The White Rajah (1961)

by Monsarrat, Nicholas

  Adam stood transfixed; his toy spear dropped to the floor with a clatter; he would have turned and run, if he had been able. Richard made as if to step forward, angry, ready to rescue and protect his son; but it was Sunara who put an effective end to the scene. She gave a swift sign to Manina, who gathered up the baby and bore it towards another room. Then she called out firmly: ‘Adam! Go with Manina.’

  It was a very ready small boy who bowed quickly to the Rajah, and turned, and scurried after his nurse.

  Sunara, who had also risen from the daybed on which she had been resting, tried to guide them all past the dangerous corner, towards safety.

  ‘Forgive him,’ she said to her father. ‘He was over-excited with the game.’

  The Rajah looked round the room, slowly and deliberately. From his manner, Richard now found it easy to imagine his mood, and the elements which had gone to its making. He had come upon them unawares, and had watched their innocent enjoyment as a happy family circle. Surveying them in secret, he had seen a daughter, a son, two grandsons, and a guard-captain who, with the status of uncle, was clearly admitted to special privileges. Their unity must have seemed so obvious that, like many a grandfather before him, he had felt totally excluded. Adam’s foolish utterance of the word ‘enemy’ could only have seemed especially pointed, at the moment of its use.

  Richard was about to make his contribution towards smoothing over the moment, when the Rajah himself spoke. He addressed Sunara, in freezing dignity.

  ‘I gave no leave to withdraw.’

  ‘I am sorry, Father,’ said Sunara. She did not sound sorry, but rather detached from the scene, as if it could be of little importance. ‘I thought it best to dispense with formality. Adam was frightened.’

  ‘He showed good sense in that.’

  After the grim comment, the Rajah’s eyes moved on; now it was the turn of Amin Sang to submit to their scrutiny. The young guard-captain was standing at attention, as palace etiquette required; and the Rajah stared at him for a full minute before breaking the silence. When he spoke, it was in a voice of silky disdain which Richard had heard many times before, and never on any happy occasion.

  ‘You have been giving some additional training in guard duty, Captain?’

  Amin Sang looked straight ahead. ‘Yes, your Highness.’

  ‘With what purpose?’

  ‘It was a game, your Highness.’

  ‘A game?’

  ‘We were pretending to guard the – the Rajah Muda.’

  ‘The Rajah Muda.’ The old man mouthed the phrase as if it were indecent. ‘Since when did the Rajah Muda stand in need of guarding? And from whom?’

  ‘It was a game, your Highness,’ said Amin Sang again.

  ‘Was it a part of the game, to teach him to call me “enemy”?’ Amin Sang drew in his breath; there was such sudden spite in the Rajah’s voice that he did not know how to answer. The silence stretched to ominous lengths. Richard made as if to intervene, and then checked himself. Once again, he would do more harm than good, if he took any part in such a scene. However unjust or offensive it became, it was something which must run its course.

  ‘I do not like your game, Captain,’ said the Rajah at last, ‘and I do not like to see my officers so foolishly employed. Have you no present duty?’

  ‘Not until sunset, your Highness.’

  ‘We must devise something … You will report yourself to Colonel Kedah.’

  ‘Yes, your Highness.’

  ‘Tell him of my displeasure.’

  ‘Yes, your Highness.’

  ‘Tell him also that I am dissatisfied with the cleanliness of the stables.’

  Amin Sang saluted, his face burning, and strode from the room without another word. Richard clenched his hands tightly, finding it difficult to let pass what had been said and done; the insulting tone, and the promise of the insulting task, were alike intolerable. But if he tried to intervene, worse might befall his friend … Holding his temper in check, he presently looked up, to find that the Rajah’s eyes were now fixed balefully on himself.

  ‘I am astonished,’ said the Rajah, ‘that you should encourage such behaviour in your son.’

  Richard still held his tongue, fearing to speak anything at all. But Sunara, who had returned to her daybed, raised a pale face towards her father.

  ‘You make too much of it,’ she told him bravely. ‘It was a game, as Amin Sang said. Adam was playing at guard duty. He meant no harm.’

  ‘No harm, to call me “enemy”, and threaten me with a spear? Is that how these children are to be brought up?’

  Sunara, watching the working of his furious face, knew, like Richard, that no word from her could benefit the situation. ‘I am sorry, Father,’ she said again. ‘Richard will talk to him tomorrow. He will not be so thoughtless again. But please remember how young he is.’

  ‘He is young, and I am old,’ answered the Rajah, speaking with cold and careful effect. ‘But I am not so old that I am ready to give place to an insolent boy, or to anyone else. I will rule for a long time, you may be certain of that. And as long as I rule, I will be treated with due respect.’

  He waited, as if expecting argument, and Richard felt that he must break the silence.

  ‘I hope your Highness’s days of rule will be many,’ he said formally.

  The Rajah glared at him under lowered lids. ‘Be sure they will, Tunku. Be sure they will!’

  Early next morning, Manina, whose access to palace gossip was unrivalled, brought them a piece of news which Richard had been expecting, though it was none the less disturbing, for all that. Amin Sang had been summarily transferred from the Palace Guard, to a tour of duty with the far-away West Garrison. He would be absent for three months at least. He had left at dawn, too early to say any farewells.

  ‘Adam will be sad,’ said Richard, when he had digested this intelligence.

  ‘I think we will all be sad,’ answered Sunara. ‘From this day forward.’

  ii

  In Richard Marriott’s dressing-room, a workmanlike apartment containing little save cupboard space and linen presses, John Keston was busy with the Tunku of Makassang’s principal and most elegant possession, his wardrobe. This was a weekly task, which he would delegate to no one else; no matter how great the number of Richard’s personal servants – and they now ranged, in a descending scale, from military aide to punkah-slave, via secretary, major-domo, butler, wine steward, cook, launderer, bath boy, shoe boy, head groom, and head sweeper, each with his own smaller retinue – yet the care of his fabulous array of clothes remained as John Keston’s prime and private responsibility. They must be brushed, aired, pressed, and cleaned; camphor must be sprinkled with a free hand; gold leaf and silver thread must be protected from the tarnishing which the moist monsoon climate encouraged; turbans must be wound to a hair’s-breadth, linen must be spotlessly laundered and displayed.

  It was a whole day’s work, and John Keston made the most of it. Indeed, he clung tenaciously to this office; for it was, in truth, all that now remained of his honourable role of bodyservant.

  Lately, Keston’s frame had grown comfortable, even portly; a year and more of soft living ashore had changed the ruddy, tough young sailor into something less admirable. He had rusted, as a man must rust if he eats three copious meals a day without a day’s work to justify them. He found it difficult to pass the time, in the Sun Palace or anywhere in Makassang; in theory, he stood nearest to Richard Marriott, and ruled his household; but the multiplicity of office-bearers, the division and sub-division of even the smallest tasks, and Princess Sunara’s own overseeing, had largely stolen his responsibility.

  For the most part he strolled the corridors and passageways, greeting those he met, watching other men work, nagging at sweepers and gardeners and all those of menial rank. Sometimes he loitered in the nursery, until Manina, jealous of her own domain, bustled him out again. Sometimes he played with Adam, but Adam had many other friends, and attendants also – he was being ta
ught his letters by Sunara, the head groom schooled him in riding, Captain Sorba of the Palace Guard now instructed him in the military arts; there was little room, and no need, for an ex-sailor whose skills and energy had wasted away through lack of employment.

  Only on this, the first day of the week, did John Keston find something to turn his hand to; and he spun out the task of brushing and tidying, mending and folding, for all that it was worth.

  He was busy now with a leather cloth, slowly perfecting the high polish of a silver shoe buckle, when Richard came into the dressing-room.

  It was mid-morning, and Richard was not yet arrayed for the day; his magnificent brocade robe proclaimed the man of taste and leisure whose only preoccupation was the elegant passing of time. He had taken his morning coffee, he had shaved and bathed, he had visited the nursery, and talked to his major-domo about the preparation of a wild pig for dinner, and sent a message to the stables concerning a horse which might be lame. Now, walking into his dressing-room, he crossed to the window and admired the view, which was to the southward, towards the rolling surge of the Java Sea. Then he turned, and studied John Keston, and said finally: ‘I am not riding this morning … I will wear the black longhi, and a lawn tunic … It seems to me you have gained weight lately, Keston.’

  ‘I know it.’ John Keston, standing up, continued to rub and polish the shining shoe buckle. ‘I have gained more than a stone, in the past few months. The food is too rich, to my taste. And I lack exercise, to keep in trim. But there is one good cure for all that.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘A long sea voyage.’

  Richard smiled, divining the direction of John Keston’s thoughts. ‘And where would that voyage take us, pray?’

  ‘Back to England.’

  In the ensuing silence, Richard turned again, and stared out, across the slopes to the sea. With the monsoon rains blown away to the northward, the waves sparkled and beckoned, as bright and happy as laughter; and yet they were not close, they were a lifetime away … He knew the feeling behind Keston’s words, and sometimes, in a certain mood, he could share it; he could feel homesick, as deeply as any yearning bride who pined for the family bosom again. But, as on all other occasions, he knew he must thrust the thought away; a hundred reasons made it impossible to entertain.

  With his back still towards John Keston, he said firmly: ‘You know we cannot return. Our life is here now. We are settled in Makassang.’

  ‘We can settle where we will; we have the world to choose from … There would be more to do in England, if we travelled back; a great estate to run, maybe.’ His voice took on a careful note. ‘The Princess and the children would be more secure there, too.’

  Richard turned, in surprise. ‘More secure? What do you mean by that?’

  Keston was looking down at his feet. ‘We would all be safer, away from here.’

  ‘What kind of nonsense is this?’ scoffed Richard. ‘You talk like old Manina!’

  ‘Manina hears much.’

  ‘She hears too much! She will be hearing voices in the air, next!’ But he was intrigued, in spite of his scoffing tone. ‘Now speak out, man. What have you and Manina been talking of?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Then tell me of this nothing.’

  ‘Well …’ John Keston put down the shoe and the polishing cloth, and faced his master; with his legs straddled, and his hands on his hips, he suddenly looked like a sailor once more – a sailor in an attitude of watchfulness. ‘Sir, we think there is danger here.’

  ‘What danger?’

  ‘We think there are spies watching.’

  ‘Watching whom?’

  ‘Yourself, and the Princess, and the children.’

  ‘Have you seen these spies?’

  Keston shook his head. ‘No. They are too careful for that. But there’s whispering, and moving behind curtains, and shadows out in the gardens, all the time. One cannot say a thing, or do a thing, without it being all through the palace in half a day.’

  ‘The palace has always been like that.’

  ‘But this is something new. It is growing all the time. The whole place has sprouted ears and eyes! And it seems as if we are losing friends, too, every day.’ He came out, suddenly, with what appeared to be his most pressing question. ‘Why was the Captain sent away from here? Is it true that it was because he spoke out about the child, saying it should be guarded instead of left defenceless?’

  Richard frowned, wondering at the foolish way in which gossip could twist and turn and stretch the truth, beyond a shadow of its proper shape. ‘It was nothing like that. It is true that he was sent away because he angered the Rajah. But it was for a different matter altogether.’

  ‘Well, he is gone,’ insisted John Keston stubbornly. ‘And he is not the only one. What has become of the Fifty of the Brave, that you used to drink with, when you went down to the barracks? Do you still drink with them?’

  ‘The battle we drank to was a long time ago. These reunions lose their savour by and by. And the Fifty are dispersed now, in any case.’

  ‘Aye, they are dispersed! Do you know there are not five of them left in the palace?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘There is nothing there, man. They have been sent to join the garrisons. It is the system of exchange. You know it well. They make these tours of duty, every year of their service.’

  ‘They have been sent to join the garrisons, and they have never returned.’ John Keston thrust out his chin, determined, sure of his facts. ‘They have gone, and now Amin Sang has gone. It is Colonel Kedah’s doing! He would not stand for you to have your own faithful following. So they have been dispersed, and none of them have come back. In the end, we shall not have a friend left here, to raise an arm in our defence.’

  But Richard did not care for this kind of talk, and he felt that he must say so, without dissembling. It was one thing for him to have his own doubts about Kedah, and quite another for John Keston, his servant, to retail idle gossip about a man who held high office under the Rajah. That was not how the Tunku of Makassang should conduct his household … He put on his stiffest manner, and turned away from John Keston, with a gesture of displeasure.

  ‘Enough!’ he said curtly. ‘You forget your place. Colonel Kedah is a loyal officer, and his example should serve for all of us.’

  John Keston shrugged, recognizing the inflection of rank, and the division of it also. ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘There is no danger, from him or from anyone else. You and Manina should watch your tongues.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And my place is here in Makassang, and it will remain here. We are taking no long sea voyages, to England or to anywhere else.’

  ‘Aye,’ said John Keston again. He was unimpressed, and unmoved, but he could not pursue the subject. He had said his say, and he might as well have left it unsaid; that was the way of the world. He picked up the polishing cloth again. ‘Well, I thought I would mention it.’ There was the ghost of a grin on his face. ‘We two are the last of the old Lucinda’s left. I thought maybe we should stand together.’

  Richard, staring out of the wide window, found his mood softening again to meet John Keston’s words. The mention of the Lucinda D struck a chord in his heart; and it was answered by what he saw in the far distance – the sparkling sea, deep green, noble, and tempting. It was true that a great part of his life had lain there, and another great part in England; by contrast with those stirring and strenuous years, their present ease was futile. Though he could not bring back the past, even if he had truly wanted to, yet there was no great harm, occasionally, in sighing for it.

  ‘The Lucinda days are over,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘They will not come again. But I agree that they were good days, when all is said.’

  ‘They were better days,’ John Keston corrected him, without anything in his tone to give offence. ‘And there’s one good reason for that – we did more work!’

  iii

  The
two strange individuals who asked for audience, and were presently received by Richard Marriott in his private apartments, might have been sent by Providence in direct answer to his discontent. He had been musing, long and uncomfortably, upon his interview with John Keston; it was not the talk of danger, and spies, and the curious disappearance of the Fifty, which had disturbed him, so much as Keston’s last satirical words about their days on board the Lucinda D: ‘We did more work!’ There was a reproach therein, and a verdict of guilt, which could not be gainsaid.

  It was an old reproach, which had never faded or been wholly lost; it centred inevitably on his lack of worthwhile employment. Keston’s thickening figure had recalled it (Richard was not yet over-fleshed himself, but how long would that be true?), and the phrase ‘We did more work’ had been a most pointed endorsement. For now, plainly enough, he did no work at all; it had been true for many a long month; it was likely to continue forever. In such circumstances, a man could only wonder disconsolately as to what, at the age of thirty-two, had brought him to such a pass.

  There had been a time, a brief time, when he had thought that Makassang would turn out very differently for him; but now, all that remained of that time were rueful questions. What had happened to those golden days of hope? What had happened to the Rajah’s broad hints that he might one day succeed to the throne – or at least come to wield some tangible power and authority? Richard could guess now that the Rajah, with his promises, had been making sure of an ally, at a time when an ally was desperately needed. But was that truly all that he was worth – a stop-gap friend whose friendship shed its worth in the space of a few months? Or was it the birth of the child, and the spectacle of a ready-made dynasty prepared to take the Rajah’s place, which had daunted the old man in his last years? Or was it simple jealousy, an ancient onset of spite and fear, so deep-rooted that nothing could now dissolve it?