The White Rajah (1961)

by Monsarrat, Nicholas

  ‘What messages are these?’ asked Richard, his attention caught by the strange word.

  After a pause full of wounded feeling, Keston said: ‘Her Highness sent you her greetings.’

  ‘Then it is high time I heard them!’ said Richard, in fresh exasperation. ‘Have I to prise them out with a crowbar? What greetings? What did she say?’

  ‘That she looks forward to your return.’

  ‘Is that all, then? Is she well?’

  ‘As well as can be expected.’

  Richard rounded on him, thunder in his brow. ‘What do you mean, as well as can be expected? Stop this stupid play-acting! Is she well, or isn’t she?’

  ‘She is well,’ answered Keston. Though his face was still wooden, he was, at last, relenting, and beginning to enjoy himself. ‘She told me to say, she is as well as can be expected, when she is separated from you.’ He was investing the loving words with a sickly emphasis which was enough to drive Richard to fury, and to make Amin Sang smile behind a covering hand. ‘She said that I was to see that you hurried back to her. She said I was to assure you that she was miserable when you were away, and would only be happy when you returned.’

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Richard, discomfited.

  ‘She said,’ concluded the stolid John Keston, with relish, ‘that I should put on the wings of love, to bring you back to her again.’

  There was a muffled snort from Amin Sang, for whom this tender recital had proved too much. Richard glared at him, but, meeting a pair of innocent eyes, he was forced to give way to mirth himself. The Fifty of the Brave, lounging in the well-deck, turned in amusement to hear their commanders dissolve into loud laughter.

  ‘Thank you, Keston,’ said Richard presently, as gravely as he could. ‘I will tell her Highness that you delivered her messages most movingly.’

  ‘I would rather have had other duties,’ said Keston. But he was mollified at last, having done something to square the account, and relieve his disappointment.

  They were well set upon their course; the waves rippled musically as they ran against the thrusting prow, the sunshine on the water danced and sparkled, as far as the eye could see. There could not have been a fairer day for their journey; and, wounds or no, they were a thousand times better off than the wretched men they had vanquished.

  They carried one of these men, perhaps the most luckless of all, in the state barge itself. Black Harris was on board, bound hand and foot – though the gross wound in his knee had put him out of commission entirely – and consigned below decks like a piece of valued cargo – which, in fact, he was. Harris was bearing both his wound and his situation stoically; no word of regret or remorse, no plea for mercy, had crossed his lips; he had lain in silence as he was carried on board, and his eyes as they met Richard’s were expressionless. Of all the captives, he was the only one to be thus transported; the rest – some six or seven hundred unfortunates – were at this moment embarked on their long march back to the Sun Palace, and to the death, torture, or servitude which awaited them.

  Earlier, Richard had witnessed the start of that melancholy pilgrimage. Colonel Kedah was in command – Kedah who had acquitted himself so well in the containment and slaughter of Shrang Anapuri, and yet had missed the more spectacular assault which had brought the Fifty of the Brave to such glory. The prisoners were shackled together, in droves of thirty or more; overseers with ox-hide whips, freely used, added to their miseries. Most of them were young men, who had sought to blood their spears in a pretended ‘holy war’; some were monks, impassive and resigned: some Latangis; cunning and vicious; some country boys with broad flat faces and drugged eyes. The dust of their progress could be seen now from the state barge, as the long and hopeless columns wound their way down the coast road.

  Richard watched them with a sense of foreboding, which not all his feeling of triumph could alter. Surrounded by luxury, reclining at ease, listening to a soldier’s song which some of the Fifty were singing in chorus, he found it impossible not to think of the miseries of that march, and of what awaited the captives at their journey’s end. He realized that he was thinking of Black Harris with the same sense of pity. For all the treachery and cursed spite which had landed Harris in his present situation, his punishment was likely to outweigh it most cruelly.

  Richard stared out across the water, where far ahead of them the pearly morning sun was slanting down on the noble coral of the Sun Palace. For himself, this prospect meant home, and the warmth of loving arms; for Black Harris, the future was by contrast unspeakable. Richard thought to himself: Whatever he may have deserved, and however much I hate him, I should have put him out of his misery.

  He knew by now, better than most, that there were things he could do in hot blood, which the Rajah preferred in cold.

  iv

  From morning till night, the sound of hammering, the thud of mallet on crosstree and wooden peg, rang up and down the Steps of Heaven. To make a showing worthy of the occasion, explained Colonel Kedah (who was in charge of the operation), there must be no scamping of any sort: it was necessary to make use of the best craftsmen, the finest materials, the most painstaking attention to detail. Six hundred and fifty immense barrels had been constructed by the palace coopers, and weighted with stones, and filled with earth; in them had been planted six hundred and fifty crosses of seasoned teak, sufficient to bear the weight of a man, be he never so heavy, be the sun never so hot, hang he never so long.

  When the carpenters had done their work, the barrels were rolled into place down the Steps of Heaven, and there set up in careful symmetry: ten to a step, for sixty steps down, with a circular fringe of fifty to contain the whole. It took a week to erect this descending forest of crosses, and a day to erect the proudest cross of all, and the tallest – a cross of polished ebony, set in the place of honour on the topmost step. But after a week it was all done, and the stark grove stood waiting, in the utmost silence, like some venerated shrine of the woodland god, for human visitation.

  ‘My garden,’ said the Rajah, pleasurably, on the morning of the seventh day. He pressed his dry palms together. ‘Let us now plant our vines.’

  The prisoners were brought out from the underground cages, a shuffling throng who blinked at the sunlight, but made no other sign. With shouting, but with little whipping or cuffing – for they had by now grown docile – they were led to their appointed stations, overflowing down the Steps of Heaven in a dejected human tide. The first man to come to a cross took his place before it, and then the next, and the next; when one step was fully tenanted, the column of shuffling men moved lower to the next level, and filled that one; and the remainder passed on, seeking their vacancies. After an hour, before each tub of earth, and each implanted cross, a man stood in an attitude of humility, waiting for attention. Then the trumpets sounded and it was the turn of the soldiers.

  The cries were few, for the pain of the nails piercing the hands and feet of half-starved men was not great – and they knew their fate in any case, and were stoic. The crucifiers, fortified with liberal draughts from a cask of rich wine, set to with a will; as the work progressed, it became a matter of lusty efficiency – the cross lowered, the man impaled with fewer than a dozen strokes, the cross raised again, the barrel brought into exact line with its fellows, the steps brushed free of blood and earth – all within a few minutes. The teams vied with each other in their despatch; there was even some wagering, though it had to be discreetly done, being against the regulations.

  The prisoners did not watch each other being crucified; it was as if some convention of modesty made them look elsewhere; it could be said that none could truly bear witness to the punishment of another, for their eyes were downcast throughout. As each man’s turn came, he lay down on his cross as quietly as a dog curling up for sleep. When the garden was fully planted, there was still no sound above a whimper from the hundreds of men who were now its terrible fruit.

  Some formality attended the raising of the ebony cross of honou
r, which was the cross of Black Harris. He was carried out last of all – his wound made walking impossible – and his litter grounded at the foot of his cross. The Rajah had signified that he would be present at this final ceremony, and, to honour so impressive an audience, Black Harris was given his best possible appearance. His naked body had been washed with spiced almond oil, his beard cut and trimmed; his red scarf was neatly knotted at his throat. He looked almost jaunty as he was tipped from his litter and laid upon the cross.

  In the cool of the evening, the Rajah had walked out to see justice done. But he was in no hurry to complete the planting of his garden; he first made a tour of some of the higher levels, staring with interest at his victims, pointing with a light cane to where one of the barrels had been imperfectly aligned with its fellows. Finally Colonel Kedah, who was accompanying him on his inspection, asked if they should now proceed with the raising of Black Harris.

  ‘By all means,’ said the Rajah agreeably, and began to walk back towards the ebony cross. ‘Let us not keep our most distinguished guest waiting.’

  Black Harris was giving no entertainment to his captors. He lay with his eyes closed, his face and body gaunt, his limbs unmoving; even when the nails pierced his hands and feet, there was no more than a contracting tightness round his mouth to compliment the onlookers. But if the Rajah were disappointed, he did not show it, nor did he betray emotion of any kind as the cross was raised; it was the eye of a connoisseur, not of a victor or an avenging judge, which followed closely the raising of the cross, and the position of Black Harris’s trunk as his shoulders approached dislocation under the weight of his body. When finally all was in place, the Rajah stood back, shading his eyes, to review this centrepiece.

  ‘Well done, Kedah,’ he said finally. He might have been praising a winning stroke in some game of skill. ‘The workmanship is really excellent …’ His gaze turned from the cross of Black Harris towards the Steps of Heaven, and the serried rows of the damned. ‘What is the final tally?’

  ‘Six hundred and fifty, your Highness,’ answered Kedah. ‘Some thirty died under questioning, and I thought it best to bring the remainder to a round number.’ He gestured below him, his single eye gleaming. ‘It is a matter of symmetry, of course. I spent some time planning this pattern.’

  ‘The pattern is admirable,’ said the Rajah. ‘I am pleased with my garden.’ He turned back to Black Harris, and for the first time seemed to project his personal interest upon the haggard figure suspended in agony above their heads. ‘And this is the choicest flower of all …’ He raised his voice slightly. ‘Well, dog!’ he called out, with a perceptible edge of spite. ‘How do you like your command now?’

  At the sound of his voice, Black Harris at last opened his eyes. The position of his sagging neck was such that he was looking straight down on the Rajah, and with a painful effort he raised his head until he was staring straight ahead. But he said nothing. He might indeed have been king of his own private domain, and set above all vulgar intrusion.

  ‘I spoke to you, dog,’ said the Rajah. ‘Let us hear an answer. They tell me you swore to reach the Sun Palace. How is it, now that you have kept your oath?’

  There was still silence from the cross; though the taunting question must have reached Black Harris, he gave no sign of it. The Rajah signed to Colonel Kedah, who drew from his belt the kris which was part of his ceremonial uniform, and handed it to his master. Delicately, with no change of expression in his pale eyes, the Rajah advanced the wavy blade of the dagger, and pierced the flesh of Black Harris above the ruins of his shattered kneecap. The pain must have been excruciating.

  ‘Answer, dog,’ said the Rajah softly. ‘Tell me how you enjoy your conquest.’

  An answer came, but it came not in words. It came as the only gesture of contempt of which Black Harris was capable.

  The Rajah had to step back swiftly to avoid the stream of water; and perhaps it was this indignity, rather than the few drops defiling his shoes, which overthrew his composure. With a furious gesture he thrust back the kris towards Colonel Kedah, and said, in a voice suddenly snarling: ‘Prick me this wineskin.’

  A scream of pain split the air as Kedah pressed home the undulating blade into the offending organ, and turned it, with that deliberate, almost formal flick of the wrist which devotees of the kris customarily used. Black Harris writhed in uncontrollable agony, inflicting unimaginable torture on his nailed hands and feet. Then, with a rending sob, his body grew still again, and his head fell forward on his chest.

  ‘In the days to come, dog,’ said the Rajah, ‘I will ask you many more questions.’ He breathed deeply, regaining his former calm. ‘See that politeness rules your answers.’

  With a cold stare of farewell, he turned, and his entourage with him, and began to make his way across the lawn towards the Sun Palace. The soldiers collected their tools and drifted off to their barracks, arguing about certain details of the final wager. Behind them, silence and a terrible calm settled upon the Steps of Heaven; and that was the end of that day’s work.

  Richard Marriott was watching from afar. Though he had been invited to join the party of inspection on the Steps of Heaven, he had made his excuses to the Rajah, pleading that his wound was still painful (which was true enough). But truer still would have been his real reason – that he would have drawn no pleasure from such a viewing, and would indeed have been sickened by it. It was one thing (as he had forecast in thought, on the journey back from the Shwe Dagon) to kill in hot blood, to hate a man for what he had done, and for what he might do in the future; but it was another matter altogether to carry this hatred over into the realm of peace, and, having such a man at one’s mercy, to take pleasure in his prolonged punishment.

  So Richard, outfacing the Rajah’s doubting look, had declined the invitation; instead, he had remained in his apartments on the first floor of the Sun Palace. But he found that he could not so easily dismiss the crude world; the prospect troubled him, without respite; and on this last day especially, when hour by hour the waiting crosses received their load, he had been constantly drawn to the windows on the garden side, overlooking the Steps of Heaven. What he saw, and what he heard, were scarcely less disgusting than if he had stood at the foot of each cross, and, like the Rajah, given greedy attention to all the processes of crucifixion.

  Now, leaning on his elbows on one of the wide window-sills, staring out into the dusk, he could not fail to be aware of the terrible carpeting of the Steps of Heaven, where, upon a forest of crosses pointing to the sky, the dregs of their enemies were hung out like tattered linen. Not all the sweet smells of the night could disguise the smell of fear and of death; not all the melodious sounds of a Makassang dusk could overcome those other sounds – the creak of straining timber, the restless muttering like a wind stirring dry leaves, the occasional cry, no louder than a man might cry out in his sleep if that sleep were troubled by hopeless dreams, but which spoke loudly and clearly of pain and torment.

  The tall cross of Black Harris was in the forefront of this dreadful picture, and his collapsed figure could be readily seen; though Richard could not distinguish his eyes, he could imagine them all too easily. He could even imagine that they were staring directly at him, sunken eyes pleading out of a gaunt face, condemning him for this unspeakable cruelty, scorning his comfort when other men hung in such torment. The triple themes of pain, punishment, and forgiveness seemed to be racing round the prison of his head, making careful thought unbearable. He and Black Harris had long been tied together by malice and by treachery, by the urge to repay wickedness in the same ruthless coin; but he could not wish the knot to be sundered in this grisly mode – he would rather remain tied forever.

  Behind him, a light step and the stirring of a silk sarong told him that Sunara had joined him. He half turned, and she came to him without a word and nestled into his arms, bringing the sensual tenderness which was love, and the perfume which was hers. He pressed her closely to him, feeling the child, feelin
g the glow of that love. But the contrast of their joy and closeness, in the private heaven of their room, and the desolate scene outside, was enough to turn all such thoughts to ashes. Who could be happy, even in paradise, when ill-starred suffering was also near enough to be touched, loud enough to be heard, vivid enough to be felt?

  Sunara looked out of the window, towards the dusk and the unconcealed pain, and then she turned aside again, and laid her head against his shoulder, veiling her eyes as if such limitation of her view were all that she could bear. She said something, so low that he could not catch it; but he caught the feeling in her voice, and answered it.

  ‘You should not be watching, my darling.’

  ‘No one should be watching.’ He could feel her troubled spirit in the very texture of her skin. ‘There should not be a man in the world who could witness this without shame, without being cursed for it.’

  ‘What about Adam?’ he asked, on a sudden thought.

  ‘I have moved his room, to the other side of the palace. Instead of this, he can look at the sea, the innocent sea … And Manina has forbidden him the garden. He can play and walk on the other side, also.’

  ‘Thank you for that thoughtfulness. Perhaps the two of them should go down to Kutar. Perhaps you should go also, till all this is done with.’

  She nodded. ‘I will think about it. Not for myself – I stay with you. But it might be better to send the boy away, for a little while.’

  Richard looked from the window again. It was darker now; the dusk was almost black, waiting for the moon which would make it luminous again. But the blackness could not hide anything, from any eye which was privy to this shame. The bedevilled scene of punishment was still there, and the muttering, and the small hopeless cries.