The Argus Pheasant

Van Slyck broke into scornful laughter.

"Mynheer, you had enough to worry about before you started dreaming," he said bluntly. "If you're going to fill your head with such foolishness I'll leave you to your own devices."

"But, kapitein, it might be a warning," Muller cried desperately.

"Heaven doesn't send ravens to cheat such rogues as you and I from the gallows, mynheer," Van Slyck mocked. "We might as well get ready to meet our new resident. I see a boat putting off from the ship."

CHAPTER XII

Peter Gross's Reception

When Peter Gross stepped ashore at the foot of the slope on which the fort and government buildings stood, three thousand pairs of eyes, whose owners were securely hidden in the copses and undergrowth for a quarter of a mile in both directions along the shore-line, watched his every movement. With the lightning celerity with which big news travels word had been spread through Bulungan town that the new resident was coming ashore, and every inhabitant possessed of sound legs to bear him had run, crawled, or scrambled to a favorable patch of undergrowth where he could get a first glimpse of the orang blanda chief without being observed.

Perfectly aware of this scrutiny, but calmly oblivious to it, Peter Gross stepped out of the boat and directed the sailors who rowed it to return to their ship. As their oars bit the water he faced the path that wound up the hillside and walked along it at a dignified and easy pace. His sharp ears caught the incessant rustle of leaves, a rustle not made by the breeze, and the soft grinding of bits of coral under the pressure of naked feet.

Once he surprised a dusky face in the bush, but his glance roved to the next object in his line of vision in placid unconcern. As he mounted the rise he made for the controlleur's home, strolling along as calmly as though he were on a Batavia lane.

"Duivel noch toe!" Muller exclaimed as the boat returned to the ship. "He is coming here alone." His voice had an incredulous ring as though he half doubted the evidence of his own senses.

Van Slyck's eyes danced with satisfaction, and his saturnine smile was almost Mephistophelian.

"By Nassau, I was right, after all, mynheer," he exclaimed. "He's an ass of a Yankee that Van Schouten is having some sport with in sending him here."

"There may be something behind this, kapitein," Muller cautioned apprehensively, but Van Slyck cut him short.

"Behind this, mynheer? The fool does not even know how to maintain the dignity due his office. Would he land this way, like a pedler with his pack, if he did? Oh, we are going to have some rare sport – "

Van Slyck's merriment broke loose in a guffaw.

"You-you will not do anything violent, kapitein?" Muller asked apprehensively.

"Violent?" Van Slyck exclaimed. "I wouldn't hurt him for a thousand guilders, mynheer. He's going to be more fun than even you."

The frank sneer that accompanied the remark made the captain's meaning sufficiently clear to penetrate even so sluggish a mind as the controlleur's. He reddened, and an angry retort struggled to his lips, but he checked it before it framed itself into coherent language. He was too dependent on Van Slyck, he realized, to risk offending the latter now, but for the first time in their acquaintanceship his negative dislike of his more brilliant associate deepened to a positive aversion.

"What are we going to do, kapitein?" he asked quietly.

"Welcome him, mynheer!" Again the sardonic smile. "Treat him to some of your fine cigars and a bottle of your best Hollands. Draw him out, make him empty his belly to us. When we have sucked him dry and drenched him with liquor we will pack him back to the Prins to tell Kapitein Enckel what fine fellows we are. To-morrow we'll receive him with all ceremony – I'll instruct him this afternoon how a resident is installed in his new post and how he must conduct himself.

"Enckel will leave here without a suspicion, Mynheer Gross will be ready to trust even his purse to us if we say the word, and we will have everything our own way as before. But s-s-st! Here he comes!" He lifted a restraining hand. "Lord, what a shoulder of beef! Silence, now, and best your manners, mynheer. Leave the talking to me."

Peter Gross walked along the kenari-tree shaded lane between the evergreen hedges clipped with characteristic Dutch primness to a perfect plane. Behind him formed a growing column of natives whose curiosity had gotten the better of their diffidence.

The resident's keen eyes instantly ferreted out Van Slyck and Muller in the shadows of the veranda, but he gave no sign of recognition. Mounting the steps of the porch, he stood for a moment in dignified expectancy, his calm, gray eyes taking the measure of each of its occupants.

An apprehensive shiver ran down Muller's spine as he met Peter Gross's glance – those gray eyes were so like the silent, inscrutable eyes of the stranger in de Jonge's chair whom he saw in his dream. It was Van Slyck who spoke first.

"You were looking for some one, mynheer?" he asked.

"For Mynheer Muller, the controlleur and acting resident. I think I have found him."

The mildness with which these words were spoken restored the captain's aplomb, momentarily shaken by Peter Gross's calm, disconcerting stare.

"You have a message for us?"

"I have," Peter Gross replied.

"Ah, from Kapitein Enckel, I suppose," Van Slyck remarked urbanely. "Your name is – " He paused significantly.

"It is from his excellency, the Jonkheer Van Schouten," Peter Gross corrected quietly.

Peter Gross's tolerance of this interrogation convinced Van Slyck that he had to do with an inferior intelligence suddenly elevated to an important position and very much at sea in it.

"And your message, I understand, is for Mynheer Muller, the controlleur?" the captain inquired loftily with a pert uptilt of his chin.

"For Mynheer Muller, the controlleur," Peter Gross acknowledged gravely.

"Ah, yes. This is Mynheer Muller." He indicated the controlleur with a flourish. "But you have not yet told us your name."

"I am Peter Gross."

"Ah, yes, Pieter Gross. Pieter Gross." The captain repeated the name with evident relish. "Pieter Gross. Mynheer Pieter Gross."

There was a subtle emphasis on the mynheer– a half-doubtful use of the word, as though he questioned Peter Gross's right to a gentleman's designation. It was designed to test the sailor.

Peter Gross's face did not change a muscle. Turning to the controlleur, he asked in a voice of unruffled calm: "May I speak to you privately, mynheer?"

Muller glanced apprehensively at Van Slyck. The fears inspired by his dreams made him more susceptible to ulterior impressions than the captain, whose naturally more acute sensibilities were blunted by the preconceived conviction that he had an ignorant Yankee to deal with. Van Slyck smiled cynically and observed:

"Am I in the way, Mynheer Gross?" Again the ironic accent to the mynheer. He rose to go, but Muller stayed him with the cry:

"Neen, neen, kapitein. Whatever comes from the governor concerns you, too. Stay with us, and we will see what his excellency has to say."

None knew the importance of first impressions better than the captain. If the new resident could be thwarted in his purpose of seeing Muller alone that achievement would exercise its influence on all their future relations, Van Slyck perceived.

Assuming an expression of indifference, he sank indolently into an easy chair. When he looked up he found the gray eyes of Peter Gross fixed full upon him.

"Perhaps I should introduce myself further, captain," Peter Gross said. "I am Mynheer Gross, of Batavia, your new resident by virtue of his excellency the Jonkheer Van Schouten's appointment."

Van Slyck's faint, cynical smile deepened a trifle.

"Ah, mynheer has been appointed resident," he remarked non-committally.

Peter Gross's face hardened sternly.

"It is not the custom in Batavia, captain, for officers of the garrison to be seated while their superiors stand."

For a moment the astonished captain lost his usual assurance. In that moment he unwittingly scrambled to his feet in response to the commanding look of the gray eyes that stared at him so steadily. The instant his brain cleared he regretted the action, but another lightning thought saved him from the folly of defying the resident by reseating himself in the chair he had vacated. Furious at Peter Gross, furious at himself, he struggled futilely for an effective reply and failed to find it. In the end he took refuge in a sullen silence.

Peter Gross turned again to Muller.

"Here are my credentials, mynheer, and a letter from his excellency, the governor-general," he announced simply.

With the words he placed in Muller's hands two envelopes plentifully decorated with sealing-wax stamped with the great seal of the Netherlands. The controlleur took them with trembling fingers. Peter Gross calmly appropriated a chair. As he seated himself he remarked:

"Gentlemen, you may sit."

Van Slyck ignored the permission and strolled to one end of the veranda. He was thinking deeply, and all the while stole covert looks at Peter Gross. Had he been mistaken, after all, in his estimate of the man? Was this apparent guilelessness and simplicity a mask? Were Koyala and Muller right? Or was the resident's sudden assumption of dignity a petty vanity finding vent in the display of newly acquired powers?

He stole another look. That face, it was so frank and ingenuous, so free from cunning and deceit, and so youthful. Its very boyishness persuaded Van Slyck. Vanity was the inspiration for the resident's sudden assertion of the prerogatives of his office, he decided, the petty vanity of a boor eager to demonstrate authority. Confidence restored, he became keenly alert for a chance to humble this froward Yankee.

It was some time before Muller finished reading the documents. He was breathing heavily the while, for he felt that he was reading his own death-warrant. There was no doubting their authenticity, for they were stamped with the twin lions of the house of Orange and the motto, "Je Maintiendrai." The signature at the bottom of each was the familiar scrawl of Java's gamecock governor.

Muller stared at them blankly for a long time, as though he half hoped to find some mitigation of the blow that swept his vast administrative powers as acting resident from him to the magistracy of a district. Dropping them on his lap at last with a weary sigh, he remarked:

"Welcome, Mynheer Gross, to Bulungan. I wish I could say more, but I cannot. The most I can say is that I am happy his excellency has at last yielded to my petition and has relieved me of a portion of my duties. It is a hard, hard residency to govern, mynheer."

"A splendid start," Van Slyck muttered to himself under his breath.

"So I have been informed, mynheer," Peter Gross replied gravely. "Pardon me a moment."

He turned toward Van Slyck: "Captain, I have a letter for you also from his excellency. It will inform you of my appointment."

"It would be better form, perhaps, mynheer, for me to receive his excellency's commands at Fort Wilhelmina," Van Slyck replied suavely, delighted at being able to turn the tables.

"Very true, very true, kapitein, if you insist," Peter Gross agreed quietly. "I hope to visit you at the fort within the hour. In the mean time you will excuse Mynheer Muller and me."

For the second time a cold chill of doubt seized Van Slyck. Was it possible that he had misjudged his man? If he had, it was doubly dangerous to leave Muller alone with him. He resolved to force the issue.

"A thousand pardons, mynheer," he apologized smilingly. "Mynheer Muller just now requested me to remain."

A swift change came into the face of Peter Gross. His chin shot forward; in place of the frank simplicity on which Van Slyck had based his estimate was a look of authority.

"Mynheer Muller cancels that invitation at my request," he announced sternly.

Van Slyck glanced in quick appeal at his associate, but Muller's eyes were already lowering under Peter Gross's commanding glance. Unable to find a straw of excuse for holding the captain, the controlleur stammered:

"Certainly, mynheer. I will see you later, kapitein."

Even then Van Slyck lingered, afraid now to leave Muller alone. But the cold, gray eyes of Peter Gross followed him; they expressed a decision from which there was no appeal. Furious at Muller, furious at his own impotence, the captain walked slowly across the veranda. Half-way down the steps he turned with a glare of defiance, but thought better of it. Raging inwardly, and a prey to the blackest passions, he strode toward the stockade. The unhappy sentinel at the gate, a Javanese colonial, was dozing against the brass cannon.

"Devil take you, is this the way you keep guard?" Van Slyck roared and leaped at the man. His sword flashed from its scabbard and he brought the flat of the blade on the unhappy wretch's head. The Javanese dropped like a log.

"Bring that carrion to the guard-house and put some one on the gate that can keep his eyes open," Van Slyck shouted to young Lieutenant Banning, officer of the day. White to the lips, Banning saluted, and executed the orders.

In barracks that night the soldiers whispered fearfully to each other that a budjang brani (evil spirit) had seized their captain again.

CHAPTER XIII

A Fever Antidote

"You have found Bulungan a difficult province to govern, mynheer?" Peter Gross asked.

The words were spoken in a mild, ingratiating manner. Peter Gross's voice had the friendly quality that so endeared him to all who made his acquaintance, and the harshness that had distinguished his curt dismissal of the supercilious Van Slyck was wholly absent.

Muller wiped away the drops of perspiration that had gathered on his forehead. A prey to conscience, Van Slyck's dismissal had seemed to him the beginning of the end.

"Ach, mynheer," he faltered, "it has been a heavy task. Too much for one man, altogether too much. Since Mynheer de Jonge left here two years ago I have been both resident and controlleur. I have worked night and day, and the heavy work, and the worry, have made me almost bald."

That a connection existed between baldness and overwork was a new theory to Peter Gross and rather amusing, since he knew the circumstances. But not the faintest flicker of a smile showed on his face.

"You have found it difficult, then, I presume, to keep up with all your work?" he suggested.

Muller instantly grasped at the straw. "Not only difficult, mynheer, but wholly impossible," he vehemently affirmed. "My reports are far behind. I suppose his excellency told you that?"

He scanned Peter Gross's face anxiously. The latter's serenity remained undisturbed.

"His excellency told me very little," he replied. "He suggested that I consult with you and Captain Van Slyck to get your ideas on what is needed for bettering conditions here. I trust I will have your coöperation, mynheer?"

Muller breathed a silent sigh of relief. "That you will, mynheer," he assured fervently. "I shall be glad to help you all I can. And so will Kapitein Van Slyck, I am sure of that. You will find him a good man – a little proud, perhaps, and headstrong, like all these soldiers, but an experienced officer." Muller nodded sagely.

"I am glad to hear that," Peter Gross replied. "The work is a little new to me – I presume you know that?"

"So I heard, mynheer. This is your first post as resident?"

Peter Gross's eyelids quivered a trifle. Muller's admission revealed that he had had correspondence with Ah Sing, for from no other source could the news have leaked out.

"This is my first post," he acknowledged.

"Possibly you have served as controlleur?" Muller suggested.

"I am a sailor," Peter Gross replied. "This is my first state appointment."

"Then my experience may be of value to you, mynheer," Muller declared happily. "You understand accounts, of course?"

"In a measure. But I am more a sailor than a supercargo, mynheer."

"To be sure, to be sure," Muller acquiesced heartily. "A sailor to the sea and to fighting in the bush, and a penman to his books. Leave the accounts to me; I will take care of them for you, mynheer. You will have plenty to do, keeping the tribes in order. It was more than I could do. These Dyaks and Malays are good fighters."

"So I have been told," Peter Gross assented dryly.

"They told you correctly, mynheer. But they will get a stern master now – we have heard of your work at Lombock, mynheer."

The broad compliment was accompanied by an even broader smile. Muller was very much pleased with himself, and thought he was handling a delicate situation in a manner that Van Slyck himself could not have improved upon.

Peter Gross's gravity did not relax. "How are the natives? Do you have much difficulty?" he inquired.

Muller assumed a wobegone expression. "Ach, mynheer," he exclaimed dolorously, "those hill Dyaks are devils. It is one raid after another; they will not let us alone. The rice-fields are swept bare. What the Dyaks do not get, the floods and typhoons get, and the weevils eat the stubble. We have not had a crop in two years. The rice we gathered for taxes from those villages where there was a little blessing on the harvest we had to distribute among the villages where the crop failed to keep our people from starving. That is why we could not ship to Batavia. I wish his excellency would come here himself and see how things are; he would not be so critical about the taxes that are not paid."

"Do the coast Dyaks ever make trouble?" Peter Gross asked.

Muller glanced at him shrewdly.

"It is the hill Dyaks who begin it, mynheer. Sometimes my coast Dyaks lose their heads when their crops are burned and their wives and children are stolen, but that is not often. We can control them better than we can the hill people, for they are nearer us. Of course a man runs amuck occasionally, but that you find everywhere."

"I hear there is a half-white woman who wields a great influence over them," Peter Gross remarked. "Who is she?"

"You mean Koyala, mynheer. A wonderful woman with a great influence over her people; they would follow her to death. That was a wise act, mynheer, to persuade his excellency to cancel the offer he made for her person. Bulungan will not forget it. You could not have done anything that pleases the people more."

"She is very beautiful, I have heard," Peter Gross remarked pensively.

Muller glanced at him sharply, and a quick spasm of jealousy contracted his features. The resident might like a pretty face, too, was his instant thought; it was an angle he had not bargained for. This Mynheer Gross was strong and handsome, young – altogether a dangerous rival. His mellow good nature vanished.

"That depends on what you call beauty," he said surlily. "She is a witch-woman, and half Dyak."

Peter Gross looked up in pretended surprise.

"Well, mynheer, I am astonished. They told me in Batavia – " He checked himself abruptly.

"What did they tell you in Batavia?" Muller demanded eagerly.

Peter Gross shook his head. "I should not have spoken, mynheer. It was only idle gossip."

"Tell me, mynheer," Muller pleaded. "Lieve hemel, this is the first time in months that some one has told me that Batavia still remembers Muller of Bulungan."

"It was only idle rumor," Peter Gross deprecated. "I was told you were going to marry – naturally I believed – but of course as you say it's impossible – "

"I to marry?" Muller exclaimed. "Who? Koyala?"

Peter Gross's silence was all the confirmation the controlleur needed. A gratified smile spread over his face; he was satisfied now that the resident had no intention of being his rival.

"They say that in Batavia?" he asked. "Well, between you and me, mynheer, I would have to look far for a fairer bride."

"Let me congratulate you," Peter Gross began, but Muller stayed him.

"No, not yet, mynheer. What I have said is for your ears alone. Remember, you know nothing."

"Your confidence is safe with me," Peter Gross assured him.

Muller suddenly recollected his duties as host.

"Ho, mynheer, you must have some Hollands with me," he cried hospitably. "A toast to our good fellowship." He clapped his hands and Cho Seng appeared in the doorway.

"A glass of lemonade or iced tea, if you please," Peter Gross stated.

"You are a teetotaler?" Muller cried in dismay.

"As resident of Bulungan, yes, mynheer. A servant of the state cannot be too careful."

Muller laughed. "Lemonade and jenever, Cho Seng," he directed. "Well, mynheer, I'll wager you are the only resident in all the colonies that will not take his glass of Hollands. If it were not for jenever many of us could not live in this inferno. Sometimes it is well to be able to forget for a short time."

"If one has a burdened conscience," Peter Gross conditioned quietly.

Muller started. He intuitively felt the words were not idle observation, and he glanced at Peter Gross doubtfully. The resident was looking over the broad expanse of sea, and presently remarked:

"You have a splendid view here, mynheer. I hope the outlook from my house is half so good."

Muller roused himself. "That is so, mynheer," he said. "I had almost forgotten; we will have to put your house in order at once. It has not been occupied for two years, and will need a thorough cleaning. Meanwhile you must be my guest."

"I thank you, mynheer," Peter Gross replied quietly.

"You will have an establishment, mynheer?" Muller asked curiously. "Have you brought servants? If not, I shall be glad to loan you Cho Seng."

"Thank you, I am well provided," Peter Gross assured.

Cho Seng padded out on the porch and served them. Being a well-trained servant, he scarcely glanced at his employer's guest, but Peter Gross favored him with a thoughtful stare.

"Your servant has been with you a long time, mynheer?" he inquired carelessly.

"A year, mynheer. I got him from Batavia. He was recommended by – a friend." The pause was perceptible.

"His face seems familiar," Peter Gross remarked in an offhand manner. "But that's probably imagination. It is hard to tell these Chinese apart."

Conscious of having said too much again, Muller made no reply. They sipped their drinks in silence, Peter Gross thinking deeply the while why Ah Sing should make a former waiter in his rumah makan Muller's servant. Presently he said:

"If it is not too much trouble, mynheer, could you show me my house?"

"Gladly, mynheer," Muller exclaimed, rising with alacrity. "It is only a few steps. We will go at once."

For the next half hour Peter Gross and he rambled through the dwelling. It was modeled closely after the controlleur's own, with a similar green and white façade facing the sea. The atmosphere within was damp and musty, vermin scurried at their approach, but Peter Gross saw that the building could be made tenable in a few days. At last they came to a sequestered room on the north side, facing the hills. An almost level expanse of garden lay back of it.

"This was Mynheer de Jonge's own apartment," Muller explained. "Here he did most of his work." He sighed heavily. "He was a fine old man. It is too bad the good God had to take him away from us."

Peter Gross's lips pressed together tightly.

"Mynheer de Jonge was careless of his health, I hear," he remarked. "One cannot be too careful in Bulungan. Therefore, mynheer, I must ask you to get me a crew of men busy at once erecting two long houses, after these plans." He took a drawing from his pocket and showed it to Muller. The controlleur blinked at it with a puzzled frown.