It was the simplest of stories, told without artistry; often, in fact, the writing was prolix and pompous, in the fashion of an earlier day. Yet it remained a most moving account of one man’s effort to make something worthwhile out of a country and a task which slowly and inevitably defeated him – and this, after he had suffered an initial, crippling bereavement of another kind.
At the same time, the journal was no mournful chronicle of despair; it was most subtle in its ebb and flow, its alternation of joy and sadness; the large firm hand, unwavering to the end, set out a story which was less than firm in its course, less than predictable. It ranged over every human emotion, and every need of man, from his need of a full belly to his need for God; the tale was of triumph and defeat, yearning and rejection, the purest love turning to the purest hatred. Andrew Farthing, faithful man of God, had been a creature of deep feeling and wayward desires as well.
He had arrived in Makassang, in 1817, after ‘a journey which put me in mind of the maritime ordeals of St Paul the blessed Apostle’, with a heart full of hope and happiness, a burning thirst to build and then to serve the house of the Lord, ‘Ten conversions this day!’ was an early and ecstatic entry, firmly underlined. Against this, he had endured utter, heartbreaking misery when his wife died. He had regained hope and faith as he tackled the task alone; and he had come near to losing them both when that task proved beyond the strength of failing, enfeebled hands.
Richard Marriott read it at first with negligent interest, but soon with close attention; not a man alive could have failed to be enthralled by these leather-bound, bronze-clasped volumes in which Andrew Farthing had set down the thoughts, hopes, and fears of thirty-five crushing years. But crushing or not, he had shown admirable vitality and endurance; he had continued to labour mightily, in a vineyard which, at successive harvest times, returned him everything from a heady vintage to the bitter dregs of failure.
As Richard read further, his present world forgotten, the musty leaves entranced him with their zest for small triumphs, and shamed him with their Christian humility. The persuasive message of piety from the long-dead past put him in mind, constantly, of other echoes within his own life – of Sebastian Wickham charging him: ‘Use your kingdom well’, of his father counselling ‘honour above interest, and duty above both’; even of the skull of the soldier of Sir Francis Drake, faithful unto death across the world’s circumference.
The entries varied greatly in length. Sometimes they were long and prosy, as when he was describing the physical attributes of Makassang, or the ‘misguided sense of worship’ which impelled the Land-Dyaks to collect human heads as a kind of church ornament, rather than as evidence of martial valour. There were four pages, illustrated with skilful miniature watercolours, on the various species of wild orchid; and three setting out ‘some observations on the custom of exacting talang-talong (bride-purchase between differing tribes)’.
By contrast, there were innumerable entries of the briefest kind, such as ‘To Kutar’, or ‘A week at the Sun Palace’, or ‘Fasting’. Many times, the single word ‘Ill’ sufficed for several days. After the entry: ‘Today I buried my dearest,’ there was a whole month of silence.
But more and more, as Richard read on, the man’s consuming love of Makassang began to shine through, and his plans for it assumed an air of continuous, possessive dedication. His eyes were forever lifted to the hills. Under the heading ‘What Can Be Done’, set down after some eight years in the territory, Andrew Farthing wrote:
‘God’s work in this island is enshrined in the two words, Instruction and Love. The people are backward, and must be taught, not only the Gospels, but the simplest forms of modern social intercourse. Though they are happy and generous by nature, they are constantly at the mercy of fanatics and tyrants of the most odious kind, and are often most cruelly used; Love must take the place of oppression and duplicity, and if it be Love armed and girded for combat, it is Love none the less … The Rajah is, in the main, a benevolent man, but he is subject to violent extremes of temperament, no doubt the heritage of his father, Satsang the Second of callous memory; when baulked of his intent, he will still employ the sword, the thumbscrew, and the phial of poison, in preference to gentler methods of persuasion … I shall not rest until Makassang, this undoubted jewel of the Java Seas, is a happy and united kingdom, whose public features are Modesty and Virtue, whose fabric is woven of Justice for All, and whose watch-word is Progress under God the Father.’
Such were the aims of Andrew Farthing, writing in his dusty and lonely mission house on the outskirts of Prahang. But his aims were not universally admired, nor ever more than modestly successful; more and more, as time went on, there were references to ‘obstruction’, ‘double-dealing’, ‘betrayal of sworn promises’, and ‘setbacks engineered by those whose holy garb should, at the least, be a safeguard against such patent ill will’. His first church, half-built, was burned to the ground again; a school was emptied of children after it had been daubed ‘with cryptic and perhaps indecent emblems’; converts on whom Andrew Farthing depended were presently found to be unavailable for further service in the cause of God. In a rare outburst, he once wrote:
‘Behind all this malevolence is that insolent rascal, Selang Aro, the so-called High Priest of the Anapuri sect. When I reflect on the machinations of this wholly wicked man, I am sometimes tempted to forget my cloth, and to curse him for the arrant rogue he is. I am sure, though I cannot prove it, that he is directly behind the destruction of Katadi [a mission hall which had been pillaged and desecrated a few weeks earlier] and his manner towards me grows increasingly offensive and contemptuous. What the Lord Buddha, by whom he swears, would have thought of such conduct, passes my imagination; for the Buddha, though not the repository nor the agent of true faith, was certainly an apostle of gentleness and kindly dealing. Would that his consecrated servants were the same!
‘Nor am I the only victim among his targets of ill will – indeed, I may be the least of them. It seems to me that Selang Aro entertains delusions of worldly grandeur also – this grandeur to encompass, in due time, the actual rule of Makassang, which his Anapuri sect enjoyed in days gone by. If that be so, then God help Makassang, when it comes under the dominion of this scheming mountebank and villain!’
It was the first intimation of failure, the first sign of the lengthening shadows; it was superseded, as often happened in Andrew Farthing’s story, by happier recollections which briefly delighted the ageing missionary. One of these was the birth of Princess Sunara, ‘a small and beautiful child, who, we may hope, will one day come to exert a softening influence on this ruthless dynasty’. He noted his regret that he could not baptize the new arrival, but later there were entries which showed that he was being allowed to play an increasing part in her education and upbringing. He went regularly to the palace, teaching her music, the classics, English literature, and ‘such aspects of deportment as are within the province of a minister of the Church of Scotland’.
He noted, often, her ‘bright spirit’, her ‘tenderness’, her ‘promise of great beauty’. Once, in a rare flash of happy satisfaction, he wrote: ‘Today the dear child is twelve years old, and at her birthday party sang the air of “Loch Lomond”, which I taught her, with exceptional grace and purity. She surprised and delighted all by her modest charm. Of all things done right or wrong in Makassang, perhaps I may be humbly proud that one flower, and that the rarest, has bloomed to such delicate perfection.’
Then, towards the close of the second journal, Andrew Farthing’s account turned to the dark side again; the lengthening shadows began to obscure, altogether, the landscape which he loved. There were more examples of ‘obstruction and malpractice’; he found that he was losing converts rather than gaining them; on one occasion, the Rajah had been ‘angered by a book of Common Prayer found in the royal kitchen’. By contrast – and how many contrasts there were, in this chronicle of the tides of an exiled life – he wrote a sentence almost serene in its resig
nation: ‘If, as it seems, I cannot teach the Gospel, at least I can teach.’
There followed, one by one, accounts of village schools opened, a small hospital and clinic set up; gradually there were fewer reflections upon religious and godly hopes, and more and more concerning pupils, patients, epidemics, the stemming of a bout of cholera which, he noted caustically, ‘alarmed the monks of the Golden Pagoda to such an extent that religious differences were, for a time, forgotten’.
On one occasion, at a time of great crisis, he exclaimed: ‘At last, a shipment of quinine!’ as he had once written: ‘Another convert to the Lord!’
But always, in this area as in any other, he wanted to do more; the nearer he drew to the end of his life, the more did his questing spirit shame all lesser dedication. Richard Marriott was reminded, once again, of Sebastian Wickham’s final precept: Andrew Farthing also was striving to ‘use his kingdom well’, but he was sure that he had failed in his task. Indeed, sometimes he seemed convinced that he had done nothing whatsoever of merit, but had frittered away his life in the idlest of all pursuits – the pursuit of a dream. In spite of all his best endeavours, Makassang was still ‘backward, heathenish, and poor’, under ‘a cruel despotism which heeds not the gentle Lamb of God, nor the avenging wrath of His Father’. In the face of such self-accusation – for he saw himself as the only undoubted culprit – all criticism from the lips of smaller men seemed sterile and impudent.
In the last years, the journal halted more and more; its entries grew scanty because of tiredness or ill health – ‘Malaria, and dreadful pain’, was the notation for his last Christmas Day on earth. It ceased altogether, on a foreboding half sentence – ‘I am called to–’ on the evening that he was lured into the forest, and stabbed to death.
The last full page, written a month earlier, had borne witness to his mourning for what must be left undone, however long his life might be spared; its sadness revealed a heartbreaking sense of failure. But within the accents of despair, there was a dauntless message of hope; a message shining through undisguisedly, for all who might read thereafter:
‘Someone – not I, because I am old and sick, and have taken the wrong road – but someone might well make an earthly paradise of Makassang. The task awaits the divinely appointed hands. But when they have accomplished this, they must give Makassang back to those to whom it rightly belongs, restoring the equity of the common people. [The style was stilted and formal to the end, yet fundamentally sincere and good-hearted, so that it transcended such limitations.] The white man’s task in these islands, as I see it, is not to plunder, nor even to enjoy at leisure; but to teach, to serve, and then to liberate. Of such ministration is the true Kingdom of Heaven. I earnestly pray God that the right teacher and servant may be guided to this unhappy land.’
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He had sighed deeply, and turned towards Sunara, who was watching his face under the lamplight. Andrew Farthing’s story of the past was still with him, but it was bound up now with the present – part of the ferment of doubt, peril, and devilry which still infected all Makassang. He caught her eye at last, and smiled, and said: ‘It needs no blinding flash to see why I was to read this. Sunara, it is all but irresistible.’
‘He was a good man,’ she answered. ‘And so are you.’
‘I–’ he began, but his answer was not to be known till long after. Once more, there was the sound of footsteps in the corridor; this time, they were light and fleeting, the patter of bare feet running, more urgent and alarming than any heavy tread. Richard stood up, as did Sunara, and faced the curtain which masked the doorway; his hand went down to grip the butt of his pistol. But this time it was a friend – his oldest friend of all. The figure who glided into the room like a moving shadow was the nurse, Manina.
She was distraught; even in the half-light, her wrinkled face worked uncontrollably, and her eyes darted from side to side as if seeking hidden enemies. The effort of running made her breath come short, but there was terror in this fast breathing also. When she advanced into the full light of the room, she was the very picture of ancient fear.
Sunara started forward, her hand to her breast. ‘What has happened?’ she asked, on a note of anguish. ‘Has someone harmed the child?’
Manina, breathless, shook her head. She was visibly trembling; her hands fluttered like birds in a net as she twisted the folds of her sarong, which had gone awry. But at last words came to her lips.
‘Not the child, Highness …’ Her voice was cracking with pent-up fear. She turned to Richard, and sketched a curtsey. ‘Tuan, they took your servant.’
Now it was Richard’s turn to start forward. ‘They took John Keston?’
Manina nodded, momentarily beyond speech again; then with a supreme effort she mastered herself. ‘Yes, Tuan … He was asleep in his bed, and soldiers came and carried him away … They cursed him … He was struck with a spearshaft when he tried to speak.’
‘When was this?’ asked Richard.
‘Not five minutes ago.’ Suddenly her head cocked to one side, in an urgent attempt to catch some sound, and she began to tremble more violently than ever. ‘Tuan, I think one follows me.’
They all listened, with an equal alertness, but there seemed no sound of any kind within the palace. Sunara returned to her first fear. ‘What of the children?’ she demanded. ‘Are they guarded?’
Manina nodded again. ‘They are safe within the second room … The girl Drusha lies across the threshold … So was I lying myself, when I heard them take the Tuan’s man …’ Suddenly she was listening again, almost sniffing the air for menacing sound. Then she said, in a frightened whisper: ‘One follows me now.’
This time there could be no mistaking; their third visitor of the night was already drawing near, and this time he was a man, in whose firm and heavy tread a timorous ear might detect the very accents of doom. They listened to the footsteps growing louder, ringing on the marble floor, echoing among the lofty arches; there was a ring of metal also – a sword hilt, thought Richard swiftly, which caught on a buckle as the wearer moved. Once more his hand went down to his pistol; if this were a soldier, come on any errand save the most ordinary, he would have a soldier’s answer, not a frightened old woman’s … The steps halted outside their apartment, and a heavy knock sounded on the doorpost. Richard called: ‘Enter!’ on a sharp note, and thecurtains moved aside.
‘Greetings to all,’ said Colonel Kedah.
He was the very picture of military arrogance and pride; the contrast between this confident figure, and the atmosphere of doubt and fear which possessed the room, was shaming to anyone of the smallest spirit. Kedah strode forward into the room as a man of infinite authority, indisputably the new Commander-in-Chief and First Minister, without peer among such pigmies as he might meet on his official rounds. Richard found himself possessed with utter hatred as he looked at their latest visitor; in the tall figure, in the face set in its customary sneer, in the single menacing eye, was enshrined all that he loathed and despised in Makassang. He kept his hand prominently on the butt of his pistol, as he said: ‘Kedah … What brings you here?’
Kedah’s glance, which had been moving from person to person with offensive deliberation, came round at last to Richard. The dislike on Richard’s face was fully mirrored in his own, as he said: ‘You were present at my investiture this evening?’
‘You know I was.’
‘Then you must know that I am to be addressed as Tunku, like yourself.’
‘I wished to avoid confusion,’ said Richard sarcastically.
‘There can be none.’ Kedah’s eye began to rove round the room again, with the same leisurely insolence as before. ‘You keep late hours,’ he said at last. ‘Or is it a matter of early rising? And armed also.’
‘You are armed,’ said Richard.
‘I have military duties.’ He was looking now at Manina, who crouched in the shadows, a mingled gleam of hatred and fear in her old eyes. ‘As well as the duties of First Minister, of
which you have now been reminded … Certain movements were reported to me by the guard-commander. I came to see that all is safe.’
This was too much for Richard. ‘I would not say that your presence here adds to our safety.’
Kedah shugged. ‘If you are content–’ he said, and turned to go.
Richard would have given much to let him leave without further question. But with Keston in mortal danger at that very moment, he could not do so – and Kedah knew this perfectly well, and could thus afford to play his cat-and-mouse game to his heart’s content. It remained only for Richard to pocket his pride, and say: ‘The movement you heard was my servant, John Keston, being arrested. I must ask you where he is.’
Kedah turned again, with a thin smile of satisfaction. ‘He is under guard.’
‘Why?’
‘He was found armed near the royal apartments.’
‘I do not believe it!’
Kedah raised his eyebrows, in elaborate pantomime of a man confronted by the absurd. ‘Whether you believe it or not, it is so. He had a cutlass in his hand, and he was loitering, for no good reason, in a passage in the west wing. He was immediately put under arrest.’
A new sound was suddenly heard in the room. It was Manina, from whose lips came that sharp hissing noise which was the universal expression of derision and disbelief among all Malays. As Kedah turned towards her, his face darkening with fury, she took a step forward, and croaked out: ‘He was in his bed!’
‘Silence!’ shouted Kedah. ‘You know nothing! Speak when you are spoken to! Old fool that you are – go back to your room!’
For the first time, Sunara entered the conversation. Her voice was freezing as she addressed Kedah.
‘Do not give orders to my servants.’
There was such icy authority in her tone that Kedah paused, with a look of confusion. Then he took command of himself, and bowed slightly to Sunara, and said: ‘I am sorry … She angered me with her lies …’ A sudden oily gallantry came into his voice as he added, to their utter astonishment: ‘You may be sure I would do nothing to offend you – my sister.’
The White Rajah (1961) Page 37
