George Manville Fenn (continued 12)
Reading edition
“I go? No, I’m afraid not, doctor.”
Chumbley gave a curious start at this, but was immovable of aspect the next moment.
“It’s my belief,” he said quietly, “that when you come to the point and find the chaplain, it will be where the doctor wants to get to so earnestly.”
“What do you mean?” cried Dr Bolter.
“Depend upon it he has discovered Ophir, and is sitting upon the gold. That’s why he does not come back?”
“You don’t think so, do you?” cried the doctor, earnestly.
“Well it is possible,” replied Chumbley. “What do you say, Harley?” he continued, as the Resident strolled up.
“Say about what?”
“I tell the doctor that I think Rosebury has discovered Ophir, and that is why he does not come back.”
The Resident smiled.
“My dear doctor,” he said, “when do you start?”
“To-morrow morning at daybreak.”
“And you will take three or four men with you—say a sergeant and three privates?”
“Thanks, no,” said the doctor; “but I should like one soldier with me if I can take my pick.”
“I will answer for it that you may.”
“Then I want Chumbley.”
“Oh, I’ll go with you!” cried the latter. “Where do you mean to go first—to the Inche Maida’s district?”
“No,” cried the doctor; “what is the good of going there? You know she has had the place well searched, and turned sulky, and holds aloof from us now.”
“Yes,” said Chumbley, exchanging glances with Hilton, “I know that. Of course she is annoyed about Murad.”
“Of course,” said Hilton frankly, “she does not like being suspected of connivance with the Rajah for one thing, and feels as well that at such a time as this her presence would be out of place and awkward.”
“It is a pity too,” said the Resident, “for I would rather be on good terms with so enlightened a woman.”
“Sore place,” said the doctor, in his quick, offhand way; “give it time and keep it healthy, and it will soon heal up. The Inche Maida fancies we are suspicious of her. Wait a bit, and send her a little present, and then an invitation. I would not be in too great a hurry. Wait till the Murad business has all settled down, and she has seen that we are not going to usurp her land.”
“Yes,” said Hilton; “I think the doctor is right.”
“Sure I am,” said the doctor. “Diagnosed the case. Bless your hearts, before long her serene highness will have the vapours, or cut her finger, or chew too much betel, or something or another, and then she will send for yours truly, Henry Bolter, and all will be plain sailing again. Well, Chumbley, will you come with me?”
“Yes, doctor, on two conditions,” replied Chumbley.
“Firstly?” said the doctor.
“That I get leave. It’s too much trouble and worry to desert.”
“Granted,” said the doctor. “Eh, Harley. Eh, Hilton?”
“Granted,” said the Resident.
“Granted,” said Hilton.
“That disposes of firstly,” said the doctor. “Now then secondly?”
“That you swear not to mention Ophir more than once; and Solomon’s ships seeking gold, and apes, and peacocks more than once in each twenty-four hours,” said Chumbley.
“Come, that’s fair,” said the Resident, laughing.
“Quite fair,” cried Hilton, roaring with laughter.
“Oh, hang it, I say! Come, that is too hard a condition,” said the doctor, tilting his sun-hat on one side so as to get a good scrub at his head.
“Shan’t go without,” drawled Chumbley.
“Say twelve hours—once in each twelve hours,” protested the doctor. “I couldn’t promise more.”
“Would you stick out for the twenty-four?” said Chumbley, very seriously. “I hate being bored.”
“Oh, I think I’d meet him,” said Hilton, laughing. “Poor fellow, he can’t help it.”
“Well, I’ll give in,” said Chumbley; “only mind this, you are to take your best cigar-box, doctor—not those confounded manillas, but the havanas—and you are to pay a fine of a cigar every time you break out.”
“Agreed,” said the doctor, holding out his hand, and the expedition was settled, the doctor going off with the Resident, leaving the two young officers together.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Eight.
A Find—Not Gold.
“I say, Hilton, old fellow, I liked that,” drawled Chumbley.
“Liked what?”
“Why the way in which you smothered up all your old resentment against that poor woman. You know you were breathing out fire and slaughter against her when we got away.”
“Well, I was angry then, and mortified, and troubled.”
“And now it’s all balm, and oil-olive, and honey, eh, old fellow? The beating, bounding heart at rest.”
“Don’t be an idiot!”
“Why not? The ways of wisdom are hard, and cold, and thorny. Folly is pleasant sometimes.”
“You don’t think so.”
“Indeed I do. You heard what an idiot I was in throwing up that Barlowesque chance?”
“Was that meant for a pun on burlesque?”
“I didn’t mean it,” said Chumbley. “Take it so if you like. But I say, old fellow, I am glad that you have smoothed down about the Inche Maida.”
“Weak, silly woman!” cried Hilton. “Oh, I don’t know. It was her foreign way of looking at her chances. These people are regular gamblers. Look at those two fellows there fighting those gamecocks. I’ll be bound to say they are staking their all upon the event!”
“Likely enough. That scoundrel Murad staked his all and lost!”
“Heavily,” said the lieutenant. “The Princess staked heavily too, and lost; but thanks to you, she comes off pretty easily except in the disappointment. You bury that affair, of course?”
“Yes, of course! It is impossible to avoid it!”
“Agreed,” said Chumbley. “Well, I’m glad you kept it down; it would have made us so very ridiculous. I’m off now to have a nap, and then to get ready my gun and things for the journey to-morrow.”
“I don’t know that I should care to go with you,” said Hilton.
“Won’t be bad. I shall sit back in the boat, and rest a good deal I daresay. Old Bolter will talk me to sleep, safe. Ta-ta.”
“Good-bye, old fellow;” and the young men separated, Chumbley for his quarters, Hilton to go and seek out Grey.
The next morning at daybreak, after infinite cautions from Mrs Bolter, the doctor prepared to start.
“Is there anyone who ought to be seen—anyone you remember?” said the little lady.
“No one but the Barlow woman. You might drop in there,” replied the doctor.
“Oh, no, Henry; really I could not,” said Mrs Bolter, wringing her hands.
“Never mind, then. She won’t hurt. She said, as soon as she knew I was going, that she should die if I did not bring Arthur back. I say, my dear, it’s almost enough to make one say one wishes he may never come.”
“Oh, Henry!” cried Mrs Bolter. “I’d sooner suffer a dozen Mrs Barlows than Arthur should not be found!”
“Very well, then, I don’t come back without him,” said the doctor.
“Henry!”
“If I can help it,” he replied; and for the next few moments any one might have taken them for a gushing young couple of eighteen and twenty-three before they tore themselves apart, and the doctor hurried away.
Love is an evergreen. Only give it fair treatment, and the leaves will never fall.
“Come, doctor,” roared Chumbley, as the little man approached the boat. “Do you call this daybreak?”
“Yes, broad daybreak!” said the doctor, chuckling; and the next minute the boat was under weigh, with Yusuf and a crew to use the poles for punting over the shallows.
The desire was strong in the doctor to devote himself a good deal to the pursuit of his hobby, but he sternly put it down.
“No, Chumbley,” he said, “not this time. I’m a weak man, and I talked to you about Sol—ahem!—about my hobby, eh? Didn’t say it that time—and if we come across anything relating to Oph—I mean my hobby—why, well and good, we’ll investigate it; but I mean business; and Yusuf here has given me good hopes of being successful, for of course it is absurd to imagine that they have killed poor old Arthur!”
“What do you propose doing first, then?” said Chumbley, rousing himself from a drowsy contemplation of the banks, and thinking how pleasantly life would glide on in a place like this.
“I think I shall leave Yusuf to follow his own bent,” replied the doctor. “He is a close, dry fellow, but he seems to know a great deal, and he will not speak till he is sure. That is it, is it not, Yusuf?”
“Yes, master,” said the Malay, who was toiling hard with the doctor’s old boatman Ismael. “If I said to the chiefs I know where the Christian priest is, and took them to the place and he was not there, they would be angry. So I will take them to the place I think of. If the Christian priest is there, it is good. If he is not, the misfortune is not so bad, and the chiefs will not be so hard upon their guide.”
“Well, Ismael, what have you to say?” said the doctor, as he caught his old boatman looking at him very intently.
“I was thinking of the lives of all here, master,” said Ismael. “We do not wish to die, we people of the country; but when the time comes we say ‘Yes, it is our fate, and we close our eyes;’ but you English chiefs, it is not right that you should die. We love the doctor, for he is good to us, our wives and children.”
“Oh, all right,” said the doctor, heartily. “What do you mean? You are afraid there is risk?”
“Great danger, master!” said Yusuf. “Murad will surely have us hunted out and slain for showing you his secret house in the jungle!”
“Another secret house, eh?” said Chumbley, rousing himself a little more. “Well, look here, old Cockolorum.”
Yusuf seemed to consider this a title conferring a dignity, for he smiled gravely and bowed.
“And you too, old Beeswax,” continued Chumbley, addressing Ismael, who seemed disappointed at Yusuf getting all the honours, but who now smiled and bowed as well. “You think that Murad will come down on you both for betraying his secrets?”
“It is not betraying, master,” said Yusuf. “We have found the place, and we show it to you. Murad did not trust us.”
“All right,” continued Chumbley. “Well, let me tell you this, that by this time Rajah Murad, or the Sultan as you call him, is safe under lock and key.”
“Thy servant does not understand,” said Yusuf.
“The chief means he is shut up in a little box with the key in his pocket,” interpreted Ismael, gravely.
“That will do,” said Chumbley, smothering a laugh. “He is safe in prison, and you will never see him here again.”
“It is enough,” said Yusuf. “The English are my masters, and I trust to them that their servant shall not have the kris.”
“Now then, how long have you known of this place?”
“Two days, master: a friend told me that his brother was there as guard, but he knew no more.”
“And you will take us there?” said Chumbley.
“Straight if the chief commands,” said Yusuf; and the boat was urged forward.
It was on the second day that the little boat was turned into the stream that had become familiar to the doctor, and he exclaimed at once:
“This won’t do. I know of that place. The chaplain is not there.”
“No, not there,” said Yusuf. “We shall see.”
The doctor gave a grunt of satisfaction, half an hour later, when, instead of following the windings of this minor stream, the sampan’s head was suddenly turned towards a dense mass of tall reeds, and the men paddled with all their might, driving the boat through the water-growth, and after a hundred yards of rough progression, they passed into a large lagoon, dotted with patches of a kind of lotus, and with other water-plants sufficiently beautiful to drive the doctor into raptures.
“But no,” he exclaimed; “I will not be tempted to botanise any more than I will be to look upon the spots where Sol—I mean—that is—”
“I say, doctor, we’ve been out over twelve hours,” drawled Chumbley, “and you haven’t yet said it once. Let it go.”
“Solomon’s ships came in search of gold!” cried the doctor, as if relieved.
“Well, they didn’t come here, doctor, or they would soon have been aground.”
“No: of course not,” said the doctor; “but what I mean is, that I will not yield to my hobby this time until poor Arthur Rosebury is found. I promised his sister, and I’ll keep my word.”
That lagoon, or rather chain of marshy lakelets, extended for quite fifty miles, sometimes spreading wide, more often dwindling into little openings and ponds united by narrow passages with hardly a perceptible stream. Along this chain the boatmen dexterously sent the little vessel, sometimes forcing it aground, and often having hard work to get it through the dense vegetation that rose from the swampy soil.
Two days were spent in getting to the end of the lagoon; and landing upon an elevated place, they encamped for the night, the doctor chatting for long enough about the beautiful specimens that they had passed, and which he had refrained from touching.
“There is a remarkable flora in this region, Chumbley,” he said, enthusiastically.
“I daresay there is,” said Chumbley, sleepily; “but your wife doesn’t want us to be taking back a remarkable flora, but a matter-of-fact Arthur. Go to sleep, man, and let’s rest.”
The doctor told him he had no soul for science.
“Not a bit, doctor. Good-night;” and the great fellow was asleep in an instant.
“We are very near the place now,” said the guide, as they partook of a hearty breakfast, Yusuf having speared some of the fish that abounded in the waters near.
“But we’ve got to the end of the lake,” said the doctor.
“Yes, master; and now we must walk.”
The way proved to be a long and toilsome journey, through the stifling heat of the jungle, which was here tolerably open, and so full of specimens attractive to the doctor that he fidgeted with disappointment at having to pass them by. He, however, resolutely refrained from attempting to collect, and only forfeited one cigar by the time that, after their weary tramp, gun in hand, the guide pointed to a low palm-thatched house, within a strong bamboo palisade, which protected a garden.
“Who’d have thought of finding a house here?” said Chumbley, who began to think of the Inche Maida’s hiding-place, to which this was very similar. “But where is the pathway?”
“On the other side, master. I brought you all round this way so as not to alarm the guards. They might have taken their prisoner farther into the jungle where he could not be found.”
A short consultation was held, and then Chumbley’s proposal was carried in opposition to the more timid one of the guide’s.
Chumbley’s was the very soldier-like one of draw and advance.
This they did, the men with their spears, and Chumbley and the doctor double gun in hand; and after a little struggle with nothing more dangerous than canes, they forced their way round to the front of the place and entered, to find everything just as if it had been inhabited an hour before, but neither prisoner nor guards were there.
“The birds are flown,” said Chumbley, after they had searched the half-dozen airy rooms that formed the place.
“Yes,” said the doctor, “but he has been here. Look!”
He pointed to a couple of long shelves made by placing bamboos together, and upon them, carefully dried, were hundreds of botanical specimens, laid as only a botanist would have placed them.
There was the chance of the prisoner returning, but it hardly seemed probable; and after some hours waiting, it was decided to return to the boat, to pass the night there, and return the next day.
The tramp back seemed harder than the advance; but they persevered, and at last, soaked with perspiration and utterly wearied out, they came in sight of the lagoon head, where Chumbley uttered a sigh of satisfaction.
“I wonder what’s for dinner,” he said. “Eh?”
He turned sharply, for Yusuf uttered an ejaculation, and stood pointing to where, seated in an opening and leaning against a tree, was the figure of a man, ragged, unshorn, and looking the picture of misery.
“Hurrah?” shouted Chumbley, dashing forward, the doctor panting after him; but the figure did not move, seeming to be asleep with its head drooped forward upon its breast.
“Rosebury!” cried Chumbley—“Rosebury!” but there was no reply.
“Arthur!” cried the doctor, sinking on one knee beside the haggard, hollow-cheeked figure, and changing the position so that its head rested upon his arm.
“Dead?” whispered Chumbley, in awe-stricken tones.
“He would have been in an hour!” cried the doctor. “Quick! your flask. There, that will do—a few drops with water. That’s right. Now soak a biscuit well. Crumble it up, man—quick, in the cup.”
A few drops at a time were poured between the parched lips, and as Arthur Rosebury showed signs of revival, a little of the soaked biscuit was administered; while Yusuf and Ismael rapidly cut down grass and contrived a rough bed, upon which the suffering man was laid.
“Is it fever?” said Chumbley, gazing down at the hollow cheeks and wild, staring eyes that had not a spark of recognition therein.
“The fever that men have who are starving,” cried the doctor. “Poor fellow! he has not had food for a week.”
It was after three days’ camping out beside the boat in a rough shanty which the Malays built up, that the Reverend Arthur Rosebury came round sufficiently to be able to recognise and talk to his friends.
“It’s fortunate for you, old fellow, that you had a doctor to find you,” said Bolter. “For—I say it without boasting—if I had not been with Chumbley, you would never have seen Sindang again.”
“And shall I now?” was said in a feeble voice.
“To be sure you will, and the sooner the better,” said the doctor. “I want more nourishing food for you, so we’ll make up a couch in the stern of the boat, and then get on towards home.”
“I’ll try and bear being moved,” he said feebly, “but—but—but—”
“But what?” said the doctor, quietly. “There, don’t worry. I see. You have forgotten what you wanted to say. It will come again. Shut your eyes and go to sleep.”
Arthur Rosebury was so pitifully weak that he was ready to obey anybody; and he sank back and seemed to go to sleep at once with the doctor and Chumbley seated by his side.
“I want some explanation of all this,” said Chumbley, in his drawling way.
“So do I,” said the doctor; “but we must wait, my dear boy. He’s as weak as water, and I can’t trouble him with questions. You see, his brain is affected by his bodily want of tone; but it will soon come right if we are patient.”
It seemed to the chaplain as if he had not been asleep when he awoke five hours later, and looking at the doctor he went on where he ceased before dozing off; but this time he did not forget.
“Where is Helen Perowne?” he asked.
“Safe at home,” replied the doctor.
“That is well,” said the chaplain. “I have been troubled by a dreamy idea that she was carried off when I was by the Malays, and that I was kept to marry Helen to someone else.”
“What someone else?” said the doctor.
“I fancied it was Murad,” said the chaplain, feebly; “but my head is confused and strange. What of Mary?”
“Quite well, and anxious to see you again. There, lie back, and we will lift you in this waterproof sheet so gently that you will hardly know you have been moved.”
The chaplain lay back, and seemed to drop asleep again as he was lifted into the boat, which put off at once; and in high spirits with the successful termination of their quest, the Malays worked well, and sent the sampan skimming over the still waters of the lagoon.
They did not cease poling and paddling all night, and halted at last to land, after catching some fish, which, when broiled, made a good addition to the biscuits and coffee.
The chaplain ate heartily, and seemed to enjoy the warm sunshine as they went on again over the sparkling waters of the lake. He talked, too, and asked Chumbley to sit by him, but seemed to have very little memory, till all at once he cried, in a piteous tone:
“My specimens!—my specimens! We must not leave them behind!”
The doctor took off his hat and rubbed his head, for his feelings were quite with the chaplain; but to go back and land, and search the house in the jungle, meant over a day’s work, and he said, decidedly:
“No: it is impossible to go now!”
“But they are the work of weeks and months of labour!” protested the chaplain. “If you had only seen them!”
“My dear Arthur, I have seen them,” said the doctor. “They will not hurt, and as soon as you are well again we will fetch them.”
The chaplain sank back in his place with a sigh; and as the journey was continued he told his friends of his long imprisonment, and of how, as a resource, he had settled down to botanising.
This had gone on steadily, till about a fortnight back, when he noticed that his guards were whispering together a good deal, and that evening he missed them, and no meal was prepared.
The next day no one was visible, and he found what provision there was, and did the best he could, and so on the next day, when, finding that he was regularly deserted, he made up his mind to escape, and started off, following the track that led from the house, to find that it ended by a little river.
There was no possibility of getting to right or left, to follow the stream, on account of the jungle, and after a weary day he was glad to go back to his prison and sleep.
The following days were taken up in efforts to find a path that would lead to some inhabited place, but the efforts were in vain; and though he sought constantly, he could not retrace his steps to the house where he had seen the Malay lady trying to get away. Everywhere it was jungle—a wilderness of jungle—and the only possibility of escape was by one of the streams, or by way of the lagoon, which he had discovered in his botanical wanderings.
He had no boat, nor the ingenuity to contrive one. To have attempted to wade down a stream meant courting death by the reptiles; so the chaplain’s many wanderings in the wilderness took him over the same ground day after day, and always back to his prison.
Then the scant supply of provision was exhausted; there was no fruit to be found; he had no gun, and could contrive no means of capturing fish; and the result was that, growing weaker day by day, and more helpless, he realised how safe was the prison in the jungle in which he had been shut up; and at last sat down, to gradually sink into a stupor, from which, but for the coming of his friends, he would never have recovered.
Even when he was taken in safety to the landing-stage, he was too feeble to walk, and fainted as he was carried to his brother-in-law’s house.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Nine.
Amok!
Singapore on a sunny day, looking bright, attractive, even wonderful to stranger eyes. Ships of all nations in the harbour, with sailors from Europe, from America, from the ports about the Red Sea, from India, China, and Japan.
A wonderful polyglot assembly rubbing shoulders in the street: Jack in his white duck frock, straw, and loose trousers, staring at John Chinaman, with his blue cotton garments, pith-soled shoes, and pigtail reaching almost to the ground. Swarthy Dyaks, Papuans, Bugis, and Malays pure and Malays mongrel from the many islands of the Eastern seas, every opalescent-eyed, swarthy savage wearing his kris. British soldiers mingled with the native police in their puggrees; and busy English merchants, and many Scotch, hurried with the varied races on their way to and from their places of business.
Above all, the Chinese seemed to muster strongly—those busy, patient, plodding people, who are ready to squeeze themselves into any vacant hole, round or square, and to make themselves fit therein. Barbers, carriers, purveyors of fruit, washers of clothes, shampooers, tailors, cooks, waiters, domestic servants, always ready, patient and willing, childlike and bland—John Chinaman swarms in Singapore, and can be found there as the meanest workman or artisan, up to the wealthiest merchant or banker, like the late Mr Whampoa, whose gardens were one of the lions of the place.
Everything looked at its best in the pure air and under the brilliant sky; and Hilton and Chumbley were on their way to meet Mr Harley, who, now that Helen Perowne had been pronounced quite out of danger, had come down with a lighter heart to be present at the trial of the Malay chief Murad, who was to be tried by a jury of his fellow-countrymen for his treachery to an English lady, and for firing upon a vessel bearing the English flag.
“Not a bad place this, Chum, old fellow,” said Hilton. “I could stay a month with comfort.”
“Yes, so could I,” said Chumbley, lazily; “but I want to get back.”
“What for?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” was the reply. “I say, look at that Malay lady; she isn’t unlike the Inche Maida, is she?”
“H’m, no: something like. I say, though, old fellow, I don’t feel very easy about that affair. It hardly seems just that that woman should get off scot-free!”
“Nonsense: stuff, man. Let the poor body rest. Why, how ungallant you are! She fell in love with you, and wanted to marry you!”
“Very condescending of her, I’m sure,” said Hilton. “But really, I think I shall tell Harley that she captured us. He believes Murad was at the bottom of it all.”
“I beg you will do nothing of the kind!” said Chumbley, firing up. “I shall take it as a personal affront if you do. You promised me you would not.”
“Why, hallo! Is that you, Chum? You haven’t taken a fancy to the woman, have you?”
“Never you mind, if—I say, draw your sword, man! Look out!” cried Chumbley, excitedly, as he drew his weapon from its sheath. “There’s one of those mad Malay demons running a-muck!”
As he spoke there was a shouting and shrieking heard in the street between the Chinese bazaars; right in front people were running frantically, as if for their lives, while from the direction of the prison they could see a nearly nude Malay with a red handkerchief tied round his head, and a flaming yellow sarong about his waist, in strong contrast to the white and blue clothed crowd who were skurrying here and there.
Hilton’s first instinct was to follow the example of the rest, and turn down some sideway or into a store; but as he saw first one and then another unfortunate stagger and fall where the fierce Malay dashed on, striking right and left, a feeling of rage took possession of him, and he felt ready to assist in the capture of the fanatic, who was racing out followed now by a mixed crowd of armed men, shouting with all their might, “Amok! amok!”
The Malay, with rolling eyes, foaming lips, and teeth gnashing like some wild beast, rushed toward the young officers. He was striking right and left with his kris, and two more men who had tried to intercept him fell from the deadly thrusts. Then a native woman was stabbed in the throat, and the savage enthusiast was making straight for where a couple of Indian nurses with some European children were cowering against a wall, too much alarmed to do anything but shriek.
This roused Hilton and Chumbley to action; and they interposed between the shrieking women and the Malay.
They were both good swordsmen as far as military teaching goes; but the Malay paid no more heed to their blunt regulation weapons than if they had been made of lath.
Hilton was first, and as he tried to guard himself from a thrust, the Malay leaped upon him and drove his kris through the fleshy part of his arm, and Chumbley stumbled over him.
With a shrill yell the Malay dashed on, struck at one of the women, who fell, and would have stabbed the children; but the fierce crowd was after him—a crowd gradually augmented, and among whom were three or four armed soldiers and a couple of the native police, each bearing what seemed to be a large pitchfork.
The Malay rushed on headlong, stabbing right and left, and marking his way with the bodies of the victims as he continued his fearful course, devoting himself to death, but with the furious thirst for blood displayed in such cases, where the Amok runner kills all he can, and goes on till he is either shot down or brought to bay.
Every now and then a Malay would make a stab at the savage as he passed, some of which blows took effect; but for the most part the runner escaped unhurt—the frightened people in the streets fleeing for life, with the consequence that here and there quite a little knot would be driven into a corner, crowding, shrieking together, unable to escape, and the outside unfortunates would receive lightning-like stabs before the wretch who delivered them raced on.
Chumbley rose to his feet and hastily tied a handkerchief round Hilton’s bleeding arm, the latter turning faint, and having to be helped into a Chinaman’s shop close at hand, the owner creeping from beneath his counter as the officers came in.
“Don’t stop for me,” said Hilton. “I’m all right.”
Chumbley hesitated for a moment, and then ran out to see that the Amok runner had been turned and was coming back at full speed, apparently full of vigour as ever, though he was streaming with blood and striking savagely at any one who came in his way.
The young officer saw two more victims fall, and then the Malay dashed down a sideway, making for the harbour now, affording an opportunity for a couple of shots to be sent after him, neither of which, however seemed to take effect.
On came the shouting crowd of pursuers, thirsting for the Malay’s blood, their object being to destroy him with as little compunction as they would a mad dog; but they did not gain upon him, and it was not until he had left several more inoffensive people weltering in their blood, that he turned at bay with his back to a blank wall, yelling, gnashing his teeth, and striking fiercely at his assailants with his dripping kris.
Suddenly, with a quick motion, one of the native policemen made a dart with the huge pitchfork he carried, his object being to strike the tines on either side of the madman and hold him pinned against the wall; but he was too quick, for he darted aside, and striking fiercely with his kris, started off afresh, but running more slowly now, for he was growing weak.
Still his thirst for blood was not assuaged, and running on he struck down a couple of Chinamen before he was again brought to bay in a kind of pool, where he stood glaring and displaying his teeth—a savage beast apparently, more than man—and ready to fight for his life to the very last.
For mad or no, the Amok runner knew that his fate was to be destroyed like some tiger. The native policemen’s instructions were to take him prisoner, so as to bring such offender to trial; but the majority of these fanatics are hunted to their death.
And it was so here, for as the police advanced cautiously, one of them falling back directly with a slight stab in his breast, a cleverly-thrown spear passed right through the savage’s neck, and he fell in the muddy pool.
It was a horrible sight to see the wild face rise again above the surface as its owner tried to struggle to his feet; but it was a vain effort. He was thrust under, pinned into the mud by half a dozen spears and bayonets, and a few bubbles rising to the surface, showed that the wretch’s career was at an end.
Chumbley, big, strong man as he was, felt sick as he stood there leaning on his sword, while with shouts of triumph the mob of mingled nationality dragged the corpse from the muddy pool.
“You here, Chumbley?” said a familiar voice, and he turned to see Mr Harley.
“Yes: what a horrid affair!”
“Horrible! We don’t often have them now. It is a native custom that is dying out. You know, I suppose, when a Malay has committed some crime that makes his pardon hopeless, or when some strong desire for revenge seizes him, he runs Amok—a-muck, as people call it—and then the innocent suffer till he is put out of the way.”
“Then you think they are not mad?” said Chumbley, who could not withdraw his eyes from the ghastly corpse, round which the slayers stood in triumph.
“Mad with frenzy or enthusiasm,” said Harley, “some of them think it an heroic death to die and—Good Heavens!—it is Murad!”
“No!” cried Chumbley.
It was. The Rajah had escaped from prison, had run Amok through the streets of Singapore, and the disfigured clay that lay there in the mud and blood, was all that remained of the abductor of Helen Perowne.
The two English spectators turned away with a shudder, and hurried to where poor Hilton lay back, rather faint from his wound, which was too slight, however, to be of a lasting nature.
Four poor creatures died from Murad’s kris, and sixteen were wounded more or less severely before he was slain.
Volume Three—Chapter Thirty.
The Rajah at Home.
Five years had passed away before, after a long stay on the China station, Major Hilton found an opportunity, on the regiment being ordered home, to land at Singapore, and take his young wife with him up-country, to pay a long-promised visit to her old schoolfellow at the Residency at Sindang.
The doctor and Mrs Bolter had gone home the year before, in company with the chaplain, who longed for the peace of his own country once more; and letters said that the doctor was going to take a quiet country practice, where his brother-in-law, still a bachelor, had settled down.
For though Mrs Barlow, in addition to her wealth, had proffered that style of love-offering known to keepsake-writers as blandishments, the Reverend Arthur had a sore heart that never healed, and he refused to listen to the voice of the charmer, but contented himself with a true friendship for Helen, her husband, old Stuart, and Mr Perowne.
Otherwise there had been but little change at Sindang; the new Rajah being a quiet, gentlemanly man, growing more European in his ways year by year.
The Residency looked very bright and charming as the Major and his wife caught sight of the island from the deck of the steamer; and in spite of the heat, it was a delightful home, where Helen seemed to lead a life of calm repose, looking handsomer than ever with her large eyes, dark hair and delicate creamy complexion; but there was a change visible: she seemed softened and dreamy, and whenever her husband spoke, there was a bright, eager look of joy, that lit up her features and told well of her married life.
The meeting between Helen and Grey was almost pathetic in its warmth; and for a long time there was no chance for the gentlemen to speak.
Their meeting, too, was wonderfully warm; and while the Resident saw how broad-chested and sunbrowned the Major had become, Hilton had been noting how fair Helen’s skin remained, in spite of her long stay in a tropic land; but when she smiled, there was still a faint trace left of disfigurement at the lower part of her teeth.
As for the Resident, he looked the beau idéal of a middle-aged English gentleman, and brighter and happier than Hilton had ever seen him before; while as to the old sore, it was quite healed up; and the meeting between Hilton and Helen was just that of old friends; nothing more.
“And now about Chumbley?” said Hilton, as they sat after dinner sipping their claret in the veranda, watching the fire-flies, and listening to the plashing of boat or reptile in the placid, rapid-flowing, starlit stream.
There had been inquiries before, but the time had been so taken up, that Chumbley’s career had been pretty well left out till now; when, as the two gentlemen sat smoking, an open door showed them the drawing-room with its shaded lamp, and the faces of the two graceful women—their wives—as they sat and chatted of old school troubles, and the other incidents of their career.
“About old Chum?” said the Resident; “oh, I often see him. He should have been here if I had known you were so close at hand. You know he came back six months after the company was changed, went straight up to the Inche Maida’s place, brought her back, and they went down to Singapore, got married, and returned directly.”
“And has he repented?” said Hilton.
“Go and see him, and judge for yourself.”
The result was, that one fine morning Hilton had himself rowed up to the Inche Maida’s home, at Campong Selah, where, on landing, he found that he was received with the most profound respect, and conducted to the palm-tree house, which was now surrounded by a most carefully-cultivated garden.
On entering the place, he found himself in what might have been a country gentleman’s home, the hall being full of sporting trophies, arms, and the paraphernalia of an occupant of sporting tastes.
“What. Hilton! never!” cried a bluff voice, and Chumbley, in a semi-sporting and native costume—wearing puggree, shooting jacket, sarong, and kris—and looking brown as a native, seized him by the hands, and nearly shook his arms out of their sockets. “Why, I am glad to see you, old man!”
“How well you look, Chumbley!”
“Ay! and you too! Why, you dog, you’re putting on flesh! But, how’s the little wife? How are you getting on?”
“Capitally! And you: do you like this savage life?”
“Savage, be hanged!” he cried. “Like it, my boy? I should think I do. By George, sir, she’s a splendid woman! Ah, here are the chicks.”
As he spoke, a Malay nurse brought in two little dark-eyed, creamy-complexioned children, who made a rush and a dash as soon as they were set free, and began to scale Chumbley’s knees, not ceasing till they were standing in his lap, and holding on by his beard.
“Gently! gently! You’ll break me! There never was such a pair of vital sparks on earth before! Now look here, you young limbs, turn round and talk to this gentleman. Tell him your names.”
“Bertie Hilton Chumbley, Rajah of Campong Selah,” said the elder—a handsome little boy in a brilliant silken sarong.
“Grey Stuart Chumbley, pa’s own darling pet,” lisped the other—a bright little doll of a girl, whom her father stood up afterwards and proudly balanced on one of his great hands.
“Like it,” continued Chumbley, stretching himself; “I never knew what life was till I came out here and married the Inche Maida. Ah, here she is.”
Hilton, as he recalled the past, felt a little conscious; but the Princess, who, in spite of her dark skin, looked quite the European lady, advanced, holding out her hand so frankly that they were laughing and chatting the next minute as if they were the oldest of friends, Hilton quite winning her heart by the way in which he took to her children.
“You remember what a mistake I made,” she said, “and how disappointed I was when you refused me? I did not know then what fate had in store.”
“You are still a fatalist then?” said Hilton, smiling.
“Why not?” she replied, proudly, as she went behind her great lord’s chair, and placed her arm affectionately upon his shoulder. “Has not fate given me the best and noblest of husbands—a just and true man, who has become the father of my people, my protector, and my lord?”
“Then you are both very happy?” said Hilton.
“Happy, old boy!” cried Chumbley, glancing affectionately at his wife, “happy isn’t the word for it; we’re thoroughly jolly, and in my way I’m a king.”
“But don’t you miss European society?”
“Not I, lad. I hunt, and shoot, and drill my subjects, and sit as judge, and look after the revenues, and my own little parliament. I’ve no time to be dull; and do you know, old chap, I don’t think I’m quite so slow as I was. I tell you what it is: if I had known how jolly it is to be a chief, I should have tried it on years before. But you’re going to stop, of course?”
“I’m going to beg some dinner, and then I’m off back to the Residency, where my wife is staying with the Harleys.”
“Then go back and fetch her—eh, my dear, what do you say?”
“Let us all go together and fetch her,” said the Inche Maida, smiling; and Grey Hilton was fetched to spend a month at Chumbley’s home, finding her old friend affectionate to a degree, while endless were the hunting and shooting excursions got up by the English Rajah in honour of his friend.
The Hiltons have not paid another visit to the palm-tree palace on the river where Chumbley has his home, but they hear from him occasionally as well as from the Harleys, and the reports always tell of perfect happiness in their far-off land.
“I tell you what it is, Grey,” says Hilton to his wife, the day after they had reached England, and she had held up her last little offering for him to kiss its tiny wet mouth, “I’ll bet a five-pound note that old Chumbley would give something if his youngsters were as fair as that;” and Grey says that for her part she does not think the colour of the skin matters so long as the heart is in its right place, to which her father, who has just come in, says:
“That’s a verra good remairk, my dear. Do you know I’m glad to my heart I’ve managed to scrape five thousand together out of Perowne’s estate, and the old man has settled it upon his children!”
“Five thousand! a nice little bonne bouche for Harley!” says Hilton.
“A man who thoroughly deserves it,” says his wife; “for I’m sure a truer-hearted gentleman never existed. But I have had a letter from Helen, and she tells me that Mr Harley is coming to England for a year’s leave. I am to answer to the hotel in Paris. What am I to say?”
“Say?” cried Hilton; “tell her and her husband that we are comfortably settled here, and as long as there is a roof and a bed, with something in the way of rations, there will always be a welcome for them both.”
The End.
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Volume 1 Chapter 1
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Volume 1 Chapter 2
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Volume 1 Chapter 3
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Volume 1 Chapter 4
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Volume 1 Chapter 5
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Volume 1 Chapter 6
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Volume 1 Chapter 7
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Volume 1 Chapter 8
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Volume 1 Chapter 9
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Volume 1 Chapter 10
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Volume 1 Chapter 11
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Volume 1 Chapter 12
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Volume 1 Chapter 13
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Volume 1 Chapter 14
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Volume 1 Chapter 15
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Volume 1 Chapter 16
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Volume 1 Chapter 17
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Volume 1 Chapter 18
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Volume 1 Chapter 19
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Volume 1 Chapter 20
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Volume 1 Chapter 21
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Volume 1 Chapter 22
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Volume 1 Chapter 23
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Volume 1 Chapter 24
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Volume 1 Chapter 25
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Volume 1 Chapter 26
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Volume 1 Chapter 27
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Volume 1 Chapter 28
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Volume 1 Chapter 29
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Volume 1 Chapter 30
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Volume 2 Chapter 1
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Volume 2 Chapter 2
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Volume 2 Chapter 3
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Volume 2 Chapter 4
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Volume 2 Chapter 5
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Volume 2 Chapter 6
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Volume 2 Chapter 7
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Volume 2 Chapter 8
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Volume 2 Chapter 9
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Volume 2 Chapter 10
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Volume 2 Chapter 11
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Volume 2 Chapter 12
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Volume 2 Chapter 13
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Volume 2 Chapter 14
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Volume 2 Chapter 15
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Volume 2 Chapter 16
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Volume 2 Chapter 17
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Volume 2 Chapter 18
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Volume 2 Chapter 19
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Volume 2 Chapter 20
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Volume 2 Chapter 21
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Volume 2 Chapter 22
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Volume 2 Chapter 23
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Volume 2 Chapter 24
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Volume 2 Chapter 25
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Volume 2 Chapter 26
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Volume 2 Chapter 27
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Volume 2 Chapter 28
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Volume 2 Chapter 29
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Volume 3 Chapter 1
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Volume 3 Chapter 2
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Volume 3 Chapter 3
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Volume 3 Chapter 4
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Volume 3 Chapter 5
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Volume 3 Chapter 6
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Volume 3 Chapter 7
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Volume 3 Chapter 8
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Volume 3 Chapter 9
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Volume 3 Chapter 10
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Volume 3 Chapter 11
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Volume 3 Chapter 12
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Volume 3 Chapter 13
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Volume 3 Chapter 14
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Volume 3 Chapter 15
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Volume 3 Chapter 16
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Volume 3 Chapter 17
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Volume 3 Chapter 18
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Volume 3 Chapter 19
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Volume 3 Chapter 20
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Volume 3 Chapter 21
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Volume 3 Chapter 22
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Volume 3 Chapter 23
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Volume 3 Chapter 24
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Volume 3 Chapter 25
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Volume 3 Chapter 26
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Volume 3 Chapter 27
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Volume 3 Chapter 28
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Volume 3 Chapter 29
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Volume 3 Chapter 30
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