Mr Possitter, sniffing the air for radicalism, frowned at this. ‘You should not equate trade with evil,’ he answered severely. ‘Above all, you should not equate white penetration with rascality. You must be well aware that British colonial policy is generally benevolent.’
‘I know that is its intention,’ said Richard carefully. ‘But – you must forgive me – it is easy to say one thing in London, and never to hear the echo of what you say, ten thousand miles away. Trade follows the flag, they tell us; but in too many cases, while the flag is proud and upright, the trade is licensed usury.’ He looked at Mr Possitter, ready to argue, ready to smile. ‘I know Makassang,’ he said. ‘I know what its people want and need – and the list is long. But I would rather it fell asleep for a thousand years, than that it made over quick progress under the British flag, and then woke up to find itself enslaved.’
One set of gold plates was borne away; the exquisite band of six slave girls danced a slow and sinuous measure to pipe and drum, as baskets of fruit were carried out from the kitchens. Mr Possitter, confronted at close quarters by a frieze of the most delicious bare bosoms imaginable, coughed behind his hand. But his solemn, official gaze never wavered. He was there, it seemed, to explore the customs of the country, be their detail never so elaborate.
Miles, catching Richard’s eye, winked, and nodded discreetly towards this painstaking devotion. ‘You are hospitality itself, Tunku,’ he murmured. He leant across to his flag-lieutenant, a splendid young figure in full tropical rig with looped aiguillettes, who was also giving the entertainment his zealous attention. ‘Well, Flags,’ he said, ‘what do you think of the resources of Makassang?’
‘Sir,’ said the flag-lieutenant, who had not lagged behind the company in accepting the ministrations of his wine butler, ‘Portsmouth was never like this!’
‘A rank heresy,’ said Miles. ‘But I subscribe to it …’ He leaned back again, till he could speak close to Richard’s ear, and nodded towards Mr Possitter, who was still engrossed in his studies. ‘You are making a really excellent impression,’ he said.
‘By proxy, I think,’ said Richard. ‘But a wise commander deploys his allies first.’
‘These seem to be well enough deployed … Dick, I think I could manage one single glass of wine more.’
Presently the magnificent meal came to an end, and after a short time Sunara joined them in another room. She was looking especially lovely, in pure white silk woven with gold thread; meeting her soft eyes as she came into the room, Richard thought, as on countless occasions before: Thank God I shall lie with her tonight. Neither time nor distraction could cool this loving ardour. The visitors’ glances all showed unstinted admiration as they were presented. ‘I never appreciated my brother’s good fortune until this moment, Princess,’ said Miles Marriott gallantly, bending over her hand. Even Mr Possitter, meeting for the first time royalty and beauty combined in this one exquisite form, was understood to make a complimentary reference to matchless pulchritude as he pronounced his spare phrases of greeting. As for the young flag-lieutenant, no words from his dropped jaw were needed to convey his rapt admiration. It was fair to say that Sunara, being a woman, greeted the handsome young man with a melting glance which would, on any other occasion, have sent him storming off to any quarter of the world, to do battle to the death on her behalf.
But her presence, strangely, did not affect the seriousness of this meeting; rather did it add to it, giving it an immediate quality of feeling not present before. Sunara had her own regal dignity, and she brought it to Richard’s aid in a manner which could not have been bettered. After the first few moments, when they had sat down and begun to talk again of the future of Makassang, she held all their attention with a most moving account of what her father’s senility had brought to his kingdom. For the first time, it seemed, both Miles Marriott and Mr Possitter might be sharing the same thought: that Richard and Sunara were fitted to rule.
Richard took up the tale, when Sunara had spoken of the Rajah’s decline from benevolence to gross cruelty, and how it could only grow worse, as the tormenting suspicions of old age multiplied his enemies.
‘It is best to be frank,’ he said. ‘This country, which I have come to love, has two foes, of a very different sort. First there are the plunderers and pirates, such as Black Harris, who come here to strip and to rob. Then there is his Highness, the present Rajah, whom we must call, with respect, a relic of the cruel past.’ The memory of his own early morning visit to the bedside of Amin Sang, who, though now resting comfortably, had been brutally mistreated and would not walk for many months, rose up to give force to his words. Between them all, they must make a country where such bestial tyranny would beoutlawed forever … ‘These are enemies who can be defeated. Black Harris, and adventurers like him, can be thrown back into the sea. A harsh ruler, such as the Rajah, or an unscrupulous usurper, such as Colonel Kedah, can be expelled from office. But there is a third enemy of Makassang, and that, I am afraid, is you.’
He was looking at his brother Miles as he spoke, but his eyes turned to meet Mr Possitter’s. Without offence, the thought was clear.
‘You are usurpers of another sort,’ he went on. ‘Supplanters from the modern world … Of course you can take Makassang, with your Warrior and your gunboats, but you cannot hold it, except by this third kind of tyranny. You can fashion it into your own image – spoil it – destroy its true nature – and call it your own. But that is not holding it – that is raping it. I do believe,’ he ended earnestly, ‘that only I can properly hold Makassang.’
It said much for his persuasive eloquence that Mr Possitter, the true target of his words, did not scoff at his argument, or try to turn it to nothing. Instead he put his palms and fingers carefully together, as if to make his own words more precise, and asked: ‘Why should it be you, rather than a man of goodwill from England? … We have such men, Tunku … Our pro-consuls are not fools, and they are certainly not knaves … Why should it be you, rather than an Englishman of authority whose knowledge of the Western world is up-to-date, and whose link with it is more recent than your own?’
‘I must answer that with another question,’ said Richard. ‘What is your real interest in Makassang?’
‘To hold it under the Crown.’
‘But for whose benefit?’
‘For its own, and for ours, equally.’
‘And also to play dog-in-the-manger with the Dutch?’
‘Your choice of words–’ began Mr Possitter stiffly.
‘Forgive me,’ said Richard. ‘I feel strongly, therefore I speak strongly … But it is true, is it not, that your prime concern is to see that Makassang is not added to the empire of the Dutch East Indies?’
Mr Possitter might have given many evasive or delaying answers. Instead he replied, simply: ‘Yes.’
‘May I say that I share that interest,’ said Richard. ‘But for quite other reasons … I do not want Makassang to become Dutch. I do not want it to become English. I do not want it to become Westernized at all. Why should it be? It is a happy island, and with planning and prudence it can become a prosperous one. But it must remain Makassang! Not Dutch Makassang, or British Makassang, but Makassang without a Western hyphen to its name … I said before, you are strong enough to take possession of this island, and turn it into something else. But if you can share my love for it, and wish it to keep its own soul, then you should not take it. You should let me take it.’ He sat back at last, near to exhaustion with the fervour of his plea. Then he added a last word: ‘To make all secure, I would hold it under the British Crown, if you wish. But it must be I who holds it.’
The entrance of the Rajah was swift, and astonishing to all. At one moment they were alone in earnest conclave, at another their talk was shattered by an extraordinary irruption. The Rajah strode ahead through the portico, followed by Colonel Kedah; they burst into the room as if they had been waiting with explosive impatience for this moment alone. They were followed at a more labo
ured pace by two of the palace guards, bearing the body of a kitchen slave who, judging from the writhing contortion of his frame, was about to die an agonizing death. As they cast this horrible object down on the threshold, the Rajah pointed a finger at Richard Marriott, and said, with venomous fury: ‘I heard your words, traitor! What is it that you must hold?’
v
He would hear everything, and he would not hear a word. He stormed and raged until he reached foaming incoherence, then – when Richard tried to answer – he commanded silence, and stared from one to another with frightful menace, daring anyone to speak. He had scarcely a look, and not a word, for the three strangers; his anger seemed reserved for Richard, and the world of plotters and enemies he swore were closing round him. His talk was wild, his manner wilder; Sunara gazed at him with frightened eyes, and Miles Marriott with a steady glance which said: If this is the Rajah of Makassang, then Makassang indeed needs a new Rajah. All the time that he talked and raved, the corpse, which had now writhed its last, lay sprawled between them, with twisted body and dreadful features – yet not remarked on, a grisly stranger upon a field of horror.
Finally, when the last of the silences had stretched to an unbearable length, the Rajah shouted suddenly: ‘Answer me, Tunku!’
Richard, whose instinct had put him in a most watchful mood, spread his hands. ‘Your Highness, what can I answer you? I am not an enemy of Makassang. I am not an enemy of yourself. Since I left you last night, I have done nothing save–’
‘You have plotted!’ shouted the Rajah. ‘I have proof of it!’
‘I have plotted nothing. I have talked to my brother, the admiral, as you commanded me.’
For the first time, the Rajah acknowledged the presence of these strangers – or of one of them. He looked at Miles Marriott, staring with hatred at the impressive figure, whose bearing was as remote and forceful as perhaps the Rajah might have wished his own to be. Then he said: ‘This is your brother?’
‘Yes, your Highness. May I have the honour to–’
‘Enough,’ said the Rajah, with extraordinary offensiveness. ‘We have more important things to talk of.’ He was working himself up to a fresh burst of fury, and Richard, who had come to recognize the ebb and flow of these transports, braced himself to meet it, wherever its vindictive course might lead. The Rajah’s eyes, swivelling round in a horrible manner, came suddenly upon the contorted corpse he had brought with him, the despised baggage of violence. As soon as he saw it, he screamed out: ‘Look on this man! Tell me if you dare who he is!’
By some mischance, his face at that moment was turned towards Mr Possitter, as well as to the body; and Mr Possitter, a near-sighted man, who was aware of a lack of decorum about the meeting, made worse by the fact that he had not been introduced, replied hesitantly: ‘Possitter.’
The Rajah, interrupted in the full flow of his fury, started as if he had been struck, and shouted: ‘What did you say? How dare you speak!’
Mr Possitter was not daunted. With thirty-five years of public service behind him, he had faced wrathful superiors before. He merely repeated, more firmly: ‘Possitter. Foreign Office.’
It was a single moment of farce, and it melted swiftly away; for a word had been uttered sufficient to import fresh turmoil into what was already a fearsome brew.
‘Foreign!’ shouted the Rajah. ‘We will come to foreign rule in a moment! Those who try to take power in Makassang do so at their own risk. We have had foreigners at our gates before, and where are they now? – rotting in the jungle, feeding the crabs on the seashore! Do not think that because you come with ships and–’ He broke off, since he was unable to hold a sequence of thought for more than a few moments; his mind must go where his eyes went, and once again his eyes went to the body lying on the marble floor. Pointing a quivering finger, he said: ‘But it is not foreigners who have done this. It is one of my own!’
All this time, Colonel Kedah had been standing silent and withdrawn, examining the strangers, watching the Rajah, watching Richard himself, his declared enemy. At the Rajah’s last words, he smiled grimly, and came forward a little into the room, and said: ‘One of your own? In that case, we know who it must be.’
‘Who are these “we” who know?’ asked the Rajah, whose fury would admit no allies of any sort. ‘I know who it must be, because I have proof.’ His burning eyes went down to the sprawled corpse again; he addressed the general air, which he seemed to hate and despise also. ‘You see this dead man? He is a kitchen slave. He tastes my food, before I eat it. Can you guess how he met his death?’
Silence fell; the ever-present question in all their minds had been answered: the truth – or the falsehood which now passed for truth – was more strange and more terrible than they could have imagined. All eyes turned towards the man on the floor; the reason for his racked body and starting eyeballs was now disgustingly clear.
But the Rajah would make it clearer still.
‘He tastes my food!’ he screamed, in double fury. ‘Now he lies dead, of poison! He died in my place! … And I know who it is! I have proof! It is not foreigners. One of my own sons plotted to kill me, and take my throne.’ Suddenly he turned to the nearest of the two guards, and snatched from him his short throwing spear, a light weapon whose blade was sharpened to a razor’s edge. Then he whirled again, and said: ‘You – my two adopted sons! Stand forth! Stand there before me!’
Perhaps he had planned this macabre charade, perhaps his tormented brain was fashioning it as the moments went by. But now he was dancing and mouthing with fury; flecks of foam from his lips spattered the floor; when he pointed to the spot where he wished Richard and Kedah to stand, his hand shook as if he were suffering an ague. Richard felt his scalp prickling as he stepped forward. He could not have disobeyed, any more than he could have denied fate itself; these were appointments which must be kept. But he knew that his whole life was sharpening towards its supreme crisis, and that it lay in the hands of this ancient maniac, who even now was raising his spear to throw it at his last enemy.
Kedah also stepped forward, but with less readiness; he had grown pale, and had lost his cold command. ‘Your Highness–’ he began.
‘Silence!’ said the Rajah. ‘Only I will speak, and only I will act.’ He glared at the two men, his two adopted sons, standing before him like prisoners or penitents – and the others in the room looked at them also; Sunara with fear and dread in her eyes, Miles Marriott with sharp watchfulness, Mr Possitter with disbelief. The tall flag-lieutenant had put his hand on the hilt of his sword, but he seemed thunderstruck by what he was witnessing, as if he were too young for this scene of evil.
The Rajah drew back his spear; the light glittered wickedly along its edge. ‘See my two sons,’ he said, and his voice was suddenly calm and cold, and his hand no longer shook. ‘My two dear and honoured sons … One of them is innocent, one of them plotted to take my life today; if it had not been for the slave lying there, I would myself be dead. I know which son of mine plotted this’ … his voice, and indeed his whole body, were now coiled like a spring towards some shattering release – ‘and that son will be dead before I lower my arm again. The innocent has nothing to fear, the guilty one dies.’ Richard could feel Kedah, close beside him, beginning to tremble; the air was acrid with his fear. ‘I know which one of you it is – I know which is the traitor who used poison today, the weapon of cowards, the weapon of lovesick women – and now my spear kills him – thus!’
It was with a shriek that the Rajah uttered the last word, and with a furious explosion of energy that he launched the spear. It was aimed – as Richard divined in the very last second – directly at the small space between Kedah and himself. He would have jumped aside, and then he thought: Not so – I am innocent – I stand fast … As the spear whistled through the air, plucking at his very sleeve, and stuck quivering in an oak chest behind them, it was Kedah who dropped to the floor, like a puppet jerked by the giant hand of terror, to escape the execution he knew he had me
rited.
It was Kedah who grovelled in abject fear and shame at his uncovering; and Kedah who collected himself before anyone else could move, and who drew out the kris which was part of his ceremonial dress, and darted forward, and plunged its curled blade deep into the Rajah’s breast. As Sunara screamed, blood spurted from the gross wound, and stained her father’s white tunic, and then, as he fell inert, seeped out upon the marble floor on which his poor body collapsed.
Kedah turned, like a hunted animal; his course was run, his life at an end. His single eye darted frantically here and there, seeking his escape. He shouted, in fear and hatred: ‘Keep your distance – let me be!’ but he knew it could not be so. Miles Marriott and his flag-lieutenant had both drawn their swords; Richard, who had come unarmed, had retrieved the spear and now stood ready to use it. Let the dog choose his death, said Richard to himself, in the infinitesimal moment of time between thought and action; and then, while his victim wavered in hideous doubt, he took two steps forward, and stabbed the hapless hated man between his throat and his breastbone. Kedah’s blood rose to choke out his life, before he could utter a word.
The Rajah, whose shrunken body was now cradled in Sunara’s arms, was racing his dishonoured servant towards oblivion. ‘I meant only to test you,’ he said, looking up at Richard with waning eyes. ‘Is the serpent dead?’ He tried to turn his sight towards Kedah, but the effort was too much, and he fell back into his daughter’s arms. Presently he rallied, and said to Richard: ‘Bring your brother,’ and when Miles, grave-faced, approached him, and bent to listen, the Rajah whispered: ‘I give Makassang to my adopted son … The people love him, as they once loved me.’
Sunara wiped her father’s brow; the end was near; the blood from his wound was ceasing to flow. ‘I am called,’ the Rajah said, almost pettishly. ‘Who can be ready, at such notice? … But remember my words … Makassang is his.’ And when he had said this, his body fell into dissolution, and he became obedient to death.
The White Rajah (1961) Page 43
