The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
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 every where, 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 d----d 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 G-d, 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 G-d’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 d----d 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