Singapore on a sunny day, looking bright, attractive, even wonderful to stranger eyes. Ships of all nations in the harbour, with sailors from Europe, from America, from the ports about the Red Sea, from India, China, and Japan.

A wonderful polyglot assembly rubbing shoulders in the street: Jack in his white duck frock, straw, and loose trousers, staring at John Chinaman, with his blue cotton garments, pith-soled shoes, and pigtail reaching almost to the ground. Swarthy Dyaks, Papuans, Bugis, and Malays pure and Malays mongrel from the many islands of the Eastern seas, every opalescent-eyed, swarthy savage wearing his kris. British soldiers mingled with the native police in their puggrees; and busy English merchants, and many Scotch, hurried with the varied races on their way to and from their places of business.

Above all, the Chinese seemed to muster strongly – those busy, patient, plodding people, who are ready to squeeze themselves into any vacant hole, round or square, and to make themselves fit therein. Barbers, carriers, purveyors of fruit, washers of clothes, shampooers, tailors, cooks, waiters, domestic servants, always ready, patient and willing, childlike and bland – John Chinaman swarms in Singapore, and can be found there as the meanest workman or artisan, up to the wealthiest merchant or banker, like the late Mr Whampoa, whose gardens were one of the lions of the place.

Everything looked at its best in the pure air and under the brilliant sky; and Hilton and Chumbley were on their way to meet Mr Harley, who, now that Helen Perowne had been pronounced quite out of danger, had come down with a lighter heart to be present at the trial of the Malay chief Murad, who was to be tried by a jury of his fellow-countrymen for his treachery to an English lady, and for firing upon a vessel bearing the English flag.

“Not a bad place this, Chum, old fellow,” said Hilton. “I could stay a month with comfort.”

“Yes, so could I,” said Chumbley, lazily; “but I want to get back.”

“What for?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” was the reply. “I say, look at that Malay lady; she isn’t unlike the Inche Maida, is she?”

“H’m, no: something like. I say, though, old fellow, I don’t feel very easy about that affair. It hardly seems just that that woman should get off scot-free!”

“Nonsense: stuff, man. Let the poor body rest. Why, how ungallant you are! She fell in love with you, and wanted to marry you!”

“Very condescending of her, I’m sure,” said Hilton. “But really, I think I shall tell Harley that she captured us. He believes Murad was at the bottom of it all.”

“I beg you will do nothing of the kind!” said Chumbley, firing up. “I shall take it as a personal affront if you do. You promised me you would not.”

“Why, hallo! Is that you, Chum? You haven’t taken a fancy to the woman, have you?”

“Never you mind, if – I say, draw your sword, man! Look out!” cried Chumbley, excitedly, as he drew his weapon from its sheath. “There’s one of those mad Malay demons running a-muck!”

As he spoke there was a shouting and shrieking heard in the street between the Chinese bazaars; right in front people were running frantically, as if for their lives, while from the direction of the prison they could see a nearly nude Malay with a red handkerchief tied round his head, and a flaming yellow sarong about his waist, in strong contrast to the white and blue clothed crowd who were skurrying here and there.

Hilton’s first instinct was to follow the example of the rest, and turn down some sideway or into a store; but as he saw first one and then another unfortunate stagger and fall where the fierce Malay dashed on, striking right and left, a feeling of rage took possession of him, and he felt ready to assist in the capture of the fanatic, who was racing out followed now by a mixed crowd of armed men, shouting with all their might, “Amok! amok!”

The Malay, with rolling eyes, foaming lips, and teeth gnashing like some wild beast, rushed toward the young officers. He was striking right and left with his kris, and two more men who had tried to intercept him fell from the deadly thrusts. Then a native woman was stabbed in the throat, and the savage enthusiast was making straight for where a couple of Indian nurses with some European children were cowering against a wall, too much alarmed to do anything but shriek.

This roused Hilton and Chumbley to action; and they interposed between the shrieking women and the Malay.

They were both good swordsmen as far as military teaching goes; but the Malay paid no more heed to their blunt regulation weapons than if they had been made of lath.

Hilton was first, and as he tried to guard himself from a thrust, the Malay leaped upon him and drove his kris through the fleshy part of his arm, and Chumbley stumbled over him.

With a shrill yell the Malay dashed on, struck at one of the women, who fell, and would have stabbed the children; but the fierce crowd was after him – a crowd gradually augmented, and among whom were three or four armed soldiers and a couple of the native police, each bearing what seemed to be a large pitchfork.

The Malay rushed on headlong, stabbing right and left, and marking his way with the bodies of the victims as he continued his fearful course, devoting himself to death, but with the furious thirst for blood displayed in such cases, where the Amok runner kills all he can, and goes on till he is either shot down or brought to bay.

Every now and then a Malay would make a stab at the savage as he passed, some of which blows took effect; but for the most part the runner escaped unhurt – the frightened people in the streets fleeing for life, with the consequence that here and there quite a little knot would be driven into a corner, crowding, shrieking together, unable to escape, and the outside unfortunates would receive lightning-like stabs before the wretch who delivered them raced on.

Chumbley rose to his feet and hastily tied a handkerchief round Hilton’s bleeding arm, the latter turning faint, and having to be helped into a Chinaman’s shop close at hand, the owner creeping from beneath his counter as the officers came in.

“Don’t stop for me,” said Hilton. “I’m all right.”

Chumbley hesitated for a moment, and then ran out to see that the Amok runner had been turned and was coming back at full speed, apparently full of vigour as ever, though he was streaming with blood and striking savagely at any one who came in his way.

The young officer saw two more victims fall, and then the Malay dashed down a sideway, making for the harbour now, affording an opportunity for a couple of shots to be sent after him, neither of which, however seemed to take effect.

On came the shouting crowd of pursuers, thirsting for the Malay’s blood, their object being to destroy him with as little compunction as they would a mad dog; but they did not gain upon him, and it was not until he had left several more inoffensive people weltering in their blood, that he turned at bay with his back to a blank wall, yelling, gnashing his teeth, and striking fiercely at his assailants with his dripping kris.

Suddenly, with a quick motion, one of the native policemen made a dart with the huge pitchfork he carried, his object being to strike the tines on either side of the madman and hold him pinned against the wall; but he was too quick, for he darted aside, and striking fiercely with his kris, started off afresh, but running more slowly now, for he was growing weak.

Still his thirst for blood was not assuaged, and running on he struck down a couple of Chinamen before he was again brought to bay in a kind of pool, where he stood glaring and displaying his teeth – a savage beast apparently, more than man – and ready to fight for his life to the very last.

For mad or no, the Amok runner knew that his fate was to be destroyed like some tiger. The native policemen’s instructions were to take him prisoner, so as to bring such offender to trial; but the majority of these fanatics are hunted to their death.

And it was so here, for as the police advanced cautiously, one of them falling back directly with a slight stab in his breast, a cleverly-thrown spear passed right through the savage’s neck, and he fell in the muddy pool.

It was a horrible sight to see the wild face rise again above the surface as its owner tried to struggle to his feet; but it was a vain effort. He was thrust under, pinned into the mud by half a dozen spears and bayonets, and a few bubbles rising to the surface, showed that the wretch’s career was at an end.

Chumbley, big, strong man as he was, felt sick as he stood there leaning on his sword, while with shouts of triumph the mob of mingled nationality dragged the corpse from the muddy pool.

“You here, Chumbley?” said a familiar voice, and he turned to see Mr Harley.

“Yes: what a horrid affair!”

“Horrible! We don’t often have them now. It is a native custom that is dying out. You know, I suppose, when a Malay has committed some crime that makes his pardon hopeless, or when some strong desire for revenge seizes him, he runs Amok – a-muck, as people call it – and then the innocent suffer till he is put out of the way.”

“Then you think they are not mad?” said Chumbley, who could not withdraw his eyes from the ghastly corpse, round which the slayers stood in triumph.

“Mad with frenzy or enthusiasm,” said Harley, “some of them think it an heroic death to die and – Good Heavens! – it is Murad!”

“No!” cried Chumbley.

It was. The Rajah had escaped from prison, had run Amok through the streets of Singapore, and the disfigured clay that lay there in the mud and blood, was all that remained of the abductor of Helen Perowne.

The two English spectators turned away with a shudder, and hurried to where poor Hilton lay back, rather faint from his wound, which was too slight, however, to be of a lasting nature.

Four poor creatures died from Murad’s kris, and sixteen were wounded more or less severely before he was slain.

Volume Three – Chapter Thirty.
The Rajah at Home

Five years had passed away before, after a long stay on the China station, Major Hilton found an opportunity, on the regiment being ordered home, to land at Singapore, and take his young wife with him up-country, to pay a long-promised visit to her old schoolfellow at the Residency at Sindang.

The doctor and Mrs Bolter had gone home the year before, in company with the chaplain, who longed for the peace of his own country once more; and letters said that the doctor was going to take a quiet country practice, where his brother-in-law, still a bachelor, had settled down.

For though Mrs Barlow, in addition to her wealth, had proffered that style of love-offering known to keepsake-writers as blandishments, the Reverend Arthur had a sore heart that never healed, and he refused to listen to the voice of the charmer, but contented himself with a true friendship for Helen, her husband, old Stuart, and Mr Perowne.

Otherwise there had been but little change at Sindang; the new Rajah being a quiet, gentlemanly man, growing more European in his ways year by year.

The Residency looked very bright and charming as the Major and his wife caught sight of the island from the deck of the steamer; and in spite of the heat, it was a delightful home, where Helen seemed to lead a life of calm repose, looking handsomer than ever with her large eyes, dark hair and delicate creamy complexion; but there was a change visible: she seemed softened and dreamy, and whenever her husband spoke, there was a bright, eager look of joy, that lit up her features and told well of her married life.

The meeting between Helen and Grey was almost pathetic in its warmth; and for a long time there was no chance for the gentlemen to speak.

Their meeting, too, was wonderfully warm; and while the Resident saw how broad-chested and sunbrowned the Major had become, Hilton had been noting how fair Helen’s skin remained, in spite of her long stay in a tropic land; but when she smiled, there was still a faint trace left of disfigurement at the lower part of her teeth.

As for the Resident, he looked the beau idéal of a middle-aged English gentleman, and brighter and happier than Hilton had ever seen him before; while as to the old sore, it was quite healed up; and the meeting between Hilton and Helen was just that of old friends; nothing more.

“And now about Chumbley?” said Hilton, as they sat after dinner sipping their claret in the veranda, watching the fire-flies, and listening to the plashing of boat or reptile in the placid, rapid-flowing, starlit stream.

There had been inquiries before, but the time had been so taken up, that Chumbley’s career had been pretty well left out till now; when, as the two gentlemen sat smoking, an open door showed them the drawing-room with its shaded lamp, and the faces of the two graceful women – their wives – as they sat and chatted of old school troubles, and the other incidents of their career.

“About old Chum?” said the Resident; “oh, I often see him. He should have been here if I had known you were so close at hand. You know he came back six months after the company was changed, went straight up to the Inche Maida’s place, brought her back, and they went down to Singapore, got married, and returned directly.”

“And has he repented?” said Hilton.

“Go and see him, and judge for yourself.”

The result was, that one fine morning Hilton had himself rowed up to the Inche Maida’s home, at Campong Selah, where, on landing, he found that he was received with the most profound respect, and conducted to the palm-tree house, which was now surrounded by a most carefully-cultivated garden.

On entering the place, he found himself in what might have been a country gentleman’s home, the hall being full of sporting trophies, arms, and the paraphernalia of an occupant of sporting tastes.

“What. Hilton! never!” cried a bluff voice, and Chumbley, in a semi-sporting and native costume – wearing puggree, shooting jacket, sarong, and kris – and looking brown as a native, seized him by the hands, and nearly shook his arms out of their sockets. “Why, I am glad to see you, old man!”

“How well you look, Chumbley!”

“Ay! and you too! Why, you dog, you’re putting on flesh! But, how’s the little wife? How are you getting on?”

“Capitally! And you: do you like this savage life?”

“Savage, be hanged!” he cried. “Like it, my boy? I should think I do. By George, sir, she’s a splendid woman! Ah, here are the chicks.”

As he spoke, a Malay nurse brought in two little dark-eyed, creamy-complexioned children, who made a rush and a dash as soon as they were set free, and began to scale Chumbley’s knees, not ceasing till they were standing in his lap, and holding on by his beard.

“Gently! gently! You’ll break me! There never was such a pair of vital sparks on earth before! Now look here, you young limbs, turn round and talk to this gentleman. Tell him your names.”

“Bertie Hilton Chumbley, Rajah of Campong Selah,” said the elder – a handsome little boy in a brilliant silken sarong.

“Grey Stuart Chumbley, pa’s own darling pet,” lisped the other – a bright little doll of a girl, whom her father stood up afterwards and proudly balanced on one of his great hands.

“Like it,” continued Chumbley, stretching himself; “I never knew what life was till I came out here and married the Inche Maida. Ah, here she is.”

Hilton, as he recalled the past, felt a little conscious; but the Princess, who, in spite of her dark skin, looked quite the European lady, advanced, holding out her hand so frankly that they were laughing and chatting the next minute as if they were the oldest of friends, Hilton quite winning her heart by the way in which he took to her children.

“You remember what a mistake I made,” she said, “and how disappointed I was when you refused me? I did not know then what fate had in store.”

“You are still a fatalist then?” said Hilton, smiling.

“Why not?” she replied, proudly, as she went behind her great lord’s chair, and placed her arm affectionately upon his shoulder. “Has not fate given me the best and noblest of husbands – a just and true man, who has become the father of my people, my protector, and my lord?”

“Then you are both very happy?” said Hilton.

“Happy, old boy!” cried Chumbley, glancing affectionately at his wife, “happy isn’t the word for it; we’re thoroughly jolly, and in my way I’m a king.”

“But don’t you miss European society?”

“Not I, lad. I hunt, and shoot, and drill my subjects, and sit as judge, and look after the revenues, and my own little parliament. I’ve no time to be dull; and do you know, old chap, I don’t think I’m quite so slow as I was. I tell you what it is: if I had known how jolly it is to be a chief, I should have tried it on years before. But you’re going to stop, of course?”

“I’m going to beg some dinner, and then I’m off back to the Residency, where my wife is staying with the Harleys.”

“Then go back and fetch her – eh, my dear, what do you say?”

“Let us all go together and fetch her,” said the Inche Maida, smiling; and Grey Hilton was fetched to spend a month at Chumbley’s home, finding her old friend affectionate to a degree, while endless were the hunting and shooting excursions got up by the English Rajah in honour of his friend.

The Hiltons have not paid another visit to the palm-tree palace on the river where Chumbley has his home, but they hear from him occasionally as well as from the Harleys, and the reports always tell of perfect happiness in their far-off land.

“I tell you what it is, Grey,” says Hilton to his wife, the day after they had reached England, and she had held up her last little offering for him to kiss its tiny wet mouth, “I’ll bet a five-pound note that old Chumbley would give something if his youngsters were as fair as that;” and Grey says that for her part she does not think the colour of the skin matters so long as the heart is in its right place, to which her father, who has just come in, says:

“That’s a verra good remairk, my dear. Do you know I’m glad to my heart I’ve managed to scrape five thousand together out of Perowne’s estate, and the old man has settled it upon his children!”

“Five thousand! a nice little bonne bouche for Harley!” says Hilton.

“A man who thoroughly deserves it,” says his wife; “for I’m sure a truer-hearted gentleman never existed. But I have had a letter from Helen, and she tells me that Mr Harley is coming to England for a year’s leave. I am to answer to the hotel in Paris. What am I to say?”

“Say?” cried Hilton; “tell her and her husband that we are comfortably settled here, and as long as there is a roof and a bed, with something in the way of rations, there will always be a welcome for them both.”