The improvised divan was arranged in a wide semi-circle, of which the point most distant from the fire—some ten yards—was also the nearest to Lakamba’s dwelling. As soon as the principal personages were seated, the verandah of the house was filled silently by the muffled-up forms of Lakamba’s female belongings. They crowded close to the rail and looked down, whispering faintly. Below, the formal exchange of compliments went on for some time between Lakamba and Abdulla, who sat side by side. Babalatchi squatted humbly at his protector’s feet, with nothing but a thin mat between himself and the hard ground.
Then there was a pause. Abdulla glanced round in an expectant manner, and after a while Babalatchi, who had been sitting very still in a pensive attitude, seemed to rouse himself with an effort, and began to speak in gentle and persuasive tones. He described in flowing sentences the first beginnings of Sambir, the dispute of the present ruler, Patalolo, with the Sultan of Koti, the consequent troubles ending with the rising of Bugis settlers under the leadership of Lakamba. At different points of the narrative he would turn for confirmation to Sahamin and Bahassoen, who sat listening eagerly and assented together with a “Betul! Betul! Right! Right!” ejaculated in a fervent undertone.
Warming up with his subject as the narrative proceeded, Babalatchi went on to relate the facts connected with Lingard’s action at the critical period of those internal dissensions. He spoke in a restrained voice still, but with a growing energy of indignation. What was he, that man of fierce aspect, to keep all the world away from them? Was he a government? Who made him ruler? He took possession of Patalolo’s mind and made his heart hard; he put severe words into his mouth and caused his hand to strike right and left. That unbeliever kept the Faithful panting under the weight of his senseless oppression. They had to trade with him—accept such goods as he would give—such credit as he would accord. And he exacted payment every year . . .
“Very true!” exclaimed Sahamin and Bahassoen together.
Babalatchi glanced at them approvingly and turned to Abdulla.
“Listen to those men, O Protector of the oppressed!” he exclaimed. “What could we do? A man must trade. There was nobody else.”
Sahamin got up, staff in hand, and spoke to Abdulla with ponderous courtesy, emphasizing his words by the solemn flourishes of his right arm.
“It is so. We are weary of paying our debts to that white man here, who is the son of the Rajah Laut. That white man—may the grave of his mother be defiled!—is not content to hold us all in his hand with a cruel grasp. He seeks to cause our very death. He trades with the Dyaks of the forest, who are no better than monkeys. He buys from them guttah and rattans—while we starve. Only two days ago I went to him and said, ‘Tuan Almayer’—even so; we must speak politely to that friend of Satan—’Tuan Almayer, I have such and such goods to sell. Will you buy?’ And he spoke thus—because those white men have no understanding of any courtesy—he spoke to me as if I was a slave: ‘Daoud, you are a lucky man’—remark, O First amongst the Believers! that by those words he could have brought misfortune on my head—’you are a lucky man to have anything in these hard times. Bring your goods quickly, and I shall receive them in payment of what you owe me from last year.’ And he laughed, and struck me on the shoulder with his open hand. May Jehannum be his lot!”
“We will fight him,” said young Bahassoen, crisply. “We shall fight if there is help and a leader. Tuan Abdulla, will you come among us?”
Abdulla did not answer at once. His lips moved in an inaudible whisper and the beads passed through his fingers with a dry click. All waited in respectful silence. “I shall come if my ship can enter this river,” said Abdulla at last, in a solemn tone.
“It can, Tuan,” exclaimed Babalatchi. “There is a white man here who . . .”
“I want to see Omar el Badavi and that white man you wrote about,” interrupted Abdulla.