“There’s a raja here,” he told us, grinning, “traces back his ancestry to the rajas of Malacca, in the thirteenth century. Proud as hell. Royal to his fingertips. Now watch!”
Big, and beefy, and dark, with the close-shaved hairs showing through his skin. He lay back in his chair and grinned at us.
“I’m a white man,” said Vetter, “so I demand royal honors, no less. Once Buro Sitt—this raja—refused his taxes. He said he would appeal to Saigon. And the gunboat came in the harbor two days later. Buro Sitt came down with his retinue to meet it. Very much armed. He was going to complain of me. Of me! Only the marines from the gunboat and my men were on their way to his village. My men opened fire at sight of the guns his men carried. Like any Malays, they fired back. He lost fifteen men and we burned one of his villages.”
He winked at us, and laughed. I don’t think he was French. Not all French, anyway.
“The gunboat capitaine, he reported Buro Sitt in a revolt, and that I had him well under control. Buro Sitt paid the tax—twice over,” he added significantly. “That’s the way to treat these swine.”
Cary scowled. I began to understand that Buro Sitt was right when he said Vetter would ruin his people if he weren’t obeyed. I began to get very unfond of Vetter.
“Indeed?” the doctor grunted.
Vetter took it for admiration. He was crazy with self-applause anyhow. Ordinarily, admiration of one’s self isn’t a very healthy occupation, but Vetter thrived on it. He went on to explain further.
“Royal honors I demand,” he grinned. “I am a white man, and a white man is royal, while I’m the white man. You’d think Buro Sitt had had enough of a lesson, eh? But no. Two weeks ago I marched through his chief village. I looked for royal honors. He did not offer them. I was patient. I asked him why he did not receive me as a raja—a sultan and his overlord. He said I was only a Frenchman, so⸺”
A sort of hubbub started off in the jungle somewhere. Vetter grinned nastily.