I left him lamenting, and went off to nurse my shoulder and reflect gloomily that there was no help for it – I would have to be first in the field when the pursuit got under way. The fellow Brooke, who – for reasons that I couldn’t fathom just then – seemed to have taken on himself the planning of the expedition, obviously took it for granted that I would go, and when Keppel arrived and agreed at once to put Dido and her crew into the business, there was no hanging back any longer.
Brooke was in a great lather of impatience to be away, and stamped and ground his teeth when Keppel said it would be at least three days before he could sail; he had treasure from Calcutta to unload, and must lay in stores and equipment for the expedition. “It’ll be river fighting, I dare say,” says he, yawning; he was a dry, likely-looking chap with blazing red hair and sleepy, humorous eyes.18 “Cutting out, jungle work, ambushes, that sort of thing? Ye-es, well, we know what happens if you rush into it at half-cock – remember how Belcher ripped the bottom out of Samarang on a shoal last year? I’ll have to restow Dido’s ballast, for one thing, and take on a couple of extra launches.”
“I can’t wait for that!” cries Brooke. “I must get to Kuching, for news of this villain Suleiman and to get my people and boats together. I hear Harlequin’s been sighted; I’ll go ahead in her – Hastings will take me when I tell him how fearfully urgent it is. We must run down this scoundrel and free Mrs Flashman without a moment’s delay!”
“You’re sure it’ll be Borneo, then?” says Keppel.
“It has to be!” cried Brooke. “No ship from the south in the last two days has sighted him. Depend upon it, he’ll either run for Maludu or the rivers.”
It was all Greek to me, and sounded horribly active and risky, but everyone deferred to Brooke’s judgement, and next day off he sailed in Harlequin. Because of my wound I was to rest in Singapore until Dido sailed two days later, but perforce I must be down at the quay when Brooke was rowed out with his motley gang by Harlequin’s boat crew. He seized my hand at parting.
“By the time you reach Kuching, we’ll be ready to run up the flag and run out the guns!” cried he. “You’ll see! And don’t fret yourself, old fellow – we shall have your dear lady back safe and sound before you know it. Just you limber up that sword-arm, and between us we’ll give these dogs a bit of your Afghan sauce. Why, in Sarawak we do this sort of thing before breakfast! Don’t we, Paitingi? Eh, Mackenzie?”
I watched them go – Brooke in the stern with his pilot-cap tipped at a rakish angle, laughing and slapping his knee in eagerness; the enormous Paitingi at his elbow, the black-bearded Mackenzie with his medical bag, and the other hard-cases disposed about the boat, with the hideous little Jingo in his loin-cloth nursing his blow-pipe spear. That was the fancy-dress crowd that I was to accompany on what sounded like a most hair-raising piece of madness – it was a dreadful prospect, and on the heels of my apprehension came fierce resentment at the frightful luck that was about to pitch me headlong into the stew again. D--n Elspeth, for a hare-brained, careless, wanton, ogling little slut, and d--n Solomon for a horny thief who hadn’t the decency to be content with women of his own beastly colour, and d--n this officious, bloodthirsty lunatic Brooke – who the d---l was he to go busybodying about uninvited, dragging me into his idiot enterprises? What right had he, and why did everyone defer to him as though he was some mixture of God and the Duke of Wellington?
I found out, the evening Dido sailed, after I had taken my fond farewells – whining and shouting with Morrison, stately and generous with the hospitable Whampoa, and ecstatically frenzied in the last minute of packing with my dear little nurses. I went aboard almost on my hands and knees, as I’ve said, with Stuart helping me, for he had stayed behind to bear me company and execute some business for Brooke. It was while we were at the stern rail of the corvette, watching the Singapore islands sinking black into the fiery sunset sea, that I dropped some chance remark about his crazy commander – as you know, I still had precious little idea who he was, and I must have said so, for Stuart started round, staring at me.
“Who’s J.B.?” he cried. “You can’t mean it! Who’s J.B.? You don’t know? Why, he’s the greatest man in the East, that’s all! You’re not serious – bless me, how long have you been in Singapore?”
“Not long enough, evidently. All I know is that he and you and your … ah, friends … rescued me mighty handy the other night, and that since then he’s very kindly taken charge of operations to do the same for my wife.”
He blessed himself again, heartily, and enlightened me with frightening enthusiasm.
“J.B. – His Royal Highness James Brooke – is the King of Sarawak, that’s who he is. I thought the whole world had heard of the White Raja! Why, he’s the biggest thing in these parts since Raffles – bigger, even. He’s the law, the prophet, the Grand Panjandrum, the tuan besara – the whole kitboodle! He’s the scourge of every pirate and brigand on the Borneo coast – the best fighting seaman since Nelson, for my money – he tamed Sarawak, which was the toughest nest of rebels and head-hunters this side of Papua, he’s its protector, its ruler, and to the natives, its saint! Why, they worship him down yonder – and more power to ’em, for he’s the truest friend, the fairest judge, and the noblest, whitest man in the whole wide world! That’s who J.B. is.”
“My word, I’m glad he happened along,” says I. “I didn’t know we had a colony in – Sarawak, d’you call it?”
“We haven’t. It’s not British soil. J.B. is nominal governor for the Sultan of Brunei – but it’s his kingdom, not Queen Victoria’s. How did he get it? Why, he sailed in there four years ago, after the d-mfool Company Army pensioned him off for overstaying his furlough. He’d bought this brig, the Royalist, you see, with some cash his guv’nor left him, and just set off on his own account.” He laughed, shaking his head. “G-d, we were mad! There were nineteen of us, with one little ship, and six six-pounder guns, and we got a kingdom with it! J.B. delivered the native people from slavery, drove out their oppressors, gave ’em a proper government – and now, with a few little boats, his loyal natives, and those of us who’ve survived, he’s fighting single-handed to drive piracy out of the Islands and make them safe for honest folk.”19
“Very commendable,” says I. “But isn’t that the East India Company’s job – or the navy’s?”
“Bless you, they couldn’t even begin it!” cries he. “There’s barely a British squadron in all these enormous waters – and the pirates are numbered in tens upon tens of thousands. I’ve seen fleets of five hundred praus and bankongs – those are their warboats – cruising together, crammed with fighting men and cannon, and behind them hundreds of miles of coastline in burning ruin – towns wiped out, thousands slaughtered, women carried off as slaves, every peaceful vessel plundered and sunk – I tell you, the Spanish Main was nothing to it! They leave a trail of destruction and torture and abomination wherever they go. They set our navy and the Dutch at defiance, and hold the Islands in terror – they have a slave-market at Sulu where hundreds of human beings are bought and sold daily; even the kings and rajas pay them tribute – when they aren’t pirates themselves. Well, J.B. don’t like it, and he means to put a stop to it.”
“Hold on, though – what can he do, if even the navy’s powerless?”
“He’s J.B.,” says Stuart, simply, with that drunk, smug look you see on a child’s face when his father mends a toy. “Of course, he gets the navy to help – why, we had three navy vessels at Murdu in February, when he wiped out the Sumatra robbers – but his strength is with the honest native peoples – some of ’em were once pirates themselves, and head-hunters, like the Sea Dyaks, until J.B. showed ’em better. He puts spirit into them, bullies and wheedles the rajas, gathers news of the pirates, and when they least expect it, takes his expeditions against their forts and harbours, fights ’em to a standstill, burns their ships, and either makes ’em swear to keep the peace, or else! That’s why everyone in Singapore jumps when he whistles �
� why, how long d’you think it would have taken them to do anything about your missus – months, years even? But J.B. says “Go!” and don’t they just! And if I’d gone along Beach Road this morning looking for people to bet that J.B. couldn’t rescue her, good as new, and destroy this swine Suleiman Usman – well, I’d not have got a single taker, at a hundred to one. He’ll do it, all right. You’ll see.”
“But why?” says I, without thinking, and he frowned. “I mean,” I added, “he hardly knows me – and he’s never even met my wife – but the way he’s gone about this, you’d think we were – well, his dearest relatives.”
“Well, that’s his way, you know. Anything for a friend – and with a lady involved, of course, that makes it all the more urgent – to him. He’s a bit of a knight-errant, is J.B. Besides, he likes you.”
“What? He don’t even know me.”
“Don’t he, though! Why, I remember when we got the news of the great deeds you’d done at Kabul, J.B. talked of nothing else for days, read all the papers, kept exclaiming over your defence of Piper’s Fort. ‘That’s the man for me!’ he kept saying. ‘By Jingo, what wouldn’t I give to have him out here! We’d see the last pirate out of the China Sea between us!’ Well, now he’s got you – I shouldn’t wonder if he doesn’t move heaven and earth to keep you.”
You can guess how this impressed me. I could see, of course, that J.B. was just the man for the task in hand – if anyone could bring Elspeth off, more or less undamaged, it was probably he, for he seemed to be the same kind of desperate, stick-at-nothing adventurer I’d known in Afghanistan – wild men like Georgie Broadfoot and Sekundar Burnes. The trouble with fellows like those is that they’re d----d dangerous to be alongside; it would be capital if I could arrange it that Brooke went off a-rescuing while I stayed safe in the rear, hallooing encouragement, but my wound was healing nicely, b---t it, and the outlook was disquieting.
It was a question which was still vexing me four days later when the Dido, under sweeps, came gliding over a sea like blue glass to the mouth of the Kuching river, and I saw for the first time those brilliant golden beaches washed with foam, the low green flats of mangrove creeping to the water’s edge among the little islands, the palm-fringed creeks, and in the distant southern haze the mountains of Borneo.
“Paradise!” exclaims Stuart, breathing in the warm air, “and I don’t give a d--n if I never see Dover cliffs again. Look at it – half a million square miles of the loveliest land in the world, unexplored, except for this little corner. Sarawak’s where civilization begins and ends, you know – go a day’s march in yonder” – he pointed towards the mountains – “and if you’re still alive you’ll be among head-hunters who’ve never seen a white man. Ain’t it capital, though?”
I couldn’t say it was. The river, as we went slowly up it, was broad enough, and the land green and fertile, but it had that steamy look that spells fever, and the air was hot and heavy. We passed by several villages, some of them partly built over the water on stilts, with long, primitive thatched houses; the water itself was aswarm with canoes and small boats, manned by squat, ugly, grinning little men like Jingo; I don’t suppose one of them stood more than five feet, but they looked tough as teak. They wore simple loin-cloths, with rings round their knees, and head-cloths; some had black and white feathers in their hair. The women were fairer than the men, although no taller, and decidedly good-looking, in an impudent, pug-nosed way; they wore their hair long, down their backs, and went naked except for kilts, swinging their bums and udders in a way that did your heart good to see. (They couple like stoats, by the way, but only with men of proved bravery. In a country where the usual engagement ring is a human head, it follows that you have to be bloodthirsty in order to get your muttons.)
“Sea Dyaks,” says Stuart. “The bravest, cheeriest folk you’ll ever see – fight like tigers, cruel as the grave, but loyal as Swiss. Listen to ’em jabber – that’s the coast lingua franca, part Malay, but with Portuguese, French, Dutch, and English thrown in. Amiga sua!” cries he, waving to one of the boatmen – that, I learned, means “my friend”, which gives you some notion.
Sarawak, as Stuart said, might be the civilized corner of Borneo, but as we drew closer to Kuching you could see that it was precious like an armed camp. There was a huge log boom across the river, which had to be swung open so that Dido could warp through, and on the low bluffs either side there were gun emplacements, with cannon peeping through the earthworks; there were cannon, too, on the three strange craft at anchor inside the boom – they were like galleys, with high stern and forecastles, sixty or seventy feet long, with their great oars resting in the water like the legs of some monstrous insect.
“War praus,” cries Stuart. “By Jove, there’s something up – those are Lundu boats. J. B.’s mustering his forces with a vengeance!”
We rounded a bend, and came in sight of Kuching proper; it wasn’t much of a place, just a sprawling native town, with a few Swiss cottages on the higher ground, but the river was jammed with ships and boats of every description – at least a score of praus and barges, light sailing cutters, launches, canoes, and even a natty little paddle-steamer. The bustle and noise were tremendous, and as Dido dropped anchor in mid-stream she was surrounded by swarms of little boats, from one of which the enormous figure of Paitingi Ali came swinging up to the deck, to present himself to Keppel, and then come over to us.
“Aye, weel,” says he, in that astonishing accent which sounded so oddly with his occasional pious Muslim exclamations. “He was right again. The Praise tae the One.”
“What d’ye mean?” cries Stuart.
“A spy-boat came in frae Budraddin yesterday. A steam-brig – which cannae be any other than the Sulu Queen – put into Batang Lupar four days ago, and went upriver. Budraddin’s watching the estuary, but there’s nae fear she’ll come out again, for the word along the coast is that the great Suleiman Usman is back, and has gone up tae Fort Linga tae join Sharif Sahib. He’s in there, a’ richt; a’ we have tae do is gang in an’ tak’ him.”
“Huzza!” roars Stuart, capering and seizing his hand. “Good old J.B.! Borneo he said it would be, and Borneo it is!” He swung to me. “You hear that, Flashman – it means we know where your lady is, and that kidnapping rascal, too! J.B. guessed exactly right – now do you believe that he’s the greatest man in the east?”
“Will ye tell me how he does it?” growled Paitingi. “If I didnae ken he was a guid Protestant I’d say he was in league wi’ Shaitan. Come awa’ – he’s up at the hoose, gey pleased wi’ himsel’. Bismillah! Perhaps when he’s told you in person he’ll be less insufferable.”
But when we went ashore to Brooke’s house, “The Grove”, as it was called, the great man hardly referred to Paitingi’s momentous news – I discovered later that this was delicacy on his part; he didn’t want to distress me by even talking about Elspeth’s plight. Instead, when we had been conducted to that great shady bungalow on its eminence, commanding a view of the teeming river and landing-places, he sat us down with glasses of arrack punch, and began to talk, of all things, about – roses.
“I’m goin’ to make ’em grow here if it kills me,” says he. “Imagine that slope down to the river below us, covered with English blooms; think of warm evenings in the dusk, and the perfume filling the verandah. By George, if I could raise Norfolk apples as well, that would be perfect – great, red beauties like the ones that grow on the roadside by North Walsham, what? You can keep your mangoes and paw-paws, Stuart – what wouldn’t I give for an honest old apple, this minute! But I might manage the roses, one day.” He jumped up. “Come and see my garden, Flashman – I promise you won’t see another like it in Borneo, at any rate!”
So he took me round his place, pointing out his jasmine and sundals and the rest, exclaiming about their night scents, and suddenly snatching up a trowel and falling on some weeds. “These confounded Chinese gardeners!” cries he. “I’d be better served by Red Indians, I believe. B
ut I suppose it’s asking too much to expect,” he cries, trowelling away, “that a people as filthy, ugly, and ungraceful as the Chinks should have any feeling for flowers. Mind you, they’re industrious and cheery, but that ain’t the same.”
He chattered on, pointing out how his house was built carefully on palm piles to defy the bugs and damp, and telling me how he had come to design it. “We’d had the deuce of a scrap with Lundu head-hunters just across the river yonder, and were licking our wounds in a dirty little kampong, waiting for ’em to attack again – it was evening, and we were out of water altogether, and pretty used up, down to our last ounces of powder, too – and I thought to myself, what you need, J.B. my boy, is an easy chair and an English newspaper and a vase of roses on the table. It seemed such a splendid notion – and I resolved that I’d make myself a house, with just those things, so that wherever I went in Borneo, it would always be here to return to.” He waved at the house. “And there she is – all complete, except for the roses. I’ll get those in time.”
It was true enough; his big central room, with the bedrooms arranged round it, and an opening on to his front verandah, was for all the world like a mixture of drawing-room and gun-room at home, except that the furniture was mostly bamboo. There were easy chairs, and old copies of The Times and Post neatly stacked, couches, polished tables, an Axminster, flowers in vases, and all manner of weapons and pictures on the walls.
“If ever I want to forget wars and pirates and fevers and ong-ong-ongs – that’s my own word for anything Malay, you know – I just sit down and read about how it rained in Bath last year, or how some rascal was jailed for poaching at Exeter Assizes,” says he. “Even potato prices in Lancashire will do – oh, I say … I’d meant to put that away …”
I’d stopped to look at a miniature on the table, of a most peachy blonde girl, and Brooke jumped up and reached out towards it. I seemed to know the face. “Why,” says I, “that’s Angie Coutts, surely?”
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 74
