Rajah of Hell Island

By H. Bedford-Jones

"Rajah of Hell Island" by H. Bedford-Jones. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Dec 8, 2020
• ISBN: 4064066419677

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H. Bedford-Jones

Rajah of Hell Island

Published by Good Press, 2022

[e-mail]

EAN 4064066419677

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I. A FAIR PASSENGER.

CHAPTER II ISLE OF JEHANNUM.

CHAPTER III. TAN TOCK’S STORY.

CHAPTER IV. THE SULTAN COMES.

CHAPTER V. A GLASS OF WATER.

CHAPTER VI. MERELY A LITTLE PRESENT.

CHAPTER VII. EXIT THE RAJA.

CHAPTER I.

A FAIR PASSENGER.

Table of Contents

THE Penang crawled wearily and noisily up the sea; the day blazed crimson and then ended in purpled twilight, and the wine-dark waves were etched in faint phosphor. Stone, standing beside the quartermaster at the wheel, swore softly.

That damned load of rails has shifted—feel her list to port?

"Yes, tuan," replied the Malay quartermaster simply.

Steel rails for the Sultan’s railroad—well, I didn’t stow ’em. Half point off!

"Yes, tuan." The Malay shifted the wheel slightly.

Some time in the blackness of that night, they entered and left a port—a tangle of trees and platforms and concealed godowns on the bank, with flaring torches and shouting Malays, a stink of blended evils, vague shadows along the river-mouth. Not until they were standing out again did Stone learn that a passenger had come aboard.

Skipper’s happy now. Mickelson, second mate, was a burly brute and affected a coarseness which was working into his soul. His face looked like the face of the carven monsters on the Janpore joss-house. Got a woman and arrack. White woman.

Eh? Stone stared at him. That one of your lies?

Go see! Mickelson chuckled evilly. He’s got the arrack now, and will have the woman later. Before she gets to the Sultan, at least. She’s going up to join his harem. Dancer, she is! Out of a troupe stranded at Singapore last month. Go see.

Beast, muttered Stone, and stumbled off the bridge, his watch over.

He reflected, however, that Mickelson, although in general a filthy liar, might in this instance be telling the truth. No white woman could have any business, except of an Oriental nature, with the crafty Sultan of Kuala Gajah—crafty Sultan Lumpur, who had been initiated by Montmartre and the hoydens of Bucharest into European vice, and who knew the vice of Asia by natural heritage.

No white woman, except under dire necessity, would have taken passage on the Penang—the dirty old coasting-wallah which was Sultan Lumpur’s navy, supply barge, and pet pride. Certainly she was no one else’s pride, unless that of Captain Benbow, who would never again hold a ticket from any civilized board of trade.

Stone picked his way aft, cursing the necessity which had forced him to sign on at the Straits. The Penang was a floating horror of smells, right enough. The rank stench of opium pointed to her Chinese passengers; then she boasted some holy pilgrims returning home after two years on the Mecca pilgrimage; her cargo was a fearful mess of odds and ends, from petrol for Sultan Lumpur’s automobile to steel rails and a consignment of rotten, wormy copra which was being returned to the Sultan by an impolite agent who could not be bribed to accept it.

It’s no ship for a white woman, growled Stone. Not even for a busted dancer selling her soul to Lumpur! And it’s no ship for me once I can get out of her.

He coughed and cursed through a group of natives squatting in a circle and smoking vile Chinese tobacco. Then, at the companion, he heard the skipper’s voice and halted.

Take this to Mr. Mickelson with—with my compliments. Captain Benbow stood somewhere in the darkness farther aft, and was talking to Tan Tock, the steward. Give this other bottle to that—hic!—that fool, Stone.

"Yes, tuan," murmured the soft voice of Tan Tock. Stone realized that Benbow was sending arrack to the bridge. In disgust he was turning down the ladder when the captain’s voice once more caused him to pause.

And—and—listen, Tan Tock! Where’s that woman passenger? Speak up, ye yellow imp! I told ye to place—hic!—to place her in my cabin—and—and she’s not there—

"Tuan, she said there had been some mistake, explained Tan Tock. So I left her in the Sultan’s cabin, tuan."

A volley of amazed oaths broke from the skipper. Stone, frowning in black anger, slid swiftly down the companion. There was something very strange in this passenger business, he reflected. Mickelson had probably lied out of sheer deviltry, about the woman; not about Captain Benbow, however. Even now Benbow was well upon the drunken road, for arrack is swift and deadly.

Something queer about it, muttered Stone, if Tan Tock flinched at obeying the brute’s order! The woman was wise, too. H-m! Let’s see her.

He paused and knocked at the door of the Sultan’s private and reserved cabin. A quiet, womanly voice answered him.

Well? Who is it?

Mr. Stone, ma’am. Mate of this packet. I’d like to see you a moment, please.

Stone had expected argument and expostulation. To his surprise, a bolt was shot back at once, and the door swung open. He caught off his cap, staring silently. He was shocked by the greatness of Mickelson’s lie.

May I come in, please? There are—reasons—

Certainly, Mr. Stone.

Once inside, he shut the door behind him, shot the bolt, and also snapped home the Yale lock used by the cautious Sultan. Benbow would soon be along, he reflected. He turned and looked again at the woman, trying to find words. She was pale and slender; frail, but with stout-hearted courage in her eyes. Gray eyes they were, like his own. And she was not at all beautiful. Stone found himself wondering how, without beauty, her features could hold so much character, so much compellant friendliness—

I beg your pardon, he said awkwardly. Do not be afraid.

I am not afraid. When she smiled, it seemed as, though a warm, desperate beauty flitted over her face. Her gaze dwelt upon Stone’s yellow curls, crept down across his brown features, lingered an instant upon his rather harsh mouth and chin, and seemed to be forced away from sight of his wide shoulders. Stone remembered only now that the heat had stripped