‘What business is that?’
There was a moment of hesitation before Miles answered; a small veil seemed to drop for a moment, coming between him and his mood of brotherly frankness; but after a second or so he replied readily enough: ‘A business that will keep till later, Dick. But I meant, principally, showing the British flag, with all that it means. We find that the Warrior and her gunboats have a wonderfully calming effect … I have been Commander-in-Chief on the China Station these past five years; the Warrior came out to show off her paces in the Indian Ocean and the China Seas, and to take me home again. But after Singapore I was diverted here, under sealed orders, with a certain mission.’
Richard smiled. ‘Which will keep till later?’
‘Till after lunch, at least. Come, let us join the wardroom, Dick. You can be the Tunku, and I can be the admiral, and we will see who is grandest.’
‘Tunku or not,’ said Richard, rising, ‘it’s good to hear some sailor’s talk again.’
‘Perhaps you should have worn your uniform,’ answered Miles, straight-faced – and, at Richard’s startled look, burst into a roar of laughter. ‘I told you we had agents … Come, let’s go to eat.’
Luncheon, in the best tradition of the Royal Navy afloat, was execrable – a great steaming stew of greasy pork chops, potatoes, dumplings, and carrots, followed by slabs of plumduff smothered with custard. It would have been difficult for the most talented of naval cooks to devise a meal more unsuitable to the tropics. Richard, toying with this mountainous repast, was amazed by the hearty appetite of those around him; from the highest to the lowest – and junior rank was no barrier to accomplishment – there was no one at the long wardroom table who, in a temperature approaching ninety degrees Fahrenheit, did not fall to with a will, demolishing heaped platters at a pace which would have made an elephant blench. Perhaps this was the actual ‘stuff of greatness’ by which the Royal Navy was reputed to be sustained.
But he enjoyed himself enormously. Seated on Miles’s right hand, he had as neighbour a Post-Captain Templeton, the Warrior’s commander under the admiral. Templeton was a most entertaining companion; he had recently voyaged round the world on an Admiralty charting survey, and there seemed no country, and no ocean, with which he was not familiar. It was fair to say that some of his garnered information was far removed from official hydrography. But his account of the women of the Marquesas Islands, who, he swore, measured a man’s social status by a most extraordinary yardstick, was broadly diverting. Richard was delighted to see that Miles could enjoy such anecdotes, and even cap them. A dozen years earlier, he would have quit the table with a sniff from a nose held unconscionably high in the air. While a moralist might deplore the change, a brother could only applaud it.
But afterwards, in Miles’s day cabin again, the day began to go sour. Its decline set in sharply with the ‘business’ which Miles had mentioned earlier; a business which required the presence of a third party. This was a gentleman introduced by the admiral as ‘Mr Possitter, my political officer’. Mr Possitter, who had not taken luncheon in the wardroom, could only be described as a snuffling weasel of a Civil Servant, pale as a slug, sharp as a ferret – in truth, thought Richard, there was no end to such rustic similes where Mr Possitter was concerned. But he was clearly a man of consequence, a Foreign Office under-secretary to whom even Admiral Marriott must listen, if not defer; and the business which had brought the Warrior and her escort of gunboats to Makassang was Mr Possitter’s business, and no other.
Mr Possitter, who was dressed in a white silk suit which gave him a curious air of charade – his very nightshirt, one thought, must be cut from black broadcloth – Mr Possitter earned Richard’s immediate dislike by addressing him as ‘Marriott’, in the Civil Service mode; when this had been corrected, with freezing dignity, his pronunciation of the title ‘Tunku’ was so elaborately formal that it could serve as an equal insult. But with this, Richard had to be content – and with much else besides.
Miles Marriott broached the new topic of his ‘certain mission’ warily enough; it was Mr Possitter, from what he deemed to be a position of strength, who produced chapter and verse for an astonishing proposal.
‘I will be brief, Tunku,’ he said, with the same sarcastic intonation as before. ‘We have heard of your difficulties here, and your own position. The Satsang dynasty has never been strong, and even with the disposal of the Anapuri, in which you yourself played a major part, there seems no certainty as to who will eventually come to rule Makassang.’ He paused, and sniffed, and put his spidery hands together; Richard could almost hear him now intoning: Paragraph Two. Sub-heading A. ‘Makassang is far too valuable, in every sense of the word, to be left in this situation. Politics, as well as nature, abhors a vacuum.’ He smiled a wintry smile, as if he had made a highly original joke – as he may indeed have believed. ‘That being so, and bearing in mind certain Dutch ambitions in this area, Her Majesty’s Government have decided to annex Makassang to the Crown as a dependency, and to confer the benefits of British rule – to use a loose term, of Pax Britannica – on this divided island. Peace and prosperity will follow in due course.’
Richard sat back, in utter amazement; the idea that Makassang could be taken over in this fashion, and all her troubles solved by a squeaky pen wielded in London, was truly astonishing. However much he had yearned for British stability and order, however much he needed allies to bring the blessing of peace, none of these things could ever be achieved by the help of such as Mr Possitter.
But because of the doubts he had brought with him on board the Warrior, and because he remained in desperate need of friends, he had to temporize.
‘Makassang is a more complex country than you seem to think,’ he began. ‘Clearly you know something of the problems of this island, but you can know little of the people. They have divided loyalties at the best. A Sea-Dyak and a Land-Dyak, who have been at each other’s throats for generations, could only combine to throw an interloper into the sea. Then they would turn upon each other again. They would never agree to alien rule, even backed up by warships and gunboats, without a prolonged period of discussion and persuasion, and probably a good deal of bloodshed as well.’ He raised a finger to emphasize his words. ‘They are not mere cyphers, Mr Possitter. They are people – proud people who revere their leaders and prize their freedom. They might never give their consent – or they might give it, and then turn treacherous and you would set a pattern of civil strife which might continue for fifty bloody years, and bring this country to ruin.’
‘You must really give us more credit than that,’ said Mr Possitter fussily. ‘We would issue a proclamation! Setting out our objectives.’
‘Our percentage of literacy, alas, is not high.’
‘And of course we would hold talks.’ Mr Possitter looked at Richard as if his objections were entirely frivolous. ‘A series of round-table discussions, with minutes carefully recorded. We have had some experience in these matters, Tunku. And we are not without certain resources of a realistic kind. It is probable that one or both the gunboats would remain here, as long as might be deemed advisable. I propose to stay on myself, as acting Resident Commissioner, until a suitable appointment of a Governor is made.’
This was too much for Richard. ‘Yourself and a gunboat? I did not realize the full impact of this. The Dyaks would have no chance!’
‘Now, Dick,’ interposed Miles Marriott, reprovingly. ‘Hear him out. This is official policy, whether you approve it or not. And it is to be backed, without question, by the force that you see here.’
‘It is official bunkum.’ Richard was beginning to become angry. ‘Makassang is not some ragamuffin kingdom that can be taken over by the stroke of a pen.’ He looked at Mr Possitter; he felt that, if only to relieve his feelings, he could be scathing. ‘My good man, do you know what the Land-Dyaks do to someone who tries to usurp the ruling power, and of whom they do not approve? They wear hoops of his gut strung round their necks until it shr
ivels to nothing …’ He was constrained to go further. ‘You have gut to lose, Mr Possitter? Believe me, you will lose it tomorrow, if you try to put this absurd plan into action.’
Mr Possitter, who was not without spirit of a certain formal kind, drew himself up. ‘I do not care for coarse expression,’ he said. ‘It is a mark of immaturity.’ And after allowing this reproof to sink in, he went on: ‘You say you are not a ragamuffin kingdom, Tunku, and in the interests of concord I will take your word for it. But we are not amateurs, either. Admiral Marriott has a force at his disposal here, entirely sufficient to deal with these Land-Dyaks of yours – and anyone else who may embark on a course of resistance. I repeat, anyone … Our sole point is this: there is likely to be a vacuum of power in Makassang–’
‘We can deal with that ourselves,’ interrupted Richard, ‘in our own good time. We can settle this, without becoming the creature of another country.’
‘I wonder,’ said Mr Possitter, with a keen glance. ‘In fact, I take leave to doubt it. Our information is that from now on, a period of complete disorder is far more likely to supervene. Be that as it may, the fact remains that we cannot leave such a matter to chance. It would be deplorable, for example, if the Dutch took advantage of the confusion to annex one of the richest islands in the Java Sea. It would upset the local balance of power entirely.’
Richard’s eyebrows went up. ‘You confuse the issue. We are not interested in your petty wrangles with the Dutch, or with any other nation. Our balance of power lies within. I told you – we are people here, not pawns. You cannot annex us, and tuck us away in some Foreign Office pigeonhole, and expect us to remain there.’
The pursing of Mr Possitter’s lips was in the best tradition of official rebuke. ‘You are a people, if you allow me to be frank, living an exotic existence utterly out of touch with the modern world. A great deal might be made of Makassang, with some protecting power to guide her.’ He had a sheet of notepaper on the desk in front of him, and he glanced at it unobtrusively. ‘You have teak, silver, rubies, antimony, rubber, spices, and copra, some in great abundance. But they are scarcely developed at all–’
‘Coffee,’ said Richard suddenly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We have coffee.’
Mr Possitter shook his head. ‘No, no! The soil is quite unsuitable. You have no coffee. It is not on the official list.’
‘It is on my table, at this very moment.’
‘Imported from Java, no doubt.’
‘Grown on my own estate near Prahang, our capital …’ With an effort, Richard returned to serious matters. ‘Mr Possitter, what you suggest is out of the question, however many proclamations you issue. The people of Makassang have a profound sense of dynasty. Some of it is admirable, some of it misguided and vicious. But it means one thing, one constant factor. They simply will not accept a ruler imposed on them from outside, a foreigner.’
‘What about yourself?’ inquired Mr Possitter shrewdly.
‘I am in a special position. I have married into the dynasty. I have a son proclaimed as the Rajah Muda. I have lived here, and fought here, and I know their problems. I have a loyal following, as I can show you. But even so, as matters stand at the moment, my situation is one of the utmost difficulty.’ He glanced at Mr Possitter, casually. ‘However, I am open to argument. Are you suggesting that I should become Rajah, with your backing?’
Mr Possitter was silent for a moment, and Miles Marriott answered for him.
‘We had it in mind, Dick, but the idea is not well-liked at home. We came to a similar arrangement with James Brooke at Sarawak–’
‘A pestilent fellow!’ interjected Mr Possitter.
‘Now who is he?’ asked Richard, who knew perfectly well. ‘Is he a Malay?’
‘Good gracious, no!’ said Mr Possitter. ‘He is an Englishman, ruling a mob of blackfellows.’ The absurd term came out quite naturally. ‘But we have had our troubles with Brooke, from the very beginning, and we do not wish to repeat the mistake.’
‘What troubles are these?’
‘To start with,’ said Mr Possitter, ‘he does not answer his letters.’
‘It is not the worst sin in the world.’
‘It is unforgivable,’ said Mr Possitter.
The interview continued; now Richard scarcely attended to it, though he gave short answers when they were appropriate. The truth was, that he was in a worse state of indecision than ever. He had come on board the Warrior, with only the vaguest of ideas, but one of them had certainly been to solicit outside help in bringing order to Makassang. Now he was not at all sure. If order meant Admiral Sir Miles Marriott at his back, and a thousand armed blue-jackets to see fair play, well and good; if it meant Mr Possitter, with his proclamations, and tidy Foreign Office labels, and talk of ‘blackfellows’, and some nincompoop from the House of Lords installed as Governor, then it was another matter altogether.
The bulk of the people of Makassang would no more accept such a man, as the embodiment of rule from Whitehall in London, than they would accept rule by fanatic priests from the Shwe Dagon. The one was bloodthirsty and tyrannous, the other desiccated and absurd … Suddenly he found that he had had more than enough of this political dialogue, for the time being, and he stood up, somewhat precipitately.
Mr Possitter, who had just embarked upon a dissertation on what he termed ‘sound Christian instruction on a parochial basis’ – one could imagine with what cries of joy the Anapuri would welcome this – Mr Possitter looked up, startled and offended.
‘I was not aware that this interview was at an end,’ he remarked with some tartness. ‘Does this mean that you agree to our proposal, Tunku?’
‘It does not,’ answered Richard. His hands went to the pistols at his belt, and Mr Possitter followed them with a certain apprehension. ‘But I am weary of talking – particularly such nonsense as this – and it is past my siesta hour. I will return to the palace.’
‘But we have not covered half the ground,’ objected Mr Possitter. His small figure positively bristled, behind a spectral mound of unopened files. ‘What of the Rajah? How will he receive this suggestion? What arrangements are to be made about a proclamation? If armed sailors are landed, how will they be received? What is my own position? We cannot possibly break off–’
‘You are dealing with me,’ said Richard, going to the heart of the matter. ‘Not the Rajah.’ He turned to Miles, who was eyeing him with concealed amusement. ‘Come to luncheon tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Bring Mr Possitter with you – we will give him some Makassang coffee to round off the meal. And you will have my answer then. Or some counter-proposal. There is nothing cut and dried in Makassang. Things change from day to day, from hour to hour. A wise man is not too proud to change with them.’
Miles nodded. ‘You can guarantee us safe conduct?’
‘Yes.’
‘How can we be sure–’ began Mr Possitter.
Richard cut him short. ‘I command enough blackfellows,’ he said, with barbed emphasis, ‘to see that my guests eat their luncheon in peace.’
When Mr Possitter was gone, a very monument of official disgust, Miles Marriott shook his head in mild reproof. ‘You should bear easy on him, Dick. He is not such a bad fellow at heart.’
‘I do not agree.’ He looked at his brother straightly. ‘Miles, his sort of rule will not do for Makassang. The people would never accept it.’
‘But if it were anyone except Mr Possitter who had brought the glad tidings–?’
‘No. It is the pattern of the thing, not the man – though God knows the man is sufficiently tedious. We cannot be ruled by a stranger from London.’
‘What, then?’
Richard Marriott made his greatest resolve of all. ‘Myself as Rajah, with help from England. But not too much help, and not too long continued.’
Miles looked dubious. ‘They will not like it at home.’
‘They will not like it here, otherwise.’
‘What abou
t the present Rajah’ – Miles grinned – ‘your honoured father-in-law?’
‘I have worse enemies than he,’ declared Richard. ‘But if I strike once, hard, I can defeat them all. Then we can make something of Makassang – we may even grow a crop of coffee, using seed from Whitehall.’
Miles looked at him. ‘By God, I am not sure you need the Warrior at all!’
Richard smiled in answer. ‘Believe me, I do. That is, unless something unforeseen takes place. And in any case, I am glad to see her here. And yourself especially.’ He held out his hand in farewell. ‘These are bitter times, Miles, as you must have guessed. A single chance can make or break me now and make or break Makassang. You may be sure that I am on the side of the angels – but I need an archangel’s sword, as well.’
‘At your service, Tunku,’ said Miles Marriott.
Miles saw him to the foot of the ladder, with rare courtesy, and safely into his barge. While the pipes shrilled, and the guns boomed out across the bay, already cooled by the approach of evening, the two of them preserved the utmost decorum. But, when the last salute was given and returned, Admiral Marriott spoke a single sentence to the Tunku of Makassang. Leaning forward, he murmured: ‘She grew very stout, Dick.’
Thus they parted, brothers again.
iii
Until nightfall, and beyond, Richard Marriott did the hardest thing of all – he did nothing. Girding himself for an unknown future which could only bring severe ordeals, he waited, and watched, and nursed the strength which must inevitably be put to its sternest test, within a very short space of time.
Some of the omens encouraged him. When he had walked back through the Sun Palace, flanked by Captain Paratang and his bodyguard, all as determined as before, it was to a very different welcome. The officer who had the guard saluted him with tremendous readiness, and allowed him unmolested passage; after that, it was smiles, smiles, all the way, from servants and courtiers and palace hangers-on, who vied with each other to bow low, and give way, and called out ‘Tunku!’ in an ecstasy of obeisance. Apparently he had drawn positive strength and virtue from his call on the Warrior. ‘We heard the guns, Tunku,’ murmured one of the chamberlains, in awe, as if the guns had been Richard’s own.
The White Rajah (1961) Page 40
