The Favorite Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham by W. Somerset Maugham
“Anne isn’t that sort of woman at all. Don’t dream of hiding them. She loves children.”
Anne quickly made friends with the shy, pretty little native woman and soon was playing happily with the children. She and the girl had long confidential chats. The children took a fancy to her. She brought them lovely toys from Port Wallace. Prynne, comparing her smiling tolerance with the disapproving acidity of the other white women of the colony, described himself as knocked all of a heap. He could not do enough to show his delight and gratitude.
“If all highbrows are like you,” he said, “give me highbrows every time.”
He hated to think that in another year they would leave the district for good and the chances were that, if the next D.O. was married, his wife would think it dreadful that, rather than live alone, he had a native woman to live with him and, what was more, was much attached to her.
But there had been a good deal of discontent on the estate of late. The coolies were Chinese and infected with communist ideas. They were disorderly. Alban had been obliged to sentence several of them for various crimes to terms of imprisonment.
“Prynne tells me that as soon as their term is up he’s going to send them all back to China and get Javanese instead,” said Alban. “I’m sure he’s right. They’re much more amenable.”
“You don’t think there’s going to be any serious trouble?”
“Oh, no. Prynne knows his job and he’s a pretty determined fellow. He wouldn’t put up with any nonsense and with me and our policemen to back him up I don’t imagine they’ll try any monkey tricks.” He smiled. “The iron hand in the velvet glove.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when a sudden shouting arose. There was a commotion and the sound of steps. Loud voices and cries.
“Tuan, Tuan.”
“What the devil’s the matter?”
Alban sprang from his chair and went swiftly on to the veranda. Anne followed him. At the bottom of the steps was a group of natives. There was the sergeant, and three or four policemen, boatmen, and several men from the kampong.
“What is it?” called Alban.
Two or three shouted back in answer. The sergeant pushed others aside and Alban saw lying on the ground a man in a shirt and khaki shorts. He ran down the steps. He recognized the man as the assistant manager of Prynne’s estate. He was a half-caste. His shorts were covered with blood and there was clotted blood all over one side of his face and head. He was unconscious.
“Bring him up here,” called Anne.
Alban gave an order. The man was lifted up and carried on to the veranda. They laid him on the floor and Anne put a pillow under his head. She sent for water and for the medicine-chest in which they kept things for emergency.
“Is he dead?” asked Alban.
“No.”
“Better try to give him some brandy.”
The boatmen brought ghastly news. The Chinese coolies had risen suddenly and attacked the manager’s office. Prynne was killed, and the assistant manager, Oakley by name, had escaped only by the skin of his teeth. He had come upon the rioters when they were looting the office, he had seen Prynne’s body thrown out of the window, and had taken to his heels. Some of the Chinese saw him and gave chase. He ran for the river and was wounded as he jumped into the launch. The launch managed to put off before the Chinese could get on board and they had come down-stream for help as fast as they could go. As they went they saw flames rising from the office buildings. There was no doubt that the coolies had burned down everything that would burn.
Oakley gave a groan and opened his eyes. He was a little, dark-skinned man, with flattened features and thick coarse hair. His great native eyes were filled with terror.
“You’re all right,” said Anne. “You’re quite safe.”
He gave a sigh and smiled. Anne washed his face and swabbed it with antiseptics. The wound on his head was not serious.
“Can you speak yet?” said Alban.
“Wait a bit,” she said. “We must look at his leg.”
Alban ordered the sergeant to get the crowd out of the veranda. Anne ripped up one leg of the shorts. The material was clinging to the coagulated wound.
“I’ve been bleeding like a pig,” said Oakley.
It was only a flesh wound. Alban was clever with his fingers, and though the blood began to flow again they staunched it. Alban put on a dressing and a bandage. The sergeant and a policeman lifted Oakley on to a long chair. Alban gave him a brandy and soda, and soon he felt strong enough to speak. He knew no more than the boatmen had already told. Prynne was dead and the estate was in flames.
“And the girl and the children?” asked Anne.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, Alban.”
“I must turn out the police. Are you sure Prynne is dead?”
“Yes, sir. I saw him.”
“Have the rioters got fire-arms?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“How d’you mean, you don’t know?” Alban cried irritably. “Prynne had a gun, hadn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There must have been more on the estate. You had one, didn’t you? The head overseer had one.”
The half-caste was silent. Alban looked at him sternly.
“How many of those damned Chinese are there?”
“A hundred and fifty.”
Anne wondered that he asked so many questions. It seemed waste of time. The important thing was to collect coolies for the transport up-river, prepare the boats, and issue ammunition to the police.
“How many policemen have you got, sir?” asked Oakley.
“Eight and the sergeant.”
“Could I come too? That would make ten of us. I’m sure I shall be all right now I’m bandaged.”
“I’m not going,” said Alban.
“Alban, you must,” cried Anne. She could not believe her ears.
“Nonsense. It would be madness. Oakley’s obviously useless. He’s sure to have a temperature in a few hours. He’d only be in the way. That leaves nine guns. There are a hundred and fifty Chinese and they’ve got fire-arms and all the ammunition in the world.”
“How do’you know?”
“It stands to reason they wouldn’t have started a show like this unless they had. It would be idiotic to go.”
Anne stared at him with open mouth. Oakley’s eyes were puzzled.
“What are you going to do?”
“Well, fortunately we’ve got the launch. I’ll send it to Port Wallace with a request for reinforcements.”
“But they won’t be here for two days at least.”
“Well, what of it? Prynne’s dead and the estate burned to the ground. We couldn’t do any good by going up now. I shall send a native to reconnoitre so that we can find out exactly what the rioters are doing.” He gave Anne his charming smile. “Believe me, my pet, the rascals won’t lose anything by waiting a day or two for what’s coming to them.”
Oakley opened his mouth to speak, but perhaps he hadn’t the nerve. He was a half-caste assistant manager and Alban, the D.O., represented the power of the Government. But the man’s eyes sought Anne’s and she thought she read in them an earnest and personal appeal.
“But in two days they’re capable of committing the most frightful atrocities,” she cried. “It’s quite unspeakable what they may do.”
“Whatever damage they do they’ll pay for. I promise you that.”
“Oh, Alban, you can’t sit still and do nothing. I beseech you to go yourself at once.”
“Don’t be so silly. I can’t quell a riot with eight policemen and a sergeant. I haven’t got the right to take a risk of that sort. We’d have to go in boats. You don’t think we could get up unobserved. The lalang along the banks is perfect cover and they could just take pot shots at us as we came along. We shouldn’t have a chance.”
“I’m afraid they’ll only think it weakness if nothing is done for two days, sir,” said Oakley.
?
The half-caste reddened. He said nothing more. He looked straight in front of him with troubled eyes.
“I’m going down to the office,” said Alban. “I’ll just write a short report and send it down the river by launch at once.”
He gave an order to the sergeant, who had been standing all this time stiffly at the top of the steps. He saluted and ran off. Alban went into a little hall they had to get his topee. Anne swiftly followed him.
“Alban, for God’s sake listen to me a minute,” she whispered.
“I don’t want to be rude to you, darling, but I am pressed for time. I think you’d much better mind your own business.”
“You can’t do nothing, Alban. You must go. Whatever the risk.”
“Don’t be such a fool,” he said angrily.
He had never been angry with her before. She seized his hand to hold him back.
“I tell you I can do no good by going.”
“You don’t know. There’s the woman and Prynne’s children. We must do something to save them. Let me come with you. They’ll kill them.”
“They’ve probably killed them already.”
“Oh, how can you be so callous! If there’s a chance of saving them it’s your duty to try.”
“It’s my duty to act like a reasonable human being. I’m not going to risk my life and my policemen’s for the sake of a native woman and her half-caste brats. What sort of a damned fool do you take me for?”
“They’ll say you were afraid.”
“Who?”
“Everyone in the colony.”
He smiled disdainfully.
“If you only knew what a complete contempt I have for the opinion of everyone in the colony.”
She gave him a long searching look. She had been married to him for eight years and she knew every expression of his face and every thought in his mind. She stared into his blue eyes as if they were open windows. She suddenly went quite pale. She dropped his hand and turned away. Without another word she went back on to the veranda. Her ugly little monkey face was a mask of horror.
Alban went to his office, wrote a brief account of the facts, and in a few minutes the motor launch was pounding down the river.
The next two days were endless. Escaped natives brought them news of happenings on the estate. But from their excited and terrified stories it was impossible to get an exact impression of the truth. There had been a good deal of bloodshed. The head overseer had been killed. They brought wild tales of cruelty and outrage. Anne could hear nothing of Prynne’s woman and the two children. She shuddered when she thought of what might have been their fate. Alban collected as many natives as he could. They were armed with spears and swords. He commandeered boats. The situation was serious, but he kept his head. He felt that he had done all that was possible and nothing remained but for him to carry on normally. He did his official work. He played the piano a great deal. He rode with Anne in the early morning. He appeared to have forgotten that they had had the first serious difference of opinion in the whole of their married life. He took it that Anne had accepted the wisdom of his decision. He was as amusing, cordial, and gay with her as he had always been. When he spoke of the rioters it was with grim irony: when the time came to settle matters a good many of them would wish they had never been born.
“What’ll happen to them?” asked Anne.
“Oh, they’ll hang.” He gave a shrug of distaste. “I hate having to be present at executions. It always makes me feel rather sick.”
He was very sympathetic to Oakley, whom they had put to bed and whom Anne was nursing. Perhaps he was sorry that in the exasperation of the moment he had spoken to him offensively, and he went out of his way to be nice to him.
Then on the afternoon of the third day, when they were drinking their coffee after luncheon, Alban’s quick ears caught the sound of a motor boat approaching. At the same moment a policeman ran up to say that the government launch was sighted.
“At last,” cried Alban.
He bolted out of the house. Anne raised one of the jalousies and looked out at the river. Now the sound was quite loud and in a moment she saw the boat come round the bend. She saw Alban on the landing-stage. He got into a prahu and as the launch dropped her anchor he went on board. She told Oakley that the reinforcements had come.
“Will the D.O. go up with them when they attack?” he asked her.
“Naturally,” said Anne coldly.
“I wondered.”
Anne felt a strange feeling in her heart. For the last two days she had had to exercise all her self-control not to cry. She did not answer. She went out of the room.
A quarter of an hour later Alban returned to the bungalow with the captain of constabulary who had been sent with twenty Sikhs to deal with the rioters. Captain Stratton was a little red-faced man with a red moustache and bow legs, very hearty and dashing, whom she had met often at Port Wallace.
“Well, Mrs Torel, this is a pretty kettle of fish,” he cried, as he shook hands with her, in a loud jolly voice. “Here I am, with my army all full of pep and ready for a scrap. Up, boys, and at “em. Have you got anything to drink in this benighted place?”
“Boy,” she cried, smiling.
“Something long and cool and faintly alcoholic, and then I’m ready to discuss the plan of campaign.”
His breeziness was very comforting. It blew away the sullen apprehension that had seemed ever since the disaster to brood over the lost peace of the bungalow. The boy came in with a tray and Stratton mixed himself a stengah. Alban put him in possession of the facts. He told them clearly, briefly, and with precision.
“I must say I admire you,” said Stratton. “In your place I should never have been able to resist the temptation to take my eight cops and have a whack at the blighters myself.”
“I thought it was a perfectly unjustifiable risk to take.”
“Safety first, old boy, eh, what?” said Stratton jovially. “I’m jolly glad you didn’t. It’s not often we get the chance of a scrap. It would have been a dirty trick to keep the whole show to yourself.”
Captain Stratton was all for steaming straight up the river and attacking at once, but Alban pointed out to him the inadvisability of such a course. The sound of the approaching launch would warn the rioters. The long grass at the river’s edge offered them cover and they had enough guns to make a landing difficult. It seemed useless to expose the attacking force to their fire. It was silly to forget that they had to face a hundred and fifty desperate men and it would be easy to fall into an ambush. Alban expounded his own plan. Stratton listened to it. He nodded now and then. The plan was evidently a good one. It would enable them to take the rioters in the rear, surprise them, and in all probability finish the job without a single casualty. He would have been a fool not to accept it.
“But why didn’t you do that yourself?” asked Stratton.
“With eight men and a sergeant?”
Stratton did not answer.
“Anyhow, it’s not a bad idea and we’ll settle on it. It gives us plenty of time, so with your permission, Mrs Torel, I’ll have a bath.”
They set out at sunset, Captain Stratton and his twenty Sikhs, Alban with his policemen and the natives he had collected. The night was dark and moonless. Trailing behind them were the dug-outs that Alban had gathered together and into which after a certain distance they proposed to transfer their force. It was important that no sound should give warning of their approach. After they had gone for about three hours by launch they took to the dug-outs and in them silently paddled up-stream. They reached the border of the vast estate and landed. Guides led them along a path so narrow that they had to march in single file. It had been long unused and the going was heavy. They had twice to ford a stream. The path led the
“We’ve caught the blighters asleep.”
He lined up his men. They inserted cartridges in their guns. He stepped forward and raised his hand. The carbines were pointed at the coolie lines.
“Fire.”
There was a rattle as the volley of shots rang out. Then suddenly there was a tremendous din and the Chinese poured out, shouting and waving their arms, but in front of them, to Alban’s utter bewilderment, bellowing at the top of his voice and shaking his fists at them, was a white man.
“Who the hell’s that?” cried Stratton.
A very big, very fat man, in khaki trousers and a singlet, was running towards them as fast as his fat legs would carry him and as he ran shaking both fists at them and yelling:
“Smerige flikkers! Vervloekte ploerten!”
“My God, it’s Van Hasseldt,” said Alban.
This was the Dutch manager of the timber camp which was situated on a considerable tributary of the river about twenty miles away.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he puffed as he came up to them.