The Rescue (4 page)

The sound of a bell struck sharply interrupted Shaw's discourse. High
aloft, some dry block sent out a screech, short and lamentable, like a
cry of pain. It pierced the quietness of the night to the very core, and
seemed to destroy the reserve which it had imposed upon the tones of the
two men, who spoke now loudly.

"Throw the cover over the binnacle," said Lingard in his duty voice.
"The thing shines like a full moon. We mustn't show more lights than we
can help, when becalmed at night so near the land. No use in being seen
if you can't see yourself—is there? Bear that in mind, Mr. Shaw. There
may be some vagabonds prying about—"

"I thought all this was over and done for," said Shaw, busying himself
with the cover, "since Sir Thomas Cochrane swept along the Borneo coast
with his squadron some years ago. He did a rare lot of fighting—didn't
he? We heard about it from the chaps of the sloop Diana that was
refitting in Calcutta when I was there in the Warwick Castle. They took
some king's town up a river hereabouts. The chaps were full of it."

"Sir Thomas did good work," answered Lingard, "but it will be a long
time before these seas are as safe as the English Channel is in peace
time. I spoke about that light more to get you in the way of things to
be attended to in these seas than for anything else. Did you notice how
few native craft we've sighted for all these days we have been drifting
about—one may say—in this sea?"

"I can't say I have attached any significance to the fact, sir."

"It's a sign that something is up. Once set a rumour afloat in these
waters, and it will make its way from island to island, without any
breeze to drive it along."

"Being myself a deep-water man sailing steadily out of home ports nearly
all my life," said Shaw with great deliberation, "I cannot pretend to
see through the peculiarities of them out-of-the-way parts. But I can
keep a lookout in an ordinary way, and I have noticed that craft of any
kind seemed scarce, for the last few days: considering that we had land
aboard of us—one side or another—nearly every day."

"You will get to know the peculiarities, as you call them, if you remain
any time with me," remarked Lingard, negligently.

"I hope I shall give satisfaction, whether the time be long or short!"
said Shaw, accentuating the meaning of his words by the distinctness
of his utterance. "A man who has spent thirty-two years of his life on
saltwater can say no more. If being an officer of home ships for the
last fifteen years I don't understand the heathen ways of them there
savages, in matters of seamanship and duty, you will find me all there,
Captain Lingard."

"Except, judging from what you said a little while ago—except in the
matter of fighting," said Lingard, with a short laugh.

"Fighting! I am not aware that anybody wants to fight me. I am a
peaceable man, Captain Lingard, but when put to it, I could fight as
well as any of them flat-nosed chaps we have to make shift with, instead
of a proper crew of decent Christians. Fighting!" he went on with
unexpected pugnacity of tone, "Fighting! If anybody comes to fight me,
he will find me all there, I swear!"

"That's all right. That's all right," said Lingard, stretching his arms
above his head and wriggling his shoulders. "My word! I do wish a breeze
would come to let us get away from here. I am rather in a hurry, Shaw."

"Indeed, sir! Well, I never yet met a thorough seafaring man who was not
in a hurry when a con-demned spell of calm had him by the heels. When a
breeze comes . . . just listen to this, sir!"

"I hear it," said Lingard. "Tide-rip, Shaw."

"So I presume, sir. But what a fuss it makes. Seldom heard such a—"

On the sea, upon the furthest limits of vision, appeared an advancing
streak of seething foam, resembling a narrow white ribbon, drawn rapidly
along the level surface of the water by its two ends, which were lost in
the darkness. It reached the brig, passed under, stretching out on each
side; and on each side the water became noisy, breaking into numerous
and tiny wavelets, a mimicry of an immense agitation. Yet the vessel in
the midst of this sudden and loud disturbance remained as motionless and
steady as if she had been securely moored between the stone walls of a
safe dock. In a few moments the line of foam and ripple running swiftly
north passed at once beyond sight and earshot, leaving no trace on the
unconquerable calm.

"Now this is very curious—" began Shaw.

Lingard made a gesture to command silence. He seemed to listen yet, as
if the wash of the ripple could have had an echo which he expected to
hear. And a man's voice that was heard forward had something of the
impersonal ring of voices thrown back from hard and lofty cliffs upon
the empty distances of the sea. It spoke in Malay—faintly.

"What?" hailed Shaw. "What is it?"

Lingard put a restraining hand for a moment on his chief officer's
shoulder, and moved forward smartly. Shaw followed, puzzled. The rapid
exchange of incomprehensible words thrown backward and forward through
the shadows of the brig's main deck from his captain to the lookout man
and back again, made him feel sadly out of it, somehow.

Lingard had called out sharply—"What do you see?" The answer direct and
quick was—"I hear, Tuan. I hear oars."

"Whereabouts?"

"The night is all around us. I hear them near."

"Port or starboard?"

There was a short delay in answer this time. On the quarter-deck,
under the poop, bare feet shuffled. Somebody coughed. At last the voice
forward said doubtfully:

"Kanan."

"Call the serang, Mr. Shaw," said Lingard, calmly, "and have the hands
turned up. They are all lying about the decks. Look sharp now. There's
something near us. It's annoying to be caught like this," he added in a
vexed tone.

He crossed over to the starboard side, and stood listening, one hand
grasping the royal back-stay, his ear turned to the sea, but he could
hear nothing from there. The quarter-deck was filled with subdued
sounds. Suddenly, a long, shrill whistle soared, reverberated loudly
amongst the flat surfaces of motionless sails, and gradually grew faint
as if the sound had escaped and gone away, running upon the water. Haji
Wasub was on deck and ready to carry out the white man's commands. Then
silence fell again on the brig, until Shaw spoke quietly.

"I am going forward now, sir, with the tindal. We're all at stations."

"Aye, Mr. Shaw. Very good. Mind they don't board you—but I can hear
nothing. Not a sound. It can't be much."

"The fellow has been dreaming, no doubt. I have good ears, too, and—"

He went forward and the end of his sentence was lost in an indistinct
growl. Lingard stood attentive. One by one the three seacannies off duty
appeared on the poop and busied themselves around a big chest that stood
by the side of the cabin companion. A rattle and clink of steel weapons
turned out on the deck was heard, but the men did not even whisper.
Lingard peered steadily into the night, then shook his head.

"Serang!" he called, half aloud.

The spare old man ran up the ladder so smartly that his bony feet did
not seem to touch the steps. He stood by his commander, his hands behind
his back; a figure indistinct but straight as an arrow.

"Who was looking out?" asked Lingard.

"Badroon, the Bugis," said Wasub, in his crisp, jerky manner.

"I can hear nothing. Badroon heard the noise in his mind."

"The night hides the boat."

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes, Tuan. Small boat. Before sunset. By the land. Now coming
here—near. Badroon heard him."

"Why didn't you report it, then?" asked Lingard, sharply.

"Malim spoke. He said: 'Nothing there,' while I could see. How could I
know what was in his mind or yours, Tuan?"

"Do you hear anything now?"

"No. They stopped now. Perhaps lost the ship—who knows? Perhaps
afraid—"

"Well!" muttered Lingard, moving his feet uneasily. "I believe you lie.
What kind of boat?"

"White men's boat. A four-men boat, I think. Small. Tuan, I hear him
now! There!"

He stretched his arm straight out, pointing abeam for a time, then his
arm fell slowly.

"Coming this way," he added with decision.

From forward Shaw called out in a startled tone:

"Something on the water, sir! Broad on this bow!"

"All right!" called back Lingard.

A lump of blacker darkness floated into his view. From it came over the
water English words—deliberate, reaching him one by one; as if each had
made its own difficult way through the profound stillness of the night.

"What—ship—is—that—pray?"

"English brig," answered Lingard, after a short moment of hesitation.

"A brig! I thought you were something bigger," went on the voice from
the sea with a tinge of disappointment in its deliberate tone. "I am
coming alongside—if—you—please."

"No! you don't!" called Lingard back, sharply. The leisurely drawl of
the invisible speaker seemed to him offensive, and woke up a hostile
feeling. "No! you don't if you care for your boat. Where do you spring
from? Who are you—anyhow? How many of you are there in that boat?"

After these emphatic questions there was an interval of silence. During
that time the shape of the boat became a little more distinct. She must
have carried some way on her yet, for she loomed up bigger and nearly
abreast of where Lingard stood, before the self-possessed voice was
heard again:

"I will show you."

Then, after another short pause, the voice said, less loud but very
plain:

"Strike on the gunwale. Strike hard, John!" and suddenly a blue light
blazed out, illuminating with a livid flame a round patch in the
night. In the smoke and splutter of that ghastly halo appeared a white,
four-oared gig with five men sitting in her in a row. Their heads were
turned toward the brig with a strong expression of curiosity on their
faces, which, in this glare, brilliant and sinister, took on a deathlike
aspect and resembled the faces of interested corpses. Then the bowman
dropped into the water the light he held above his head and the
darkness, rushing back at the boat, swallowed it with a loud and angry
hiss.

"Five of us," said the composed voice out of the night that seemed now
darker than before. "Four hands and myself. We belong to a yacht—a
British yacht—"

"Come on board!" shouted Lingard. "Why didn't you speak at once? I
thought you might have been some masquerading Dutchmen from a dodging
gunboat."

"Do I speak like a blamed Dutchman? Pull a stroke, boys—oars! Tend bow,
John."

The boat came alongside with a gentle knock, and a man's shape began to
climb at once up the brig's side with a kind of ponderous agility. It
poised itself for a moment on the rail to say down into the boat—"Sheer
off a little, boys," then jumped on deck with a thud, and said to Shaw
who was coming aft: "Good evening . . . Captain, sir?"

"No. On the poop!" growled Shaw.

"Come up here. Come up," called Lingard, impatiently.

The Malays had left their stations and stood clustered by the mainmast
in a silent group. Not a word was spoken on the brig's decks, while the
stranger made his way to the waiting captain. Lingard saw approaching
him a short, dapper man, who touched his cap and repeated his greeting
in a cool drawl:

"Good evening. . . Captain, sir?"

"Yes, I am the master—what's the matter? Adrift from your ship? Or
what?"

"Adrift? No! We left her four days ago, and have been pulling that gig
in a calm, nearly ever since. My men are done. So is the water. Lucky
thing I sighted you."

"You sighted me!" exclaimed Lingard. "When? What time?"

"Not in the dark, you may be sure. We've been knocking about amongst
some islands to the southward, breaking our hearts tugging at the oars
in one channel, then in another—trying to get clear. We got round an
islet—a barren thing, in shape like a loaf of sugar—and I caught sight
of a vessel a long way off. I took her bearing in a hurry and we buckled
to; but another of them currents must have had hold of us, for it was a
long time before we managed to clear that islet. I steered by the
stars, and, by the Lord Harry, I began to think I had missed you
somehow—because it must have been you I saw."

"Yes, it must have been. We had nothing in sight all day," assented
Lingard. "Where's your vessel?" he asked, eagerly.

"Hard and fast on middling soft mud—I should think about sixty miles
from here. We are the second boat sent off for assistance. We parted
company with the other on Tuesday. She must have passed to the northward
of you to-day. The chief officer is in her with orders to make for
Singapore. I am second, and was sent off toward the Straits here on the
chance of falling in with some ship. I have a letter from the owner. Our
gentry are tired of being stuck in the mud and wish for assistance."

"What assistance did you expect to find down here?"

"The letter will tell you that. May I ask, Captain, for a little water
for the chaps in my boat? And I myself would thank you for a drink.
We haven't had a mouthful since this afternoon. Our breaker leaked out
somehow."

"See to it, Mr. Shaw," said Lingard. "Come down the cabin, Mr.—"

"Carter is my name."

"Ah! Mr. Carter. Come down, come down," went on Lingard, leading the way
down the cabin stairs.

The steward had lighted the swinging lamp, and had put a decanter and
bottles on the table. The cuddy looked cheerful, painted white, with
gold mouldings round the panels. Opposite the curtained recess of the
stern windows there was a sideboard with a marble top, and, above it,
a looking-glass in a gilt frame. The semicircular couch round the stern
had cushions of crimson plush. The table was covered with a black
Indian tablecloth embroidered in vivid colours. Between the beams of the
poop-deck were fitted racks for muskets, the barrels of which glinted
in the light. There were twenty-four of them between the four beams. As
many sword-bayonets of an old pattern encircled the polished teakwood of
the rudder-casing with a double belt of brass and steel. All the doors
of the state-rooms had been taken off the hinges and only curtains
closed the doorways. They seemed to be made of yellow Chinese silk, and
fluttered all together, the four of them, as the two men entered the
cuddy.