Rajah of Hell Island/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV.
THE SULTAN COMES.
WHILE these things were passing at the pagoda-pavilion, Benbow and Mickelson were not without some trouble on their hands. The ancient wharf of this forgotten city was a gigantic thing—a platform of hewn stone blocks, which stretched unbroken under the jungle growths.
Ten feet above the water’s edge it stood; from the water ran up a short flight of wide stairs, at the bottom of which was tethered the single boat remaining to Benbow. Up above were the castaways.
A circle of the great wharf around the stairs had been cleared of vines and creepers, and was now lighted by a dozen fires. The Malays, by far the most numerous, had taken possession of the water-casks and bags of biscuit, and doled out a stingy portion to the sullen Chinese. This had not been peacefully adjusted, for every man had knife or kris, and not a few of the pilgrims from Mecca bore pistols; it was not to be wondered at that a dozen bodies littered the edge of the shadows.
Supper, however meager, had contrived to quiet the unruly spirits, and now Benbow and Mickelson were threading among the groups of smoking men, upon an errand all their own.
“The rewards,” Benbow was careful to explain in fluent dialect, “will be many and great! This fool of an infidel wrecked the ship, and the Sultan will reward whoever punishes him. In his boat he has great store of sweet water, liquor and food, which will be a very immediate and needful reward to whoever slays him. Also, there is the white woman who belonged to the Sultan, and whom he stole from my care; whoever returns her to me shall have great reward from the Sultan!”
“Aye, tuan,” argued one of the holy pilgrims, clutching his pistol, “but how to get away from here? How shall we come to the Sultan?”
“By sending either me or Tuan Mickelson in the boat, with a few of you and a few of the seamen,” rejoined Benbow promptly. “The Sultan will then send to rescue all of us.”
“By Allah, that is a good plan!” the murmur passed around, and they fell into talk, until the great landing buzzed like the bee-caves of Angkor.
Something of this talk came to the ears of Stone and Tan Tock, who silently swam to the stairway that cleft down through the hewn stones, and drew themselves out of the water on the lowermost step, beyond the sight of those on the wharves above. For a space they lay motionless, resting and listening to what passed overhead.
Stone saw that Benbow had told the truth about the boats, for there was but the one remaining. He lay on the slimy stone step, and Tan Tock lay beside him. Suddenly the yellow man spoke very softly.
“Tuan, what thought is in your mind?”
The American started. But the other continued speaking.
“It is in your mind to take this boat and go away with the white woman? This you cannot do, tuan.”
“No?” Stone glanced at the little man. “You think I cannot kill you?”
“Oh, I am mortal, tuan!” Tan Tock chuckled. “But, remember, I, too, have a revolver, and a single shout or shot would bring these men about your heels. You might kill me, but a hundred of them would swim after you, and you could not escape with the boat.”
The American gazed at the figure of the little steward for a long moment. He knew that Tan Tock was right, and he abandoned the plan that had flashed into his mind. He was quite willing to kill the steward, but he was unwilling to stake everything on a long chance. And Tan Tock, he realized, did not know how to bluff.
“Very well,” he nodded acquiescence. “Then get into the boat, draw her plugs, and we will swim out with her and let her sink. Thus these men cannot reach us until dawn, for to thread the jungles after nightfall is impossible.”
“Very well, tuan.”
Tan Tock slipped off the step like an eel, and his kris sliced through the painter of the boat. He floated with it out into the darkness and vanished from sight.
Now, whether some ear above had caught their low voices, or whether things fell out by sheer chance, Stone never learned. For a moment he remained on the step, gathering his strength for the swim back to the pavilion; without warning a figure stepped naked-footed on the stairs above, and was followed by a second. The second was that of Mickelson, who bore a flaming brand from a fire.
“Stone!”
With the word, Mickelson plucked forth a revolver and fired—a fraction of an instant too late. Seeing the motion, Stone placed a bullet squarely between the second officer’s eyes, and slid off into the water. The native beside Mickelson, like a flying jungle-bat, leaped high in air and dove out for the American, kris in hand.
The night became an inferno. Stone had anticipated no such scene as this when he had started over. The man who had leaped in almost on top of him came at him with a shrill cry of rage. Not daring to fire the water-choked revolver, Stone slashed across the Malay’s face with the fore-sight, and the man sank. As Tan Tock had predicted, however, the American found himself hard put to it to escape from the horde who came plunging after.
The edge of the great stone wharf was lined with dancing, yelling shapes, torches in hand. In the weird light it seemed that scores of figures were “taking off” for the dive, krises clenched between white teeth, naked bodies flashing darkly. Of Tan Tock, Stone could see nothing, nor was the boat visible to his brief glance; seemingly the steward had gotten it beyond the radius of light.
“Here goes!” thought Stone grimly, taking in a long breath. “It’s my only chance—”
Barely ten seconds had transpired since Mickelson’s cry and shot, but already the water was foaming and splashing high with swimmers. Dropping his useless weapon, Stone plunged forward in a long, deep dive, hoping only to escape those murderous krises.
Under the water he swam until his lungs seemed bursting asunder, until his brain was aflame with more-coruscating lights than the Genji firefly-festival ever bore. Then, in desperation, he headed upward, and an instant later sobbed the cool night air into his fiery lungs.
“Wah! Allah!”
The yell streamed up beside him, and he turned barely in time to meet a steel-tipped swimmer. Just at the verge of the torch-light, ten feet farther would have carried Stone safely past the danger; but he wasted no time on “ifs.” His fist smashed home on a brown face, and before the nearer Malays could come up Stone dived and was off again.
This time he expended his last ounce of staying power before coming up—and when he broke into the air again he was beyond sight of the wharves. Careless if he were seen by the swimmers, so that he could reach the pavilion and his weapons, he struck out in a swift and steady “crawl” down the shore-line. Yells from behind told him that his phosphorescent wake was observed, but he held onward without pause, confident in his speed.
When he seemed to have flung off pursuit he proceeded at a more sensible stroke. The hoarse bellow of Captain Benbow broke through the storm of voices behind, and Stone conjectured that, for lack of a boat, a swimming party was being sent to attack the pavilion. He laughed grimly at thought of the revolvers in his coat-pockets.
The minutes fled fast. He was beginning to scan the line of shore in the effort to make out some trace of the pagoda against the stars, when suddenly he came to an abrupt halt, and trod water, staring ahead in quick surprise.
A tiny tongue of flame was licking upward in the darkness—well out from shore and about fifty yards ahead of the American. It grew rapidly; a moment later Stone realized that it came not from the water, but from the little promontory upon which stood the pavilion. The flicker increased—the flame became a fire, cunningly builded against rocks, so that behind it was nothing visible, yet the water before and around it was plainly lighted.
“Damned clever beggar!” muttered Stone, as he struck out for the beacon.
It was the work of Tan Tock, of course. Somehow the yellow steward had won back to the pavilion—either in the boat, or else by abandoning the boat. He must have abandoned it promptly, to be sure, else he could not have swum back ahead of Stone and gotten this fire alight. It was excellently placed, thought the American. No swimming party could advance through its gleams while Tan Tock had a revolver and cartridges.
“With two of us to hold the fort,” reflected Stone, “Benbow will be neatly euchered. The scurvy dog! I wish I’d gotten him along with Mickelson.”
He made steady headway, anxious to get into his clothes again and meet the danger which threatened from the swimming Malays. Suddenly, when he was within thirty feet of the fire, the soft voice of Tan Tock lifted from the darkness.
“You stop, tuan! Go way.”
“All right. Tan Tock—it’s Tuan Stone!” rejoined the American cheerfully.
“You stop or I fire!”
“What!” Stone straightened up in amazement, treading water and trying to make out something in the blackness. “Are you crazy?”
Tan Tock’s soft laugh answered him. Stone threw himself forward, but a revolver spat red in the night, and the bullet clipped the water an inch from his right ear.
“Do you want to die, tuan? Then come on!”
The American halted, cursing in swift realization. Too late he saw his folly in trusting the yellow steward; with true Oriental guile Tan Tock had twisted the situation to serve his own ends.
“By the lord, I’ll wring your neck for this!” threatened Stone with cold rage. Tan Tock sent another taunting chuckle at him, which cooled the mad fury tugging at the American’s heart.
The steward had the whip hand—had scented the possibilities of the situation, and had neatly gotten rid of Stone, eliminated him. Tan Tock, therefore, remained in charge of Miss Bretton and seemed quite confident of his ability to defend his position.
“Go ’way quick!” came the soft order. “Or shall I kill you?”
Stone began to swim again. He saw that Tan Tock’s fire was built at the tip of the little promontory, baffling any circling movement. So, there being naught else to do, the American swam past the promontory and wearily dragged himself into shore fifty yards farther on. He emerged from a tangle of mangrove roots, struggled up to masonry above, and, careless of snakes, flung himself down to rest.
“Can he fight off the Malays?” he reflected. “If he can, I’ll get to him in the morning—I can reach him then by land, and I’ll wring his cursed neck!”
He lay quiescent, watching, unable to see the promontory, but listening intently. After a space he heard yells, and then shots, coming quick and fast. These gave place to silence, then the laugh of Tan Tock quivered through the night. The Malays were repulsed.
Stone stretched out, nearly naked and quite weaponless. With the morning he would get the yellow steward, for the Sultan could not get here before noon, he reflected. So he fell asleep, biding his time and determined that with the morning he would make Tan Tock drain the cup of bitterness. He was defeated, but not conquered.
One thing, however. Stone forgot. This was the luck which had been fighting against him.
Stiff and sore in every limb, he was wakened to find early sunlight sifting down through the trees above him. A sound of high-pitched voices brought him into startled alertness; he sprang up, held aside the trailing vines and branches, and peered forth at the water.
The silence of blank, astounded dismay settled upon his soul.
Anchored fifty feet off the promontory was a bedecked, bedizened Malay proa, lateen sail furled high—the Sultan’s state barge. And, leaving the promontory, was a boat in the stern of which sat Agnes Bretton, with Tan Tock beside her!
The Sultan had come with the dawn! The white woman was his!
The blow was overwhelming. As the boat drew under the opposite side of the proa, Stone dropped the vines and sat down, feeling as though a hard fist had hit him under the ear. For a moment he was knocked out.
“Damn!” he said slowly. “Those quartermasters found the Sultan somewhere down the coast—they didn’t have to make Kuala Gajah itself. They probably found him during the night—and now he’s here. And Agnes Bretton’s aboard that cursed barge of his!”
He realized to the full his own position—unarmed, naked except for his cotton trousers, and ashore. What must Agnes Bretton think now of his boasts and vaunted efficiency? He groaned at the thought.
Recollection, however, spurred into him. Under the sting of defeat arose the man, insuperable, his vitality but quickened by the bitterness of his position. After all, was he not the Raja of Hell Island—had he not named himself thus to Miss Bretton? And was that to be an empty and fruitless boast?
“No!” Stone leaped up again, the numbing power of the blow broken upon his resilient spirit. “No! I’ll play the game to the end, by the Lord—I’ll be the raja, right enough! Let them only give me a chance!”
He parted the vines, cautiously, and settled himself to watch events. Had he but wakened a half-hour earlier!
Plainly, the proa had just arrived; as plainly, Tan Tock had signaled to her from the promontory. Another boat was setting off toward the great wharves farther along the shore of the island, where Benbow and the castaways awaited rescue.
Upon the deck of the barge an awning was being run up. Beneath this, Stone could make out the figure of Sultan Lumpur—small, frock-coated, fezzed. Miss Bretton came to the deck, and the Sultan bowed many times. Stone saw that the girl’s head was bare, her golden hair flashing in the morning sun; she seemed to be glancing around, as if seeking some one—then she allowed the Sultan to lead her below.
After a moment the Sultan reappeared, seated himself, lighted a cigar, and with every appearance of purring contentment engaged Tan Tock in a very long conversation.
“What next?” thought Stone, frowning. “If I could get aboard that craft there ’d be something doing! How long will she stay at anchor? If the crafty devil pulls out now it’s all off! I suppose he’d pick me up if I signaled—and throw me in irons on general principles. Thank you, I’ll go aboard as the Raja of Hell Island, not as a stranded seaman!”
His chief worry was quite speedily settled.
The boat returned from the ancient wharves, bearing Captain Benbow and two of the Mecca pilgrims, green turbans and all. They were taken to the barge, and there shortly ensued a stormy scene between Benbow and Sultan Lumpur. Between Tan Tock and the pilgrims, to say nothing of the quartermasters, the blame for the loss of the Penang must have been definitely placed on the shoulders of Benbow, for the little Sultan flew into furious rage, and the beefy, truculent skipper appeared very glad indeed to go below in evident disgrace.
So much for Benbow. The boat presently set out again for shore. With it was a second boat, that in which the quartermasters had departed the previous evening. Both were loaded deep with water casks, and at sight of them Stone drew back with a dancing light in his steely eyes.
“Good! He’s going to victual and water those beggars until he can send for ’em, or until fishing boats can take ’em up the coast. He’ll be here for an hour yet, and doubtless he’ll search for me—or again, he may choose to leave me to starve. Very well, Mr. Sultan! I think your unknown friend the raja will now take a hand in the game. Wish I had a smoke!”
He had already solved in mind his chief problem—to get aboard the proa. Once he was there he could let matters take their course. Stone was a man who solved one puzzle at a time and left the rest to Providence.
Working swiftly, he tore loose vine after vine from the knotted tangles around him—great, piled shreds of wood, thick-leaved, and with lesser vines bound them so that they would not lightly drift apart. These he edged into the water under a mango tree, and shortly afterward followed the mass of seeming flotsam.
As the morning waxed and the boats continued taking supplies ashore, the tangled mass of drifted creepers worked out slowly but certainly toward the gaily bedizened proa, under whose awning Sultan Lumpur was smoking and, in very heathen fashion, mixing strong coffee with brandy-and-sodas. A nautch-girl had appeared like some gilded snake, and was smoking a white cheroot beside him on the cushions.
“Tell me,” said the Sultan to Tan Tock, in English—partly because he affected the language and partly in order that the girl might not understand, “about this new man, Stone. Shall we pick him up and silence his mouth regarding this woman?”
“Favored of Allah, he is very well where he is,” and Tan Tock grinned faintly. “From this place he cannot escape, and it is better to let him perish miserably here than to run any risks by slaying him outright. Why trouble, when God can do the work for us?”
“Very true,” assented Lumpur sagely. “At least, he seems to be a man among men.”
Tan Tock cast a troubled glance at the shore, not observing the tangle of vines that floated under the counter below.
“Aye, a man indeed! He would slay me as he slew Tuan Mickelson, were he here. However,” and the steward brightened perceptibly, “he is unarmed and ashore. It might be well to bid these Malays hunt him down, while boats are coming for them.”
“I will do it.” His highness nodded, a trifle drowsily. “Do you go and lay out a very fine luncheon in the private suite—do not waken the woman, however; let her sleep until I am ready. Champagne, caviar, and all that sort of thing.”
The port side of the boat, swinging lazily to her anchor, was deserted. The starboard side buzzed with activity as the brown seamen broke out the casks and provisions for the crowd ashore.
Down the starboard side floated the tangle of vines. Floating beneath them with his head only half-submerged, Richard Stone grinned cheerfully to himself as he caught the conversation overhead, and gradually worked his way along to the stern of the proa. He dared not make haste, and the thought of possible nips from small sharks was a continual torment; none the less, he grinned. Things were not going so badly, after all! What had seemed a calamity, now in the light of events began to appear very much like good fortune after all—he would have had to face the Sultan in any event!
“All's for the best,” thought Stone cheerily, “and the ‘best’ refers to one Dick Stone, Esq. What first seems misfortune proves to be good hap, so press on, O raja!”
Now, Stone’s mental pose as the Raja of Hell Island was no mere jest. He strove to impress that pose upon himself sternly, without compromise, for his position and that of Agnes Bretton were desperate in the extreme. The only law was the will of Sultan Lumpus, who was well served, as Stone had found to his cost. Half-measures, consular appeals, empty threats, would effect nothing. Agnes Bretton could be saved only by the death of men—she could be saved only by one who would act in true Oriental fashion, high-handed and ruthless—the Raja of Hell Island. So this word, first spoken in jest, became deadly earnest, and Stone knew well that he himself would be erased like a Dongrek cobra in case he failed. Therefore, he had not the slightest intention of failure.
Reaching the stern of the proa, Stone found a broad, open window above him. The barge had been built for luxury, and was a floating palace of iniquity rather than a ship; the American conjectured that the private suite of which Sultan Lumpur had spoken was here in the stern.
Being quite hidden from any observation, Stone evaded his leafy screen, gripped the gilded carving above him, and drew himself out of the water. He found himself gazing into a dining-room fitted in European style, and quite empty.
Five seconds later he was aboard.