his purpose of seeing Muller alone that achievement would exercise its influence on all their future relations, Van Slyck perceived.
Assuming an expression of indifference, he sank indolently into an easy chair. When he looked up he found the gray eyes of Peter Gross fixed full upon him.
"Perhaps I should introduce myself further, captain," Peter Gross said. "I am Mynheer Gross, of Batavia, your new resident by virtue of his excellency the Jonkheer Van Schouten's appointment."
Van Slyck's faint, cynical smile deepened a trifle.
"Ah,mynheerhas been appointed resident," he remarked non-committally.
Peter Gross's face hardened sternly.
"It is not the custom in Batavia, captain, for officers of the garrison to be seated while their superiors stand."
For a moment the astonished captain lost his usual assurance. In that moment he unwittingly scrambled to his feet in response to the commanding look of the gray eyes that stared at him so steadily. The instant his brain cleared he regretted the action, but another lightning thought saved him from the folly of defying the resident by reseating himself in the chair he had vacated. Furious at Peter Gross, furious at himself, he struggled futilely for an effective reply and failed to find it. In the end he took refuge in a sullen silence.
Peter Gross turned again to Muller.
"Here are my credentials,mynheer, and a letter from his excellency, the governor-general," he announced simply.
With the words he placed in Muller's hands two envelopes plentifully decorated with sealing-wax stamped with the great seal of the Netherlands. Thecontrolleurtook them with trembling fingers. Peter Gross calmly appropriated a chair. As he seated himself he remarked:
"Gentlemen, you may sit."
Van Slyck ignored the permission and strolled to one end of the veranda. He was thinking deeply, and all the while stole covert looks at Peter Gross. Had he been mistaken, after all, in his estimate of the man? Was this apparent guilelessness and simplicity a mask? Were Koyala and Muller right? Or was the resident's sudden assumption of dignity a petty vanity finding vent in the display of newly acquired powers?
He stole another look. That face, it was so frank and ingenuous, so free from cunning and deceit, and so youthful. Its very boyishness persuaded Van Slyck. Vanity was the inspiration for the resident's sudden assertion of the prerogatives of his office, he decided, the petty vanity of a boor eager to demonstrate authority. Confidence restored, he became keenly alert for a chance to humble this froward Yankee.
It was some time before Muller finished reading the documents. He was breathing heavily the while,for he felt that he was reading his own death-warrant. There was no doubting their authenticity, for they were stamped with the twin lions of the house of Orange and the motto, "Je Maintiendrai." The signature at the bottom of each was the familiar scrawl of Java's gamecock governor.
Muller stared at them blankly for a long time, as though he half hoped to find some mitigation of the blow that swept his vast administrative powers as acting resident from him to the magistracy of a district. Dropping them on his lap at last with a weary sigh, he remarked:
"Welcome, Mynheer Gross, to Bulungan. I wish I could say more, but I cannot. The most I can say is that I am happy his excellency has at last yielded to my petition and has relieved me of a portion of my duties. It is a hard, hard residency to govern,mynheer."
"A splendid start," Van Slyck muttered to himself under his breath.
"So I have been informed,mynheer," Peter Gross replied gravely. "Pardon me a moment."
He turned toward Van Slyck: "Captain, I have a letter for you also from his excellency. It will inform you of my appointment."
"It would be better form, perhaps,mynheer, for me to receive his excellency's commands at Fort Wilhelmina," Van Slyck replied suavely, delighted at being able to turn the tables.
"Very true, very true,kapitein, if you insist,"Peter Gross agreed quietly. "I hope to visit you at the fort within the hour. In the mean time you will excuse Mynheer Muller and me."
For the second time a cold chill of doubt seized Van Slyck. Was it possible that he had misjudged his man? If he had, it was doubly dangerous to leave Muller alone with him. He resolved to force the issue.
"A thousand pardons,mynheer," he apologized smilingly. "Mynheer Muller just now requested me to remain."
A swift change came into the face of Peter Gross. His chin shot forward; in place of the frank simplicity on which Van Slyck had based his estimate was a look of authority.
"Mynheer Muller cancels that invitation at my request," he announced sternly.
Van Slyck glanced in quick appeal at his associate, but Muller's eyes were already lowering under Peter Gross's commanding glance. Unable to find a straw of excuse for holding the captain, thecontrolleurstammered:
"Certainly,mynheer. I will see you later,kapitein."
Even then Van Slyck lingered, afraid now to leave Muller alone. But the cold, gray eyes of Peter Gross followed him; they expressed a decision from which there was no appeal. Furious at Muller, furious at his own impotence, the captain walked slowly across the veranda. Half-way down the steps he turned with a glare of defiance, but thoughtbetter of it. Raging inwardly, and a prey to the blackest passions, he strode toward the stockade. The unhappy sentinel at the gate, a Javanese colonial, was dozing against the brass cannon.
"Devil take you, is this the way you keep guard?" Van Slyck roared and leaped at the man. His sword flashed from its scabbard and he brought the flat of the blade on the unhappy wretch's head. The Javanese dropped like a log.
"Bring that carrion to the guard-house and put some one on the gate that can keep his eyes open," Van Slyck shouted to young Lieutenant Banning, officer of the day. White to the lips, Banning saluted, and executed the orders.
In barracks that night the soldiers whispered fearfully to each other that abudjang brani(evil spirit) had seized their captain again.
"You have found Bulungan a difficult province to govern,mynheer?" Peter Gross asked.
The words were spoken in a mild, ingratiating manner. Peter Gross's voice had the friendly quality that so endeared him to all who made his acquaintance, and the harshness that had distinguished his curt dismissal of the supercilious Van Slyck was wholly absent.
Muller wiped away the drops of perspiration that had gathered on his forehead. A prey to conscience, Van Slyck's dismissal had seemed to him the beginning of the end.
"Ach, mynheer," he faltered, "it has been a heavy task. Too much for one man, altogether too much. Since Mynheer de Jonge left here two years ago I have been both resident andcontrolleur. I have worked night and day, and the heavy work, and the worry, have made me almost bald."
That a connection existed between baldness and overwork was a new theory to Peter Gross and rather amusing, since he knew the circumstances. But not the faintest flicker of a smile showed on his face.
"You have found it difficult, then, I presume, to keep up with all your work?" he suggested.
Muller instantly grasped at the straw. "Notonly difficult,mynheer, but wholly impossible," he vehemently affirmed. "My reports are far behind. I suppose his excellency told you that?"
He scanned Peter Gross's face anxiously. The latter's serenity remained undisturbed.
"His excellency told me very little," he replied. "He suggested that I consult with you and Captain Van Slyck to get your ideas on what is needed for bettering conditions here. I trust I will have your coöperation,mynheer?"
Muller breathed a silent sigh of relief. "That you will,mynheer," he assured fervently. "I shall be glad to help you all I can. And so will Kapitein Van Slyck, I am sure of that. You will find him a good man—a little proud, perhaps, and headstrong, like all these soldiers, but an experienced officer." Muller nodded sagely.
"I am glad to hear that," Peter Gross replied. "The work is a little new to me—I presume you know that?"
"So I heard,mynheer. This is your first post as resident?"
Peter Gross's eyelids quivered a trifle. Muller's admission revealed that he had had correspondence with Ah Sing, for from no other source could the news have leaked out.
"This is my first post," he acknowledged.
"Possibly you have served ascontrolleur?" Muller suggested.
"I am a sailor," Peter Gross replied. "This is my first state appointment."
"Then my experience may be of value to you,mynheer," Muller declared happily. "You understand accounts, of course?"
"In a measure. But I am more a sailor than a supercargo,mynheer."
"To be sure, to be sure," Muller acquiesced heartily. "A sailor to the sea and to fighting in the bush, and a penman to his books. Leave the accounts to me; I will take care of them for you,mynheer. You will have plenty to do, keeping the tribes in order. It was more than I could do. These Dyaks and Malays are good fighters."
"So I have been told," Peter Gross assented dryly.
"They told you correctly,mynheer. But they will get a stern master now—we have heard of your work at Lombock,mynheer."
The broad compliment was accompanied by an even broader smile. Muller was very much pleased with himself, and thought he was handling a delicate situation in a manner that Van Slyck himself could not have improved upon.
Peter Gross's gravity did not relax. "How are the natives? Do you have much difficulty?" he inquired.
Muller assumed a wobegone expression. "Ach, mynheer," he exclaimed dolorously, "those hill Dyaks are devils. It is one raid after another; they will not let us alone. The rice-fields are swept bare. What the Dyaks do not get, the floods and typhoons get, and the weevils eat the stubble. We have nothad a crop in two years. The rice we gathered for taxes from those villages where there was a little blessing on the harvest we had to distribute among the villages where the crop failed to keep our people from starving. That is why we could not ship to Batavia. I wish his excellency would come here himself and see how things are; he would not be so critical about the taxes that are not paid."
"Do the coast Dyaks ever make trouble?" Peter Gross asked.
Muller glanced at him shrewdly.
"It is the hill Dyaks who begin it,mynheer. Sometimes my coast Dyaks lose their heads when their crops are burned and their wives and children are stolen, but that is not often. We can control them better than we can the hill people, for they are nearer us. Of course a man runs amuck occasionally, but that you find everywhere."
"I hear there is a half-white woman who wields a great influence over them," Peter Gross remarked. "Who is she?"
"You mean Koyala,mynheer. A wonderful woman with a great influence over her people; they would follow her to death. That was a wise act,mynheer, to persuade his excellency to cancel the offer he made for her person. Bulungan will not forget it. You could not have done anything that pleases the people more."
"She is very beautiful, I have heard," Peter Gross remarked pensively.
Muller glanced at him sharply, and a quick spasmof jealousy contracted his features. The resident might like a pretty face, too, was his instant thought; it was an angle he had not bargained for. This Mynheer Gross was strong and handsome, young—altogether a dangerous rival. His mellow good nature vanished.
"That depends on what you call beauty," he said surlily. "She is a witch-woman, and half Dyak."
Peter Gross looked up in pretended surprise.
"Well,mynheer, I am astonished. They told me in Batavia—" He checked himself abruptly.
"What did they tell you in Batavia?" Muller demanded eagerly.
Peter Gross shook his head. "I should not have spoken,mynheer. It was only idle gossip."
"Tell me,mynheer," Muller pleaded. "Lieve hemel, this is the first time in months that some one has told me that Batavia still remembers Muller of Bulungan."
"It was only idle rumor," Peter Gross deprecated. "I was told you were going to marry—naturally I believed—but of course as you say it's impossible—"
"I to marry?" Muller exclaimed. "Who? Koyala?"
Peter Gross's silence was all the confirmation thecontrolleurneeded. A gratified smile spread over his face; he was satisfied now that the resident had no intention of being his rival.
"They say that in Batavia?" he asked. "Well,between you and me,mynheer, I would have to look far for a fairer bride."
"Let me congratulate you," Peter Gross began, but Muller stayed him.
"No, not yet,mynheer. What I have said is for your ears alone. Remember, you know nothing."
"Your confidence is safe with me," Peter Gross assured him.
Muller suddenly recollected his duties as host.
"Ho,mynheer, you must have some Hollands with me," he cried hospitably. "A toast to our good fellowship." He clapped his hands and Cho Seng appeared in the doorway.
"A glass of lemonade or iced tea, if you please," Peter Gross stated.
"You are a teetotaler?" Muller cried in dismay.
"As resident of Bulungan, yes,mynheer. A servant of the state cannot be too careful."
Muller laughed. "Lemonade andjenever, Cho Seng," he directed. "Well,mynheer, I'll wager you are the only resident in all the colonies that will not take his glass of Hollands. If it were not forjenevermany of us could not live in this inferno. Sometimes it is well to be able to forget for a short time."
"If one has a burdened conscience," Peter Gross conditioned quietly.
Muller started. He intuitively felt the words were not idle observation, and he glanced at Peter Gross doubtfully. The resident was looking over the broad expanse of sea, and presently remarked:
"You have a splendid view here,mynheer. I hope the outlook from my house is half so good."
Muller roused himself. "That is so,mynheer," he said. "I had almost forgotten; we will have to put your house in order at once. It has not been occupied for two years, and will need a thorough cleaning. Meanwhile you must be my guest."
"I thank you,mynheer," Peter Gross replied quietly.
"You will have an establishment,mynheer?" Muller asked curiously. "Have you brought servants? If not, I shall be glad to loan you Cho Seng."
"Thank you, I am well provided," Peter Gross assured.
Cho Seng padded out on the porch and served them. Being a well-trained servant, he scarcely glanced at his employer's guest, but Peter Gross favored him with a thoughtful stare.
"Your servant has been with you a long time,mynheer?" he inquired carelessly.
"A year,mynheer. I got him from Batavia. He was recommended by—a friend." The pause was perceptible.
"His face seems familiar," Peter Gross remarked in an offhand manner. "But that's probably imagination. It is hard to tell these Chinese apart."
Conscious of having said too much again, Muller made no reply. They sipped their drinks in silence, Peter Gross thinking deeply the while why Ah Singshould make a former waiter in hisrumah makanMuller's servant. Presently he said:
"If it is not too much trouble,mynheer, could you show me my house?"
"Gladly,mynheer," Muller exclaimed, rising with alacrity. "It is only a few steps. We will go at once."
For the next half hour Peter Gross and he rambled through the dwelling. It was modeled closely after thecontrolleur'sown, with a similar green and white façade facing the sea. The atmosphere within was damp and musty, vermin scurried at their approach, but Peter Gross saw that the building could be made tenable in a few days. At last they came to a sequestered room on the north side, facing the hills. An almost level expanse of garden lay back of it.
"This was Mynheer de Jonge's own apartment," Muller explained. "Here he did most of his work." He sighed heavily. "He was a fine old man. It is too bad the good God had to take him away from us."
Peter Gross's lips pressed together tightly.
"Mynheer de Jonge was careless of his health, I hear," he remarked. "One cannot be too careful in Bulungan. Therefore,mynheer, I must ask you to get me a crew of men busy at once erecting two long houses, after these plans." He took a drawing from his pocket and showed it to Muller. Thecontrolleurblinked at it with a puzzled frown.
"These buildings will ruin the view,mynheer," he expostulated. "Such long huts—they are big enough for thirty men. What are they for?"
"Protection against the fevers,mynheer," Peter Gross said dryly. "The fevers that killed Mynheer de Jonge."
That evening, when Peter Gross had returned to the ship, Muller and Van Slyck met to compare notes. The captain was still boiling with anger; the resident's visit to Fort Wilhelmina had not soothed his ruffled temper.
"He told me he brought twenty-five irregulars with him for work in the bush," Van Slyck related. "They are a separate command, and won't be quartered in the fort. If this Yankee thinks he can meddle in the military affairs of the residency he will find he is greatly mistaken."
"Where will they be quartered?" Muller asked.
"I don't know."
"Maybe he will place them in the huts he has ordered me to build back of the residency," Muller remarked, rubbing his bald pate thoughtfully.
"He told you to build some huts?" Van Slyck asked.
"Yes, some long huts. Big enough for thirty men. He said they were to be a protection against the fevers."
"The fevers?" Van Slyck exclaimed in amazement.
"Yes, the fevers that killed Mynheer de Jonge, he said."
Van Slyck's face became livid with passion. "Against the fevers that killed de Jonge, eh?" he snarled. "The damned Yankee will find there are more than fevers in Bulungan."
He flashed a sharp look at Muller.
"When you see Koyala," he said, "send her to me."
From his quarters in the residency building, the same room where his predecessor, the obstinate and perverse de Jonge, had lived his brief and inglorious career, Peter Gross looked across the rolling expanse to the jungle-crested hills of Bulungan.
It was now two weeks since his coming. Many changes had been wrought during the fortnight. The residency had been cleared of vermin and made habitable. Paddy Rouse had been installed as secretary and general factotum. The tangle of cane, creeper growth, and nipa palm that had grown in the park of shapely tamarinds since de Jonge's death had been cut away. Two long, low buildings had been erected as barracks, and Captain Carver had converted the newly created plain into a drill-ground.
They were drilling now, the khaki-clad twenty-five that had crossed the Java Sea with Peter Gross. Two weeks on shore, supplementing the shipboard quizzes on the drill manual, had welded them into an efficient command. The smartness and precision with which they executed maneuvers compelled a grudging admiration from the stolid Dutchsoldiers of Fort Wilhelmina who strolled over daily to watch the drills.
"They'll do, they'll do," Peter Gross assured himself with satisfaction.
He stepped back to his desk and took a document from it. It was Muller's first report ascontrolleur. Peter Gross ran his eyes down the column of figures and frowned. The accounts balanced and were properly drawn up. The report seemed to be in great detail. Yet he felt that something was wrong. The expenses of administration had been heavy, enormously heavy, he noted. Instead of exporting rice Bulungan had been forced to import to make good crop losses, the report showed.
"Mynheer Muller is a good accountant," he observed to himself. "But there are a few items we will have to inquire into." He laid the report aside.
The door opened and Paddy Rouse entered. His bright red hair, scrubby nose, and freckled face were in odd contrast to his surroundings, so typically Dutch. Mynheer de Jonge had made this retreat a sanctuary, a bit of old Holland transplanted bodily without regard to differences of latitude and longitude. In the east wall was a blue-tile fireplace. On the mantel stood a big tobacco jar of Delftware with the familiar windmill pattern. Over it hung a long-stemmed Dutch pipe with its highly colored porcelain bowl. The pictures on the wall were Rembrandtesque, gentlemen in doublet and hose, with thin, refined, scholarly faces and the inevitable Vandyke beard.
"A lady to see you, sir," Paddy Rouse announced with military curtness, saluting. The irrepressible Irish broke through in a sly twinkle. "She's a beauty, sir."
Peter Gross controlled the start of surprise he felt. He intuitively guessed who his visitor was.
"You may show her in," he announced.
"Yes, sir."
"And, Paddy—call Captain Carver, please."
"Yes, sir."
The shock of red hair darted away.
Peter Gross looked out of the window again. The crucial moment, the moment he had looked forward to since accepting his appointment, was upon him. What should he say to her, this woman of two alien, utterly irreconcilable races, this woman so bitterly wronged, this woman with a hot shame in her heart that would not die? How should he approach her, how should he overcome her blind, unreasoning hatred against the dominant white race, how persuade her to trust him, to give her aid for the reclamation of Bulungan?
At the same time he wondered why she had come. He had not anticipated this meeting so soon. Was there something back of it? As he asked himself the question his fingers drummed idly on the desk.
While he was meditating he became suddenly aware of another presence in the room. Turning, he found himself looking into the eyes of a woman—the woman of his thoughts. She stood beside him, silent, possessed. There was a dagger in the snakeskin girdle she wore about her waist—a single thrust and she could have killed him. He looked at her steadily. Her glance was equally steady. He rose slowly.
"You are the Juffrouw Koyala," he announced simply. "Good morning,juffrouw." He bowed.
There was an instant's hesitation—or was it only his imagination, Peter Gross asked himself—then her form relaxed a trifle. So slight was the movement that he would not have been sure had not every muscle of her perfect body yielded to it with a supple, rhythmic grace.
"Won't you be seated?" he remarked conventionally, and placed a chair for her. Not until then did she speak.
"It is not necessary,mynheer. I have only a few words to say."
The cold austerity of her voice chilled Peter Gross. Yet her tones were marvelously sweet—like silver bells, he thought. He bowed and waited expectantly. In a moment's interlude he took stock of her.
She was dressed in the native fashion, sarong and kabaya, both of purest white. The kabaya reached to midway between the knees and ankles. Her limbs were bare, except for doe-skin sandals. The girdle about her waist was made from the skins of spotted pit vipers. The handle of the dagger it held was studded with gems, rubies, turquoises, and emeralds. A huge ruby, mounted on a pin, caught the kabaya above her breasts; outside of this she woreno jewelry. Her lustrous black hair hung loosely over her shoulders. Altogether a creature of the jungle, she looked at him with a glance in which defiance was but thinly concealed.
"What did you wish to see me about?" Peter Gross asked when he saw that she was awaiting his permission to speak.
Something like a spark shot from the glowing coals of her eyes. The tragic intensity of those eyes stirred anew the feeling of pity in the resident's heart.
"I am told,mynheer, that the governor withdrew his offer for my person at your request," she said coldly.
The statement was a question, Peter Gross felt, though put in the form of a declaration. He scrutinized her face sharply, striving to divine her object.
"That is true,juffrouw," he acknowledged.
"Why did you do this,mynheer?"
Peter Gross did not answer at once. The direct question astonished him.
"Why do you ask,juffrouw?" he parried.
Her finely chiseled head tilted back. Very royal she looked, very queenly, a Diana of the tropic jungle.
"Because Koyala Bintang Burung asks no favors from you, Mynheer Gross. Nor from any white man."
It was a declaration of war. Peter Gross realized it, and his face saddened. He had expected opposition but not open defiance. He wondered what lay back of it. The Dyak blood in her, always treacherous, never acting without a purpose, was not frank without reason, he assured himself.
"I had no intention of doing you a favor,juffrouw," he announced quietly.
"What was your object,mynheer?"
The words were hardly out of her mouth before she regretted them. The quick flash of her teeth as she bit her lips revealed the slip. Peter Gross instantly divined the reason—her hostility was so implacable that she would not even parley with him.
"To do you justice,juffrouw," he replied.
The words were like oil on flame. Her whole figure stiffened rigidly. The smoldering light in her eyes flashed into fire. The dusk in her face deepened to night. In a stifled voice, bitter with scorn, she cried:
"I want none of your justice,mynheer."
"No, I suppose not," Peter Gross assented heavily. His head sagged and he stared moodily into the fireplace. Koyala looked at him questioningly for a moment, then turned swiftly and glided toward the door. A word from Peter Gross interrupted her.
"Juffrouw!"
She turned slowly. The cold disdain her face expressed was magnificent.
"What shall I do?" he entreated. His mild, gray eyes were fixed on her flaming orbs pleadingly. Her lips curled in scornful contempt.
"That is for you to decide,mynheer," she replied.
"Then I cross from the slate all that has been charged against you,juffrouw. You are free to come and go as you wish."
A flash of anger crossed Koyala's face.
"Your pardon is neither asked nor desired,mynheer," she retorted.
"I must do my duty as I see it," Peter Gross replied. "All that I ask of you,juffrouw, is that you do not use your influence with the natives to hinder or oppose the plans I have for their betterment. May I have your pledge for that?"
"I make no promises and give no pledges,mynheer," Koyala announced coldly.
"I beg your pardon—I should not have asked it of you. All I ask is a chance to work out my plans without hindrance from those whose welfare I am seeking."
Koyala's lips curled derisively. "You can promote our welfare best by going back to Java,mynheer," she retorted.
Peter Gross looked at her sadly.
"Juffrouw," he said, "you are speaking words that you do not know the meaning of. Leave Bulungan? What would happen then? The Chinese would come down on you from the north, the Bugis from the east, and the Bajaus from every corner of the sea. Your coasts would be harried, your people would be driven out of their towns to the jungles, trade would cease, the rice harvests would fail, starvation would come upon you. Your children would be torn from you to be sold in the slave-market. Your women would be stolen. You are a woman,juffrouw, a woman of education and understanding; you know what the white man saves you from."
"And what have you whites given us in return for your protection?" she cried fiercely. "Your law, which is the right of a white man to cheat and rob the ignorant Dyak under the name of trade. Your garrisons in our city, which mean taking away our weapons so that our young men become soft in muscle and short in breath and can no longer make war like their fathers did. Your religion, which you force on us with a sword and do not believe yourself. Your morals, which have corrupted the former sanctity of our homes and have wrought an infamy unspeakable. Gin, to make our men stagger like fools; opium, to debauch us all! These are the white man's gifts to the Dyaks of Borneo. I would rather see my people free, with only their bows and arrows and sumpitans, fighting a losing fight in their jungles against the Malays and the Chinese slave-hunters, than be ruined by arrach and gin and opium like they are now."
She was writhing in her passion. Her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, and her fingers opened and closed like the claws of an animal. In this mood she was a veritable tigress, Peter Gross thought.
"All that you have said is the truth," he admitted. He looked very weary, his shoulders were bent, and he stared gloomily into the hearth. Koyala stared at him with a fierce intensity, half doubtfulwhether he was mocking her. But his dejection was too patent to be pretense.
"If you believe that, why are you here?" she demanded.
"Because I believe that Bulungan needs me to correct these evils,juffrouw," he replied gently.
Koyala laughed shrilly, contemptuously. Peter Gross's form straightened and the thin, firm lines of his lips tightened. He lifted a restraining hand.
"May I speak for a few moments,juffrouw?" he asked. "I want to tell you what I am planning to do for Bulungan. I shall put an end to the gin and opium trade. I shall drive the slave-hunters and the pirates from these seas, and the head-hunters from theirbabas(jungles). I shall make Bulungan so peaceful that the rice-grower can plough, and sow, and harvest with never a backward look to see if an enemy is near him. I shall take the young men of Bulungan and train them in the art of war, that they may learn how to keep peace within their borders and the enemy without. I shall readjust the taxes so that the rich will pay their just share as well as the poor. I shall bring in honest tax-collectors who will account for the last grain of rice they receive. Before I shall finish my work theGustis(Princes) will break their krisses and the bushmen their sumpitans; hill Dyak and coast Dyak will sit under the same tapang tree and take sirih and betel from the same box, and the Kapala Kampong shall say to the people of his village—go to the groves and harvest the cocoanut, a tenth for me and a tenthfor the state, and the balance for you and your children."
Koyala looked at him searchingly. His tremendous earnestness seemed to impress her.
"You have taken a big task upon yourself,mynheer," she observed.
"I will do all this,juffrouw, if you will help me," Peter Gross affirmed solemnly.
Scornful defiance leaped again into Koyala's eyes and she drew back proudly.
"I,mynheer? I am a Dyak of Bulungan," she said.
"You are half a daughter of my people," Peter Gross corrected. "You have had the training of a white woman. Whether you are friend or foe, you shall always be a white woman to me,juffrouw."
A film came across Koyala's eyes. She started to reply, checked herself, and then spoke, lashing the words out between set teeth.
"Promise upon promise, lie upon lie, that has been the way with you whites. I hate you all, I stand by my people."
Swift as the bird whose name she bore, she flashed through the door. Peter Gross took a half-step forward to restrain her, stopped, and walked slowly back to his chair.
"She will come back," he murmured to himself; "she will come back. I have sown the seed, and it has sunk in fertile ground."
In the banyan grove Koyala, breathing rapidlybecause of her swift flight, came upon Kapitein Van Slyck. The captain rose eagerly as she darted through the cane.
"What did he say?" he asked. "Did he try to make love to you?"
Koyala turned on him furiously. "You are a fool, we are all fools!" she exclaimed. "He is more than a match for all of us. I will see you later, when I can think; not now." She left the clearing.
Van Slyck stalked moodily back to the fort. At the edge of the grove he slashed viciously at a pale anemone.
"Damn these women, you never can trust them," he snarled.
When the only sounds audible in the clearing were the chirping of the crickets and the fluting of the birds, a thin, yellow face with watery eyes peered cautiously through the cane. Seeing the coast clear, Cho Seng padded decorously homeward to thecontrolleur'shouse, stepping carefully in the center of the path where no snakes could lie concealed.
The council of the chiefs was assembling. From every part of Bulungan residency they came, the Rajahs and the Gustis, the Datu Bandars or governors of the Malay villages, and the Orang Kayas and Kapala Kampongs, the Dyak village heads. Their coming was in answer to the call of Peter Gross, resident, for messengers had been sent to every part of the province to announce that a greatbitchara(talk) was to be held in Bulungan town.
They came in various ways. The Malay Datu Bandars of the coast towns, where the Malays were largely in the ascendent, voyaged in royal sailing proas, some of which were covered with canopies of silk. Each had twenty men or more, armed to the teeth, in his cortège. The inland Rajahs traveled in even greater state. Relays of slaves carried them in sedan chairs, and fifty gleaming krisses marched before and fifty after. The humbler Orang Kayas and Kapala Kampongs came on foot, with not more than ten attendants in their trains, for a village head, regardless of the number of buffaloes in his herd, must not aspire to the same state as a Rajah, or even a Gusti. The Rajah Wobangulireceived each arrival with a stately dignity befitting the ruler of the largest town in the residency, and assigned him and his people the necessary number of houses to shelter them.
But these were not the only strangers in Bulungan. From all the country round, and from every village along the coast, Dyaks, Malays, Chinese, and Bugis, and the Bajau sea-wanderers, streamed into the town. The usually commodious market-place seemed to shrink and dwindle as the crowd of traders expanded, and the raucous cries of the venders rang about the street to a late hour at night.
In every second house a cock-fight was in progress. Sweating, steaming bodies crushed each other in the narrow streets and threatened ruin to the thatched houses. Malays scowled at Dyaks, and Dyaks glared vindictively at Malays. Shrewd, bland Chinese intermingled with the crowd and raked in the silver and copper coins that seemed to flow toward them by a magnetic attraction. Fierce, piratical Bugis cast amorous glances at the Dyak belles who, although they shrank timidly into their fathers' huts, were not altogether displeased at having their charms noticed.
There was hardly a moment without its bickering and fierce words, and there were frequent brawls when women fled shrieking, for hill Dyak and coast Dyak and Malay and Bugi could not meet at such close quarters without the feuds of untold generations breaking out.
Foremost in the minds and on the lips of everyindividual in that reeking press of humanity was the question: "What will theorang blanda(white man) want?" Speculation ran riot, rumor winged upon rumor, and no tale was too fantastical to lack ready repetition and credulous listeners.Mynheerwould exact heavy penalties for every act of piracy and killing traced back to Bulungan, so the stories ran;mynheerwould confiscate all the next rice crop;mynheerwould establish great plantations and every village would be required to furnish its quota of forced labor;mynheerwould demand the three handsomest youths from each village as hostages for future good behavior. Thus long before the council assembled, the tide was setting against Peter Gross.
Bulungan was ripe and ready for revolt. It chafed under the fetters of a white man's administration, lightly as those fetters sat. Wildest of Borneo's residencies, it was the last refuge of the adventurous spirits of the Malay archipelago who found life in the established provinces of Java, Sumatra, and Celebes all too tame.
They had tasted freedom for two years under Muller's innocuous administration and did not intend to permit the old order to be changed. Diverse as their opinions on other matters might be, bitter as their feuds might be, hill Dyak and coast Dyak, Malay, Chinese, Bugi, and Bajau were united on this point. So for the first time in Bulungan's history a feeling of unanimity pervaded a conclave of such mongrel elements as were now gathered in old"Rotterdam" town. This feeling was magnified by a report—originating, no one knew where, and spreading like wildfire—that the great Datu, the chief of all the pirates of the island seas, the mysterious and silent head of the great confederation, was in Bulungan and would advise the chiefs how to answer their new white governor.
Peter Gross was not wholly ignorant of public sentiment in the town. One of Captain Carver's first acts on coming to Bulungan was to establish the nucleus of a secret service to keep him informed on public sentiment among the natives. A Dyak lad named Inchi, whom Carver had first hired to help with the coarsest camp work, and who had formed an immediate attachment for his soldierly whitebaas, was the first recruit in this service and brought in daily reports.
"Inchi tells me that the chiefs have decided they will pay no more tax to the government," Carver announced to Peter Gross on the morning of the council. The resident and he were on the drill-ground where they could talk undisturbed. Peter Gross's lips tightened.
"I expected opposition," he replied non-committally.
"Too bad we haven't thePrins Lodewykhere," Carver remarked. "A few shells around their ears might bring them to their senses."
"We don't need such an extreme measure yet," Peter Gross deprecated gently.
"I hardly know whether it's safe for us to ventureinto the town," Carver observed. "Couldn't you arrange to have the meeting here, away from all that mob? There must be thirty thousand people down below."
"I would rather meet them on their own ground."
"It's a big risk. If there should be an attack, we couldn't hold them."
"Thirty thousand against twenty-five would be rather long odds," Peter Gross assented, smiling.
"You're going to use the fort garrison, too, aren't you?" Carver asked quickly.
"I shall take just two people with me," Peter Gross announced.
"My God, Mr. Gross! You'll never get back!" Carver's face was tense with anxiety.
"Three people will be just as effective as twenty-six, captain," Peter Gross declared mildly. "The victory we must gain to-day is a moral victory—we must show the natives that we are not afraid."
"But they're bound to break loose. A show of military force would restrain them—"
"I think it would be more a provocation than a restraint, captain. They would see our helplessness. If I go alone they will reason that we are stronger than they think we are. Our confidence will beget uncertainty among them."
Carver had long since learned the futility of trying to dissuade his chief from a course once adopted. He merely remarked:
"Of course I'll go?"
"I'm sorry, captain—" Peter Gross's face expressed sincere regret. "Nothing would please me more than to have you with me, but I can't spare you here."
Carver realized that himself. He swallowed his disappointment.
"Whom were you planning on taking?" he asked abruptly.
"Inchi—"
Carver nodded approval.
—"And Paddy Rouse."
"Paddy?" the captain exclaimed. "Of what use—I beg your pardon, Mr. Gross."
Peter Gross smiled. "It does seem a peculiar mission to take that youngster on," he said. "But Paddy's going to be rarely useful to me to-day, useful in a way every man couldn't be. These natives have a superstitious reverence for red hair."
An understanding smile broke upon Carver's face.
"Of course. A mighty good idea. Bluff and superstition are two almighty-powerful weapons against savages."
"I also hope that we shall have another ally there," Peter Gross said.
"Who is that?"
"The Juffrouw Koyala."
Carver frowned. "Mr. Gross," he said, "I don't trust that woman. She's Dyak, and that's the most treacherous breed that was ever spawned. We've got to look out for her. She's an actress, andmighty clever in playing her little part, but she can't hide the hate in her heart. She'll keep us on the string and pretend she's won over, but the first chance she gets to strike, she'll do it. I've met that kind of woman in the Philippines."
"I think you are wholly mistaken," Peter Gross replied decisively.
Carver glanced at him quickly, searchingly. "She's a damn pretty woman," he remarked musingly, and shot another quick glance at the resident.
"That has nothing to do with the matter," Peter Gross replied sternly.
Abruptly dropping the topic, Carver asked:
"At what hour does the council meet?"
"Four o'clock."
"You'll be back by sundown?"
"I am afraid not. I shall probably spend the night with Wobanguli."
Carver groaned. "Send Inchi if things look as though they were going wrong," he said. "Might I suggest that you let him go to the village right away, and keep away from you altogether?"
"If you'll instruct him so, please. In case there is trouble, throw your men into the fort." He took a package of papers from his pocket and gave them to Carver. "Here are some documents which I want you to take care of for me. They are all addressed. One of them is for you; it appoints you military commandant of Bulungan in case something should happen to me down below. Don'tuse it otherwise. If Van Slyck should make a fuss you will know how to handle him."
"I understand," Carver replied shortly, and pocketed the envelope. He strode back to his shelter with a heavy heart.
The afternoon sun was pouring its full strength on the coral highway to Bulungan when Peter Gross rode to the council. He was mounted on a thoroughbred that he had brought with him from Java, and was in full-dress uniform. On his breast gleamed several decorations awarded him by Governor-General Van Schouten. It was the first time he had used them, and it was not vanity that inspired him to pin them on his coat. He realized the importance of employing every artifice to impress the native mind favorably toward its new ruler. Paddy Rouse was in field-service uniform, and rode a chestnut borrowed from the military stables.
The terrific din created by several thousand gongs of brass, copper, and wood, beaten in every part of Bulungan to testify to the holiday, was plainly audible as they cantered along the road.
"Sounds like the Fourth of July," Paddy remarked cheerfully.
When they neared the village two Gustis, youthful Dyak chiefs with reputations yet to make, charged toward them with bared krisses. As the hoofs of their jet-black steeds thundered toward Peter Gross, Paddy gave his horse the spur and shot ithalf a length ahead of the resident. His hand was on the butt of his pistol when a low-voiced warning from his chief restrained him. Just as it seemed that they would be ridden down the horsemen parted and flashed by with krisses lifted to salute. They wheeled instantly and fell in behind the resident.
"Whew," Paddy whistled softly. "I thought they meant business."
"It was meant to do us honor," Peter Gross explained.
More native princes spurred from the town to join the procession. In each instance the demonstration the same. Paddy noted that every one was mounted on a black horse and carried a kris whose handle was of either gold or ivory, and was studded with gems. None used saddles, but each horse was caparisoned with a gayly colored saddle-cloth embroidered with gold thread. The bridles were of many-colored cords and the bits of silver. He pointed out these things to Peter Gross in an undertone.
"That shows that they are all of princely rank," Peter Gross informed him.
The din from the gongs became almost deafening as they entered the outskirts of the town. The crowd thickened also, and it became increasingly difficult to break through the press. Paddy Rouse's eyes swam as he looked into the sea of black and brown faces grimacing and contorting. The scene was a riot of color; every native was dressed in hisholiday best, which meant garments of the gaudiest and brightest dyes that his means enabled him to procure. Paddy noticed a patriarch in a pea-green velvet jacket, blue and orange chawat, or waist-cloth, and red, yellow, and blue kerchief head-dress. Most of the kerchief head-dresses, worn turban-fashion, were in three colors, blue predominating, he observed.
"Big reception they're giving us," Paddy remarked.
Peter Gross's reply was noncommittal. He felt a little of the forces that were at work beneath the surface, and realized how quickly this childishly curious, childishly happy mob could be converted into a bedlam of savagery.
As they neared the huge twin Hindu deities, carved in stone, that formed the gate-posts of Wobanguli's palace grounds and the council-hall enclosure, the crowd massed so thickly that it was impossible for them to proceed. Paddy drove his horse into the press and split an aisle by a vicious display of hoofs and the liberal use of his quirt-stock. The crowd gave way sullenly, those behind refusing to give way for those in front. Paddy leaned sidewise in his saddle as they passed between the scowling gods.
"Into the lion's den," he whispered to Peter Gross. His eye was sparkling; roughing the natives had whetted his appetite for action.
Peter Gross sprang from his horse lightly—he had learned to ride before he went to sea—andentered the dimly lit hall. Rouse remained at the entrance and began looking about for Inchi. The little Malay was rubbing down a horse, but gave no sign of recognition when Rouse's glance met his. As Paddy looked away, his face, too, sobered. Only his eyes were more keenly alert.
As Peter Gross became accustomed to the semi-darkness, he distinguished about forty chiefs and princes seated along the side walls of the building. There were two Europeans in the room in one corner. Peter Gross guessed their identity before he could distinguish their faces; they were Muller and Van Slyck.
At the farther end of the hall was a platform. Two chairs of European make had been placed upon it. Wobanguli occupied one, the other was vacant. The hall was thick with smoke, for those who were not chewing betel were laboring on big Dutch pipes, introduced by their white rulers.
Silence greeted Peter Gross as he slowly walked the length of the hall, and none rose to do him the customary honor. Instead of mounting the platform he remained standing at its base and looked sternly into the face of the Rajah. In a voice suspiciously sweet he asked:
"Is it so long since a son of the white father has come to Bulungan that you have forgotten how he must be received, O Rajah?"
There was a moment's pregnant pause, a moment when the royal mind did some quick thinking. Then Wobanguli rose and said:
"We have heard the call and we are here, resident."
The moment Wobanguli rose a quick rustle and the clicking of steel apprised Peter Gross that the others also had risen. Although he knew it was not in his honor—custom forbade lesser chiefs from sitting while the Rajah stood—he accepted it as such. He did not look around until he had mounted the platform. Then he gazed at each man individually. Something in his silent scrutiny sent a cold chill into the hearts of more than one of the chiefs who had endured it, but most of them returned it boldly and defiantly.
Not until each of the forty had felt the power of his mesmeric glance did Peter Gross speak.
"You may tell the council the purpose of this meting, Rajah," he announced, turning to Wobanguli, and then seated himself in the vacant chair.
As Wobanguli came forward, Peter Gross had an opportunity to measure his man. The Rajah was tall, quite tall for a Bornean, powerfully built, but a trifle stoop-shouldered. His features were pronouncedly Malay rather than Dyak; there was a furtive look in his half-shut eyes that suggested craft and cunning, and his ever-ready smile was too suavely pleasant to deceive the resident.
"A panther; he will be hard to tame," was Peter Gross's unspoken thought.
Wobanguli began speaking in sonorous tones, using Malay-Dyak dialect, thelingua francaof the residency.
"Rajahs, Custis, Datus, and Kapalas, to-day hath Allah and the Hanu Token and the great god Djath given a new ruler to Bulungan."
Peter Gross's brow contracted thoughtfully. It was apparent from Wobanguli's exordium that he was striving to please the adherents of every faith represented among the natives present. The Rajah continued:
"In the days when the great fire mountains poured their rivers of flame into the boiling ocean our forefathers, led by the great god Djath, came to Borneo. They built villages and begat children. The fire mountains belched flame and molten rock, the great floods came to drown the mountains, the earth shook, and whole jungles were swallowed up; but ever our fathers clung to the island they had come to possess. Then Djath said: 'This is a strong people. I shall make it my own, my chosen people, and give to them and to their children's children forever the land of Borneo.'
"From the seed of our fathers sprang many tribes. New nations came from over the sea and found habitation with us, and we called them 'brother.' Last of all came the white man. He sold us guns, and knives, and metals, and fine horses, and the drink that Allah says we must not touch, and opium. By and bye, when he was strong and we were weak, he said: 'I will give you a resident who shall be a father unto you. There will be no more killings, but every man shall have plenty of gongs and brass rings for his wives, and many boltsof brilliantly colored cloth, and much tobacco.' So we let the white man give us a ruler."
There was an ominous stirring among the assembled chiefs. Peter Gross's face maintained an inscrutable calm, but he was thinking rapidly. Wobanguli's speech had all the elements of nitroglycerine, he realized.
"It is now many moons since the first white father came to dwell with us," Wobanguli continued. "Three times has the great fire mountain belched flame and smoke to show she was angry with us, and three times have we given of our gifts to appease the spirits. We are poor. Our women hide their nakedness with the leaves of palm-trees. Our tribesmen carve their kris-handles from the branches of the ironwood-tree."
He paused. The air was electric. Another word, a single passionate plea, would unsheath forty krisses, Peter Gross perceived. Wobanguli was looking at him, savage exultation leering in his eyes, but Peter Gross's face did not change a muscle, and he waited with an air of polite attention. Wobanguli faced the assembly again:
"Our elder brother from over the sea, who was sent to us by the little father at Batavia, will tell us to-day how he will redeem the promises made to us," he announced. "I have spoken."
So abrupt was the climax that Peter Gross scarcely realized the Rajah had concluded until he was back in his chair. There was a moment's dramatic hush. Conscious that Wobanguli hadbrought him to the very edge of a precipice as a test, conscious, too, that the Rajah was disappointed because his intended victim had failed to reveal the weakness he had expected to find, Peter Gross rose slowly and impressively to meet the glances of the forty chiefs now centered so hostilely upon him.
"Princes of our residency of Bulungan"—he began; there was a stir in the crowd; he was using the native tongue, the same dialect Wobanguli had used—"the Rajah Wobanguli has told you the purpose of this meeting. He has told you of the promises made by those who were resident here before me. He has reminded you that these promises have not been fulfilled. But he has not told you why they were not fulfilled. I am here to-day to tell you the reason."
A low, whistling sound, the simultaneous sharp intake of breath through the nostrils of forty men, filled the room. Pipes and betel and sirih were laid aside. Rajahs, governors, and princes craned their heads and looked ominously over the shafts of their spears at their resident.
"There are in this land three peoples, or perhaps four," Peter Gross said. "Only two of these are the real owners of Borneo, the people whose fathers settled this island in the early days, as your Rajah has told you. They are the hill Dyaks and the sea Dyaks, who are one people though two nations. The Malays are outlanders. The Chinese are outlanders. They have the same right to live here that the white man has—no more, no less. Thatright comes from the increase in riches they bring and the trade they bring."
A hoarse murmur arose. The Malay Datus' scowls were blacker. The Dyaks looked sullenly at their arch-enemies, the brown immigrants from Malacca.
"Long before the first white man came here, the two nations of Dyaks—the Dyaks of the sea and the Dyaks of the hills—were at war with each other. The skulls of the people of each nation decorated the lodge-poles of their enemies. The Dyaks of the sea made treaties with the Bajaus, the Malays, the Bugis, and the Chinese sea-rovers. Together these people have driven the Dyaks of the hills far inland, almost to the crest of the great fire mountains. But the price they pay is the surrender of their strong men to row the proas of their masters, the pirates. The spring rains come, but the rice is left unsowed, for a fair crop attracts the spoilers, and only the poor are left in peace. Poverty has come upon your Dyaks. Your kris-handles are of wood, while those of your masters are of gold and jewels."
Peter Gross paused. The Dyaks were glaring at the Malays, the Malays looked as fiercely back. Several chiefs were fingering their kris-handles. Muller was watching the tribesmen in anxious bewilderment; Van Slyck hid in the shadows.
"Forget your feuds and listen to me," Peter Gross thundered in a voice of authority that focused instant attention upon him. "Let me tell you what I have come to do for Bulungan."
He turned a group of short, lithely built men armed with spears.
"To you, hill Dyaks, I bring peace and an end of all raiding. No more shall the coast-rovers cross your borders. Your women will be safe while you hunt dammar gum and resin in the forests; the man who steals a woman against her will shall hang. I, your resident, have spoken."