The White Rajah (1961)

by Monsarrat, Nicholas

  Her arms tightened about him. ‘I pray for success! I want my father to love you.’

  Richard laughed again, more intimately. ‘You want your father to love me?’

  She stirred, in languor and response. ‘So that he may be more like me.’

  ‘This love of your father’s may take some time.’

  ‘Alas, yes.’

  ‘In the meantime …’

  Her turning mouth was soft. ‘Yes. In the meantime. Tuan, you are the only true man in the whole world. Tuan!’

  By night, he had such pleasures and such rewards, such balm for an uncertain spirit; but by day, he knew only sombre waiting and speculation, in an atmosphere at once brooding and suspicious.

  For a week, there was nothing, and for another week, nothing, either by report or by observation. The Rajah’s agents were everywhere – Richard had little doubt of that; but they brought back no word of Black Harris, nor of Selang Aro, and nothing at all of the Lucinda D, which seemed to have vanished from the East Garrison beaches on an outgoing tide of blood. There was much ‘coming and going’ at the Shwe Dagon, so the spies said; and Shrang Anapuri, the town below it, was reported more full than usual. But one could find nothing notable in any of this. There was always countrywide marketing before the monsoon season, and a choice of half a dozen religious festivals could explain the activity at the Golden Pagoda. From all the sum total of the gossip, the whispering, the bazaar rumours, no clue as to what might be happening, or what dangers threatened, had emerged into the light of day.

  There was no clue, either, from that other weapon of observation, the Rajah’s giant telescope. Richard, ill-at-ease with his gradually growing doubts, and chafing at the delay which had been of his own advising, spent long hours in the bower, restlessly sweeping through an arc of vision which included every foot of ground, from the causeway at the eastern limit to the coastline west of the Shwe Dagon. He was looking for his ship, which he felt must be the focus of this new danger, as the Mystic had been of the last one; but there was never a sign of her – not a fluttering topsail, not a flash of white canvas, not a ripple on the water. There was nothing to be seen round the Shwe Dagon, either. The golden dome still ruled in majesty, the town below it seethed with its usual throng. But of attack, of suspicious concentration, there was not even a shadow, to bring him reassurance that his guess had been correct.

  He was finding his position uncomfortable. Though the Rajah preserved an impassive mien, Colonel Kedah did not; he was already beginning to look down his nose, to inquire several times a day, with sardonic formality, if there were any news, to talk of the pitfalls of too much prudence. His men took their cue from their commander. There was murmuring among the troops, both in the Sun Palace and down at the causeway; they wanted revenge for their dead comrades, they wanted a bloody and victorious battlefield, they did not want to practise arms drill, and stand guard duty, and loaf about in barracks … All over the palace, especially among the servants and the courtiers and the hangers-on who warmed or cooled the climate of repute, there was whispering, and side-glances, and that kind of deference which is made ironic by its emphasis. Richard, holding his head high in the midst of these pinpricks, was beginning to have serious doubts of his own. Nothing was turning out according to his forecast. His judgement might have been at fault; and if his judgement, then his whole course of action was fatally wrong.

  Then, suddenly and overwhelmingly, it was proved right. In a swift culmination of spy reports, rumour, and the small, significant drift of action, the dubious pause boiled over into the fact of peril.

  It began with a report from one of the fishing fleets. This one, consisting of a dozen outrigger prahus from the sampan village by the western lighthouse, had gone up the coast after a school of flying fish, and had been compelled by bad weather to run for shelter far from home. In a cove not ten miles from the northern coast of the island, they had come upon the Lucinda D. She was careened on a sand spit, and out of action; indeed, she seemed to be deserted save for a pair of shipkeepers living in a hut on shore, who fired warning shots to discourage further intrusion. The fishing fleet gave her a wide berth; but one of the prahus, more enterprising than the rest, and with a keener nose for a reward, had come flying down before the gale to bring back the news.

  It was news which meant two things: that Black Harris was somewhere ashore, and that the assault on the Sun Palace, if such were planned, would come from landwards.

  Secondly, there was the matter of the pilgrims. Suddenly, in the space of a week, the word ‘pilgrim’ became a title, and an idea, which appeared to have obsessed the whole of Makassang. All over the island, and especially from the dark interior round the Land-Dyak villages, men were on the move, impelled (they said) by piety and the wish to pay their respects to the great Lord Buddha. With the choice of half a dozen large and small pagodas, they were making only for the Shwe Dagon.

  They travelled by boat along the shoreline, they slipped through jungle pathways, they rode by bullock cart along the winding coastal roads which ringed the island. They seeped and flooded in, in their hundreds and presently their thousands; they crowded the streets and the hovels of Shrang Anapuri; they thronged the slopes round the Shwe Dagon. By day, the smoke of their cooking rose like laden incense, and by night, the twinkling lights of a thousand campfires could be seen through the big telescope, a huge shadowy billowing carpet embroidered with pinpoints of fire.

  Spies, mingling by the dozen with these devout strangers, reported that they kept a remarkable silence. They were crudely armed, as a pilgrim outside his tribal area had a right to be; and they returned uniform answers to all questions. Was it a holiday? No, it was a pilgrimage. Was it part of a planned movement? No, it was a pilgrimage. Was it war? No, a pilgrimage.

  Then, there was the matter of the Shwe Dagon itself.

  At about this time, a detachment of the Palace Guard under a young captain named Sorba presented itself at the Shwe Dagon, for the routine monthly inspection which had been decreed by the Rajah. This was never a close search, nor was it a formality: the platoon of twelve men was accustomed to enter the pagoda, walk round the various levels and stairways and see that public order and decency were being maintained. On this occasion, however, they were baulked even of this modest supervision. They found the lower gates locked and barred, and when repeated knocking brought a face to the grille, it belonged only to a young monk, disdainful and surly, who affected to know nothing save that the gates could not be opened to anyone.

  Captain Sorba, a small and not notably warlike man, inquired as sharply as he could what was standing in the way of their entry. On the other side of the grille, the shaven head and slit brown eyes of the monk confronted him, immovable as a painting, impassive, unimpressed.

  ‘It is a matter of repairs,’ answered the monk briefly. ‘The pagoda is closed to all visitors.’ And he made as if to shut the grille again.

  ‘It is not closed to the Rajah’s inspection,’ said Captain Sorba, taken aback. ‘Come, you know the decree. Open the gate immediately!’

  ‘Repairs,’ repeated the monk. ‘The gate will not open.’

  ‘Open the northern gate, then!’

  ‘That is shut, too. The pagoda is closed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Repairs,’ said the monk, with scarcely veiled insolence. This time, he moved to shut the grille in his visitor’s face, but Captain Sorba brought up his short spear and wedged it in the opening. Through the narrow gap, the monk surveyed him malevolently. ‘This is a holy place,’ he said. ‘You cannot force your way into it with arms.’

  Captain Sorba, at a loss for his next move – for though he knew his military rights, he knew also that they could be whittled down by considerations of piety – withdrew his spear hurriedly, as if he would wipe out the evidence of sacrilege.

  ‘When will these repairs be finished?’ he inquired uncertainly. At his back, his men were regarding him with appropriate, if cautious amusement; the spectacle o
f a small, proud officer outfaced by a humble monk could not fail to make a good soldier’s joke. ‘I shall have to report this to my superiors. When will the gates be opened?’

  This time, the insolence was plain. ‘Shall we say, next month?’ answered the monk, and slammed shut the grille with a sharp, mocking thud. The outsiders were left only with the nail-studded teak gates, and that smell of ancient privies which was the true odour of sanctity.

  It was a rebuff which the Rajah, when appraised of it, could not stomach. But before action could be taken – andaction, clearly, would involve some degree of force, and many more men than had made up the inspecting guard – the last report came in, and the matter of the locked gates assumed its place in a pattern which, at last, vindicated Richard Marriott’s judgement to the hilt.

  This time, it came by the hand of a trusted spy – a monk who was no monk, but one of the Rajah’s own household. He had spent a month or more within the Shwe Dagon, as a pretended novice, and then, seizing his chance to escape, he had brought out the news – news which could be distilled into a few, foreboding sentences.

  Selang Aro had returned to the Shwe Dagon. Black Harris, and all his crew, were there also. Every monk, and every dubious visitor to the pagoda, was armed. And every ‘pilgrim’ in Shrang Anapuri had sworn an oath – of a strength and holiness matching his pilgrimage – to give his life, if need be, in the storming of the Sun Palace.

  Faced with the truth, all their doubts resolved, the Rajah and his advisers might have looked forward to an easier meeting, with decisions speedily agreed. But this was not so. When they reassembled in the audience chamber, it was to find that, in their deliberations, a fresh area of disagreement had been opened up, at least as profoundly as the last. It concerned the sanctity, or otherwise, of the Shwe Dagon.

  Richard Marriott, and to a lesser extent Amin Sang, were in favour of an instant, full-scale attack on the pagoda, which had clearly become the core of revolt. But when Richard proposed this, expecting ready agreement, he met opposition which was not less ready, for a reason which had never before been part of his calculation.

  ‘We cannot do that,’ said Colonel Kedah, in a dismissive voice, as if one short sentence from himself were enough to dispose of the suggestion out of hand. ‘There can be no attack on the Shwe Dagon.’

  ‘No attack!’ echoed Richard, astonished. ‘What are you talking of? The Shwe Dagon is the very first place we should make for. It is their battle headquarters!’

  ‘We cannot attack it,’ said Colonel Kedah, in the same tone of finality. His single eye was bent on Richard with a steady determination. ‘It would be sacrilege.’

  ‘Who cares for sacrilege? This is war!’

  ‘The pagoda is a holy place.’

  ‘It is a holy place full of soldiers and armed ruffians. They threaten our lives. They must be destroyed, wherever they are to be found.’

  ‘And if we destroy the pagoda?’

  ‘I would destroy ten pagodas, if I had to.’ Richard, truly amazed at Kedah’s objections, turned to the Rajah. ‘Your Highness, will you rule on this?’

  ‘I will hear both sides,’ answered the Rajah coolly.

  Baulked, Richard summoned his arguments swiftly. ‘Sir, with respect, I cannot see that there are two sides to this. We have no choice! The Shwe Dagon is now the centre of revolt. All our greatest enemies are there. It is a nest which must be wiped out, if we are serious about beating off this attack. Once more, he was saying ‘we’, with the utmost sense of participation. ‘These people have plagued Makassang for years – for a hundred years, if what I am told is true. Let us put an end to it, now! We will never have a better chance.’

  At his side, Kedah’s voice was heard again, as uncompromising as before. ‘It is not a simple matter of attack and destroy. There is more to this than military action. If we commit sacrilege, we invite disaster.’

  ‘And if we don’t commit sacrilege, we invite disaster.’ Richard rounded on him, ready to be angry. ‘What is this sudden tenderness?’ he asked scornfully. ‘The pagoda is inspected every month, with armed men, and for a very good reason – to make sure that they are not plotting against us. Is not that a form of sacrilege? Yet we commit it cheerfully. And now that we have proof that they are planning an attack, are we to back away like a dog kicked in the muzzle?’

  ‘Inspection is one thing, fighting and the shedding of blood is another. An armed attack on the pagoda is an impious idea which would only occur to an unbeliever.’

  Richard laughed, shortly. ‘Have it as you like. I am not afraid of names and labels. Of course I am an unbeliever. The Shwe Dagon is not a shrine to me. It is a building. It is a building now taken over by enemies who plot to kill the Rajah and end the dynasty. It is an enemy stronghold, a barracks full of traitors, and I do not care a brass farthing what holy name it goes by.’

  The Rajah broke into the pause that followed. ‘What you say is true,’ he told Richard. ‘But Kedah has right on his side, also. Such an attack could be called sacrilege. We have to consider the effect on the people.’

  With these words, Richard saw his loophole. Whatever had impelled Kedah to his objections (and they might be grounded in a true religious instinct), for the Rajah it was not a matter of piety. It was a question of reputation, the ‘effect on the people’ which might cause them to falter in their loyalty, or turn faint-hearted at the prospect of heavenly wrath. This was a very different matter, and one to which Richard was sure he had an answer. In effect, he must take the hazard of sacrilege on his own shoulders. He was not afraid to court unpopularity, and in the present circumstances he might be the only one who could do so, without ill effect to their cause.

  Furthermore, it was not difficult to divine, cynically, that the Rajah would have no objection to Richard’s thus running the risk of public censure.

  He turned to the Rajah. ‘Your Highness, if we win, there will be no murmuring from the people. And if we lose, the murmuring will not reach us, wherever we have been consigned to … And we will lose, unless we strike without mercy at the very heart of this insurrection.’

  ‘It is still sacrilege,’ Kedah interjected.

  ‘Not for me,’ answered Richard instantly. ‘You will recall that I am an ignorant infidel? I cannot tell a pagoda from a parrot cage …’ Deliberately he made his voice as light-hearted as he could, as if this whole matter were something so trivial that it could never stand in the way of serious planning. ‘There will be plenty for you to do, Colonel, without embracing these religious dilemmas. There is the whole of Shrang Anapuri, full of our enemies, who must also be disposed of. If you will see to that, I will take care of the Shwe Dagon, and take care of the sacrilege too.’

  His tone was just short of offensive, and though Colonel Kedah stared at him with cold dislike, he did not put his feeling into words. It was possible that he saw the truth of Richard’s argument, and was glad to have this necessary source of embarrassment taken off his hands. Without exactly resolving the clash, they went on to discuss other details, and here there was a fuller measure of agreement. It was a formidable force, and a determined effort, which they had to crush, and to do this, every loyal man must be pressed into service.

  Richard was especially emphatic about this. ‘We will never have a better chance,’ he said again. ‘We can crush every last shred of revolt, and settle the affairs of Makassang for fifty years … But to make sure of that, we will have to gamble, and it will be worth it. We need more men than at any time before. We must bring back the garrisons, wherever they may be – from the west, from the east, from the causeway – and have them converge on Shrang Anapuri and the Shwe Dagon. There can be no idle hands, no grounded spears. Every man in every regiment must be fighting, that day!’

  The Rajah fingered his chin. Richard’s enthusiasm was infectious, as the rapt face of Amin Sang showed; but the old man was more prudent in his thinking.

  ‘It is indeed a gamble,’ he said. ‘If the day goes badly, everything we value wil
l lie open to the enemy.’

  ‘The day will not go badly!’ In his eagerness, Richard set one foot on the flight of steps leading to the ivory throne, and the Rajah, even at this grave moment, was forced to smile at his vehemence. ‘First, we will strike before they do. Second, whatever their numbers coming against us, our troops are trained men, and will cut them to pieces. Third, think of the opportunity we are given! Every enemy of Makassang will be collected in one place at one time, for us to fall upon with all the force we can muster.’

  ‘I do not like to leave the mines unprotected,’ said the Rajah, though with less certainty in his voice. ‘They are altogether too tempting.’

  ‘Sir, there will be no one for them to tempt. The main bait is here. The treasure vault is worth ten ruby mines! And with all the Land-Dyaks gathered for an assault on the Sun Palace, as we know them to be, the men guarding the mines are going to waste, if they stay on guard against nothing. We need them here! For if we fail – if the palace falls – then the garrisons will perish in any case, like fruit withering on the vine. Far better that they should be here, under our close command, so that they can play a proper part.’

  After a long interval of thought, the Rajah raised his head. ‘Kedah?’ he queried.

  It was a difficult moment for Kedah, and all those in the room were aware of it. In the last few days, his personal and professional opposition to Richard Marriott had become clear: they had had more than one open collision in council, and Kedah’s temper, never sweet, could not have been improved by the fact that Richard seemed to have come off best in every argument. But Kedah was a realist, and a professional soldier, and above all a man fanatically loyal to the Rajah. He had the highest of all the ancient virtues – devotion to his king. He might dislike what Richard proposed; he might dislike Richard himself; but if a certain course of action meant victory for the Rajah of Makassang, then no personal considerations would be allowed to stand in the way of making that victory come true.