Lingard made a gesture to command silence. He seemed to listen yet, as if the wash of the ripple could have had an echo which he expected to hear. And a man's voice that was heard forward had something of the impersonal ring of voices thrown back from hard and lofty cliffs upon the empty distances of the sea. It spoke in Malay—faintly.
“What?” hailed Shaw. “What is it?”
Lingard put a restraining hand for a moment on his chief officer's shoulder, and moved forward smartly. Shaw followed, puzzled. The rapid exchange of incomprehensible words thrown backward and forward through the shadows of the brig's main deck from his captain to the lookout man and back again, made him feel sadly out of it, somehow.
Lingard had called out sharply—“What do you see?” The answer direct and quick was—“I hear, Tuan. I hear oars.”
“Whereabouts?”
“The night is all around us. I hear them near.”
“Port or starboard?”
There was a short delay in answer this time. On the quarter-deck, under the poop, bare feet shuffled. Somebody coughed. At last the voice forward said doubtfully:
“Kanan.”
“Call the serang, Mr. Shaw,” said Lingard, calmly, “and have the hands turned up. They are all lying about the decks. Look sharp now. There's something near us. It's annoying to be caught like this,” he added in a vexed tone.
He crossed over to the starboard side, and stood listening, one hand grasping the royal back-stay, his ear turned to the sea, but he could hear nothing from there. The quarter-deck was filled with subdued sounds. Suddenly, a long, shrill whistle soared, reverberated loudly amongst the flat surfaces of motionless sails, and gradually grew faint as if the sound had escaped and gone away, running upon the water. Haji Wasub was on deck and ready to carry out the white man's commands. Then silence fell again on the brig, until Shaw spoke quietly.
“I am going forward now, sir, with the tindal. We're all at stations.”
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