"And now he has done us!" cries Catchick. "This, in Singapore! Under our very noses, in the most respectable community in Asia, he steals a great English lady - what will they say in the world, hey? Where's our reputation, our good name, I should like to know. It's gone out yonder, heaven knows where, aboard his accursed brig! Pirates, they'll call us - thieves and kidnappers! I tell you, Whampoa, this could ruin trade for five years—"
"In God's name, man!" cries Brooke. "It could ruin Mrs Flashman for ever!"
"Oi-hoi!" cries Catchick, clutching his head with his hands, and then he came trotting across to me and dropped his hand on my shoulder, kneading away at me. "Oh, my poor friend, forgive me!" he groans. "My poor friend!"
It was just on dawn, and we had been engaged in such useful conversation for two hours past. At least, they had; I had been sitting in silence, sick with shock and pain, while Catchick Moses apostrophized and tore his whiskers, Whampoa reviled himself in precise, grammatical terms and sank half a gallon of Manzanilla, Balestier, the American consul, who had been summoned, damned Solomon to Hades and beyond, and two or three other leading citizens shook their heads and exclaimed from time to time. Brooke just listened, mostly, having sent his people out to pick up news; there was a steady trickle of Whampoa's Chinese, too, coming in to report, but adding little to what we already knew. And that was knowledge enough, stark and unbelievable.
Most of it came from old Morrison, who had been abandoned on the bay island where the party had picnicked. He had gone to sleep, he said - full of drugged drink, no doubt, and had come to in the late evening to find the Sulu Queen hull down on the horizon, steaming away east - this was confirmed by the captain of an American clipper, one Waterman, who had passed her as he came into port. Morrison had been picked up by some native fishermen and had arrived at the quay after nightfall to pour out his tale, and now the whole community was in uproar. Whampoa had taken it upon himself to get to the bottom of the thing - he had feelers everywhere, of course - and had put Morrison to bed upstairs, where the old goat was in a state of prostration. The Governor had been informed, with the result that brows were being clutched, oaths sworn, fists shaken, and sal volatile sold out in the shops, no doubt. There hadn't been a sensation like it since the last Presbyterian Church jumble sale. But of course nothing was done.
At first, everyone had said it was a mistake; the Sulu Queen was off on some pleasure jaunt. But when Catchick and Whampoa pieced it all together, that wouldn't do: it was discovered that Solomon had been quietly selling up in Singapore, that when all was said, no one knew a damned thing about him, and that all the signs were that he was intending to clear out, leaving not a wrack behind. Hence the loud recriminations, and the dropped voices when they remembered that I was present, and the repeated demands as to what should be done now.
Only Brooke seemed to have any notions, and they weren't much help. "Pursuit," cries he, with his eyes blazing. "She's going to be rescued, don't doubt that for a moment." He dropped a hand on my uninjured shoulder. "I'm with you in this; we all are, and as I've a soul to save I won't rest until you have her safe back, and this evil rascal has received condign punishment. So there - we'll find her, if we have to rake the sea to Australia and back! My word on it."
The others growled agreement, and looked resolute and sympathetic and scratched themselves, and then Whampoa signs to his girl for more liquor and says gravely:
"Indeed, everyone supports your majesty in this"— it says much about my condition that I never thought twice about that remarkable form of address to an English sailor in a pea jacket and pilot cap —"but it is difficult to see how pursuit can be made until we have precise information about where they have gone."
"My God, that is the truth," groans Catchick Moses. "They may be anywhere. How many millions of miles of sea, how many islands, half of them uncharted two thousand, five, ten? Does anyone know, even? And such islands - swarming with pirates, cannibals, head-takers - in God's name, my friend, this rascal may have taken her anywhere. And there is no vessel in port fit to pursue a steam-brig."
"It's a job for the Royal Navy," says Balestier. "Our navy boys, too - they'll have to track this villain, run him to earth, and—"
"Jeesh!" cries Catchick, heaving himself up. "What are you saying? What Royal Navy? What navy boys? Where is Belcher with his squadron - two t'ousand miles away, chasing the Lanun brigands round Mindanao! Where is your one American navy boat? Do you know, Balestier? Somewhere between Japan and New Zealand - maybe! Where is Seymour's Wanderer, or Hastings with the Harlequin-?"
"Dido's due from Calcutta in two or three days," says Balestier. "Keppel knows these seas as well as anyone—"
"And how well is that?" croaks Catchick, flapping his hands and stalking about. "Be practical! Be calm! It is terra incognita out yonder - as we all know, as everyone knows! And it is vast! If we had the whole Royal Navy, American and Dutch as well, from all the oceans of the world, they could search to the end of the century and never cover half the places where this rascal may be hiding - why, he may have gone anywhere. Don't we know his brig can sail round the world if need be?"
"I think not," says Whampoa quietly. "I have reason - I fear I may have reason - to believe that he will not sail beyond our Indies."
"Even then - haven't I told you that there are ten million lurking places between Cochin and Java?"
"And ten million eyes that won't miss a steam-brig, and will pass word to us wherever she anchors," snaps Brooke. "See here—" and he slapped the map they had unrolled on Whampoa's desk. "The Sulu Queen was last seen heading cast, according to Bully Waterman. Very well - he won't double back, that's certain; Sumatra's no use to him, anyway. And I don't see him turning north - that's either open sea or the Malay coast, where we'd soon have word of him. South - perhaps, but if he runs through Karamata we'll hear of it. So I'll stake my head he'll stay on the course he's taken - and that means Borneo."
"Oi-hoi!" cries Catchick, between derision and despair. "And is that nothing, then? Borneo - where every river is a pirate nest, where every bay is an armed camp - where even you don't venture far, J.B., without an armed expedition at your back. And when you do, you know where you are going - not like now, when you might hunt forever!"
"I'll know where I'm going," says Brooke. "And if I have to hunt forever … well, I'll find him, sooner or later."
Catchick shot an uneasy glance across at me where I sat in the corner, nursing my wound, and I saw him pluck at Brooke's sleeve and mutter something of which I caught only the words " … too late by then." At that they fell silent, while Brooke pored over his map and Whampoa sat silent, sipping his damned sherry. Balestier and the others talked in low voices, and Catchick slumped in a chair, hands in pockets, the picture of gloom.
You may wonder what I was thinking while all this hot air was being expelled, and why I wasn't taking part as a bereaved and distracted husband should - wild cries of impotent rage and grief, prayers to heaven, vows of revenge, and all the usual preliminaries to inaction. The fact was, I had troubles enough - my shoulder was giving me gyp, and having not recovered from the terror I'd faced myself that night, I didn't have much emotion left to spare, even for Elspeth, once the first shock of the news had worn off. She was gone - kidnapped by that half-caste scum, and what feelings I had were mostly about him. The slimy, twisting, insinuating hound had planned all this, over months - it was incredible, but he must have been so infatuated with her that he was prepared to steal her, make himself an outcast and outlaw, put himself beyond the bounds of civilization for good, just on her account. There was no sense in it - no woman's worth that. Why, as I sat there, trying to take it in, I knew I wouldn't have done it, not for Elspeth and a pound of tea - not for Aphrodite herself and ten thousand a year. But I'm not a rich, spoiled dago, of course. Even so, it was past belief.
Don't misunderstand me - I loved Elspeth, pretty well, no error; still do, if being used to having her about the place is anything to go by, and missing
her if she's too long gone. But there are limits, and I was suddenly aware of them now. On the one hand, she was a rare beauty, the finest mount I'd ever struck, and an heiress to boot, but on t'other, I hadn't wed her willingly, we'd spent most of our married life apart, and no harm done, and I couldn't for the life of me work up a frenzy of anxiety on her account now. After all, the worst that could happen, to her, was that this scoundrel would roger her, if he hadn't done it already while my back was turned - well, that was nothing new to her; she'd had me, and enjoyed it, and I hadn't been her only partner, I was certain. So being rattled stupid by Solomon would be no fate worse than death to her; if I knew the little trollop, she'd revel in it.
Beyond that, well, if he didn't tire of her (and considering the sacrifices he'd made to get her, he presumably intended to keep her) he'd probably look after her well enough; he wasn't short of blunt, and could no doubt support her in luxury in some exotic corner of the world. She'd miss England, of course, but taking the long view, her prospects weren't unendurable. It would make a change for her.
But that was only one side of it, of course - her side, which shows, since I've put it first, that I ain't so selfish after all. What did twist my innards with fury was shame and injured pride. Here was my wife - the beloved of the heroic Flashy - stolen from him by a swarthy, treacherous, lecherous, Etonian nigger, who'd be bulling her all over the shop, and what the deuce was I to do about it? He was cuckolding me, by God, as he might well have done twenty times already - by George, there was a fine thought - who was to say she hadn't gone with him willingly? But no, idiot and flirt that she was, she knew better than that. Either way, though, I looked damned ridiculous, and there wasn't a thing to be done. Oh, there would have to be racing and chasing after her and Solomon, to no avail - in those first hours, you see, I was certain that she was gone for good: Catchick was right, we hadn't a hope of getting her back. What then? There would still have to be months, perhaps years, of fruitless searching, for form's sake, expensive, confounded risky, and there I'd be, at the end of it, going home, and when people asked after her, saying: "Oh, she was kidnapped, don't you know, out East. No, never did discover what happened to her." Jesus, I'd be the laughing-stock of the country - Flashy, the man whose wife was pinched by a half-breed millionaire … "Close friend of the family, too … well, they say she was pinched, but who knows? … probably tired of old Flash, what? - felt like some Oriental mutton for a change, ha-ha."
I ground my teeth and cursed the day I'd ever set eyes on her, but above all, I felt such hatred of Solomon as I've never felt for any other human being. That he'd done this to me - there was no fate too horrible for the greasy rat, but precious little chance of inflicting it, so far as I could see at the moment. I was helpless, while that bloody wop steamed off with my wife - I could just picture him galloping away at her while she pretended maiden modesty, and the world roared with laughter at me, and in my rage and misery I must have let out a muffled yowl, for Brooke turned away from his map, strode across, dropped on one knee beside my chair, gripped my arm, and cries:
"You poor chap! What must you be feeling! It must be unbearable - the thought of your loved one in the hands of that dastard. I can share your anguish," he went on, "for I know how I should feel if it were my mother. We must trust in God and our own endeavours - and don't you fret, we shall win her back."
He absolutely had tears in his eyes, and had to turn his head aside to hide his emotions; I heard him mutter about "a captive damosel" and "blue eyes and golden hair of hyacinthine flow" or some fustian of that sort." Then, having clasped my hand, he went back to his map and said that if the bugger had taken her to Borneo he'd turn the place inside out.
"An unexplored island the size of Europe," says Catchick mournfully. "And even then you are only guessing. If he has gone east, it may as well be to the Celebes or the Philippines."
"He burns wood, doesn't he?" says Brooke. "Then he'll touch Borneo - and that's my bailiwick. Let him show his nose there, and I'll hear of it."
"But you are not in Borneo, my friend—"
"I will be, though, within a week of Keppel's getting here in Dido. You know her - eighteen guns, two hundred blue jackets, and Keppel would sail her to the Pole and back on a venture like this!" He was fairly glittering with eagerness. "He and I have run more chases than you can count, Catchick. Once we get this fox's scent, he can double and turn till he's dizzy, but we'll get him! Aye, he can sail to China—"
"Needle in a haystack," says Balestier, and Catchick and the others joined in, some supporting Brooke and others shaking their heads; while they were at it, one of Whampoa's Chinese slipped in and whispered in his master's ear for a full minute, and our host put down his sherry glass and opened his slit eyes a fraction wider, which for him was the equivalent of leaping to his feet and shouting "Great Scott!" Then he tapped the table, and they shut up.
"If you will forgive my interruption," says Whampoa, "I have information which I believe may be vital to us, and to the safety of the beautiful Mrs Flashman." He ducked his head at me. "A little time ago I ventured the humble opinion that her abductor would not sail beyond the Indies waters; I had developed a theory,, from the scant information in my possession; my agents have been testing it in the few hours that have elapsed since this deplorable crime took place. It concerned the identity of this mysterious Don Solomon Haslam, whom Singapore has known as a merchant and trader - for how long?"
"Ten years or thereabouts," says Catchick. "He came here as a young man, in about '35."
Whampoa bowed acknowledgement. "Precisely; that accords with my own recollection. Since then, when he established a warehouse here, he has visited our port only occasionally, spending most of his time - where? No one knows. It was assumed that he was on trading ventures, or on these estates about which he talked vaguely. Then, three years ago, he returned to England, where he had been at school. He returns now, with Mr and Mrs Flashman, and Mr Morrison."
"Well, well," cries Catchick. "We know all this. What of it?"
"We know nothing of his parentage, his birth, or his early life," says Whampoa. "We know he is fabulously rich, that he never touches strong drink, and I gather - from conversation I have had with Mr Morrison - that on his brig he commonly wore the sarong and went barefoot." He shrugged. "These are small things; what do they indicate? That he is half-caste, we know; I suggest the evidence points to his being a Muslim, although there is no proof that he ever observes the rituals of that faith. Now then, a rich Muslim, who speaks fluent Malay—"
"The Islands are full of 'em," cries Brooke. "What are you driving at?"
`-who has been known in these waters for ten years, except for the last three, when he was in England. And his name is Solomon Haslam, to which he attaches the Spanish honorific `Don'."
They were still as mice, listening. Whampoa turned his expressionless yellow face, surveying them, and tapped his glass, which the wench refilled.
"This suggests nothing to you? Not to you, Catchick? Mr Balestier? Your majesty?" This to Brooke, who shook his head. "It did not to me, either," Whampoa continued, "until I considered his name, and something stirred in my poor memory. Another name. Your majesty knows, I am sure, the names of the principal pirates of the Borneo coast for several years back - could you recall some of them to us now?"
"Pirates?" cries Brooke. "You're not suggesting—" "If you please," says Whampoa.
"Why - well then, let's see," Brooke frowned. "There's Jaffir, at Fort Linga; Sharif Muller of the Skrang - nearly cornered him on the Rajang last year - then there's Pangeran Suva, out of Brunei; Suleiman Usman of Maludu, but no one's heard of him for long enough; Sharif Sahib of Patusan; Ranu—"
He broke off, for Catchick Moses had let fly one of his amazing Hebrew exclamations, and was staring at Whampoa, who nodded placidly.
"You noticed, Catchick. As I did - I ask myself why I did not notice five years ago. That name," and he looked at Brooke, and sipped his sherry. " `Suleiman Usman of Maludu,
but no one has heard of him for long enough'," he repeated. "I think - indeed, I know, that no one has heard of him for precisely three years. Suleiman Usman - Solomon Haslam." He put down his sherry glass.
For a moment there was stupefied silence, and then Balestier burst out:
"But that can't be! What - a coast pirate, and you suggest he set up shop here, amongst us, as a trader, and carried on business, and went a-pirating on the side? That's not just too rich - it's downright crazy—"
"What better cover for piracy?" wonders Whampoa. "What better means of collecting information?"
"But damn it, this fellow Haslam's a public school man!" cries Brooke. "Isn't he?"
"He attended Eton College," says Whampoa gravely, "but that is not, in itself, necessarily inconsistent with a later life of crime."
"But consider!" cries Catchick. "If it were as you say, would any sane man adopt an alias so close to his own name? Wouldn't he call himself Smith, or Brown, or - or anything?"
"Not necessarily," says Whampoa. "I do not doubt that when his parent - or whoever it was - arranged for his English education, he entered school under his true name, which might well be rendered into English as Solomon Haslam. The first name is an exact translation; the second, an English name reasonably close to Usman. And there is nothing impossible about some wealthy Borneo raja or sharif sending his child to an English school - unusual, yes, but it has certainly happened in this case. And the son, following in his father's footsteps, has practised piracy, which we know is the profession of half the population of the Islands. At the same time, he has developed business interests in England and Singapore - which he has now decided to cut."
"And stolen another man's wife, to carry her off to his pirate lair?" scoffs Balestier. "Oh, but this is beyond reason—"
"Hardly more unreasonable than to suppose that Don Solomon Haslam, if he were not a pirate, would kidnap an English lady," says Whampoa.
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