What Mr. Stein would call a good ‘war-comrade.’
I was in luck.
Jove! I was in luck when I tumbled amongst them at my last gasp.”
He meditated with bowed head, then rousing himself he added—‘"Of course I didn’t go to sleep over it, but . . .” He paused again. “It seemed to come to me,” he murmured.
“All at once I saw what I had to do . . .”
‘There was no doubt that it had come to him; and it had come through war, too, as is natural, since this power that came to him was the power to make peace.
It is in this sense alone that might so often is right.
You must not think he had seen his way at once.
When he arrived the Bugis community was in a most critical position.
“They were all afraid,” he said to me—“each man afraid for himself; while I could see as plain as possible that they must do something at once, if they did not want to go under one after another, what between the Rajah and that vagabond Sherif.”
But to see that was nothing.
When he got his idea he had to drive it into reluctant minds, through the bulwarks of fear, of selfishness.
He drove it in at last.
And that was nothing.
He had to devise the means.
He devised them—an audacious plan; and his task was only half done.
He had to inspire with his own confidence a lot of people who had hidden and absurd reasons to hang back; he had to conciliate imbecile jealousies, and argue away all sorts of senseless mistrusts.
Without the weight of Doramin’s authority, and his son’s fiery enthusiasm, he would have failed.
Dain Waris, the distinguished youth, was the first to believe in him; theirs was one of those strange, profound, rare friendships between brown and white, in which the very difference of race seems to draw two human beings closer by some mystic element of sympathy.
Of Dain Waris, his own people said with pride that he knew how to fight like a white man.
This was true; he had that sort of courage—the courage in the open, I may say—but he had also a European mind.
You meet them sometimes like that, and are surprised to discover unexpectedly a familiar turn of thought, an unobscured vision, a tenacity of purpose, a touch of altruism.
Of small stature, but admirably well proportioned, Dain Waris had a proud carriage, a polished, easy bearing, a temperament like a clear flame.
His dusky face, with big black eyes, was in action expressive, and in repose thoughtful.
He was of a silent disposition; a firm glance, an ironic smile, a courteous deliberation of manner seemed to hint at great reserves of intelligence and power.
Such beings open to the Western eye, so often concerned with mere surfaces, the hidden possibilities of races and lands over which hangs the mystery of unrecorded ages.
He not only trusted Jim, he understood him, I firmly believe.
I speak of him because he had captivated me.
His—if I may say so—his caustic placidity, and, at the same time, his intelligent sympathy with Jim’s aspirations, appealed to me.
I seemed to behold the very origin of friendship.
If Jim took the lead, the other had captivated his leader.
In fact, Jim the leader was a captive in every sense.
The land, the people, the friendship, the love, were like the jealous guardians of his body.
Every day added a link to the fetters of that strange freedom.
I felt convinced of it, as from day to day I learned more of the story.
‘The story!
Haven’t I heard the story?
I’ve heard it on the march, in camp (he made me scour the country after invisible game); I’ve listened to a good part of it on one of the twin summits, after climbing the last hundred feet or so on my hands and knees.
Our escort (we had volunteer followers from village to village) had camped meantime on a bit of level ground half-way up the slope, and in the still breathless evening the smell of wood-smoke reached our nostrils from below with the penetrating delicacy of some choice scent.
Voices also ascended, wonderful in their distinct and immaterial clearness.
Jim sat on the trunk of a felled tree, and pulling out his pipe began to smoke.
A new growth of grass and bushes was springing up; there were traces of an earthwork under a mass of thorny twigs.
“It all started from here,” he said, after a long and meditative silence.
On the other hill, two hundred yards across a sombre precipice, I saw a line of high blackened stakes, showing here and there ruinously—the remnants of Sherif Ali’s impregnable camp.
‘But it had been taken, though.
That had been his idea.
He had mounted Doramin’s old ordnance on the top of that hill; two rusty iron 7-pounders, a lot of small brass cannon—currency cannon.
But if the brass guns represent wealth, they can also, when crammed recklessly to the muzzle, send a solid shot to some little distance.
The thing was to get them up there.
He showed me where he had fastened the cables, explained how he had improvised a rude capstan out of a hollowed log turning upon a pointed stake, indicated with the bowl of his pipe the outline of the earthwork.