In the Hands of the Malays, and Other Stories

On arriving at the planter's house he found that he and his son had ridden into Batavia at four o'clock in obedience to the governor's call. His wife and daughter were glad to have Elise with them, and, leaving her to tell the story, Philip drove back to her father's.

The column arrived three minutes after his return, and the colonel went round the ground with Van Houten and the planter. The house stood some three hundred yards from the shore, the ground slanting gradually down from it; there were plantations on either side. Four of the guns were placed under the broad verandah, with the five-and-twenty men who were to work them. The rest were distributed among the shrubberies on either side of the open space running down from the house towards the water, where they would take the pirates, as they advanced, in flank. Van Houten offered to take ten of the planters down to destroy the boats when the Malays had left them.

Ten of the colonists volunteered for the service, and were provided from the storehouse with axes for staving in the boards. They posted themselves in a clump of bushes close to the shore. A quarter of an hour passed, and then they heard five loud splashes and a confused noise, and knew that the pirate's ships had anchored. Then came a creaking of pulleys and grating sounds, and they knew that the boats had been lowered. The lights in the house had all been extinguished, and perfect silence reigned. Presently there was a sound of many oars and the beat of paddles, and five minutes later ten large boats crowded with men appeared, making for the shore, and in a few minutes the grating of the keels was heard on the sand, and dark figures could be seen making their way up the beach.

"There must be three hundred of them at least," Van Houten said to the man who was standing next to him, "and I fancy that about the same number remain on board. As far as I can make out, there are only one or two men left on guard at each boat. We will creep up as quietly as we can, directly the firing breaks out; each of you will pick off his man – the noise will not be noticed in the row that will be going on up above. Then let two go to each boat and stave in a couple of planks, and then go along and do the same with the others, but see that it is done thoroughly. Directly all the boats are damaged hurry back here and open fire upon the pirates as they return. Traces have been fastened to the guns, and the artillerymen will run them down towards the water's edge, and the soldiers will advance and surround the scoundrels as they strive to push the boats off; not one of them should be able to regain their ships."

The pirates were led by a man whose white dress showed up clearly in the darkness, and who Van Houten was sure was the "Sea Tiger" himself. They advanced towards the house in an irregular line, the two flanks rather in advance. No sound was heard among them. It was evident that they had been ordered to preserve silence until the house was surrounded. They went on and on until they could be no longer seen by the watchers. Suddenly a voice shouted "Fire!"

Six guns loaded to the muzzle with bullets spoke out, and the musketry, in a semicircle, flashed from the shrubbery. "Now is our time!" Van Houten cried. The ten men went forward at a run. Within twenty yards of the nearest boat they halted and poured in their fire, and more than half the men standing together on the beach fell. Then they dashed forward. Two minutes sufficed to do the work, and they ran back to the bush from which they started. The din above was terrible. The Malays, for a moment staggered by the terrible and unexpected fire, had run back a few paces; but the voice of their leader encouraged them, and with loud yells they again rushed forward.

The cannon were silent, for loading was a long operation in those days; but by the colonel's orders only half the soldiers had taken part in the first volley, and the others now poured in their fire.

The Malays pushed on recklessly, and were within twenty yards of the house when they paused, as two broadsides were fired in quick succession out at sea. The Dutch vessels had passed behind the pirates, and, having delivered their first broadside, had tacked and laid themselves alongside the ship of war, pouring in their other broadside as they did so. At the same moment a musketry-fire opened from the whole of the pirate ships, answered more loudly from the boats, for comparatively few of the Malays carried firearms.

This unexpected attack did what the fear of death could not effect. With a yell of alarm and rage they turned and ran down towards their boats. Then the soldiers poured out from their concealment. Those by the guns seized the traces and ran them down to a distance of fifty yards from the shore, and poured their contents into the crowded mass. The Malays leapt into their boats and pushed them off, but before they were fairly afloat they were full of water to the gunwale. Most of them jumped over and started to swim towards the ships; others leapt ashore, and, drawing their krises, rushed at the troops and fell there, fighting fiercely to the end. Then the guns were run down to the shore and poured showers of grape among the swimmers. In the meantime firing had ceased on board the ship of war and two of the pirates, and the cheers of their captors rose loudly. On the others fighting was still going on, and the yells of the Malays and the cheers of the Dutch could be plainly heard.

In one the fighting presently ceased, but in the other the Malays were apparently successful. The sounds grew fainter, and the direction showed that the Malays had beaten off their opponents, cut their cable, and were under sail. Three minutes later there was a flash of guns, and their light showed the warship also under sail, evidently in pursuit. Answering guns came back, and these grew farther away. Of the Malays who had landed, some twenty unwounded had alone been taken prisoners. These were placed under a strong guard. The colonel hailed the ships to send a boat ashore. It presently arrived, and they heard, as they supposed, that four of the ships had been recaptured and that the Leyden was in pursuit of the other.

They also heard that only some twenty of the men of the naval expedition had been killed, for so completely were the Malays taken by surprise that their assailants had gained a footing on their decks comparatively without opposition. Sails had been at once hoisted when the boat had rowed ashore, and the vessels made for Batavia, where, at noon next day, the Leyden arrived with her prize. Not a man had fallen of the Dutch force on shore, though a few had been wounded by the Malays, who, finding their retreat cut off, had rushed at them.

Directly the fight was over, Philip drove over in the trap that had been kept waiting on the other side of the house, and told Elise and the Rogens that all was over, that the former's father and he were both unhurt, and that the dreaded pirate had fallen, shot through the head, within twenty yards of the house.

"Your father requests that you will stay here till morning, Elise," he said, "then he will drive over and take you into Batavia, where he will join you, and you will stay there until all signs of the fight have been removed."

Batavia went wild with joy at the news of the capture of the whole of the pirate fleet, and the destruction of the "Sea Tiger" and his followers. No quarter had been given on board the vessels first captured, and thirty Malays alone survived the fight of the vessel brought in by the Leyden. All the prisoners were tried and shot three days later. Van Houten was the hero of the occasion, and received immediate promotion. All felt that, had he not warned them, the town would almost certainly have been captured and every soul in it massacred.

A month later the whole of Batavia and the neighbourhood thronged to the church to witness the marriage of Captain Van Houten and Elise Meyers.

ON THE TRACK

CHAPTER I

A SAD CHRISTMAS

Never had there been such a sensation since the day when Brownsville, Ohio, was first founded, as that which was experienced on the 23rd of December, 1879, at the news that Mr. Partridge, the cashier at the bank, had absconded, and that a great number of valuable securities, and a large sum of money, were missing. The first report indeed stated that the bank would have to suspend payment; but the panic caused by this was speedily allayed by the issue of a notice, signed by James Johnstone, President, to the effect that the loss, although heavy, would in no degree affect the stability of the bank, that the assets were equal to all demands, and that the books had already been placed in the hands of skilled accountants, who would before nightfall certify to the stability of the bank.

This did not, however, prevent a run taking place; but as all demands were promptly met, and as at six o'clock in the afternoon a satisfactory assurance as to the state of the bank, signed by the two accountants, was affixed to the doors, confidence was restored, and the people were able to concentrate their attention upon the subject of the missing cashier. A few said that they had always suspected that something was wrong, but these were the people who are always wise after an event; the majority admitted frankly that there was nothing in William Partridge's antecedents or behaviour which would warrant a shadow of suspicion as to his probity. He was not altogether a popular man, and was what the people of Brownsville called high in his notions; that is to say, he did not care about mixing much in general society, being intimate only with a small circle of friends.

There was nothing indeed in Mr. Partridge's way of living which would not have been warranted by the salary he was known to draw. He lived in a pretty house just outside the town, and certainly spent more money than his neighbours in keeping his garden bright with flowers but he never entertained on a large scale. His dinners were choice but small, he kept no equipage, and had no expensive tastes. His reputation indeed was that of a somewhat retiring man with a higher degree of culture and education than most of his neighbours, with quiet and refined manners and studious tastes. All these things, however, would not have prevented him from being seized with the demon "speculation". For many another man, apparently as quiet and as refined, had ruined himself that way; and the verdict of Brownsville was unanimous that he must have become involved in some extensive speculations which had failed signally, and to bolster himself up must have taken the bank funds and securities, hoping to be able to replace them at the next turn of luck.

Everyone agreed that the greatest credit was due to the president, whose vigilance and astuteness had detected the defalcations before they had reached a point which would have proved ruinous to the bank, its shareholders, and depositors. Mr. James Johnstone had always been a popular personage in Brownsville, but he was never so popular as upon this occasion. A deputation of shareholders and depositors waited upon him to express their thanks for his vigilance and watchfulness; and although Mr. Johnstone did not say much he led them to understand that they had every reason to be grateful, for that things would very shortly have been in a very bad way had it not been for his interposition.

The president was a tall man, and just sufficiently inclined to stoutness to add to his appearance of respectability and solvency. He was smoothly shaven, and wore gold eye-glasses, and looked a director every inch. While his cashier never attended public gatherings on scientific, political, or sordid subjects, the president was always a prominent figure at them. He never, however, took a leading part on either side, but appeared rather in the character of an arbitrator. His speeches were always pleasing to both parties, throwing oil on the troubled waters. He was a large subscriber to all the local charities, and although he himself belonged to the Baptist persuasion he made no distinction between the various creeds in the distribution of his alms. Such being the case, when Brownsville once realized the fact that its own savings were in no jeopardy, its sympathy with the banker for the annoyance and trouble that this occurrence would cause him became very great. The matter was discussed in all lights at every tea-table in Brownsville, and even formed the principal topic of conversation among a number of young people who were preparing a school-room for the festivities which were to take place on the following evening.

"What is to be done about Roland Partridge?" Lilla Fairfax, a girl of some sixteen years of age, asked during a pause in the buzz of conversation.

"Of course he won't have the bad taste to show his face here," Percy Johnstone, the president's son, replied.

"I don't see that," Cissie White, a girl who had, however, taken no part in the conversation, but had been sitting in a corner, undisturbed, manufacturing wreaths, said warmly. "He is not to blame for the faults of his father."

"Bravo, Cissie!" Percy Johnstone said in a sneering voice. "It is as well that he should know what a valiant champion he has; but, you see, we have scriptural authority for saying that children must suffer for the faults of their fathers."

"It was not meant in that way," the girl retorted, "and I think it very mean of you to talk so. I suppose you think because Roland Partridge is to suffer for the fault of his father that you are a great man because of the numerous virtues of yours."

There was a general laugh, for Percy Johnstone was known to give himself airs to no inconsiderable extent on account of the social position of the banker. He coloured hotly at the reply and the laughter that followed it, but found no answer ready at hand.

"But really," Lilla Fairfax said, "we ought to decide what we are to do about Roland Partridge. I don't see that there is any necessity for quarrelling over it, but we have got to discuss it. It would not be quite pleasant, you know, for him to be coming amongst us just as if nothing had happened. You would not like it yourself, Cissie."

"I should not like what?" Cissie White asked shortly.

"Well, you would not like to go out sleighing with him, for example."

"I should certainly go out sleighing with him if he asked me," Cissie answered quietly. "Indeed he did ask me two days ago, and I said yes, and if he comes to fetch me I shall certainly go now."

"He is not likely to," Jane Simmonds, the eldest girl present, said.

"No, he is not likely to," Cissie agreed; "he has other things to think about. I only say that if he does come I shall keep my engagement."

"Quite right, Cissie!" Tom Fernlea said heartily. "I like a friend who is a friend, not a mere fair-weather bird. There is no better fellow going than Roland. He may not be quite so brilliant as some fellows," and he glanced at Percy, "and he does not go out of his own way to make himself popular; but I prefer good, straightforward, earnest fellows, and I would almost back him against all Brownsville."

"There are a good many people," Percy Johnstone said coldly, "who would perhaps have said as much two days ago for his father. Perhaps you may change your opinion one of these days."

"I am not likely to change my opinion of you, at any rate," Tom replied hotly, "and that is a pretty strong one, I can tell you. Everyone knows that you never liked Roland, because he always beat you in class, and he is a better baseball player, and a better skater, and a better fellow all round than you are!"

"Oh dear, oh dear!" Lilla Fairfax exclaimed plaintively, "whatever are you all quarrelling about? We have come here to make decorations for to-morrow, and the demon of discord seems to have entered in. I vote, girls, that the next person who quarrels, whoever he or she may be, shall be unanimously expelled from this society."

There was a chorus of assent. Jane Simmonds dexterously changed the conversation by asking whether the arrangements had quite been settled for the programme of the following evening. It was easy, however, to see, during the rest of the meeting, that less interest than usual was taken in the various discussions, and that the thoughts of most of the young people were otherwise occupied. Little whispered conferences went on before they broke up; the opinions of most of those present were ascertained, and were found to be pretty equally divided, as to the advisability or otherwise of treating Roland Partridge just as if his father had still been occupying the position of cashier at the bank.

While the conversation had been going on, the subject of it was pacing up and down the sitting-room at home discussing the matter with his mother. Roland had, a few days before, gone over to stay for a week with an uncle who lived some twenty miles away, and had that morning received a telegram from his mother begging him to return at once, and it was not until he reached home in the evening that he heard the terrible news.

"But it is impossible, mother, absolutely impossible, that my father can have done this thing!"

"That is what I say, Roland. Your father is the last man in the world to do such a thing."

"He never speculated, as far as you know, mother?"

"No, Roland, I am quite sure that he didn't. He was quite contented with his position. He wanted nothing more; and I have often heard him say that no one connected with a bank had any right whatever to engage in business outside it."

"But what did he say, mother? Surely he must have said something when he left you last night?"

"He came in about half-past nine, Roland. He has been staying late at the bank this week making up the books. He was as pale as death. His lips were trembling, and he could hardly speak. When I begged him to tell me what was the matter with him, he said, as nearly as I can remember his words: 'A terrible thing has happened, and I must go away at once. The bank has been robbed!'"

"'But what has that to do with you, William?' I asked. 'I am accused of doing it,' he said. I almost laughed, it seemed so absurd. But he went on: 'Appearances are terribly against me. It is all a mystery to me. But if I stay I shall be arrested to-morrow morning, and surely condemned, and I could not stand it. It would kill me. I must go. There is no other way. I will write to you and tell you what to do when I can think it over. But I can't think now.' He was in such a nervous state that it was useless to speak to him; and, indeed, I was so stunned with the news myself that I could think of nothing. I did say: 'It would be far better for you to stay, William, and face it out. Your innocence is sure to be proved.' But he only shook his head, and repeated, 'I must go.'

"So I hurried to get a few things together for him, and the moment that I had done so he was off to catch the train. I don't think he was five minutes in the house altogether, and it was not till he had gone that I was able to think clearly what had happened."

"I am not blaming you, mother dear," Roland said tenderly. "But it is most unfortunate that father should have acted as he did. You and I know perfectly well that he is innocent, but his running away will, of course, convince everyone else that he is guilty. It would have been a thousand times better to have braved it out, however strong the circumstances might be that point against him."

"So I think, of course, Roland. But you know what your father is, and naturally I understand him even better than you do. You have only known him since he was prosperous and respected here; but in the early days of our marriage, when he was still a struggling young man, I learnt, I will not say the faults, my son, but the weaknesses of his character. He is, as you know, a man of strict, nay, of extreme, honour and integrity. But he is sensitive almost to a fault. He has no self-assertion and very little self-confidence. He is just the man, in fact, to bend before a storm rather than brave it; and although I may greatly lament it, I am not a bit surprised that, when suddenly confronted with such a terrible accusation as this, and seeing, as he says, that circumstances are altogether against him, he should abandon the field without a struggle rather than face the storm of public obloquy and indignation."

Roland was silent. He knew how his father shrunk from anything like a public turmoil, and how easily upset he was by trifles which another would scarcely have noticed; and although he had never acknowledged as much to himself, he had even when much younger been vaguely conscious that his father was lacking in force of character. There was a disinclination to find fault, a shrinking from unpleasantness, and an avoidance even of argument; a desire that everything should go on with clock-like regularity, and that nothing should disturb the even tenor of life, which seemed to show a constitutional avoidance of effort or struggle. Still, as Roland had, as his mother said, only seen his father under circumstances of ease and comfort, he could not tell how far this was an innate defect in his character until it now showed itself so disastrously.

"You don't know where he has gone to, mother?" he said at length; "because, if you have the slightest idea as to the locality, I will start at once to try and find him, and to persuade him to return, whatever the circumstances may be against him. It would be a thousand times better to brave it out than, by running away, to make what cannot but appear a tacit confession of guilt. And now, mother dear, what do you intend to do?"

"That is what I was wanting to talk to you about, Roland. It seems to me that the best thing to do will be to give up our house at once, and to sell the furniture; and then, in the meantime, if I do not hear from your father, to move right away to some place where we shall not be known, and where I can earn a little money by my needle, and you perhaps can obtain a situation of some sort."

"No, mother," Roland said decidedly. "I quite agree with you as to giving up the house and selling the furniture, but go away we will not. Father may have given up the battle in despair, but I shall stay and fight it out. We know that he did not take this money – it is for me to find out who did so. If we go away the matter can never be cleared up; so long as we remain here there is a chance of our striking on some clue or other."

"It will be dreadful," Mrs. Partridge began.

"It will be horribly painful," Roland agreed. "Awful to have to meet all your old friends and know that they regard one as the son of a swindler. But it has to be done, mother, for only so can we hope to prove that father is an honest man. But I don't ask you to stay, mother. I am quite sure that uncle will be glad for you to go and live with him at the farm. He was saying only yesterday that it had been a dull life for him since aunt had gone."

"No, my boy, I could not do that," Mrs. Partridge said. "I could not leave you here to bear the burden alone."

"Don't think me unkind, mother, when I say I would rather that you would. I think I could bear the changed faces of old friends so long as the slights affect only myself, but I should suffer ten times more in seeing you suffer. Therefore, mother, I do think that my plan is the best. I hope that it will not be for very long; but till matters are made clear it will be best for you to stay with uncle, and I could run over from time to time to see you and tell you how I am getting on."

"At any rate, Roland, there is no occasion to decide for a few days. The first thing to do is to get rid of the house and sell the furniture. When that is done, we can talk matters over again."

The next morning Roland called upon their landlord and asked him if he would take the house off their hands at once. This the landlord willingly agreed to do, and was indeed well pleased with the proposition. He had already been wondering how Mrs. Partridge intended to manage. The lease had still two years to run, but he did not see how she would be able to pay her rent. He had that morning received an application from a gentleman who was willing to take the house if he could obtain possession at once, and Roland's proposal to move out at the end of a week exactly suited him. After settling this matter Roland went to an auctioneer, and arranged that notice should at once be issued of the immediate sale of the furniture. He returned home well pleased with the success of his mission.