But Canton was a long way to the south and life in Hwai-Yang seemed to be established in a pattern of everlasting repairs and very little flying. Overnight almost, petrol seemed to have disappeared entirely from the province. It had always had to come upriver in forty-gallon drums, laboriously loaded on to a junk in Shanghai and as laboriously off-loaded at its destination, and in an area where transport was almost entirely ox-, horse- or man-hauled, it had always had to be carefully conserved. Getting it, even with Lao’s help, had always involved a day of threats and cajoling and a great deal of squeeze, but the absence now was so marked, so complete and so final; it had finally begun to dawn on Ira that the shortage was due to a more sinister reason than the store-owners merely hanging on to it to get more squeeze.
There were one or two outbreaks of trouble along the bund and one of Tsu’s soldiers was murdered by an infuriated coolie sick of his bullying. The coolie was promptly shot by a sergeant, but this time the incident provoked an angry crowd into rampaging round the city centre for two hours smashing windows. As a riot, it never quite came off and was soon put down by the Tsu soldiers, but then they heard a group of merchants had been executed for objecting to the worthless Tsu banknotes he printed in exchange for coin. They had been marched along the riverbank, dressed in mourning white, followed by soldiers and a coolie with a two-handed sword, and ten minutes later the soldiers were marching away and the wailing women were pawing among the scattered rubbish for the severed heads so they could be placed in the correct coffins and the bodies sent to their ancestors without losing face.
‘Trouble, Majah Ira,’ Peter Cheng said shrewdly. ‘Always riots and executions when warlord in danger.’
Ira looked quickly at him. Apart from the absence of petrol and the far-from-unusual riot, nothing appeared to have changed much, but there was an undoubted atmosphere of uncertainty and ill-omen about the city that evening and, feeling in his bones he ought to make preparations for whatever was coming and giving credit to the Chinese for having an instinctive nose for danger after generations of living with it, he gave instructions that no one was to go far from the field. The situation had an ominous feel about it.
It was the first indication, the first subtle suggestion, that the ridiculous pantomime in which they were involved was not merely play-acting, and that all the manoeuvring that Kwei and Tsu had been doing over the past few weeks round the Yung Ling Lakes was war. The warlords were shrewd brutal men, and foul-play had been the code of Chinese politics for a long time, but in the cottages of the peasants the revolutionary tenets from the south were beginning to take hold, and the ancient trinity of landlord, loan shark and merchant that was supported by the generals was beginning to feel the pinch of hatred even as far upriver as Hwai-Yang.
They had often heard of other warlord confrontations but they had always seemed to be resolved with an exchange of courtesies and a large number of dollars, but now there was a feeling in the air that the days when bribery could be offered were finished and that a warlord could no longer govern an entire province with his army, and its counties, cities and towns with his captains. It was the first realisation that the jockeying for control that Kwei and Tsu had been conducting for half a generation could only be resolved by bloodshed and death.
* * *
In spite of the clear unease that hung over Hwai-Yang, there was no sign of trouble at the airfield, and Ellie had even started joining them every morning with Mei-Mei for breakfast. The singing they heard from her bungalow had begun to come more often and more light-heartedly when a telegram arrived to say that Fagan was on his way back.
‘Oh, Gawd,’ Sammy said softly, glancing at Ellie’s flattened expression. ‘Here comes trouble again!’
Ira handed the telegram back to Ellie and she crumpled it up without a word and, rising from the table, went silently to her own bungalow.
They were on the bund as the Fan-Ling was warped alongside the jetty, pushing through the hordes of Chinese waiting to greet its arrival or take passage farther upriver, the few white businessmen and the inevitable missionary. The din was deafening and the stench appalling.
Fagan was yellow and shaking as he pushed off the gangplank, and his eyes were dull, sickly and veined with red, and he walked stiffly upright as though he were terrified of leaning too far forward. There was little sign of pleasure at his return in Ellie’s angry face, and her expression had lost all its relaxed vitality.
‘Malaria,’ he explained with a pale imitation of his crazy laugh.
‘Rye,’ Ellie corrected him shortly. ‘You’ve been on a drunk. You’re still hung over.’
Fagan gestured irritably. ‘Hold your whist, woman,’ he said. ‘I’m always getting it.’
‘Not that goddam often.’
Fagan was wearing a new linen suit and carrying a suitcase full of knick-knacks for them all. He hadn’t forgotten even the hostile Sammy, for whom he’d brought back a new leather flying jacket to replace the old one Ira had given him two years before. For Ira he produced a watch, Swiss-made and elaborately faced.
‘It’s got as many dials on it as the dashboard of a Handley Page,’ Ira observed with a grin.
Fagan gestured with a magnanimous expansiveness that was a little marred by the fact that it clearly set all sorts of bells and whistles going inside his head. ‘It’s a peace offerin’, no less, me old ardent boyo,’ he said. ‘To show there’s no ill feelin’.’
With a trembling hand he offered cigarettes all round, studied closely by the tense unimpressed Ellie, who was watching him warily and with no sign of affection.
‘What’s it all for?’ she asked unexpectedly across the conversation. ‘The only time you ever bought me candy was when you’d spent your wages on a night with a dame. Go ahead, what have you forgotten to do?’
At Ellie’s words, apprehension and doubt had hit Ira like a blow in the stomach, and he forgot about the watch at once. A man like Fagan, whose promises were always worthless currency, would be just the sort to offer gifts to hide his failure.
‘What about the spares?’ he asked. ‘Did you get ’em?’
To his surprise, Fagan nodded. ‘Sure I did,’ he said at once. ‘All we want.’
‘Where are they all?’ Sammy asked shortly.
Fagan gestured airily. ‘Petrol’s coming up from Hong Kong by rail to Tsosiehn and downriver from there. Spares coming behind. Chap called De Sa at Tsosiehn’s handling it all. Eddie Kowalski’s still organising most of’em.’
Ira’s brows came down in a grim line. ‘Didn’t you organise ’em?’
‘I gave the list to Kowalski. That’s what he’s there for.’
Ira’s brows came down in a grim line. ‘In fact, then,’ he said bluntly, ‘you haven’t got ’em, after all.’
Fagan’s temper exploded in a shout. ‘Have I not done my bloody best?’ he yelled. He fished a list from his pocket and began to read from it. ‘Here y’are: Dope. Paint. Turnbuckles. Gaskets. Pumps…’
‘Never mind the goddam list, you bog Irishman,’ Ellie interrupted in a harsh voice that was almost a scream. ‘We know what’s on it. Did you get ’em?’
Fagan paused and frowned, twisting before her steady contemptuous gaze like a fish on a hook. Already he seemed to have shrunk like a punctured balloon, diminished in sound, size and importance.
‘Well, hell…’ he began. Then he stopped and ground out his cigarette, not meeting their eyes. ‘The parts for the Avro have got to come from Europe,’ he said.
‘They could have got them from Singapore or the Middle East,’ Ira snapped. ‘What about the other machines?’
‘There was nothing at all for the German machines.’ Fagan frowned again and tossed away the crushed cigarette. ‘There are no bloody spares for German machines anywhere these days,’ he burst out in despair.
* * *
The argument that followed seemed to go on for the rest of the morning, sickening, repetitive and depressing. By the end of it, Ellie had a bitter expression in
her eyes again and she and Fagan were barely on speaking terms.
‘Ach, God,’ Fagan burst out, goaded into defiance by her unrelenting anger. ‘Let’s throw up the contracts then, woman, and go home!’
She swung round on him in a rage. ‘We’re not going any place, you dumb cluck,’ she stormed. ‘I’ve told you we can’t afford to. What have you ever gotten together that we can live on? Where can we go? The States? We can’t even afford the goddam fare!’
Fagan’s resistance collapsed at last. It was obvious the trip to Shanghai had been a disaster. He had no money and was heavily in debt again, and more than ever dependent on Ellie.
‘Where then, Ellie?’ he said, his eyes hurt and bewildered. ‘I’ve only got nine dollars between me and all harm.’
There was a frightened appeal in his voice that stopped her anger like a brick wall. Her fury had seemed to thrive on his evasions and defiance, but now, as he collapsed into a scared uncomprehending child of a man, she seemed to control herself with an effort and they saw her fists clench. She turned, her voice calmer.
‘We’ll find somewhere,’ she said quietly. ‘Soon as we’ve gathered some money together. Somewhere we can have a home and roots. It doesn’t matter much, so long as we can stay still and quit moving.’
Fagan nodded and sighed. As he rose to his feet and buttoned his coat, Ellie watched him with eyes that contained a hint of compassion despite the despair. He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph intercede for me,’ he said heavily. ‘Me brain’s slopping about in me head as if it was liquid. Why does God have it in for me so?’
When he got back to the bungalow that night Ira found Sammy and Mei-Mei sitting in wicker chairs in the garden, drinking tea from ornamental mugs like Victorian tobacco jars complete with lids. Mei-Mei had woven garlands of peonies and chrysanthemums and put them round their necks. They seemed to be having an English lesson.
‘Right,’ Sammy was saying briskly. ‘You say “Good morning”.’
She looked up at him, her face dose to his. ‘Me say…’
‘No, no, no.’ Sammy stopped her abruptly. ‘You got to get it right: I say.’
‘You say?’
‘No, no. You say.’
Mei-Mei’s brow wrinkled in perplexity. ‘Me say?’
Sammy looked up at Ira. ‘Lor’,’ he said heavily. ‘You’d be surprised how difficult it is.’
Ira was dusty and tired enough to want to go to bed early. He had spent the afternoon and evening conducting his everlasting search through the godowns along the bund for petrol and the crowds in the city had seemed restless and hostile. Swarming up the great Tien-An Men steps in a way that was not merely hurried, the coolies had been angry and agitated, and he’d seen groups of students haranguing them in the narrow alleys.
For a long time he found it difficult to go to sleep because the house servants were having a concert and were creating mayhem at the back of the bungalow with cymbals, gongs, bones and a one-stringed fiddle, and when he slipped off at last, it was only to wake with a start to the sound of voices outside the door.
Sammy put his head in. ‘I think Pat Fagan and Ellie are killing each other, Ira,’ he said. ‘Can’t you hear ’em?’
The shouting from the next bungalow brought Ira up in bed with a jerk. He listened for a moment, then he shrugged.
‘I don’t suppose we’ll miss ’em much if they do,’ he said.
They went on to the verandah, where Mei-Mei was standing, holding a kimono about her small frame, and listened to the sound of crashing household equipment from across the lawn. The noise was backgrounded by the banging of fireworks from the city instead of the usual night-time silence and somehow it seemed ominous.
‘Sounds like trouble down there,’ Ira said, glancing towards the river.
‘If you want trouble,’ Sammy grinned, ‘just listen to them two across the lawn.’ He indicated Fagan’s houseboys huddled in a chattering group near the pond. ‘They say she found out he went with a woman in Shanghai. She’ll probably shoot him, Ira.’
Ira laughed. ‘Let’s go and help her,’ he suggested.
They found Fagan in the bedroom, with his back against the wall, still wearing on his chest the remains of a plate of food Ellie had thrown at him. His cheek was marked by two long scratches as though a set of nails had been dragged across his face, and Ellie was walking up and down in front of him, wearing nothing but the briefest of slips that did nothing to hide her figure. She was swinging Fagan’s Colt and was obviously not unwilling to pull the trigger. Fagan was watching her with hypnotised fear as she waved the weapon under his nose, and she showed no surprise as she saw Ira and Sammy and made no move to cover herself.
‘I ought to shoot him,’ she said harshly. ‘Nobody would miss him.’
Ira stepped between them. ‘Give it to me, Ellie,’ he said, indicating the gun.
Ellie swung round on him, her eyes big and angry. ‘Quit telling me what to do,’ she snapped. ‘Or I might shoot you first.’
Ira held out his hand. ‘Come on, Ellie,’ he urged.
She stared at him for a long time, then he saw sudden tears spring to her eyes and she meekly handed over the gun and flung herself into a chair, crouching against the wall, her long legs doubled up under her chin, the despairing look in her eyes again.
‘I ought to have shot him first and asked questions afterwards,’ she said.
Ira nodded to Sammy, who gave Fagan a shove. The Irishman seemed to come to life with a start and, as he scuttled for safety, Ira pushed the door to behind them.
For a moment he stared at Ellie, then he picked up Fagan’s whisky flask which stood near the bed. ‘Here, Ellie,’ he said, pouring out a stiff drink. ‘Have a go at this.’
She took it from him and swallowed it at a gulp. She shuddered, gazing at him with tragic eyes, then, impulsively, she snatched his hand in both of hers and hung on to it as though drawing strength from his calm.
‘Thanks, Ira,’ she said. ‘You’re OK’
‘Go to sleep, Ellie,’ he urged. ‘I’ll keep him out of your hair till it’s over.’
For a long time she held on to his hand, then, impulsively, she pulled it to her mouth and kissed it. She seemed to be making a tremendous effort to gain control of herself.
‘OK, Ira,’ she said at last. ‘I’m all right now. Tomorrow you won’t know anything ever happened.’
He put his hand on her shoulder and felt her shiver beneath his touch. Her eyes followed him all the way to the door.
Outside, Sammy was standing on the verandah.
‘Poor bloody Ellie,’ Ira said, haunted by the hopeless look that was in her eyes again.
‘Poor bloody Ellie be damned,’ Sammy said mercilessly. ‘She picked him.’
Sammy’s implacable enmity irritated Ira suddenly. ‘Lay off her, Sammy,’ he said. ‘Just for a bit, lay off her.’
Sammy glanced at him quickly, his face curious, then he nodded. ‘OK, Ira,’ he said easily. ‘But I’ll bet that bloody Fagan didn’t do a thing in Shanghai except booze. I’ll believe that story about the spares when they turn up.’
Ira nodded. ‘We’ll keep him over in our place till it’s blown over,’ he suggested. ‘He can sleep on the floor.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ Sammy said. ‘He’s ’opped it. Into the city.’
Ira stared over the trees. The fireworks were still exploding at intervals and he could hear faint shouts coming over the shabby roofs.
‘He’ll find it a bit rough down there,’ he observed.
They had a drink together before they returned to their rooms, but the night was half gone and Ira hardly seemed to have fallen off again when it was daylight and he was awake, feeling he’d never been to sleep at all, his mouth gummy and his eyes gritty with sleeplessness.
The noise from the city seemed to be growing louder with daylight and he lit a cigarette and walked down to the scrap of waste ground in front of the bungalow where they parked t
he ancient Peugeot every night, to make sure nothing had been stolen from it. It was not unknown for mirrors, tyres and even wheels to disappear and find their way into the market, to be sold back to the original owner the following week.
Sammy appeared on the verandah dressed in a kimono and jerked his head towards the city. ‘Sounds like the Rovers are playing at home,’ he said.
There was no sound from the next bungalow, however, and Ira was just looking forward to a peaceful day, with Ellie sleeping off her tears and Fagan drunk somewhere in the town, when he saw one of General Tsu’s Model-T Fords heading from the city towards him, bouncing and banging on the rough unmade road. The very way it was being driven alerted him at once to disaster. A door burst open as the car swayed and was snatched shut again, then it turned in front of the bungalow, the front wheels wobbling in the ruts and throwing up the dust as it stopped. Lao almost fell out into Ira’s arms. For once, he looked hot and flurried.
‘General Tsu wishes his air force to move at once,’ he announced.
Ira tossed away his cigarette and beckoned to Sammy, who was already hurrying towards him. He knew exactly what to do and he’d been thinking over it for days, anticipating Lao’s warning.
‘General Tsu wishes you to go to Tsosiehn fifty miles along the river,’ Lao was saying. ‘Nothing must be allowed to fall into the hands of General Kwei.’
‘Nothing worth having will,’ Ira said, his mind already working fast. ‘What’s happened?’
Lao was already climbing back into the car and the driver was starting the engine. He asked no questions of Ira and between them for a moment there was a mutual respect. Lao was an intelligent, able man, and Ira suspected that, despite his ignorance of aircraft, he was honest, too. He made no attempt to make the bad news more palatable.
The Mercenaries Page 13
