chief's
sister especially, "with the aspect of a child and the fearlessness of a
great fighter," became skilled in casting spells. They were defeated by
the son of their uncle, because—will explain the narrator simply—"The
courage of us Wajo people is so great that magic can do nothing against
it. I fought in that war. We had them with their backs to the sea."
And then he will go on to relate in an awed tone how on a certain night
"when there was such a thunderstorm as has been never heard of before
or since" a ship, resembling the ships of white men, appeared off the
coast, "as though she had sailed down from the clouds. She moved," he
will affirm, "with her sails bellying against the wind; in size she was
like an island; the lightning played between her masts which were as
high as the summits of mountains; a star burned low through the clouds
above her. We knew it for a star at once because no flame of man's
kindling could have endured the wind and rain of that night. It was such
a night that we on the watch hardly dared look upon the sea. The heavy
rain was beating down our eyelids. And when day came, the ship was
nowhere to be seen, and in the stockade where the day before there were
a hundred or more at our mercy, there was no one. The chief, Hassim, was
gone, and the lady who was a princess in the country—and nobody knows
what became of them from that day to this. Sometimes traders from our
parts talk of having heard of them here, and heard of them there, but
these are the lies of men who go afar for gain. We who live in the
country believe that the ship sailed back into the clouds whence the
Lady's magic made her come. Did we not see the ship with our own eyes?
And as to Rajah Hassim and his sister, Mas Immada, some men say one
thing and some another, but God alone knows the truth."
Such is the traditional account of Lingard's visit to the shores of
Boni. And the truth is he came and went the same night; for, when the
dawn broke on a cloudy sky the brig, under reefed canvas and smothered
in sprays, was storming along to the southward on her way out of the
Gulf. Lingard, watching over the rapid course of his vessel, looked
ahead with anxious eyes and more than once asked himself with wonder,
why, after all, was he thus pressing her under all the sail she could
carry. His hair was blown about by the wind, his mind was full of care
and the indistinct shapes of many new thoughts, and under his feet, the
obedient brig dashed headlong from wave to wave.
Her owner and commander did not know where he was going. That adventurer
had only a confused notion of being on the threshold of a big adventure.
There was something to be done, and he felt he would have to do it. It
was expected of him. The seas expected it; the land expected it. Men
also. The story of war and of suffering; Jaffir's display of fidelity,
the sight of Hassim and his sister, the night, the tempest, the coast
under streams of fire—all this made one inspiring manifestation of a
life calling to him distinctly for interference. But what appealed to
him most was the silent, the complete, unquestioning, and apparently
uncurious, trust of these people. They came away from death straight
into his arms as it were, and remained in them passive as though
there had been no such thing as doubt or hope or desire. This amazing
unconcern seemed to put him under a heavy load of obligation.
He argued to himself that had not these defeated men expected everything
from him they could not have been so indifferent to his action. Their
dumb quietude stirred him more than the most ardent pleading. Not a
word, not a whisper, not a questioning look even! They did not ask! It
flattered him. He was also rather glad of it, because if the unconscious
part of him was perfectly certain of its action, he, himself, did not
know what to do with those bruised and battered beings a playful fate
had delivered suddenly into his hands.
He had received the fugitives personally, had helped
sister especially, "with the aspect of a child and the fearlessness of a
great fighter," became skilled in casting spells. They were defeated by
the son of their uncle, because—will explain the narrator simply—"The
courage of us Wajo people is so great that magic can do nothing against
it. I fought in that war. We had them with their backs to the sea."
And then he will go on to relate in an awed tone how on a certain night
"when there was such a thunderstorm as has been never heard of before
or since" a ship, resembling the ships of white men, appeared off the
coast, "as though she had sailed down from the clouds. She moved," he
will affirm, "with her sails bellying against the wind; in size she was
like an island; the lightning played between her masts which were as
high as the summits of mountains; a star burned low through the clouds
above her. We knew it for a star at once because no flame of man's
kindling could have endured the wind and rain of that night. It was such
a night that we on the watch hardly dared look upon the sea. The heavy
rain was beating down our eyelids. And when day came, the ship was
nowhere to be seen, and in the stockade where the day before there were
a hundred or more at our mercy, there was no one. The chief, Hassim, was
gone, and the lady who was a princess in the country—and nobody knows
what became of them from that day to this. Sometimes traders from our
parts talk of having heard of them here, and heard of them there, but
these are the lies of men who go afar for gain. We who live in the
country believe that the ship sailed back into the clouds whence the
Lady's magic made her come. Did we not see the ship with our own eyes?
And as to Rajah Hassim and his sister, Mas Immada, some men say one
thing and some another, but God alone knows the truth."
Such is the traditional account of Lingard's visit to the shores of
Boni. And the truth is he came and went the same night; for, when the
dawn broke on a cloudy sky the brig, under reefed canvas and smothered
in sprays, was storming along to the southward on her way out of the
Gulf. Lingard, watching over the rapid course of his vessel, looked
ahead with anxious eyes and more than once asked himself with wonder,
why, after all, was he thus pressing her under all the sail she could
carry. His hair was blown about by the wind, his mind was full of care
and the indistinct shapes of many new thoughts, and under his feet, the
obedient brig dashed headlong from wave to wave.
Her owner and commander did not know where he was going. That adventurer
had only a confused notion of being on the threshold of a big adventure.
There was something to be done, and he felt he would have to do it. It
was expected of him. The seas expected it; the land expected it. Men
also. The story of war and of suffering; Jaffir's display of fidelity,
the sight of Hassim and his sister, the night, the tempest, the coast
under streams of fire—all this made one inspiring manifestation of a
life calling to him distinctly for interference. But what appealed to
him most was the silent, the complete, unquestioning, and apparently
uncurious, trust of these people. They came away from death straight
into his arms as it were, and remained in them passive as though
there had been no such thing as doubt or hope or desire. This amazing
unconcern seemed to put him under a heavy load of obligation.
He argued to himself that had not these defeated men expected everything
from him they could not have been so indifferent to his action. Their
dumb quietude stirred him more than the most ardent pleading. Not a
word, not a whisper, not a questioning look even! They did not ask! It
flattered him. He was also rather glad of it, because if the unconscious
part of him was perfectly certain of its action, he, himself, did not
know what to do with those bruised and battered beings a playful fate
had delivered suddenly into his hands.
He had received the fugitives personally, had helped
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