An Outcast of the Islands | Page 9

Tom Lingard grew rich on the sea and by the sea. He
loved it with the ardent affection of a lover, he made light of it with the assurance of
perfect mastery, he feared it with the wise fear of a brave man, and he took liberties with
it as a spoiled child might do with a paternal and good-natured ogre. He was grateful to it,
with the gratitude of an honest heart. His greatest pride lay in his profound conviction of
its faithfulness--in the deep sense of his unerring knowledge of its treachery. The little
brig Flash was the instrument of Lingard's fortune. They came north together--both
young--out of an Australian port, and after a very few years there was not a white man in
the islands, from Palembang to Ternate, from Ombawa to Palawan, that did not know
Captain Tom and his lucky craft. He was liked for his reckless generosity, for his
unswerving honesty, and at first was a little feared on account of his violent temper. Very
soon, however, they found him out, and the word went round that Captain Tom's fury
was less dangerous than many a man's smile. He prospered greatly. After his first--and
successful--fight with the sea robbers, when he rescued, as rumour had it, the yacht of

some big wig from home, somewhere down Carimata way, his great popularity began. As
years went on it grew apace. Always visiting out-of-the-way places of that part of the
world, always in search of new markets for his cargoes--not so much for profit as for the
pleasure of finding them--he soon became known to the Malays, and by his successful
recklessness in several encounters with pirates, established the terror of his name. Those
white men with whom he had business, and who naturally were on the look-out for his
weaknesses, could easily see that it was enough to give him his Malay title to flatter him
greatly. So when there was anything to be gained by it, and sometimes out of pure and
unprofitable good nature, they would drop the ceremonious "Captain Lingard" and
address him half seriously as Rajah Laut--the King of the Sea. He carried the name
bravely on his broad shoulders. He had carried it many years already when the boy
Willems ran barefooted on the deck of the ship Kosmopoliet IV. in Samarang roads,
looking with innocent eyes on the strange shore and objurgating his immediate
surroundings with blasphemous lips, while his childish brain worked upon the heroic idea
of running away. From the poop of the Flash Lingard saw in the early morning the Dutch
ship get lumberingly under weigh, bound for the eastern ports. Very late in the evening of
the same day he stood on the quay of the landing canal, ready to go on board of his brig.
The night was starry and clear; the little custom-house building was shut up, and as the
gharry that brought him down disappeared up the long avenue of dusty trees leading to
the town, Lingard thought himself alone on the quay. He roused up his sleeping
boat-crew and stood waiting for them to get ready, when he felt a tug at his coat and a
thin voice said, very distinctly-- "English captain." Lingard turned round quickly, and
what seemed to be a very lean boy jumped back with commendable activity. "Who are
you? Where do you spring from?" asked Lingard, in startled surprise. From a safe
distance the boy pointed toward a cargo lighter moored to the quay. "Been hiding there,
have you?" said Lingard. "Well, what do you want? Speak out, confound you. You did
not come here to scare me to death, for fun, did you?" The boy tried to explain in
imperfect English, but very soon Lingard interrupted him. "I see," he exclaimed, "you ran
away from the big ship that sailed this morning. Well, why don't you go to your
countrymen here?" "Ship gone only a little way--to Sourabaya. Make me go back to the
ship," explained the boy. "Best thing for you," affirmed Lingard with conviction. "No,"
retorted the boy; "me want stop here; not want go home. Get money here; home no
good." "This beats all my going a-fishing," commented the astonished Lingard. "It's
money you want? Well! well! And you were not afraid to run away, you bag of bones,
you!" The boy intimated that he was frightened of nothing but of being sent back to the
ship. Lingard looked at him in meditative silence. "Come closer," he said at last. He took
the boy by the chin, and turning up his face gave him a searching look. "How old are
you?" "Seventeen." "There's not much of you for seventeen. Are you hungry?" "A little."
"Will you come with me, in that brig there?"