CHAPTER XIV

KOYALA'S DEFIANCE

From his quarters in the residency building, the same room where his predecessor, the obstinate and perverse de Jonge, had lived his brief and inglorious career, Peter Gross looked across the rolling expanse to the jungle-crested hills of Bulungan.

It was now two weeks since his coming. Many changes had been wrought during the fortnight. The residency had been cleared of vermin and made habitable. Paddy Rouse had been installed as secretary and general factotum. The tangle of cane, creeper growth, and nipa palm that had grown in the park of shapely tamarinds since de Jonge's death had been cut away. Two long, low buildings had been erected as barracks, and Captain Carver had converted the newly created plain into a drill-ground.

They were drilling now, the khaki-clad twenty-five that had crossed the Java Sea with Peter Gross. Two weeks on shore, supplementing the shipboard quizzes on the drill manual, had welded them into an efficient command. The smartness and precision with which they executed maneuvers compelled a grudging admiration from the stolid Dutch soldiers of Fort Wilhelmina who strolled over daily to watch the drills.

"They'll do, they'll do," Peter Gross assured himself with satisfaction.

He stepped back to his desk and took a document from it. It was Muller's first report as _controlleur_. Peter Gross ran his eyes down the column of figures and frowned. The accounts balanced and were properly drawn up. The report seemed to be in great detail. Yet he felt that something was wrong. The expenses of administration had been heavy, enormously heavy, he noted. Instead of exporting rice Bulungan had been forced to import to make good crop losses, the report showed.

"Mynheer Muller is a good accountant," he observed to himself. "But there are a few items we will have to inquire into." He laid the report aside.

The door opened and Paddy Rouse entered. His bright red hair, scrubby nose, and freckled face were in odd contrast to his surroundings, so typically Dutch. Mynheer de Jonge had made this retreat a sanctuary, a bit of old Holland transplanted bodily without regard to differences of latitude and longitude. In the east wall was a blue-tile fireplace. On the mantel stood a big tobacco jar of Delftware with the familiar windmill pattern. Over it hung a long-stemmed Dutch pipe with its highly colored porcelain bowl. The pictures on the wall were Rembrandtesque, gentlemen in doublet and hose, with thin, refined, scholarly faces and the inevitable Vandyke beard.

"A lady to see you, sir," Paddy Rouse announced with military curtness, saluting. The irrepressible Irish broke through in a sly twinkle. "She's a beauty, sir."

Peter Gross controlled the start of surprise he felt. He intuitively guessed who his visitor was.

"You may show her in," he announced.

"Yes, sir."

"And, Paddy--call Captain Carver, please."

"Yes, sir."

The shock of red hair darted away.

Peter Gross looked out of the window again. The crucial moment, the moment he had looked forward to since accepting his appointment, was upon him. What should he say to her, this woman of two alien, utterly irreconcilable races, this woman so bitterly wronged, this woman with a hot shame in her heart that would not die? How should he approach her, how should he overcome her blind, unreasoning hatred against the dominant white race, how persuade her to trust him, to give her aid for the reclamation of Bulungan?

At the same time he wondered why she had come. He had not anticipated this meeting so soon. Was there something back of it? As he asked himself the question his fingers drummed idly on the desk.

While he was meditating he became suddenly aware of another presence in the room. Turning, he found himself looking into the eyes of a woman--the woman of his thoughts. She stood beside him, silent, possessed. There was a dagger in the snakeskin girdle she wore about her waist--a single thrust and she could have killed him. He looked at her steadily. Her glance was equally steady. He rose slowly.

"You are the Juffrouw Koyala," he announced simply. "Good morning, _juffrouw_." He bowed.

There was an instant's hesitation--or was it only his imagination, Peter Gross asked himself--then her form relaxed a trifle. So slight was the movement that he would not have been sure had not every muscle of her perfect body yielded to it with a supple, rhythmic grace.

"Won't you be seated?" he remarked conventionally, and placed a chair for her. Not until then did she speak.

"It is not necessary, _mynheer_. I have only a few words to say."

The cold austerity of her voice chilled Peter Gross. Yet her tones were marvelously sweet--like silver bells, he thought. He bowed and waited expectantly. In a moment's interlude he took stock of her.

She was dressed in the native fashion, sarong and kabaya, both of purest white. The kabaya reached to midway between the knees and ankles. Her limbs were bare, except for doe-skin sandals. The girdle about her waist was made from the skins of spotted pit vipers. The handle of the dagger it held was studded with gems, rubies, turquoises, and emeralds. A huge ruby, mounted on a pin, caught the kabaya above her breasts; outside of this she wore no jewelry. Her lustrous black hair hung loosely over her shoulders. Altogether a creature of the jungle, she looked at him with a glance in which defiance was but thinly concealed.

"What did you wish to see me about?" Peter Gross asked when he saw that she was awaiting his permission to speak.

Something like a spark shot from the glowing coals of her eyes. The tragic intensity of those eyes stirred anew the feeling of pity in the resident's heart.

"I am told, _mynheer_, that the governor withdrew his offer for my person at your request," she said coldly.

The statement was a question, Peter Gross felt, though put in the form of a declaration. He scrutinized her face sharply, striving to divine her object.

"That is true, _juffrouw_," he acknowledged.

"Why did you do this, _mynheer_?"

Peter Gross did not answer at once. The direct question astonished him.

"Why do you ask, _juffrouw_?" he parried.

Her finely chiseled head tilted back. Very royal she looked, very queenly, a Diana of the tropic jungle.

"Because Koyala Bintang Burung asks no favors from you, Mynheer Gross. Nor from any white man."

It was a declaration of war. Peter Gross realized it, and his face saddened. He had expected opposition but not open defiance. He wondered what lay back of it. The Dyak blood in her, always treacherous, never acting without a purpose, was not frank without reason, he assured himself.

"I had no intention of doing you a favor, _juffrouw_," he announced quietly.

"What was your object, _mynheer_?"

The words were hardly out of her mouth before she regretted them. The quick flash of her teeth as she bit her lips revealed the slip. Peter Gross instantly divined the reason--her hostility was so implacable that she would not even parley with him.

"To do you justice, _juffrouw_," he replied.

The words were like oil on flame. Her whole figure stiffened rigidly. The smoldering light in her eyes flashed into fire. The dusk in her face deepened to night. In a stifled voice, bitter with scorn, she cried:

"I want none of your justice, _mynheer_."

"No, I suppose not," Peter Gross assented heavily. His head sagged and he stared moodily into the fireplace. Koyala looked at him questioningly for a moment, then turned swiftly and glided toward the door. A word from Peter Gross interrupted her.

"_Juffrouw!_"

She turned slowly. The cold disdain her face expressed was magnificent.

"What shall I do?" he entreated. His mild, gray eyes were fixed on her flaming orbs pleadingly. Her lips curled in scornful contempt.

"That is for you to decide, _mynheer_," she replied.

"Then I cross from the slate all that has been charged against you, _juffrouw_. You are free to come and go as you wish."

A flash of anger crossed Koyala's face.

"Your pardon is neither asked nor desired, _mynheer_," she retorted.

"I must do my duty as I see it," Peter Gross replied. "All that I ask of you, _juffrouw_, is that you do not use your influence with the natives to hinder or oppose the plans I have for their betterment. May I have your pledge for that?"

"I make no promises and give no pledges, _mynheer_," Koyala announced coldly.

"I beg your pardon--I should not have asked it of you. All I ask is a chance to work out my plans without hindrance from those whose welfare I am seeking."

Koyala's lips curled derisively. "You can promote our welfare best by going back to Java, _mynheer_," she retorted.

Peter Gross looked at her sadly.

"_Juffrouw_," he said, "you are speaking words that you do not know the meaning of. Leave Bulungan? What would happen then? The Chinese would come down on you from the north, the Bugis from the east, and the Bajaus from every corner of the sea. Your coasts would be harried, your people would be driven out of their towns to the jungles, trade would cease, the rice harvests would fail, starvation would come upon you. Your children would be torn from you to be sold in the slave-market. Your women would be stolen. You are a woman, _juffrouw_, a woman of education and understanding; you know what the white man saves you from."

"And what have you whites given us in return for your protection?" she cried fiercely. "Your law, which is the right of a white man to cheat and rob the ignorant Dyak under the name of trade. Your garrisons in our city, which mean taking away our weapons so that our young men become soft in muscle and short in breath and can no longer make war like their fathers did. Your religion, which you force on us with a sword and do not believe yourself. Your morals, which have corrupted the former sanctity of our homes and have wrought an infamy unspeakable. Gin, to make our men stagger like fools; opium, to debauch us all! These are the white man's gifts to the Dyaks of Borneo. I would rather see my people free, with only their bows and arrows and sumpitans, fighting a losing fight in their jungles against the Malays and the Chinese slave-hunters, than be ruined by arrach and gin and opium like they are now."

She was writhing in her passion. Her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, and her fingers opened and closed like the claws of an animal. In this mood she was a veritable tigress, Peter Gross thought.

"All that you have said is the truth," he admitted. He looked very weary, his shoulders were bent, and he stared gloomily into the hearth. Koyala stared at him with a fierce intensity, half doubtful whether he was mocking her. But his dejection was too patent to be pretense.

"If you believe that, why are you here?" she demanded.

"Because I believe that Bulungan needs me to correct these evils, _juffrouw_," he replied gently.

Koyala laughed shrilly, contemptuously. Peter Gross's form straightened and the thin, firm lines of his lips tightened. He lifted a restraining hand.

"May I speak for a few moments, _juffrouw_?" he asked. "I want to tell you what I am planning to do for Bulungan. I shall put an end to the gin and opium trade. I shall drive the slave-hunters and the pirates from these seas, and the head-hunters from their _babas_ (jungles). I shall make Bulungan so peaceful that the rice-grower can plough, and sow, and harvest with never a backward look to see if an enemy is near him. I shall take the young men of Bulungan and train them in the art of war, that they may learn how to keep peace within their borders and the enemy without. I shall readjust the taxes so that the rich will pay their just share as well as the poor. I shall bring in honest tax-collectors who will account for the last grain of rice they receive. Before I shall finish my work the _Gustis_ (Princes) will break their krisses and the bushmen their sumpitans; hill Dyak and coast Dyak will sit under the same tapang tree and take sirih and betel from the same box, and the Kapala Kampong shall say to the people of his village--go to the groves and harvest the cocoanut, a tenth for me and a tenth for the state, and the balance for you and your children."

Koyala looked at him searchingly. His tremendous earnestness seemed to impress her.

"You have taken a big task upon yourself, _mynheer_," she observed.

"I will do all this, _juffrouw_, if you will help me," Peter Gross affirmed solemnly.

Scornful defiance leaped again into Koyala's eyes and she drew back proudly.

"I, _mynheer_? I am a Dyak of Bulungan," she said.

"You are half a daughter of my people," Peter Gross corrected. "You have had the training of a white woman. Whether you are friend or foe, you shall always be a white woman to me, _juffrouw_."

A film came across Koyala's eyes. She started to reply, checked herself, and then spoke, lashing the words out between set teeth.

"Promise upon promise, lie upon lie, that has been the way with you whites. I hate you all, I stand by my people."

Swift as the bird whose name she bore, she flashed through the door. Peter Gross took a half-step forward to restrain her, stopped, and walked slowly back to his chair.

"She will come back," he murmured to himself; "she will come back. I have sown the seed, and it has sunk in fertile ground."

* * * * *

In the banyan grove Koyala, breathing rapidly because of her swift flight, came upon Kapitein Van Slyck. The captain rose eagerly as she darted through the cane.

"What did he say?" he asked. "Did he try to make love to you?"

Koyala turned on him furiously. "You are a fool, we are all fools!" she exclaimed. "He is more than a match for all of us. I will see you later, when I can think; not now." She left the clearing.

Van Slyck stalked moodily back to the fort. At the edge of the grove he slashed viciously at a pale anemone.

"Damn these women, you never can trust them," he snarled.

When the only sounds audible in the clearing were the chirping of the crickets and the fluting of the birds, a thin, yellow face with watery eyes peered cautiously through the cane. Seeing the coast clear, Cho Seng padded decorously homeward to the _controlleur's_ house, stepping carefully in the center of the path where no snakes could lie concealed.