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"I will see this thing through," he muttered to himself. "And I

will have it all square and ship-shape; see if I don't! Are you
going to bring that lamp, you son of a crippled mud-turtle? I am

waiting."
The gleam of the light on the paper placated his professional

anger, and he wrote rapidly, the final dash of his signature
curling the paper up in a triangular tear.

"Take that to this white Tuan's house. I will send the boat back
for you in half an hour."

The coxswain raised his lamp deliberately to Willem's face.
"This Tuan? Tau! I know."

"Quick then!" said Lingard, taking the lamp from him--and the man
went off at a run.

"Kassi mem! To the lady herself," called Lingard after him.
Then, when the man disappeared, he turned to Willems.

"I have written to your wife," he said. "If you do not return
for good, you do not go back to that house only for another

parting. You must come as you stand. I won't have that poor
woman tormented. I will see to it that you are not separated for

long. Trust me!"
Willems shivered, then smiled in the darkness.

"No fear of that," he muttered, enigmatically. "I trust you
implicitly, Captain Lingard," he added, in a louder tone.

Lingard led the way down the steps, swinging the lamp and
speaking over his shoulder.

"It is the second time, Willems, I take you in hand. Mind it is
the last. The second time; and the only difference between then

and now is that you were bare-footed then and have boots now. In
fourteen years. With all your smartness! A poor result that. A

very poor result."
He stood for awhile on the lowest platform of the steps, the

light of the lamp falling on the upturned face of the stroke oar,
who held the gunwale of the boat close alongside, ready for the

captain to step in.
"You see," he went on, argumentatively, fumbling about the top of

the lamp, "you got yourself so crookedamongst those 'longshore
quill-drivers that you could not run clear in any way. That's

what comes of such talk as yours, and of such a life. A man sees
so much falsehood that he begins to lie to himself. Pah!" he

said, in disgust, "there's only one place for an honest man. The
sea, my boy, the sea! But you never would; didn't think there

was enough money in it; and now--look!"
He blew the light out, and, stepping into the boat, stretched

quickly his hand towards Willems, with friendly care. Willems
sat by him in silence, and the boat shoved off, sweeping in a

wide circle towards the brig.
"Your compassion is all for my wife, Captain Lingard," said

Willems, moodily. "Do you think I am so very happy?"
"No! no!" said Lingard, heartily. "Not a word more shall pass my

lips. I had to speak my mind once, seeing that I knew you from a
child, so to speak. And now I shall forget; but you are young

yet. Life is very long," he went on, with unconscious sadness;
"let this be a lesson to you."

He laid his hand affectionately on Willems' shoulder, and they
both sat silent till the boat came alongside the ship's ladder.

When on board Lingard gave orders to his mate, and leading
Willems on the poop, sat on the breech of one of the brass

six-pounders with which his vessel was armed. The boat went off
again to bring back the messenger. As soon as it was seen

returning dark forms appeared on the brig's spars; then the sails
fell in festoons with a swish of their heavy folds, and hung

motionless under the yards in the dead calm of the clear and dewy
night. From the forward end came the clink of the windlass, and

soon afterwards the hail of the chief mate informing Lingard that
the cable was hove short.

"Hold on everything," hailed back Lingard; "we must wait for the
land-breeze before we let go our hold of the ground."

He approached Willems, who sat on the skylight, his body bent
down, his head low, and his hands hanging listlessly between his

knees.
"I am going to take you to Sambir," he said. "You've never heard

of the place, have you? Well, it's up that river of mine about
which people talk so much and know so little. I've found out the

entrance for a ship of Flash's size. It isn't easy. You'll see.
I will show you. You have been at sea long enough to take an

interest. . . . Pity you didn't stick to it. Well, I am going
there. I have my own trading post in the place. Almayer is my

partner. You knew him when he was at Hudig's. Oh, he lives
there as happy as a king. D'ye see, I have them all in my

pocket. The rajah is an old friend of mine. My word is law--and
I am the only trader. No other white man but Almayer had ever

been in that settlement. You will live quietly there till I come
back from my next cruise to the westward. We shall see then what

can be done for you. Never fear. I have no doubt my secret will
be safe with you. Keep mum about my river when you get amongst

the traders again. There's many would give their ears for the
knowledge of it. I'll tell you something: that's where I get all

my guttah and rattans. Simply inexhaustible, my boy."
While Lingard spoke Willems looked up quickly, but soon his head

fell on his breast in the discouraging certitude that the
knowledge he and Hudig had wished for so much had come to him too

late. He sat in a listless attitude.
"You will help Almayer in his trading if you have a heart for

it," continued Lingard, "just to kill time till I come back for
you. Only six weeks or so."

Over their heads the damp sails fluttered noisily in the first
faint puff of the breeze; then, as the airs freshened, the brig

tended to the wind, and the silenced canvas lay quietly aback.
The mate spoke with low distinctness from the shadows of the

quarter-deck.
"There's the breeze. Which way do you want to cast her, Captain

Lingard?"
Lingard's eyes, that had been fixed aloft, glanced down at the

dejected figure of the man sitting on the skylight. He seemed to
hesitate for a minute.

"To the northward, to the northward," he answered, testily, as if
annoyed at his own fleeting thought, "and bear a hand there.

Every puff of wind is worth money in these seas."
He remained motionless, listening to the rattle of blocks and the

creaking of trusses as the head-yards were hauled round. Sail
was made on the ship and the windlass manned again while he stood

still, lost in thought. He only roused himself when a barefooted
seacannie glided past him silently on his way to the wheel.

"Put the helm aport! Hard over!" he said, in his harsh
sea-voice, to the man whose face appeared suddenly out of the

darkness in the circle of light thrown upwards from the binnacle
lamps.

The anchor was secured, the yards trimmed, and the brig began to
move out of the roadstead. The sea woke up under the push of the

sharp cutwater, and whispered softly to the gliding craft in that
tender and rippling murmur in which it speaks sometimes to those

it nurses and loves. Lingard stood by the taff-rail listening,
with a pleased smile till the Flash began to draw close to the

only other vessel in the anchorage.
"Here, Willems," he said, calling him to his side, "d'ye see that

barque here? That's an Arab vessel. White men have mostly given
up the game, but this fellow drops in my wake often, and lives in

hopes of cutting me out in that settlement. Not while I live, I
trust. You see, Willems, I brought prosperity to that place. I

composed their quarrels, and saw them grow under my eyes.
There's peace and happiness there. I am more master there than

his Dutch Excellency down in Batavia ever will be when some day a
lazy man-of-war blunders at last against the river. I mean to

keep the Arabs out of it, with their lies and their intrigues. I
shall keep the venomous breed out, if it costs me my fortune."

The Flash drew quietly abreast of the barque, and was beginning
to drop it astern when a white figure started up on the poop of

the Arab vessel, and a voice called out--
"Greeting to the Rajah Laut!"

"To you greeting!" answered Lingard, after a moment of hesitating
surprise. Then he turned to Willems with a grim smile. "That's

Abdulla's voice," he said. "Mighty civil all of a sudden, isn't
he? I wonder what it means. Just like his impudence! No

matter! His civility or his impudence are all one to me. I know
that this fellow will be under way and after me like a shot. I

don't care! I have the heels of anything that floats in these
seas," he added, while his proud and loving glance ran over and

rested fondlyamongst the brig's lofty and graceful spars.
CHAPTER FIVE

"It was the writing on his forehead," said Babalatchi, adding a
couple of small sticks to the little fire by which he was

squatting, and without looking at Lakamba who lay down supported
on his elbow on the other side of the embers. "It was written

when he was born that he should end his life in darkness, and now
he is like a man walking in a black night--with his eyes open,

yet seeing not. I knew him well when he had slaves, and many
wives, and much merchandise, and trading praus, and praus for

fighting. Hai--ya! He was a great fighter in the days before the
breath of the Merciful put out the light in his eyes. He was a

pilgrim, and had many virtues: he was brave, his hand was open,
and he was a great robber. For many years he led the men that

drank blood on the sea: first in prayer and first in fight! Have
I not stood behind him when his face was turned to the West?

Have I not watched by his side ships with high masts burning in a
straight flame on the calm water? Have I not followed him on

dark nights amongstsleeping men that woke up only to die? His
sword was swifter than the fire from Heaven, and struck before it

flashed. Hai! Tuan! Those were the days and that was a leader,
and I myself was younger; and in those days there were not so

many fireships with guns that deal fiery death from afar. Over
the hill and over the forest--O! Tuan Lakamba! they dropped

whistling fireballs into the creek where our praus took refuge,
and where they dared not follow men who had arms in their hands."

He shook his head with mournful regret and threw another handful
of fuel on the fire. The burst of clear flame lit up his broad,

dark, and pock-marked face, where the big lips, stained with
betel-juice, looked like a deep and bleeding gash of a fresh

wound. The reflection of the firelight gleamed brightly in his
solitary eye, lending it for a moment a fierce animation that

died out together with the short-lived flame. With quick touches
of his bare hands he raked the embers into a heap, then, wiping

the warm ash on his waistcloth--his only garment--he clasped his
thin legs with his entwined fingers, and rested his chin on his

drawn-up knees. Lakamba stirred slightly without changing his
position or taking his eyes off the glowing coals, on which they

had been fixed in dreamy immobility.
"Yes," went on Babalatchi, in a low monotone, as if pursuing

aloud a train of thought that had its beginning in the silent
contemplation of the unstable nature of earthly greatness--"yes.

He has been rich and strong, and now he lives on alms: old,
feeble, blind, and without companions, but for his daughter. The

Rajah Patalolo gives him rice, and the pale woman--his
daughter--cooks it for him, for he has no slave."

"I saw her from afar," muttered Lakamba, disparagingly. "A
she-dog with white teeth, like a woman of the Orang-Putih."

"Right, right," assented Babalatchi; "but you have not seen her
near. Her mother was a woman from the west; a Baghdadi woman

with veiled face. Now she goes uncovered, like our women do, for
she is poor and he is blind, and nobody ever comes near them

unless to ask for a charm or a blessing and depart quickly for
fear of his anger and of the Rajah's hand. You have not been on



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