Babalatchi ceased speaking. Lingard shifted his feet a little, uncrossed
his arms, and shook his head slowly. The narrative of the events in
Sambir, related from the point of view of the astute statesman, the
sense of which had been caught here and there by his inattentive ears, had been yet like a thread to guide him out of the sombre labyrinth of his thoughts; and now he had come to the end of it, out of the tangled past into the pressing necessities of the present. With the palms of his hands on his knees, his elbows squared out, he looked down on Babalatchi who sat in a stiff attitude, inexpressive and mute as a talking doll the mechanism of which had at length run down.
"You people did all this," said Lingard at last, "and you will be sorry
for it before the dry wind begins to blow again. Abdulla's voice will
bring the Dutch rule here."
Babalatchi waved his hand towards the dark doorway.
"There are forests there. Lakamba rules the land now. Tell me, Tuan, do
you think the big trees know the name of the ruler? No. They are born, they grow, they live and they die—yet know not, feel not. It is their land."
"Even a big tree may be killed by a small axe," said Lingard, drily. "And, remember, my one-eyed friend, that axes are made by white hands. You will soon find that out, since you have hoisted the flag of the Dutch."
"Ay—wa!" said Babalatchi, slowly. "It is written that the earth belongs
to those who have fair skins and hard but foolish hearts. The farther
away is the master, the easier it is for the slave, Tuan! You were too
near. Your voice rang in our ears always. Now it is not going to be so. The great Rajah in Batavia is strong, but he may be deceived. He must speak very loud to be heard here. But if we have need to shout, then he must hear the many voices that call for protection. He is but a white man."
"If I ever spoke to Patalolo, like an elder brother, it was for your
good—for the good of all," said Lingard with great earnestness.
"This is a white man's talk," exclaimed Babalatchi, with bitter
exultation. "I know you. That is how you all talk while you load your
guns and sharpen your swords; and when you are ready, then to those who
are weak you say: 'Obey me and be happy, or die! You are strange, you
white men. You think it is only your wisdom and your virtue and your
happiness that are true. You are stronger than the wild beasts, but not
so wise. A black tiger knows when he is not hungry—you do not. He knows
the difference between himself and those that can speak; you do not
understand the difference between yourselves and us—who are men. You
are wise and great—and you shall always be fools."
He threw up both his hands, stirring the sleeping cloud of smoke that
hung above his head, and brought the open palms on the flimsy floor on
each side of his outstretched legs. The whole hut shook. Lingard looked
at the excited statesman curiously.
"Apa! Apa! What's the matter?" he murmured, soothingly. "Whom did I kill
here? Where are my guns? What have I done? What have I eaten up?"
Babalatchi calmed down, and spoke with studied courtesy.
"You, Tuan, are of the sea, and more like what we are. Therefore I speak
to you all the words that are in my heart. . . . Only once has the sea
been stronger than the Rajah of the sea."
"You know it; do you?" said Lingard, with pained sharpness.
"Hai! We have heard about your ship—and some rejoiced. Not I. Amongst
the whites, who are devils, you are a man."
"Trima kassi! I give you thanks," said Lingard, gravely.
Babalatchi looked down with a bashful smile, but his face became
saddened directly, and when he spoke again it was in a mournful tone.
"Had you come a day sooner, Tuan, you would have seen an enemy die. You
would have seen him die poor, blind, unhappy—with no son to dig his
grave and speak of his wisdom and courage. Yes; you would have seen the
man that fought you in Carimata many years ago, die alone—but for one
friend. A great sight to you."
"Not to me," answered Lingard. "I did not even remember him till
you spoke his name just now. You do not understand us. We fight, we
vanquish—and we forget."
