The Rescue by Joseph Conrad Page B

Lingard. He opened a broad palm. "Stronger? We
could take them in our hand like this—" and he closed his fingers
triumphantly.
    "And do you make them pay tribute for their land?" enquired Hassim with
eagerness.
    "No," answered Lingard in a sobered tone; "this, Tuan Hassim, you see,
is not the custom of white men. We could, of course—but it is not the
custom."
    "Is it not?" said the other with a sceptical smile. "They are stronger
than we are and they want tribute from us. And sometimes they get
it—even from Wajo where every man is free and wears a kris."
    There was a period of dead silence while Lingard looked thoughtful and
the Malays gazed stonily at nothing.
    "But we burn our powder amongst ourselves," went on Hassim, gently, "and
blunt our weapons upon one another."
    He sighed, paused, and then changing to an easy tone began to urge
Lingard to visit Wajo "for trade and to see friends," he said, laying
his hand on his breast and inclining his body slightly.
    "Aye. To trade with friends," cried Lingard with a laugh, "for such a
ship"—he waved his arm—"for such a vessel as this is like a household
where there are many behind the curtain. It is as costly as a wife and
children."
    The guests rose and took their leave.
    "You fired three shots for me, Panglima Hassim," said Lingard,
seriously, "and I have had three barrels of powder put on board your
prau; one for each shot. But we are not quits."
    The Malay's eyes glittered with pleasure.
    "This is indeed a friend's gift. Come to see me in my country!"
    "I promise," said Lingard, "to see you—some day."
    The calm surface of the bay reflected the glorious night sky, and the
brig with the prau riding astern seemed to be suspended amongst the
stars in a peace that was almost unearthly in the perfection of its
unstirring silence. The last hand-shakes were exchanged on deck, and the
Malays went aboard their own craft. Next morning, when a breeze sprang
up soon after sunrise, the brig and the prau left the bay together. When
clear of the land Lingard made all sail and sheered alongside to say
good-bye before parting company—the brig, of course, sailing three feet
to the prau's one. Hassim stood on the high deck aft.
    "Prosperous road," hailed Lingard.
    "Remember the promise!" shouted the other. "And come soon!" he went on,
raising his voice as the brig forged past. "Come soon—lest what perhaps
is written should come to pass!"
    The brig shot ahead.
    "What?" yelled Lingard in a puzzled tone, "what's written?"
    He listened. And floating over the water came faintly the words:
    "No one knows!"

III
*
    "My word! I couldn't help liking the chap," would shout Lingard when
telling the story; and looking around at the eyes that glittered at him
through the smoke of cheroots, this Brixham trawler-boy, afterward a
youth in colliers, deep-water man, gold-digger, owner and commander of
"the finest brig afloat," knew that by his listeners—seamen, traders,
adventurers like himself—this was accepted not as the expression of a
feeling, but as the highest commendation he could give his Malay friend.
    "By heavens! I shall go to Wajo!" he cried, and a semicircle of
heads nodded grave approbation while a slightly ironical voice said
deliberately—"You are a made man, Tom, if you get on the right side of
that Rajah of yours."
    "Go in—and look out for yourself," cried another with a laugh.
    A little professional jealousy was unavoidable, Wajo, on account of its
chronic state of disturbance, being closed to the white traders; but
there was no real ill-will in the banter of these men, who, rising with
handshakes, dropped off one by one. Lingard went straight aboard his
vessel and, till morning, walked the poop of the brig with measured
steps. The riding lights of ships twinkled all round him; the lights
ashore twinkled in rows, the stars twinkled above his head in a black
sky; and reflected in the black water of the roadstead twinkled far
below his feet. And all these innumerable and