Flashmans' Lady

"Well, then that is entirely different," cries he. "Why could you not say so at once? I suppose it is some woman or other."

I admitted it, and dropped a hint that the Duke of- was involved, but that it was all a misunderstanding, and Bindley sniffed again and said he had never known a time when the quality of the House of Peers was quite so low. He would speak to Wellington, he said, and since it was advisable for the family's credit that I should not be seen to be cutting the painter, he would see if some official colour couldn't be given to my Far Eastern visit. The result was that a day or two later, at the room over the pawn-shop where I was hiding out, I got a note instructing me to proceed forthwith to Singapore, there to examine and approve the first consignment of Australian horses which would be arriving next spring¹² for the Company's Indian Army. Well done, old Bindley; he had his uses.

So then it was just a question of skulking down to Dover for the last of the month, which I accomplished, arriving after dark and legging it along the crowded quay with my valise, hoping to God that neither Tighe nor the Duke had camped out their ruffians to intercept me (they hadn't, of course, but if I've lived this long it's because I've always feared the worst and been ready for it). A boat took me out to Solomon's steam-brig, and there was a great reunion with my loved ones - Elspeth all over me clamouring to know where I had been, she was quite distracted, and Old Morrison grunting: "Huh, ye've come, at the coo's tail as usual," and muttering about a thief in the night. Solomon seemed delighted to see me, but I wasn't fooled - he was just masking his displeasure that he wouldn't have a clear run at Elspeth. That quite consoled me to making the voyage; it might be devilish inconvenient, in some ways, and I couldn't be quite easy in my mind at venturing East again, but at least I'd have my flighty piece under my eye. Indeed, when I reflected, that was my prime reason for going, and rated even above escaping Tighe and the Duke; looking back from mid-Channel, they didn't seem nearly so terrible, and I resigned myself to enjoying the cruise; why, it might turn out to be quite fun.

I'll give it to Solomon, he hadn't lied about the luxury of his brig, the Sulu Queen. She was quite the latest thing in screw vessels, driven by a wheel through her keel, twin-masted for sail, and with her funnel well back, so that the whole forward deck, which was reserved for us, was quite free of the belching smoke which covered the stern with smuts and left a great black cloud in our wake. Our cabins were under-deck aft, though, out of the reek, and they were tip-top; oak furniture screwed down, Persian carpets, panelled bulkheads with watercolour paintings, a mirrored dressing-table that had Elspeth clapping her hands, Chinese curtains, excellent crystal and a well-stocked cellarette, clockwork fans, and a double bed with silk sheets that would have done credit to a New Orleans sporting-house. Well, thinks I, this is better than riding the gridiron*(* Travelling on an East Indiaman.) we'll be right at home here.

The rest of the appointment was to match; the saloon, where we dined, couldn't have been bettered for grub, liquor and service - even old Morrison, who'd been groaning reluctantly, I gathered, ever since he'd agreed to come, had his final doubts settled when they set his first sea meal before him; he was even seen to smile, which I'll bet he hadn't done since he last cut the mill-hands' wages. Solomon was a splendid host, with every thought for our comfort; he even spent the first week pottering about the coast while we got our sea-legs, and was full of consideration for Elspeth - when she discovered that she had left her toilet water behind he had her maid landed at Portsmouth to go up to Town for some, with instructions to meet us at Plymouth; it was royal treatment, no error, and damn all expense.

Only two things raised a prickle with me in all this idyllic luxury. One was the crew: there wasn't a white face among 'em. When I was helped aboard that first night, it was by two grinning yellow-faced rascals in reefer jackets and bare feet; I tried 'em in Hindi, but they just grinned with brown fangs and shook their heads. Solomon explained that they were Malays; he had a few half-caste Arabs aboard as well, who were his engineers and black gang, but no Europeans except the skipper, a surly enough Frog with a touch of nigger in his hair, who messed in his cabin, so that we never saw him, hardly. I didn't quite care for the all-yellow crew, though - I like to hear a British or Yankee voice in the foc'sle; it's reassuring-like. Still, Solomon was a Far East trader, and part-breed himself, so it was perhaps natural enough. He had 'em under his heel, too, and they kept well clear of us, except for the Chink stewards, who were sleek and silent and first-rate.

The other thing was that the Sulu Queen, while she was fitted like a floating palace, carried ten guns, which is about as many as a brig will bear. I said it seemed a lot for a pleasure-yacht, and Solomon smiled and says:

"She is too valuable a vessel to risk, in Far Eastern waters, where even the British and Dutch navies can afford little protection. And"— bowing to us —"she carries a precious cargo. Piracy is not unknown in the islands, you know, and while its victims are usually defenceless native craft - well, I believe in being over-cautious."

"Ye mean - there's danger?" goggled Morrison.

"Not," says Solomon, "with ten guns aboard."

And to settle old Morrison's qualms, and show off to Elspeth, he had all forty of his crew perform a gun practice for our benefit. They were handy, all right, scampering about the white-scrubbed deck in their tunics and short breeches, running out the pieces and ramming home cold shot to the squeal of the Arab bosun's pipe, precise as guardsmen, and afterwards standing stock-still by their guns, like so many yellow idols. Then they performed cutlass-drill and arms drill, moving like clockwork, and I had to admit that trained troops couldn't have shaped better; what with her speed and handiness, the Sulu Queen was fit to tackle anything short of a man-of-war.

"It is merely precaution piled on precaution," says Solomon. "My estates lie on peaceful lanes, on the Malay mainland for the most part, and I take care never to venture where I might be blown into less friendly waters. But I believe in being prepared," and he went on to talk about his iron water-tanks, and stores of sealed food - I'd still have been happier to see a few white faces and brown whiskers around us. We were three white folk - and Solomon himself, of course - and we were outward bound, after all.

However, these thoughts were soon dispelled in the interest of the voyage. I shan't bore you with descriptions, but I'm bound to say it was the pleasantest cruise of my life, and we never noticed how the weeks slipped by. Solomon had spoken of three months to Singapore; in fact, it took us more than twice as long, and we never grudged a minute of it. Through the summer we cruised gently along the French and Spanish coasts, looking in at Brest and Vigo and Lisbon, being entertained lavishly by local gentry - for Solomon seemed to have a genius for easy acquaintance - and then dipping on down the African coast, into the warm latitudes. I can look back now and say I've made that run more times than I can count, in everything from an Indiaman to a Middle Passage slaver, but this was not like any common voyage - why, we picnicked on Moroccan beaches, made excursions to desert ruins beyond Casablanca, were carried on camels with veiled drivers, strolled in Berber market-places, watched fire-dancers under the massive walls of old corsair castles, saw wild tribesmen run their horse races, took coffee with turbaned, white-bearded governors, and even bathed in warm blue water lapping on miles and miles of empty silver sand with palms nodding in the breeze - and every evening there was the luxury of the Sulu Queen to return to, with its snowy cloths and sparkling silver and crystal, and the delicate Chink stewards attending to every want in the cool dimness of the saloon. Well, I've been a Crown Prince, once, in my wanderings, but I've never seen the like of that voyage.

"It is a fairy-tale!" Elspeth kept exclaiming, and even old Morrison admitted it wasn't half bad - the old bastard became positively mellow, as why shouldn't he, waited on hand and foot, with two slant-eyed and muscular yellow devils to carry him ashore and bear him in a palki on our excursions? "It's daein' me guid," says he, "I can feel the benefit." And Elspeth would sigh dreamily while they fanned her in the shade, and Solomon would smile and beckon the steward to put more ice in the glasses - oh, aye, he even had a patent ice-house stowed away somewhere, down by the keel.

Farther south, along the jungly and desert coasts, there was no lack of entertainment - a cruise up a forest river in the ship's launch, with Elspeth wide-eyed at the sight of crocodiles, which made her shudder deliciously, or laughing at the antics of monkeys and marvelling at the brilliance of foliage and bird-life. "Did I not tell you, Diana, how splendid it would be?" Solomon would say, and Elspeth would exclaim rapturously, "Oh, you did, you did - but this is quite beyond imagination!" Or there would be flying-fish, and porpoises, and once we were round the Cape - where we spent a week, dining out ashore and attending a ball at the Governor's, which pleased Elspeth no end - there was the real deep blue sea of the Indian Ocean, and more marvels for my insatiable relatives. We began the long haul across to India in perfect weather, and at night Solomon would fetch his guitar and sing dago dirges in the dusk, with Elspeth drowsing on a daybed by the rail, while Morrison cheated me at écarté, or we would play whist, or just laze the time contentedly away. It was tame stuff, if you like, but I put up with it - and kept my eye on Solomon.

For there was no doubt about it, he changed as the voyage progressed. He took the sun pretty strong, and was soon the brownest thing aboard, but in other ways, too, I was reminded that he was at least half-dago or native; instead of the customary shirt sleeves and trousers he took to wearing a tunic and sarong, saying jokingly that it was the proper tropical style; next it was bare feet, and once when the crew were shark-fishing Solomon took a hand at hauling in the huge threshing monster - if you had seen him, stripped to the waist, his great bronze body dripping with sweat, yelling as he heaved on the line and jabbering orders to his men in coast lingo … well, you'd have wondered if it was the same chap who'd been bowling slow lobs at Canter-bury, or talking City prices over the port.

Afterwards, when he came to sit on the deck for an iced soda, I noticed Elspeth glancing at his splendid shoulders in a lazy sort of way, and the glitter in his dark eyes as he swept back his moist black hair and smiled at her - he'd been the perfect family friend for months, mind you, never so much as a fondling paw out of place - and I thought, hollo, he's looking d--d dashing and romantic these days. To make it worse, he'd started growing a chin-beard, a sort of nigger imperial; Elspeth said it gave him quite the corsair touch, so I made a note to roger her twice that night, just to quell these girlish fancies. All this reading Byron ain't good for young women.

It was the very next day that we came on deck to see a huge green coastline some miles to port; jungle-clad slopes beyond the beach, and mountains behind, and Elspeth cried out to know where it might be. Solomon laughed in an odd way as he came to the rail beside us.

"That's the strangest country, perhaps, in the whole wide world," says he. "The strangest - and the most savage and cruel. Few Europeans go there, but I have visited it - it's very rich, you see," he went on, turning to old Morrison, "gums and balsam, sugar and silk, indigo and spices - I believe there is coal and iron also. I have hopes of improving on the little trade I have started there. But they are a wild, terrible people; one has to tread warily - and keep an eye on your beached boat."

"Why, Don Solomon!" cries Elspeth. "We shall not land there, surely?"

"I shall," says he, "but not you; the Sulu Queen will lie well off - out of any possible danger."

"What danger?" says I. "Cannibals in war canoes?" He laughed.

"Not quite. Would you believe it if I told you that the capital of that country contains fifty thousand people, half of 'em slaves? That it is ruled by a monstrous black queen, who dresses in the height of eighteenth-century fashion, eats with her fingers from a table laden with gold and silver European cutlery, with place-cards at each chair and wall-paper showing Napoleon's victories on the wall - and having dined she will go out to watch robbers being burned alive and Christians crucified? That her bodyguard go almost naked - but with pipe-clayed cartridge belts, behind a band playing `The British Grenadiers'? That her chief pleasures are torture and slaughter - why, I have seen a ritual execution at which hundreds were buried alive, sawn in half, hurled from—"

"No, Don Solomon, no!" squeals Elspeth, covering her ears, and old Morrison muttered about respecting the presence of ladies - now, the Don Solomon of London would never have mentioned such horrors to a lady, and if he had, he'd have been profuse in his apologies. But here he just smiled and shrugged, and passed on to talk of birds and beasts such as were known nowhere else, great coloured spiders in the jungle, fantastic chameleons, and the curious customs of the native courts, which decided guilt or innocence by giving the accused a special drink and seeing whether he spewed or not; the whole place was ruled by such superstitions and crazy laws, he said, and woe betide the outsider who tried to teach 'em different.

"Odd spot it must be," says I. "What did you say it was called?"

"Madagascar," says he, and looked at me. "You have been in some terrible places, Harry - well, if ever you chance to be wrecked there"— and he nodded at the green shore —"pray that you have a bullet left for yourself." He glanced to see that Elspeth was out of earshot. "The fate of any stranger cast on those shores is too shocking to contemplate; they say the queen has only two uses for foreign men - first, to subdue them to her will, if you follow me, and afterwards, to destroy them by the most fearful tortures she can devise."

"Playful little lady, is she?"

"You think I'm joking? My dear chap, she kills between twenty and thirty thousand human beings each year - she means to exterminate all tribes except her own, you see. When she came to the throne, some years ago, she had twenty-five thousand enemies rounded up, forced to kneel all together in one great enclosure, and at a given signal, swish! They were all executed at once. She kept a few thousand over, of course, to hang up sewed in ox skins until they rotted - or to be boiled or roasted to death, by way of a change. That's Madagascar."

"Ah, well," says I, "Brighton for me next year, I think. And you're going ashore?"

"For a few hours. The governor of Tamitave, up the coast, is a fairly civilized savage - all the ruling class are, including the queen: Bond Street dresses, as I said, and a piano in the palace. That's a remarkable place, by the way - big as a cathedral, and covered entirely by tiny silver bells. God knows what goes on in there."

"You've visited it?"

"I've seen it - but not been to tea, as you might say. But I've talked to those who have been inside it, and who've even seen Queen Ranavalona and lived to tell the tale. Europeans, some of 'em."

"What are they doing there, for God's sake?"

"The Europeans? Oh, they're slaves."

At the time, of course, I suspected he was drawing the long bow to impress the visitors - but he wasn't. No, every word he'd said about Madagascar was gospel true - and not one-tenth of the truth. I know; I found out for myself.

But from the sea it looked placid enough. Tamitave was apparently a very large village of yellow wooden buildings set out in orderly rows back from the shore; there was a fairish-sized fort with a great stockade some distance from the town, and a few soldiers drilling outside it. While Haslam was ashore, I examined them through the glass - big buck niggers in white kilts, with lances and swords, very smart, and moving in time, which is unusual among black troops. They weren't true niggers, though, it seemed to me; when Haslam was rowed out to the ship again there was an escorting boat, with a chap in the stern in what was a fair imitation of our naval rig: blue frock coat, epaulettes, cocked hat and braid, saluting away like anything - he looked like a Mexican, if anything, with his round, oily black face, but the rowers were dark brown and woolly haired, with straight noses and quite fine features.

That was the closest I got to the Malagassies, just then, and you may come to agree that it was near enough. Solomon seemed well satisfied with whatever business he had done ashore, and by next morning we were far out to sea with Madagascar forgotten behind us.

Now, I said I wouldn't weary you with our voyage, so I shall do no more than mention Ceylon and Madras - which is all they deserve, anyway, and take you straight away across the Bengal Bay, past the infernal Andamans, south by the heel of Great Nicobar, and into the steaming straits where the great jellyfishes swim between the mainland of Malaya and the strange jungle island of Sumatra with its man-monkeys, down to the sea where the sun comes from, and the Islands lie ahead of you in a great brilliant chain that runs thousands of miles from the South China Sea to Australia and the far Pacific on the other side of the world. That's the East - the Islands; and you may take it from one who has India in his bones, there's no sea so blue, no lands so green, and no sun so bright, as you'll find beyond Singapore. What was it Solomon had said —"where it's always morning." So it was, and in that part of my imagination where I keep the best memories, it always will be.

That's one side of it. I wasn't to know, then, that Singapore was the last jumping-off place from civilization into a world as terrible as it was beautiful, rich and savage and cruel beyond belief, of land and seas still unexplored where even the mighty Royal Navy sent only a few questing warships, and the handful of white adventurers who voyaged in survived by the speed of their keels and slept on their guns. It's quiet now, and the law, British and Dutch, runs from Sunda Strait to the Solomons; the coasts are tamed, the last trophy heads in the long-houses are ancient and shrivelled,¹³ and there's hardly a man alive who can say he's heard the war gongs booming as the great robber fleets swept down from the Sulu Sea. Well, I heard 'em, only too clearly, and for all the good I've got to say of the Islands, .I can tell you that if I'd known on that first voyage what I learned later, I'd have jumped ship at Madras.

But I was happily ignorant, and when we slipped in past the green sugar-loaf islands one fine April morning of '44, and dropped anchor in Singapore roads, it looked safe enough to me. The bay was alive with shipping, a hundred square-riggers if there was one: huge Indiamen under the gridiron flag, tall clippers of the Southern Run wearing the Stars and Stripes, British merchantmen by the bucketful, ships of every nationality - Solomon pointed out the blue crossed anchors of Russia, the red and gold bars of Spain, the blue and yellow of Sweden, even a gold lion which he said was Venice. Closer in, the tubby junks and long tradingpraus were packed so close it seemed you could have walked on them right across the bay, fairly seething with half-naked crews of Malays, Chinese, and every colour from pale yellow to jet black, deafening us with their high-pitched chatter as Solomon's rowers threaded the launch through to the river quay. There it was bedlam; all Asia seemed to have congregated on the landing, bringing their pungent smells and deafening sounds with them.

There were coolies everywhere, in straw hats or dirty turbans, staggering half-naked under bales and boxes - they swarmed on the quays, on the sampans that choked the river, round the warehouses and go-downs, and through them pushed Yankee captains in their short jackets and tall hats, removing their cheroots from their rat-trap jaws only to spit and cuss; Armenian Jews in black coats and long beards, all babbling; British blue jackets in canvas shirts and ducks; long-moustached Chinese merchants in their round caps, borne in palkis; British traders from the Sundas with their pistols on their hips; leathery clipper men in pilot caps, shouting oaths of Liverpool and New York; planters in wideawakes making play among the niggers with their stout canes; a file of prisoners tramping by in leg-irons, with scarlet-coated soldiers herding them and bawling the step - I heard English, Dutch, German, Spanish, and Hindi all in the first minute, and most of the accents of England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland and the American seaboards to boot. God knows what the native tongues were, but they were all being used at full pitch, and after the comparative quiet we'd been used to it was enough to make you dizzy. The stink was fearful, too.

Of course, waterfronts are much the same everywhere; once you were away from the river, out on the "Mayfair" side of the town, which lay east along Beach Road, it was pleasant, and that was where Solomon had his house, a fine two-storey mansion set in an extensive garden, facing the sea. We were installed in cool, airy rooms, all complete with fans and screens, legions of Chinese servants to look after us, cold drinks by the gallon, and nothing to do but rest in luxury and recover from the rigours of our voyage, which we did for the next three weeks.

Old Morrison was all for it; he had gluttonized to such a tune that he'd put on flesh alarmingly, and all he wanted to do was lie down, belching and refreshing his ill nature in a hot climate. Elspeth, on the other hand, must be up and doing at once; she was off almost before she'd changed her shift, carried in a palki by menials, to pay calls on what she called The Society People, find out who was who, and squander money in the shops and bazaars. Solomon pointed her in the right directions, made introductions, and then explained apologetically that he had weeks of work to do in his 'changing-house at the quays; after that, he assured us, we would set off on our tour of his possessions, which I gathered lay somewhere on the east coast of the peninsula.

So there was I, at a loose end - and not before time. I didn't know when I had been so damnably bored; a cruise of wonders was all very well, but I'd had my bellyful of Solomon and his floating mansion with its immaculate appointments and unvarying luxury and everything so exactly, confoundedly right, and the finest foods and wines coming out of my ears - I was surfeited with perfection, and sick of the sight of old Morrison's ugly mug, and the sound of Elspeth's unwearying imbecile chatter, and having not a damned thing to do but stuff myself and sleep. I'd not had a scrap of vicious amusement for six months - and, for me, that's a lifetime of going hungry. Well, thinks I, if Singapore, the fleshpot of the Orient, can't supply my urgent needs, and give me enough assorted depravity in three weeks to last the long voyage home, there's some-thing amiss; just let me shave and change my shirt, and we'll stand this town on its head.

I took a long slant, to get my bearings, and then plunged in, slavering. There were eight cross-streets in the Mayfair section, where all the fine houses were, and a large upland park below Governor's Hill where Society congregated in the evening - and, by Jove, wasn't it wild work, though? Why, you might raise your hat to as many as a hundred couples in two hours, and when you were fagged out with this, there was the frantic debauch of a gig drive along Beach Road, to look at the ships, or a dance at the assembly rooms, where a married woman might even polka with you, provided your wife and her husband were on hand - unmarried ladies didn't waltz, except with each other, the daring little hussies.

Then there were dinners at Dutranquoy's Hotel, with discussions afterwards about whether the Raffles Club oughtn't to be revived, and how the building of the new Chinese Pauper Hospital was progressing, and the price of sugar, and the latest leaderette in the "Free Press", and for the wilder spirits, a game of pyramids on the hotel billiard table - I played twice, and felt soiled at my beastly indulgence. Elspeth was indefatigable, of course, in her pursuit of pleasure, and dragged me to every soirée, ball, and junket that she could find, including church twice each Sunday, and the subscription meetings for the new theatre, and several times we even met Colonel Butterworth, the Governor - well, thinks I, this is Singapore, to be sure, but I'm shot if I can stand this pace for long.'"

Once, I asked a likely-looking chap - you could tell he was a rake; he was using pomade - where the less respectable entertainments were to be found, supposing there were any, and he coloured a bit and shuffled and said:

"Well, there are the Chinese processions - but not many people would care to be seen looking at them, I dare say. They begin in the - ahem - native quarter, you know."

"By George," says I, "that's bad. Perhaps we could look at 'em for just a moment, though - we needn't stay long."

He didn't care for it, but I prevailed on him, and we hurried down to the promenade, with him muttering that it wasn't at all the thing, and what Penelope would say if she got to hear of it, he couldn't imagine. He had me in a fever of excitement, and I was palpitating by the time the procession hove in view - twenty Chinks beating gongs and letting off smoke and whistles, and half a dozen urchins dressed in Tartar costumes with umbrellas, all making a hell of a din.

"Is that it?" says I.

"That's it," says he. "Come along, do - or someone will see us. It's - it's not done, you know, to be seen at these native displays, my dear Flashman."

"I'm surprised the authorities allow it," says I, and he said the "Free Press" was very hot against it, but the Indian processions were even worse, with chaps swinging on poles and carrying torches, and he'd even heard rumours that there were fakirs walking on hot coals, on the other side of the river.

That was what put me on the right track. I'd seen the waterfront, of course, with its great array of commercial buildings and warehouses, but the native town that lay beyond it, on the west bank, had looked pretty seedy and hardly worth exploring. Being desperate by this time, I ventured across one evening when Elspeth was at some female gathering, and it was like stepping into a brave new world.

Beyond the shanties was China Town - streets brilliantly-lit with lanterns, gaming houses and casinos roaring away on every corner, side-shows and acrobats - Hindoo fire-walkers, too, my pomaded chum had been right - pimps accosting you every other step, with promises of their sister who was, of course, every bit as voluptuous as Queen Victoria (how our sovereign lady became the carnal yardstick for the entire Orient through most of the last century, I've never been able to figure; possibly they imagined all true Britons lusted after her), and on all sides, enough popsy to satisfy an army - Chinese girls with faces like pale dolls at the windows; tall, graceful Kling tarts from the Coromandel, swaying past and smiling down their long noses; saucy Malay wenches giggling and beckoning from doorways, popping out their boobies for inspection; it was Vanity Fair come true - but it wouldn't do, of course. Poxed to a turn, most of 'em; they were all right for the drunken sailors lounging on the verandahs, who didn't care about being fleeced - and possibly knifed - but I'd have to find better quality than that. I didn't doubt that I would, and quickly, now that I knew where to begin, but for the present I was content to stroll and look about, brushing off the pimps and the more forward whores, and presently walking back to the river bridge.

And who should I run slap into but Solomon, coming late from his office. He stopped short at sight of me.

"Good God," says he, "you ain't been in bazaar-town, surely? My dear chap, if I'd known you wanted to see the sights, I'd have arranged an escort - it ain't the safest place on earth, you know. Not quite your style, either, I'd have thought."

Well, he knew better than that, but if he wanted to play innocent, I didn't mind. I said it had been most interesting, like all native towns, and here I was, safe and sound, wasn't I?

"Sure enough," says he, laughing and taking my arm. "I was forgetting - you've seen quite a bit of local colour in your time. But Singapore's - well, quite a surprising place, even for an old hand. You've heard about our Black-faced gangs, I suppose? Chinese, you know - nothing to do with the tongs or hues, who are the secret societies who rule down yonder - but murderous villains, just the same. They've even been coming east of the river lately, I'm told - burglary, kidnapping, that sort of thing, with their faces blacked in soot. Well, an unarmed white civilian on his own - he's just their meat. If you want to go again"— he gave me a quick look and away —"let me know; there are some really fine eating-houses on the north edge of the native town - the rich Chinese go there, and it's much more genteel. The Temple of Heaven's about the best - no sharking or rooking, or anything of that kind, and first-class service. Good cabarets, native dancing … that order of thing, you know."

Now why, I wondered, was Solomon offering to pimp for me - for that's what it struck me he was doing. To keep me sinfully amused while he paid court to Elspeth, perhaps - or just in the way of kindness, to steer me to the best brothels in town? I was pondering this when he went on:

"Speaking of rich Chinese - you and Elspeth haven't met any yet, I suppose? Now they are the most interesting folk in this settlement, altogether - people like Whampoa and Tan Tock Seng. I must arrange that - I'm afraid I've been neglecting you all shockingly, but when one's been away for three years - well, there's a great deal to do, as you can guess." He grinned whimsically. "Confess it - you've found our Singapore gaiety just a trifle tedious. Old Butterworth prosing - and Logan and Dyce ain't quite Hyde Park style, are they? Ne'er mind - I'll see to it that you visit one of old Whampoa's parties - that won't bore, I promise you!"

And it didn't. Solomon was as good as his word, and two nights later Elspeth and I and old Morrison were driven out to Whampoa's estate in a four-wheel palki; it was a superb place, more like a palace than a house, with the garden brilliant with lanterns, and the man himself bowing us in ceremonially at the door. He was a huge, fat Chinese, with a shaven head and a pigtail down to his heels, clad in a black silk robe embroidered with shimmering green and scarlet flowers - straight from Aladdin, except that he had a schooner of sherry in one paw; it never left him, and it was never empty either.

"Welcome to my miserable and lowly dwelling," says he, doubling over as far as his belly would let him. "That is what the Chinese always say, is it not? In fact, I think my home is perfectly splendid, and quite the best in Singapore - but I can truthfully say it has never entertained a more beautiful visitor." This was to Elspeth, who was gaping round at the magnificence of lacquered panelling, gold-leafed slender columns, jade ornaments, and silk hangings, with which Whampoa's establishment appeared to be stuffed. "You shall sit beside me at dinner, lovely golden-haired lady, and while you exclaim at the luxury of my house, I shall flatter your exquisite beauty. So we shall both be assured of a blissful evening, listening to what delights us most."

Which he did, keeping her entranced beside him, sipping continually at his sherry, while we ate a Chinese banquet in a dining-room that made Versailles look like a garret. The food was atrocious, as Chinese grub always is - some of the soups, and the creamed walnuts, weren't bad, though - but the servants were the most delightful little Chinese girls, in tight silk dresses each of a different colour; even ancient eggs with sea-weed dressing and carrion sauce don't seem so bad when they're offered by a slant-eyed little goer who breathes perfume on you and wriggles in a most entrancing way as she takes your hand in velvet fingers to show you how to manage your chop-sticks. Damned if I could get the hang of it at first; it took two of 'em to show me, one either side, and Elspeth told Whampoa she was sure I'd be much happier with a knife and fork.

There were quite a few in the party, apart from us three and Solomon - Balestier, the American consul, I remember, a jolly Yankee planter with a fund of good stories, and Catchick Moses,¹⁵ a big noise in the Armenian community, who was the decentest Jew I ever met, and struck up an immediate rapport with old Morrison - they got to arguing about interest rates, and when Whampoa joined in, Bales-tier said he wouldn't rest until he'd made up a story which began "There was a Chinaman, a Scotchman, and a Jew", which caused great merriment. It was the cheeriest party I'd struck yet, and no lack of excellent drink, but after a while Whampoa called a halt, and there was a little cabaret, of Chinese songs, and plays, which were the worst kind of pantomime drivel, but very pretty costumes and masks, and then two Chinese dancing girls - exquisite little trollops, but clad from head to foot, alas.

Afterwards Whampoa took Elspeth and me on a tour of his amazing house - all the walls were carved screens, in ivory and ebony, which must have been hellish draughty, but splendid to look at, and the doors were all oval in shape, with jade handles and gold frames - I reckon half a million might have bought the place. When we were finished, he presented me with a knife, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, in the shape of a miniature scimitar - to prove its edge, he dropped a filmy scrap of muslin on the blade, and it fell in half, sheared through by its own insignificant weight. (I've never sharpened it since, and it's as keen as ever, after sixty years.) To Elspeth he gave a model jade horse, whose bridle and stirrups were tiny jade chains, all cut out of one solid block - God knows what it was worth.

She scampered off to show it to the others, calling on Solomon to admire it, and Whampoa says quietly to me:

"You have known Mr Solomon Haslam for a long time?"

I said a year or so, in London, and he nodded his great bald head and turned his Buddha-like face to me.

"He is taking you on a cruise round his plantations, I believe. That will be interesting - I must ask him where they are. I should much like to visit them myself some day."

I said I thought they were on the peninsula, and he nodded gravely and sipped his sherry.

"No doubt they are. He is a man of sufficient shrewdness and enterprise, I think - he does business well." The sound of Elspeth's laughter sounded from the dining-room, and Whampoa's fat yellow face creased in a sudden smile. "How fortunate you are, Mr Flashman. I have, in my humble way - which is not at all humble, you understand - a taste for beautiful things, and especially in women. You have seen"— he fluttered his hand, with its beastly long nails —"that I surround myself with them. But when I see your lady, Elspet', I understand why the old story-tellers always made their gods and goddesses fair-skinned and golden-haired. If I were forty years younger, I should try to take her from you"— he sluiced down some more Amontillado —"with-out success, of course. But so much beauty - it is dangerous."

He looked at me, and I can't think why, but I felt a chill of sudden fear - not of him, but of what he was saying. Before I could speak, though, Elspeth was back, to exclaim again over her present, and prattle her thanks, and he stood smiling down at her, like some benign, sherry-soaked heathen god.

"Thank me, beautiful child, by coming again to my humble palace, for hereafter it will truly be humble without your presence," says he. Then we joined the others, and the thanks and compliments flew as we took our leave in that glittering place, and everything was cheery and happy - but I found myself shivering as we went out, which was odd, for it was a warm and balmy night.

I couldn't account for it, after such a jolly affair, but I went to bed thoroughly out of sorts. At first I put it down to foul Chinese grub, and certainly something gave me the most vivid nightmares, in which I was playing a single-wicket match up and downstairs in Whampoa's house, and his silky little Chinese tarts were showing me how to hold my bat - that part of it was all right, as they snuggled up, whispering fragrantly and guiding my hands, but all the time I was conscious of dark shapes moving behind the screens, and when Daedalus Tighe bowled to me it was a Chinese lantern that I had to hit, and it went ballooning up into the dark, bursting into a thousand rockets, and Old Morrison and the Duke came jumping out at me in sarongs, crying that I must run all through the house to score a single, at compound interest, and I set off, blundering past the screens, where nameless horrors lurked, and I was trying to catch Solomon, who was flitting like a shadow before me, calling out of the dark that there was no danger, because he carried ten guns, and I could feel someone or something drawing closer behind me, and Elspeth's voice was calling, fainter and fainter, and I knew if I looked back I should see something terrible - and there I was, gasping into the pillow, my face wet with sweat, and Elspeth snoring peacefully beside me.

It rattled me, I can tell you, because the last time I'd had a nightmare was in Gul Shah's dungeon, two years before, and that was no happy recollection. (It's a strange thing, by the way, that I usually have my worst nightmares in jail; I can remember some beauties, in Fort Raim prison, up on the Aral Sea, where I imagined old Morrison and Rudi Starnberg were painting my backside with boot polish, and in Gwalior Fort, where I waltzed in chains with Captain Charity Spring conducting the band, and the beastliest of all was in a Mexican clink during the Juarez business, when I dreamed I was charging the Balaclava guns at the head of a squadron of skeletons in mortar-boards, all chanting "Ab and absque, coram de", while just ahead of me Lord Cardigan was sailing in his yacht, leering at me and tearing Elspeth's clothes off. Mind you, I'd been living on chili and beans for a week.)

In any event, I didn't sleep well after Whampoa's party, and was in a fine fit of the dismals next day, as a result of which Elspeth and I quarrelled, and she wept and sulked until Solomon came to propose a picnic on the other side of the island. We would sail round in the Sulu Queen, he said, and make a capital day of it. Elspeth cheered up at once, and old Morrison was game, too, but I cried off, pleading indisposition. I knew what I needed to lift my gloom, and it wasn't an al fresco lunch in the mangrove swamps with those three; let them remove themselves, and it would leave me free to explore China Town at closer quarters, and perhaps sample the menu at one of those exclusive establishments that Solomon had mentioned; the Temple of Heaven was the name that stuck in my mind. Why, they might even have dainty little waitresses like Whampoa's, to teach you how to use your chopsticks.

So when the three of them had left, Elspeth with her nose in the air because I wasn't disposed to make up, I loafed about until evening and then whistled up a palki. My bearers jogged away through the crowded streets, and presently, just as dusk was falling, we reached our destination in what seemed to be a pleasant residential district inland from China Town, with big houses half-hidden in groves of trees from which paper lanterns hung; all very quiet and discreet.

The Temple of Heaven was a large frame house on a little hill, entirely surrounded by trees and shrubs, with a winding drive up to the front verandah, which was all dim lights and gentle music and Chinese servants scurrying to make the guests at home. There was a large cool dining-room, where I had an excellent European meal with a bottle and a half of champagne, and I was in capital fettle and ready for mischief when the Hindoo head waiter sidled up to ask if all was in order, and was there anything else that the gentleman required? Would I care to see a cabaret, or an exhibition of Chinese works of art, or a concert, if my tastes were musical, or …

"The whole d---d lot," says I, "for I ain't going home till morning, if you know what I mean. I've been six months at sea, so drum 'em up, Sambo, and sharp about it."

He smiled and bowed in his discreet Indian way, clapped his hands, and into the alcove where I was sitting there stepped the most gorgeous creature imaginable. She was Chinese, with blue-black hair coiled above a face that was pearl-like in its perfection and colour, with great slanting eyes, and her gown of crimson silk clung to a shape which English travellers are wont to describe as "a thought too generous for the European taste" but which, if I'd been a classical sculptor, would have had me dropping my hammer and chisel and reaching for the meat. Her arms were bare, and she spread them in the prettiest curtsey, smiling with perfect teeth between lips the colour of good port.

"This is Madame Sabba," says the waiter. "She will conduct you, if your excellency will permit … ?"

"I may, just about," says I. "Which way's upstairs?"

I imagined it was the usual style, you see, but Madame Sabba, indicating that I should follow, led the way through an arch and down a long corridor, glancing behind to see that I was following. Which I was, breathing heavy, with my eyes on that trim waist and wobbling bottom; I caught her up at the end door, and was just clutching a handful when I realized that we were on a porch, and she was slipping out of my fond embrace and indicating a palki which was waiting at the foot of the steps.

"What's this?" says I.

"The entertainment," says she, "is a little way off. They will take us there."

"The entertainment," says I, "is on this very spot." And I took hold of her, growling, and hauled her against me. By George, she was a randy armful, wriggling against me and pretending she wanted to break loose, while I nuzzled into her, inhaling her perfume and munching away at her lips and face.

"But I am only your guide," she giggled, turning her face aside. "I shall take you—"

"Just to the nearest bed, ducky. I'll do the guiding after that."

"You like - me?" says she, playing coy, while I overhauled her lustfully. "Why, then - this is not suitable, here. We must go a little way - but I believe that when you see what else is offered, you will not care for Sabba." And she stuck her tongue into my mouth and then pulled me towards the palki. "Come - they will take us quickly."

"If it's more than ten yards, it'll be a wasted trip," says I, pawing away as we clambered aboard and pulled the curtains. I was properly on the boil, and intent on giving her the business then and there, but to my frustration the palki was one of those double sedans, where you sit opposite each other, and all I could do was paw at her frontage in the dark, swearing as I tried to unbutton her dress, and squeezing at the delights beneath it, while she kissed and fondled, laughing, telling me not to be impatient, and the palki men jogged along, bouncing us in a way that made it impossible to get down to serious work. Where they were taking us I didn't care; what with champagne and passion I was lost to everything but the scented beauty teasing me in the dark; at last I managed to get one tit clear and was nibbling away when the palki stopped, and Madame Sabba gently disengaged herself.

"A moment," says she, and I could imagine her adjusting her gown in the darkness. "Wait here," her fingers gently stroked my lips, there was a glimpse of dusk as she slipped through the palki curtain - and then silence.

I waited, fretting and anticipating, for perhaps half a minute, and then stuck my head out. For a moment I couldn't make out anything in the gloom, and then I saw that the palki was stopped in a mean-looking street, between dark and shuttered buildings - but of the palki men and Madame Sabba there wasn't a sign. Just deserted shadow, not a light anywhere, and not a sound except the faint murmur of the town a long way off.

My blank astonishment lasted perhaps two seconds, to be replaced by rage as I tore back the palki curtain and stumbled out, cursing. I hadn't had time to feel the first chill of fear before I saw the black shapes moving out of the shadows at the end of the street, gliding silently towards me.

I'm not proud of what happened in the next moment. Of course, I was very young and thoughtless, and my great days of instant flight and evasion were still ahead of me, but even so, with my Afghan experience and my native cowardice to boot, my reaction was inexcusable. In my riper years I'd have lost no precious seconds in bemused swearing; long before those stealthy figures even appeared, I'd have realized that Madame Sabba's disappearance portended deadly danger, and been over the nearest wall and heading for the high country. But now, in my youthful folly and ignorance, I absolutely stood there gaping, and calling out:

"Who the devil are you, and what d'ye want? Where's my whore, confound it?"

And then they were running towards me, on silent feet, and I saw in a flash that I'd been lured to my death. Then, at last, was seen Flashy at his best, when it was all but too late. One scream, three strides, and I was leaping for the rickety fence between two houses; for an instant I was astride of it, and had a glimpse of four lean black shapes converging on me at frightening speed; something sang past my head and then I was down and pelting along the alley beyond, hearing the soft thuds behind as they vaulted over after me. I tore ahead full tilt, bawling "Help!" at the top of my lungs, shot round the corner, and ran for dear life down the street beyond.

It was my yellow belly that saved me, nothing else. A hero wouldn't have stood and fought - not against those odds, in such a place - but he'd at least have glanced back, to see how close the pursuit was, or maybe even have drawn rein to consider which way to run next. Which would have been fatal, for the speed at which they moved was fearful. One glimpse I caught of the leader as I turned the corner - a fell black shape moving like a panther, with something glittering in his hand - and in pure panic I went hurtling on, from one street to another, leaping every obstruction, screaming steadily for aid, but going at my uttermost every stride. That's what you young chaps have got to remember - when you run, run, full speed, with never a thought for anything else; don't look or listen or dither even for an instant; let terror have his way, for he's the best friend you've got.

He kept me ahead of the field for a good quarter of a mile, I reckon, through deserted streets and lanes, over fences and yards and ditches, and never a glimpse of a human soul, until I turned a corner and found myself looking down a narrow alley which obviously led to a frequented street, for at the far end there were lanterns and figures moving, and beyond that, against the night sky, the spars and masts of ships under riding lights.

"Help!" I bawled. "Murder! Assassins! Hell and damnation! Help!"

I was pelting down the alley as I shouted, and now, like a fool, I stole a glance back - there he was, like a black avenging angel gliding round the corner a bare twenty yards behind. I raced on, but in turning my head I'd lost my direction; suddenly there was an empty handcart in my path - left by some infernally careless coolie in the middle of the lane - and in trying to clear it I caught my foot and went sprawling. I was afoot in an instant, ahead of me someone was shouting, but my pursuer had halved the distance behind me, and as I shot another panic-stricken glance over my shoulder I saw his hand go back behind his head, something glittered and whirled at me, a fearful pain drove through my left shoulder, and I went sprawling into a pile of boxes, the flung hatchet clattering to the ground beside me.

He had me now; he came over the handcart like a hurdle racer, landed on the balls of his feet, and as I tried vainly to scramble to cover among the wrecked boxes, he plucked a second hatchet from his belt, poised it in his hand, and took deliberate aim. Behind me, along the alley, I could hear boots pounding, and a voice shouting, but they were too late for me - I can still see that horrible figure in the lantern light, the glistening black paint like a mask across the skull-like Chinese head, the arm swinging back to hurl the hatchet

"Jingo!" a voice called, and pat on the word something whispered in the air above my head, the hatchet-man shrieked, his body twisted on tip-toe, and to my amazement I saw clearly in silhouette that an object like a short knitting-needle was protruding from beneath his upturned chin. His fingers fluttered at it, and then his whole body seemed to dissolve beneath him, and he sprawled motion-less in the alley. Without being conscious of imitation, I followed suit.

If I fainted, though, with pain and shock, it can only have been for a moment, for I became conscious of strong hands raising me, and an English voice saying: "I say, he's taken a bit of a cut. Here, sit him against the wall." And there were other voices, in an astonishing jumble: "How's the Chink?" "Dead as mutton -Jingo hit him full in the crop." "By Jove, that was neat - I say, look here, though, he's starting to twitch!" "Well, I'm blessed, the poison's working, even though he's dead. If that don't beat everything!" "Trust our little Jingo - cut his throat and poison him afterwards, just for luck, what?"

I was too dazed to make anything of this, but one word in their crazy discussion struck home in my disordered senses.

"Poison!" I gasped. "The axe - poisoned! My God, I'm dying, get a doctor - my arm's gone dead already—"

And then I opened my eyes, and saw an amazing sight. In front of me was crouching a squat, hideously-featured native, naked save for a loin-cloth, gripping a long bamboo spear. Alongside him stood a huge Arab-looking chap, in white ducks and crimson sash, with a green scarf round his hawk head and a great red-dyed beard rippling down to his waist. There were a couple of other near-naked natives, two or three obvious seamen in ducks and caps, and kneeling at my right side a young, fair-haired fellow in a striped jersey. As motley a crowd as ever I opened eyes on, but when I turned my head to see who was poking painfully at my wounded shoulder, I forgot all about the others - this was the chap to look at.

It was a boy's face; that was the first impression, in spite of the bronzed, strong lines of it, the touches of grey in the dark curly hair and long side-whiskers, the tough-set mouth and jaw, and the half-healed sword cut that ran from his right brow onto his cheek. He was about forty, and they hadn't been quiet years, but the dark blue eyes were as innocent as a ten-year-old's and when he grinned, as he was doing now, you thought at once of stolen apples and tacks on the master's chair.

"Poison?" says he, ripping away my blood-sodden sleeve. "Not a bit of it. Chink hatchet-men don't go in for it, you know. That's for ignorant savages like Jingo here - say `How-de-do' to the gentleman, Jingo." And while the savage with the spear bobbed his head at me with a frightful grin, this chap left off mauling my shoulder, and reaching over towards the body of my fallen pursuer, pulled the knitting-needle thing from his neck.

"See there," says he, holding it gingerly, and I saw it was a thin dart about a foot long. "That's Jingo's delight - saved your life, I dare say, didn't it, Jingo? Of course, any Iban worth his salt can hit a farthing at twenty yards, but Jingo can do it at fifty. Radjun poison on the tip - not fatal to humans, as a rule, but it don't need to be if the dart goes through your jugular, does it?" He tossed the beastly thing aside and poked at my wound again, humming softly:

"Oh, say was you ever in Mobile bay, A-screwin' cotton at a dollar a day, Sing `Johnny come down to Hilo'."

I yelped with pain and he clicked his tongue reprovingly.

"Don't swear," says he. "Just excite yourself, and you won't go to heaven when you die. Anyway, squeaking won't mend it - it's just a scrape, two stitches and you'll be as right as rain."

"It's agony!" I groaned. "I'm bleeding buckets!"

"No, you ain't, either. Anyway, a great big hearty chap like you won't miss a bit of blood. Mustn't be a milksop. Why, when I got this"— he touched his scar —"I didn't even cheep. Did I, Stuart?"

"Yes, you did," says the fair chap. "Bellowed like a bull and wanted your mother."

"Not a word of truth in it. Is there, Paitingi?"

The red-bearded Arab spat. "You enjoy bein' hurt," says he, in a strong Scotch accent. "Ye gaunae leave the man lyin' here a' nicht?"

"We ought to let Mackenzie look at him, J.B.," says the fair chap. "He's looking pretty groggy."

"Shock," says my ministering angel, who was knotting his handkerchief round my shoulder, to my accompanying moans. "There, now - that'll do. Yes, let Mac sew him together, and he'll be ready to tackle twenty hatchet-men tomorrow. Won't you, old son?" And the grinning mad-man winked and patted my head. "Why was this one chasing you, by the way? I see he's a Black-face; they usually hunt in packs."

Between groans, I told him how my palki had been set on by four of them - I didn't say anything about Madame Sabba - and he stopped grinning and looked murderous.

"The cowardly, sneaking vagabonds!" cries he. "I don't know what the police are thinking about - leave it to me and I'd clear the rascals out in a fortnight, wouldn't I just!" He looked the very man to do it, too. "It's too bad altogether. You were lucky we happened along, though. Think you can walk? Here, Stuart, help him up. There now," cries the callous brute, as they hauled me to my feet, "you're feeling better already, I'll be bound!"

At any other time I'd have given him a piece of my mind, for if there's one thing I detest more than another it's these hearty, selfish, muscular Christians who are forever making light of your troubles when all you want to do is lie whimpering. But I was too dizzy with the agony of my shoulder, and besides, he and his amazing gang of sailors and savages had certainly saved my bacon, so I felt obliged to mutter my thanks as well as I could. J.B. laughed at this and said it was all in a good cause, and duty-free, and they would see me home in a palki. So while some of them set off hallooing to find one, he and the others propped me against the wall, and then they stood about and discussed what they should do with the dead Chinaman.

It was a remarkable conversation, in its way. Someone suggested, sensibly enough, that they should cart him along and give him to the police, but the fair chap, Stuart, said no, they ought to leave him lying and write a letter to the "Free Press" complaining about litter in the streets. The Arab, whose name was Paitingi Ali, and whose Scotch accent I found unbelievable, was for giving him a Christian burial, of all things, and the hideous little native, Jingo, jabbering excitedly and stamping his feet, apparently wanted to cut his head off and take it home.

"Can't do that," says Stuart. "You can't cure it till we get to Kuching, and it'll stink long before that."

"I won't have it," says the man J.B., who was evidently the leader. "Taking heads is a beastly practice, and one I am resolved to suppress. Mind you," he added, "Jingo's suggestion, by his own lights, has a stronger claim to consideration than yours - it is his head, since he killed the fellow. Hollo, though, here's Crimble with the palki. In you go, old chap."

I wondered, listening to them, if my wound had made me delirious; either that, or I had fallen in with a party of lunatics. But I was too used up to care; I let them stow me in the palki, and lay half-conscious while they debated where they might find Mackenzie - who I gathered was a doctor - at this time of night. No one seemed to know where he might be, and then someone recalled that he had been going to play chess with Whampoa. I had just enough of my wits left to recall the name, and croak out that Whampoa's establishment would suit me splendidly - the thought that his delectable little Chinese girls might be employed to nurse me was particularly soothing just then.

"You know Whampoa, do you?" says J.B. "Well, that settles it. Lead on, Stuart. By the way," says he to me, as they picked up the palki, "my name's Brooke - James Brooke¹⁶ - known as J.B. You're Mr … ?"

I told him, and even in my reduced condition it was a satisfaction to see the blue eyes open wider in surprise.

"Not the Afghan chap? Well, I'm blessed! Why, I've wanted to meet you this two years past! And to think that if we hadn't happened along, you'd have been …

My head was swimming with pain and fatigue, and I didn't hear any more. I have a faint recollection of the palki jogging, and of the voices of my escort singing:

"Oh, say have you seen the plantation boss,

With his black-haired woman and his high-tail hoss, Sing 'Johnny come down to Hilo',

Poor … old … man!"

But I must have gone under, for the next thing I remember is the choking stench of ammonia beneath my nose, and when I opened my eyes there was a glare of light, and I was sitting in a chair in Whampoa's hall. My coat and shirt had been stripped away, and a burly, black-bearded chap was making me wince and cry out with a scalding hot cloth applied to my wound - sure enough, though, at his elbow was one of those almond-eyed little beauties, holding a bowl of steaming water. She was the only cheery sight in the room, for as I blinked against the light reflected from the magnificence of silver and jade and ivory I saw that the ring of faces watching me was solemn and silent and still as statues.

There was Whampoa himself, in the centre, impassive as ever in his splendid gown of black silk; next to him Catchick Moses, his bald head gleaming and his kindly Jewish face pale with grief; Brooke, not smiling now - his jaw and mouth were set like stone, and beside him the fair boy Stuart was a picture of pity and horror - what the hell are they staring at, I wondered, for I ain't as ill as all that, surely? Then Whampoa was talking, and I understood, for what he said made the terror of that night, and the pain of my wound, seem insignificant. He had to repeat it twice before it sank in, and then I could only sit staring at him in horror and disbelief.

"Your beautiful wife, the lady Elspet', has gone. The man Solomon Haslam has stolen her. The Sulu Queen sailed from Singapore this night, no one knows where."

* * *

[Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, July -, 1844]

Lost! lost! lost! I have never been so Surprised in my life. One moment secure in Tranquillity and Affection, among Loving Friends and Relations, shielded by the Devotion of a Constant Husband and Generous Parent - the next, horribly stolen away by one that I had esteemed and trusted almost beyond any gentleman of my acquaintance (excepting of course H. and dear Papa). Shall I ever see them again? What terrible fate lies ahead - ah, I can guess all too well, for I have seen the Loathsome Passion in his eyes, and it is not to be thought that he has so ruthlessly abducted me to any end but one! I am so distracted by Shame and Terror that I believe my Reason will be unseated - lest it should, I must record my Miserable Lot while clarity of thought remains, and I can still hold my trembling pen!

Oh, alas, that I parted from my darling H. in discord and sulks - and over the Merest Trifle, because he threw the coffee pot against the wall and kicked the servant - which was no more than that minion deserved, for his bearing had been Careless and Familiar, and he would not clean his nails before waiting upon us. And I, sullen Wretch that I was, reproved my Dearest One, and took that Bad Servant's part, so that we were at odds over breakfast, and exchanged only the most Brief Remarks for the better part of the day, with Pouting and Missishness on my unworthy part, and Dark Looks and Exclamations from my Darling - but I see now how forbearing he was with such a Perverse and Contrary creature as XmeX I. Oh, Unhappy, unworthy woman that I am, for it was in Cruel Huff that I accompanied Don S., that Viper, on his proposed excursion, thinking to Punish my dear, patient, sweet Protector - oh, it is I who am punished for my selfish and spiteful conduct!

All went well until our picnic ashore, although I believe the champagne was flat, and made me feel strangely drowsy, so that I must go aboard the vessel to lie down. With no thought of Peril, I slept, and awoke to find we were under way, with Don S. upon deck instructing his people to make all speed. "Where is Papa?" I cried, "and why are we sailing away from land? See, Don Solomon, the sun is sinking; we must return!" His face was Pale, despite his warm complection, and his look was Wild. With brutal frankness, yet in a Moderate Tone, he told me I should Resign myself, for I should never see my dear Papa again.

"What do you mean, Don Solomon?" I cried. "We are bidden to Mrs Alec Middleton's for dinner!" It was then, in a voice which shook with Feeling, so unlike his usual Controll'd form of address, although I could see he was striving to master his Emotion, that he told me there could be no going back; that he was subject to an Overmastering Passion for me, and had been from our Moment of First Meeting. "The die is cast," he declared. "I cannot live without you, so I must make you my own, in the face of the world and your husband, tho' it means I must cut all my ties with civilized life, and take you beyond pursuit, to my own distant kingdom, where, I assure you, you will rule as Queen not only over my Possessions, but over my Heart."

"This is madness, Don Solomon," I cried. "I have no clothes with me. Besides, I am a married woman, with a Position in Society." He said it was no matter for that, and Seizing me suddenly in his Powerful Embrace, which took my breath away, he vowed that I loved him too - that he had known it from Encouraging Signs he had detected in me - which, of course, was the Odious Construction which his Fever'd Brain had placed on the common civilities and little pleasantries which a Lady is accustomed to bestow on a Gentleman.

I was quite overcome at the fearful position in which I found myself, so unexpectedly, but not so much that I lost my capacity for Careful Consideration. For having pleaded with him to repent this madness, which could lead only to shame for myself, and Ruin for him, and even having demeaned myself to the extent of struggling vainly in his crushing embrace, so Brutally Strong and inflexible, as well as calling loudly for assistance and kicking his shins, I became calmer, and feigned to Swoon. I recollected that there is no Emergency beyond the Power of a Resolute Englishwoman, especially if she is Scotch, and took heart from the lesson enjoined by our dominie, Mr Buchanan, at the Renfrew Academy for Young Ladies and Gentlewomen - ah, dear home, am I parted forever from the Scenes of Childhood? - that in Moments of Danger, it is of the first importance to take Accurate Measurements and then act with boldness and dispatch.

Accordingly, I fell limp in my Captor's cruel -altho' no doubt he meant it to be Affectionate - clasp, and he relaxing his vigilance, I broke free and sped to the rail, intending to cast myself upon the mercy of the waves, and swim ashore - for I was a Strong Swimmer, and hold the West of Scotland Physical Improvement Society's certificate for Saving Life from Drowning, having been among the First to receive it when that Institution was founded in 1835, or it may have been 1836, when I was still a child. It was not very far to the shore, either, but before I could fling myself into the sea, in the Trust of Almighty God, I was seized by one of Don S.'s Hideous and Smelling natives, and despite my struggles, I was carried below, at Don S.'s orders, and am confined in the saloon, where I write this melancholy account.

What shall I do? Oh, Harry, Harry, darling Harry, come and save me! Forgive my Thoughtless and Way-ward behaviour, and Rescue me from the Clutches of this Improper Person. I think he must be mad - and yet, such Passionate Obsessions are not uncommon, I believe, and I am not insensible of the Regard that I have been shown by others of his sex, who have praised my attractions, so I must not pretend that I do not understand the reason for his Horrid and Ungallant Conduct. My dread is that before Aid can reach me, his Beast may overpower his Finer Feelings - and even now I cannot suppose that he is altogether Dead to Propriety, though how long such Restraint will continue I cannot say.

So come quickly, quickly, my own love, for how can I, weak and defenceless as I am, resist him unaided? I am in terror and distraction at 9 p.m. The weather continues fine.

[End of extract - this is what comes of forward and immodest behaviour - G. de R.]

"I blame myself," says Whampoa, sipping his sherry. "For years one does business with a man, and if his credit is good and his merchandise sound, one clicks the abacus and sets aside the doubts one feels on looking into his eyes." He was enthroned behind his great desk, impassive as Buddha, with one of his little tarts beside him holding the Amontillado bottle. "I knew he was not safe, but I let it go, even when I saw how he watched your golden lady two evenings since. It disturbed me, but I am a lazy, stupid and selfish fool, so I did nothing. You shall tell me so, Mr Flashman, and I shall bow my unworthy head beneath your deserved censure."

He nodded towards me while his glass was refilled, and Catchick Moses burst out:

"Not as stupid as I, for God's sake, and I'm a man of business, they say! Yeh! Haven't I for the past week been watching him liquidate his assets, closing his warehouses, selling his stock to my committee, auctioning his lighters?" He spread his hands. "Who cared? He was a cash-on-thetable man, so did I mind where he came from, or that nobody knew him before ten years back? He was in spice, they said, and silk, and antimony, and God-knows-what, with plantations up the coast and something-or-other in the Islands - and now you tell us, Whampoa, that no one has ever seen these estates of his?"

"That is my information in the past few hours," says Whampoa gravely. "It amounts to this: he has great riches, but no one knows where they come from. He is a Singapore middle-man, but he is not alone in that. His name was good, because he did good business—"

"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.

"Oh, but you're only guessing!" cries Catchick. "A coincidence in names—"

"And in times. Solomon Haslam went to England three years ago - and Suleiman Usman vanished at the same time."

That silenced them, and then Brooke says slowly:

"It might be true, but if it was, what difference does it make, after all—"

"Some, I think. For if it is true you need look no farther than Borneo for the Sulu Queen's destination. Maludu lies north, beyond the Papar river, in unexplored country. He may go there, or take cover among his allies on the Seribas river or the Batang Lupar—"

"If he does, he's done for!" cries Brooke excitedly. "I can bottle him there, or anywhere between Kuching and Serikei Point!"

Whampoa sluiced down some more sherry. "It may not be so easy. Suleiman Usman was a man of power; his fort at Maludu was accounted impregnable, and he could draw at need on the great pirate fleets of the Lanun and Balagnini and Maluku of Gillalao. You have fought pirates, your majesty, I know - but hardly as many as these."

"I'd fight every sea-robber from Luzon to Sumatra in this quarrel," says Brooke. "And beat 'em. And swing Suleiman Usman from the Dido's foretop at the end of it.

"If he is the man you are looking for," says Catchick. "Whampoa may be wrong."

"Undoubtedly, I make frequent mistakes, in my poor ignorance," says Whampoa. "But not, I think, in this. I have further proof. No one among us, I believe, has ever seen Suleiman Usman of Maludu - or met anyone who has? No. However, my agents have been diligent tonight, and I can now supply a brief description. About thirty years old, over two yards in height, of stout build, unmarked features. Is it enough?"

It was enough for one listener, at any rate. Why not - it was no more incredible than all the rest of the events of that fearful night; indeed, it seemed to confirm them, as Whampoa pointed out.

"I would suggest also," says he, "that we need look no further for an explanation of the attack by Black-faces on Mr Flashman," and they all turned to stare at me. "Tell me, sir - you dined at a restaurant, before the attack? The Temple of Heaven, as I understand—"

"By God!" I croaked. "It was Haslam who recommended it!"

Whampoa shrugged. "Remove the husband, and the most ardent pursuer is disposed of. Such an assassination might be difficult to arrange, for an ordinary Singapore merchant, but to a pirate, with his connections with the criminal community, it would be simple."

"The cowardly swine!" cries Brooke. "Well, his ruffians were out of luck, weren't they? The pursuer's ready for the chase, ain't you, Flashman? And between us we'll make this scoundrel Usman or Haslam rue the day he dared to cast eyes on an Englishwoman. We'll smoke him out, and his foul crew with him. Oh, let me alone for that!"

I wasn't thinking that far ahead, I confess, and I didn't know James Brooke at this moment for anything but a smiling madman in a pilot-cap, with an odd taste in friends and followers. If I'd known him for what he truly was, I'd have been in an even more agitated condition when our discussion finally ended, and I was helped up Whampoa's staircase to a magnificent bed-chamber, and tucked in between silk sheets, bandaged shoulder and all, by his stewards and Dr Mackenzie. I hardly knew where I was; my mind was in a perfect spin, but when they'd left me, and I was lying staring up at the thin rays of sunlight that were breaking through the screens - for it was now full day outside - there broke at last the sudden dreadful realization of what had happened. Elspeth was gone; she was in the clutches of a nigger pirate, who could take her beyond the maps of Europeans, to some horrible stronghold where she'd be his slave, where we could never hope to find her - my beautiful, idiot Elspeth, with her creamy skin and golden hair and imbecile smile and wonderful body, lost to me, forever.

I ain't sentimental, but suddenly I could feel the tears running down my face, and I was muttering her name in the darkness, over and over, alone in my empty bed, where she ought to have been, all soft and warm and passionate - and just then there was a scratching at my door, and when it opened, there was Whampoa, bowing from his great height on the threshold. He came forward beside the bed, his hands tucked into his sleeves, and looked down at me. Was my shoulder, he asked, giving me great pain? I said it was agony.

"But no greater," says he, "than your torment of mind. That, too, nothing can alleviate. The loss you have suffered of the loveliest of companions, is a deprivation which cannot but excite compassion in any man of feeling. I know that nothing can take the place of the beautiful golden lady, and that every thought of her must be a pang of the most exquisite agony. But as some small, poor consolation to your grief of mind and body, I humbly offer the best that my poor establishment provides." He said something in Chinese, and through the door, to my amazement, glided two of his little Chink girls, one in red silk, t'other in green. They came forward and stood either side of the bed, like voluptuous little dolls, and began to unbutton their dresses.

"These are White Tigress and Honey-and-Milk," says Whampoa. "To offer you the services of only one would have seemed an insulting comparison with the magic of your exquisite lady, therefore I send two, in the hope that quantity may be some trivial amend for a quality which they cannot hope to approach. Triflingly inadequate as they are, their presence may soothe your pains in some infinitesimal degree. They are skilful by our mean standards, but if their clumsiness and undoubted ugliness are offensive, you should beat them for their correction and your pleasure. Forgive my presumption in presenting them."

He bowed, retreating, and the door closed behind him just as the two dresses dropped to the floor with a gentle swish, and two girlish giggles sounded in the dimness.

You must never refuse an Oriental's hospitality, you know. It doesn't do, or they get offended; you just have to buckle to and pretend it's exactly what you wanted, whether you like it or not.

* * *

For four days I was confined in Whampoa's house with my gashed shoulder, recuperating, and I've never had a more blissfully ruinous convalescence in my life. It would have been interesting, had there been time, to see whether my wound healed before Whampoa's solicitous young ladies killed me with their attentions; my own belief is that I would have expired just about the time the stitches were ready to come out. As it was, my confinement was cut short by the arrival and swift departure of HMS Dido, commanded by one Keppel, RN; willy-nilly, I had to sail with her, staggering aboard still weak with loss of blood, et cetera, clutching the gangway not so much for support as to prevent my being wafted away by the first puff of breeze.

You see, it was taken for granted that as a devoted husband and military hero, I was in a sweat to be off in quest of my abducted spouse and her pirate ravisher - that was one of the disadvantages of life on the frontiers of Empire in the earlies, that you were expected to do your own avenging and recovering, with such assistance as the authorities might lend. Not my style at all; left to old Flash it would have been a case of tooling round to the local constabulary, reporting a kidnapped wife, leaving my name and address, and letting 'em get on with it. After all, it's what they're paid for, and why else was I stumping up sevenpence in the pound income tax?

I said as much to old Morrison, thinking it was the kind of view that would appeal to him, but all I got for my pains was tears and curses.

"You're tae blame!" whimpers he, for he was far too reduced to bawl; he looked fit to pass away, his eyes sunk and his cheeks blenched, but still full of spite against me. "If you had been daein' your duty as a husband, this would never have happened. Oh, Goad, ma puir wee lamb! My wee bit lassie - and you, where were ye? Whoorin' away in some hoose o' ill fame, like enough, while—"

"Nothing of the sort!" cries I indignantly. "I was at a Chinese restaurant," at which he set up a great wail, burying his head in the bed-clothes and bawling about his wee bairn.

"Ye'll bring her back!" he croaks presently. "Ye'll save her - you're a military man, wi' decorations, an' she's the wife o' your boozum, so she is! Say ye'll bring her back tae her puir auld faither? Aye, yell dae that - ye're a guid lad, Harry - ye'll no' fail her." And more in the same nauseating vein, interspersed with curses that he had ever set foot outside Glasgow. No doubt it was very pitiable, and if I'd been less disturbed myself and hadn't despised the little swine so heartily, I might have felt sorry for him. I doubt it, though.

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. Damn Elspeth, for a hare-brained, careless, wanton, ogling little slut, and damn Solomon for a horny thief who hadn't the decency to be content with women of his own beastly colour, and damn this officious, bloodthirsty lunatic Brooke - who the devil 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 besar*(* Great lord.)- 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. "God, 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, "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, blast 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 damn 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 as warm 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. But 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?"

"You know her?" cries he, and he was pink to the gills, and right out of countenance for once. "I have never had the honour of meeting her," he went on, in a hushed, stuffed way, "but I have long admired her, for her enlightened opinions, and unsparing championship of worthy causes." He looked at the miniature like a contemplative frog. "Tell me - is she as … as … well - ah - as her portrait suggests?"

"She's a stunner, if that's what you mean," says I, for like every other grown male in London I, too, had admired little Angie, though not entirely for her enlightened opinions - more for the fact that she had a superb complexion, tits like footballs, and two million in the bank, really. I'd taken a loving fumble at her myself, during blind-man's-buff at a party in Stratton Street, but she'd simply stared straight ahead of her and dislocated my thumb. Wasteful little prude.²⁰

"Perhaps, one of these days, when I return to England, you will present me," says he, gulping, and shovelled her picture into a drawer. Well, well, thinks I, who'd have thought it: the mad pirate-killer and rose-fancier, spoony on Angie Coutts's picture - I'll bet that every time he contemplates it the local Dyak lasses have to scamper for cover.

I must have said something to this effect, in my tasteful way, that same evening to Stuart, no doubt with my lewd Flashy nudge and leer, but he was such an innocent that he just shook his head and sighed deeply.

"Miss Burdett-Coutts?" says he. "Poor old J.B. He has told me of his deep regard for her, although he's a very secret man about such things. I dare say they'd make a splendid match, but it can't be, of course - even if he realized his ambition to meet her."

"Why not?" says I. "He's a likely chap, and just the kind to fire a romantic piece like young Angie. Why, they'd go like duck and green peas." Kindly old match-maker Flash, you see.

"Impossible," says Stuart, and then he went red in the face and hesitated. "You see- it's a shocking thing - but J.B. can never marry - it wouldn't do, at all."

Hollo, thinks I, he ain't one of the Dick's hatband brigade, surely? - I'd not have thought it.

"It is never mentioned, of course," says Stuart, uncomfortably, "but it is as well you should know - in case, in conversation, you unwittingly made any reference that might … well, be wounding. It was in Burma, you see, when he was in the army. He received an … incapacitating injury in battle. It was put about that it was a bullet in the lung … but in fact … well, it wasn't."

"Good God, you don't mean to say," cries I, genuinely appalled, "that he got his knocker shot off?"

"Let's not think about it," says he, but I can tell you I went about wincing for the rest of the evening. Poor old White Raja - I mean, I'm a callous chap enough, but there are some tragedies that truly wring the heart. Mad about that delectable little bouncer Angie Coutts, despot of a country abounding with the juiciest of dusky flashtails just itching for him to exercise the droit de seigneur, and there he was with a broken firing-pin. I don't know when I've been more deeply moved. Still, if J.B. was the first man in to rescue Elspeth, she'd be safe enough.²¹

It was an appropriate thought, for that same evening, after dinner at The Grove, we held the council at which Brooke announced his plan of operations. It followed a dinner as formal in its way as any I've ever attended - but that was Brooke all over: when we had our pegs on the verandah beforehand he was laughing and sky-larking, playing leap-frog with Stuart and Crimble and even the dour Paitingi, the bet being that he could jump over them one after another with a glass in one hand, and not spill a drop - but when the bell sounded, everyone quieted down, and filed silently into his great room.

I can still see it, Brooke at the head of the table in his big armchair, stiff in his white collar and carefully-tied black neckercher, with black coat and ruffled cuffs, the eager brown face grave for once, and the only thing out of place his untidy black curls - he could never get 'em to lie straight. On one side of him was Keppel, in full fig of uniform dress coat and epaulette, with his best black cravat, looking sleepy and solemn; Stuart and I in the cleanest ducks we could find; Charlie Wade, Keppel's lieutenant; Paitingi Ali, very brave in a tunic of dark plaid trimmed with gold and with a great crimson sash, and Crimble, another of Brooke's lieutenants, who absolutely had a frock coat and fancy weskit. There was a Malay steward behind each chair, and over in the corner, silent but missing nothing, the squint-faced Jingo; even he had exchanged his loin-cloth for a silver sarong, with hornbill feathers in his hair and decorating the shaft of his sumpitan*(* Blowpipe.) standing handy against the wall. I never saw him without it, or the little bamboo quiver of his beastly darts.

I don't remember much of the meal, except that the food was good and the wine execrable, and that conversation consisted of Brooke lecturing interminably; like most active men, he had all the makings of a thoroughgoing bore.

"There shan't be a missionary in Borneo if I can help it," I remember him saying, "for there are only two kinds, bad ones and Americans. The bad ones ram Christianity down the natives' throats and tell them their own gods are false—"

"Which they are," says Keppel quietly.

"Of course, but a gentleman doesn't tell 'em so," says Brooke. "The Yankees have the right notion; they devote themselves to medicine and education, and don't talk religion or politics. And they don't treat natives as inferiors - that's where we've gone wrong in India," says he, wagging his finger at me, as though I had framed British policy. "We've made them conscious of their inferiority, which is a great folly. After all, if you've a weaker younger brother, you encourage him to think he can run as fast as you can, or jump as far without a race, don't you? He knows he can't, but that don't matter. In the same way, natives know they're inferior, but they'll love you all the better if they think you are unconscious of it."

"Well, you may be right," says Charlie Wade, who was Irish, "but I don't for the life of me see how you can ever expect 'em to grow up, at that rate, or achieve any self-respect at all."

"You can't," says Brooke briskly. "No Asiatic is fit to govern, anyway.

"And Europeans are?" says Paitingi, snorting.

"Only to govern Asiatics," says Brooke. "A glass of wine with you, Flashman. But I'll give you this, Paitingi - you can rule Asiatics only by living among them. You cannot govern them from London, or Paris, or Lisbon—"

"Aye, but Dundee, now?" says Paitingi, stroking his red beard, and when the roar of laughter had died down Brooke cries:

"Why, you old heathen, you have never been nearer to Dundee than Port Said! Observe," says he to me, "that in old Paitingi you have the ultimate flowering of a mixture of east and west - an Arab-Malay father and a Caledonian mother. Ah, the cruel fate of the half-caste - he has spent fifty years trying to reconcile the Kirk with the Koran."

"They're no' that different," says Paitingi, "an' at least they're baith highly superior tae the Book o' Common Prayer."

I was interested to see the way they railed at each other, as only very close friends do. Brooke obviously had an immense respect for Paitingi Ali; however, now that the talk had touched on religion, he began to hold forth again on an interminable prose about how he had recently written a treatise against Article 90 of the "Oxford Tracts", whatever they were, which lasted to the end of the meal. Then, with due solemnity, he proposed the Queen, which was drunk sitting down, Navy fashion, and while the rest of us talked and smoked, Brooke went through a peculiar little ceremony which, I suppose, explained better than anything else the hold he had on his native subjects.

All through the meal, a most curious thing had been happening. While the courses and wine had come with all due ceremony, and we had been buffing in, I'd noticed that every few minutes a Malay, or Dyak, or half-breed would come into the room, touch Brooke's hand as they passed his chair, and then go to squat near the wall by Jingo. No one paid them any notice; they seemed to be all sorts, from a near-naked beggarly rascal to a well-dressed Malay in gold sarong and cap, but they were all armed - I learned later that it was a great insult to come into the White Raja's presence without your krees, which is the strange, wavy-bladed knife of the people.

In any event, while the rest of us gassed, Brooke turned his chair, beckoned each suppliant in turn, and talked with him quietly in Malay. One after another they came to hunker down beside him, putting their cases or telling their tales, while he listened, leaning forward with elbows on knees, nodding attentively. Then he would pronounce, quietly, and they would touch hands again and go; the rest of us might as well not have been there. When I asked Stuart about it later, he said: "Oh, that's J.B. ruling Sarawak. Simple, ain't it?"²²

When the last native had gone Brooke sat in a reverie for a moment or two, and then swung abruptly to the table.

"No singing tonight," says he. "Business. Let's have that map, Crimble. " We crowded round, the lamps were turned up, shining on the ring of sunburned faces under the wreath of cigar smoke, and Brooke tapped the table. I felt my belly muscles tightening.

"We know what's to do, gentlemen," cries he, "and I'll answer that the task is one that strikes a spark in the heart of every one of us. A fair and gentle lady, the beloved wife of one here, is in the hands of a bloody pirate; she is to be saved, and he destroyed. By God's grace, we know where the quarry lies, not sixty miles from where we sit, on the Batang Lupar, the greatest lair of robbers in these Islands, save Mindanao itself. Look at it"— his finger stabbed the map —"first, Sharif Jaffir and his slaver fleet, at Fort Linga; beyond him, the great stronghold of Sharif Sahib at Patusan; farther on, at Undup, the toughest nut of all - the fortress of the Skrang pirates under Sharif Muller. Was ever a choicer collection of villains on one river? Add to 'em now the arch-devil, Suleiman Usman, who has stolen away Mrs Flashman in dastardly fashion. She is the key to his vile plan, gentlemen, for he knows we cannot leave her in his clutches an hour longer than we must." He gave my shoulder a manly squeeze; everyone else was carefully avoiding my eye. "He realizes that chivalry will not permit us to wait. You know him, Flashman; is this not how his scheming mind will reason?"

I didn't doubt it, and said so. "He's made a fortune in the City, too, and plays a d---d dirty game of single-wicket," I added, and Brooke nodded sympathetically.

"He knows I dare not delay, even if it means going after him with only the piecemeal force I have here - fifty praus and two thousand men, a third of which I must leave to garrison Kuching. Even so, Usman knows I must take at least a week to prepare - a week in which he can muster his praus and savages, outnumbering us ten to one, and make ready his ambushes along the Lupar, confident that we'll stumble into them half-armed and ill-prepared—"

"Stop it, before I start wishin' I was on their side," mutters Wade, and Brooke laughed in his conceited fashion and threw back his black curls.

"Why, he'll wipe us out to the last man!" cries he. "That's his beastly scheme. That," he smiled complacently round at us, "is what Suleiman Usman thinks."

Paitingi sighed. "But, of course, he's wrong, the puir heathen," says he with heavy sarcasm. "Ye'll tell us how."

"You may wager the Bank to a tinker's dam he's wrong!" cries Brooke, his face alive with swank and excitement. "He expects us in a week - he shall have us in two days! He expects us with two-thirds of our strength - well, we'll show him all of it! I'll strip Kuching of every man and gun and leave it defenceless - I'll stake everything on this throw!" He beamed at us, bursting with confidence. "Surprise, gentlemen - that's the thing! I'll catch the rascal napping before he's laid his infernal toils! What d'you say?"

I know what I'd have said, if I'd been talking just then. I'd never heard such lunacy in my life, and neither had the others by the look of them. Paitingi snorted.

"Ye're mad! It'll no' do."

"I know, old fellow," grins Brooke. "What then?"

"Ye've said it yersel'! There's a hundred mile o' river between Skrang creek and the sea, every yard o' it hotchin' wi' pirates, slavers, nata-hutan,*(* "Wood devils", i.e. users of the sumpitan). an' heid-hunters by the thousand, every side-stream crawlin' wi' war-praus an' bankongs, tae say nothin' o' the forts! Surprise, says you? By Eblis, I ken who'll be surprised! We've done oor share o' river-fightin', but this—" he waved a great red hand. "Withoot a well-fitted expedition in strength - man, it's fatal folly."

"He's right, J.B.," says Keppel. "Anyway, even the poor force we've got couldn't be ready in two days—" "Yes, it can, though. In one, if necessary."

"Well, even then - you might catch Fort Linga unprepared, but after that they'll be ready for you upriver."

"Not at the speed I'll move!" cries Brooke. "The messenger of disaster from Linga to Patusan will have us on his heels! We'll carry all before us, all the way to Skrang if need be!"

"But Kuching?" Stuart protested. "Why, the Balagnini or those beastly Lanun could sweep it up while our back was turned."

"Never!" Brooke was exultant. "They won't know it's naked! And suppose they did - why, we'd just have to begin all over again, wouldn't we? You talk about the odds against us on the Lupar- were they a whit better at Seribas, or Murdu? Were they any better when you and I, George, took all Sarawak with six guns and a leaky pleasure-yacht? I tell you, gentlemen, I can have this thing over and done in a fortnight! D'you doubt me? Have I ever failed, and will I fail now, when there is a poor, weak creature crying out for rescue, and I, a Briton, hear that cry? When I have the stout hearts and good keels that will do the thing, and crush this swarm of hornets, too, before they can scatter on their accursed errands? What? I tell you, all the Queen's ships and all the Queen's men could not bring such a chance together again, and I mean to take it!"

I'd never seen it before, although I've seen it more times than I care to count since - one man, mad as a hatter and drunk with pride, sweeping sane heads away against their better judgement. Chinese Gordon could do it, and Yakub Beg the Kirghiz; so could J. E. B. Stuart, and that almighty maniac George Custer. They and Brooke could have formed a club. I can see him still; erect, head thrown back, eyes blazing, like the worst kind of actor mouthing the Agincourt speech to a crowd of yokels in a tent theatre in the backwoods. I don't believe he convinced them - Stuart and Crimble, perhaps, but not Keppel and the others; certainly not Paitingi. But they couldn't resist him, or the force that beat out of him. He was going to have his way, and they knew it. They stood silent; Keppel, I think, was embarrassed. And then Paitingi says:

"Aye. Ye'll want me to have charge o' the spy-boats, I suppose?"

That settled it, and at once Brooke quieted down, and they set to earnestly to discuss ways and means, while I sat back contemplating the horror of the whole thing, and wondering how I could weasel out of it. Plainly they were going to catastrophe, lugging me along with them, and not a thing to be done about it. I turned over a dozen schemes in my mind, from feigning insanity to running away; finally, when all but Brooke had hurried off to begin the preparations which were to take them all night and the following day, I had a feeble shot at turning him from his hare-brained purpose. Perhaps, I suggested diffidently, it might be possible to ransom Elspeth; I'd heard of such things being done among the Oriental pirates, and old Morrison was stiff with blunt which he'd be glad …

"What?" cries Brooke, his brow darkening. "Treat with these scoundrels? Never! I should not contemplate such - ah, but I see what it is!" He came over all compassionate, and laid a hand on my arm. "You are fearful for your dear one's safety, when battle is joined. You need have no such fear, old fellow; no harm will come to her."

Well, it was beyond me how he could guarantee that, but then he explained, and I give you my word that this is what he said. He sat me down in my chair and poured me a glass of arrack first.

"It is natural enough, Flashman, that you should believe this pirate's motives to be of the darkest kind … where your wife is concerned. Indeed, from what I have heard of her grace and charm of person, they are such as might well excite … ah, that is, they might awaken - well, unworthy passion - in an unworthy person, that is." He floundered a bit, and took a pull at his glass, wondering how to discuss the likelihood of her being rogered without causing me undue distress. At last he burst out:

"He won't do it! - I mean, that is - I cannot believe she will be … ill-used, in any way, if you follow me. I am confident that she is but a pawn in a game which he has planned with Machiavellian cunning, using her as a bait to destroy me. That," says this swollen-headed lunatic smugly, "is his true purpose, for he and his kind can know no safety while I live. His design is not principally against her, of that I am certain. For one thing, he is married already, you know. Oh, yes, I have gleaned much information in the past few days, and it's true - five years ago he took to wife the daughter of the Sultan of Sulu, and while Muslims are not, of course, monogamous," he went on earnestly, "there is no reason to suppose that their union was not a … a happy one." He took a turn round the room, while I gaped, stricken speechless. "So I'm sure your dear lady is perfectly safe from any … any … anything like that. Anything … " he waved his glass, sloshing arrack broadcast " … anything awful, you know."

Well, that is what he said, as I hope to die. I couldn't credit my ears. For a moment I wondered if having his love-muscle shot off had affected his brain; then I realized that, in his utterly daft way, he was simply talking all this rubbish to reassure me. Possibly he thought I was so distraught that I'd be ready to believe anything, even that a chap with one wife would never think of bulling another. Maybe he even believed it himself.

"She will be restored to you … " he searched for a suitable word, and found one, "unblemished, you may be sure. Indeed, I am certain that her preservation must be his first concern, for he must know what a terrific retribution will follow if any harm should come to her, either in the violence of battle or … in any other way. And after all," says he, apparently quite struck with the thought, "he may be a pirate, but he has been educated as an English gentleman. I cannot believe that he is dead to all feelings of honour. Whatever he has become - here, let me fill your glass, old chap - we must remember that there was a time when he was, well … one of us. I think you can take comfort in that thought, what?"

* * *

[Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, August -, 1844]

I am now Beyond Hope, and Utterly Desolate in my Captivity, like the Prisoner of Chillon, except that he was in a dungeon and I am in a steamship, which I am sure is a thousand times worse, for at least in a dungeon one stays still, and is not conscious of being carried away far beyond the reach of Loving Friends! A week have I been in durance - nay, it seems like a Year!! I can only pine my lost love, and await in Terror whatever Fate is in store for me at the hands of my heartless abductor. My knees tremble at the thought and my heart fails me - how enviable does the lot of the Prisoner of Chillon seem (see Above), for no such Dread hung over his captivity, and at least he had mice to play with, laying their wrinkly wee noses in his hand in sympathy. Although to be sure I don't like mice, but no more than I don't like the Odious Native who brings my food, which I cannot endure to eat anyway, although there have been some Pleasant Fruits added to my diet the last day or two, when we came in sight of land as I saw from my porthole. Is this strange and hostile tropic shore to be the Scene of my Captivity? Shall I be sold on Indian Soil? Oh, dear Father - and kind, noble, generous H., thou art lost to me forever!!

Yet even such loss is no worse than the Suspense which wracks my brain. Since the first dreadful day of my abduction I have not seen Don S., which at first I supposed was because he was so a prey to Shame and Remorse, that he could not look me in the eye. I pictured him, Restless on his Prow, torn by pangs of conscience, gnawing at his nails and Oblivious of his sailors' requests for directions, as the vessel plow'ed on heedless over the waves. Oh, how well deserved his Torment! - and yet it is extremely strange, after his Passionate Protestations, that he should Restrain himself for seven whole days from seeing me, the Object of his Madness. I don't understand it, for I don't believe he feels Remorse at all, and the affairs of his boat cannot take all his time, surely! Why, then, does the Cruel Wretch not come to gloat over his Helpless Prey, and Jeer at her sorry condition, for my white taffeta is now quite soiled, and so oppressively hot in the confines of my cabin, that I have perforce discarded it in favour of some of the native dresses called sarongas, which have been provided by the creeping little Chinese woman who waits upon me, a sallow creature, and not a word of English, tho' not as handless as some I've known. I have a saronga of red silk which is, I think, the most becoming, and another in blue and gold embroidery, quite pretty, but of course they are very simple and slight, and would not be the thing at all for European Wear, except in déshabillé. But to these am I reduced, and the left heel of my shoe broken, so I must put them both off, and no proper articles for toilette, and my hair a positive fright. Don S. is a Brute and Beast, first to wrench me away, and then so heartlessly to neglect me in this sorry condition!

P.M.

He came at last, and I am distraught! While I was repairing as best I might the :XravagesX slight disorders in my appearance which my cruel confinement has wrought, and trying how my saronga (the red one) might fold most elegantly - for it is an excellent rule that in all Circumstances a Gentlewoman should make the best of things, and strive to present a collected appearance - I was of a sudden Aware of his Presence. To my Startled Protest, he replied with an insinuating compliment on how well my saronga became me, and such a Look of ardent yearning that I at once regretted my poor discarded taffeta, fearing the base ardour that the sight of me in Native Garb might kindle in him. To my instant and repeated demands that I be taken Home at once, and my Upbraidings for his scandalous usuage and neglect of me, he replied with the utmost composure and odiously solicitous inquiries for my Comfort! I replied with icy disdain. "Restore me instantly to my family, and keep your tiresome comforts!" He received this rebuff quite unabashed, and said I must put such hopes from my mind forever.

"What!" I cried, "you will deny me even some suitable clothing, and proper toilet articles, and a change of bed linen every day, and a proper variety in diet, instead of roast pork, of which I am utterly tired, and a thorough airing and cleaning of my accommodation?" "No, no," he protested, "these things you shall have, and whatever else your heart desires, but as for returning to your family, it is out of the question, for the die is cast!" "We shall see about that, my lad!" I cried, masking the Terror which his Grim and Unrelenting manner inspired in my Quaking Bosom, and presenting a Bold Front, at which to my astonishment he dropped to his knees, and taking my hand - but with every sign of respect - he spoke in so moving and pleading a manner, protesting his worship, and vowing that when I returned his Love, he would make me a Queen Indeed, and my lightest whim instantly obeyed, that I could not but be touched. Seeing me weaken, he spoke earnestly of the Kindness and Companionship which we had shared, at which, despising my own Frailty, I was moved to tears.

"Why, oh, why, Don S., did you have to spoil it all by this thoughtless and ungenteel behaviour, and after such a jolly cruise?" I cried. "It is most disobliging of you!" "I could not bear the torture of seeing you possessed by another!" cried he. I asked, "Why, who do you mean, Don S.?" "Your husband!" cries he, "but, by heaven, he shall be your husband no longer!" and springing up, he cried that my Spirit was as matchless as my Beauty, which he praised in terms that I cannot bring myself to repeat, although I daresay the compliment was kindly intended, and adding fiercely that he should win me, at whatever cost. Despite my struggles and reproaches, and feeble cries for an Aid which I knew could not be forthcoming, he repeatedly subjected me to the assault of his salutes upon my lips, so fervently that I fainted into a Merciful Oblivion for between five and ten minutes, after which, by the Intervention of Heaven, he was called on deck by one of his sailors, leaving me, with repeated oaths of his Fidelity, in a state of perturbed delicacy.

There is still no sign of pursuit by H., which I had so wildly hoped for. Am I, then, forgotten by those dearest to me, and is there no hope indeed? Am I doomed to be carried off forever, or will Don S. yet repent the intemperate regard for me - nay, for my mere Outward Show - which drove him to this inconsiderate folly? I pray it may be so, and hourly I lament - nay, I curse - that Fairness of Form and Feature of which I was once so vain. Ah, why could I not have been born safe and plain like my dearest sister Agnes, or our Mary, who is even less favoured, altho' to be sure her complection is none too bad, or *Oh, sweet sisters three, gone beyond hope of recall! Could you but know, and pity me in my affliction! Where is H.? Don S. has sent down a great posy of flowers to my cabin, jungle blossoms, pretty but quite gaudy.

* At this point a heavy deletion of two lines occurs in the manuscript, doubtless to excise some unflattering reference to Lady Flashman's third sister, Grizel de Rothschild, who edited the journal.

[End of extract, which passes belief for shamelessness, hypocrisy, and unwarranted conceit! - G. de R.]

We dropped down Kuching river on the evening tide of the day following, a great convoy of ill-assorted boats gliding silently through the opened booms, and down between banks dark and feathery in the dusk to the open sea. How Brooke had done it I don't know - I daresay you can read in his journal, and Keppel's, how they armed and victualled and assembled their ramshackle war fleet of close on eighty vessels, loaded with the most unlikely crew of pirates, savages, and lunatics, and launched them on to the China Sea like a damned regatta; I don't remember it too clearly myself, for all through a night and a day it had been bedlam along the Kuching wharves, in which, being new to the business, I'd borne no very useful part.

I have my usual disjointed memories of it, though. I remember the long war-praus with their steep sheers and forests of oars, being warped one after another into the jetty by sweating, squealing Malay steersmen, and the Raja's native allies pouring aboard - a chattering, half-naked horde of Dyaks, some in kilts and sarongs, others in loin-cloths and leggings, some in turbans, some with feathers in their hair, but all grinning and ugly as sin, loaded with their vile sumpitan-pipes and arrows, their kreeses and spears, all fit to frighten the French.

Then there were the Malay swordsmen who filled the sampans - big, flat-faced villains with muskets and the terrible, straight-bladed kampilan cleavers in their belts; the British tars in their canvas smocks and trousers and straw hats, their red faces grinning and sweating while they loaded Dido's pinnace, singing "Whisky, Johnny" as they stamped and hauled; the silent Chinese cannoneers whose task it was to lash down the small guns in the bows of the sampans and longboats, and stow the powder kegs and matches; the slim, olive-skinned Linga pirates who manned Paitingi's spy-boats - astonishing craft these, for all the world like Varsity racing-shells, slim frail needles with thirty paddles that could skim across the water as fast as a man can run. They darted among the other vessels - the long, stately praus, the Dido's pinnace, the cutters and launches and canoes, the long sloop Jolly Bachelor, which was Brooke's own flagship; and the flower of our fleet, the East India paddle-steamer Phlegethon, with her massive wheel and platform, and her funnel belching smoke. They all packed the river, in a great tangle of oars and cordage and rubbish, and over it rang the constant chorus of curses and commands in half a dozen languages; it looked like a waterman's picnic gone mad.

The variety of weapons was an armourer's nightmare; aside from those I've mentioned there were bows and arrows, every conceivable kind of sword, axe, and spear, modern rifled muskets, pepper-pot revolvers, horse-pistols, needle-guns, fantastically-carved Chinese flint-locks, six-pounder naval guns, and stands of Congreve rockets with their firing-frames mounted on the forecastles of three of the praus. God help whoever gets in the way of this collection, thinks I - noting especially a fine comparison on the shore: a British naval officer in tail-coat and waterproof hat testing the hair-triggers of a pair of Man-tons, his blue jackets sharpening their brass-hilted cutlasses on a grindstone, and within a yard of them a jabbering band of Dyaks dipping their langa darts in a bubbling cauldron of the beastly white radjun poison.

"Let's see you puff your pop-gun, Johnny," cries one of the tars, and they swung a champagne cork on a string as a target, twenty yards off; one of the grinning little brutes slipped a dart into his sumpitan, clapped it to his mouth - and in a twinkling there was the cork, jerking on its string, transfixed by the foot-long needle. "Christ!" says the blue jacket reverently, "don't point that bloody thing at my backside, will you?" and the others cheered the Dyak, and offered to swap their gunner for him.

So you can see the kind of army that James Brooke took to sea from Kuching on the morning of August 5, 1844, and if, like me, you had shaken your head in despair at the motley, rag-bag confusion of it as it assembled by the wharves, you would have held your breath in disbelief as you watched it sweeping in silent, disciplined order out on to the China Sea in the breaking dawn. I'll never forget it: the dark purple water, ruffled by the morning wind; the tangled green mangrove shore a cable's length to our right; the first blinding rays of silver turning the sea into a molten lake ahead of our bows as the fleet ploughed east.

First went the spy-boats, ten of them in line abreast a mile long, seeming to fly just above the surface of the sea, driven by the thin antennae of their oars; then the praus, in double column, their sails spread and the great sweeps thrashing the water, with the smaller sampans and canoes in tow; the Dido's pinnace and the Jolly Bachelor under sail, and last, shepherding the flock, the steamer Phlegethon, her big wheel thumping up the spray, with Brooke strutting under her awning, monarch of all he surveyed, discoursing to the admiring Flashy. (It wasn't that I sought his company, but since I had to go along, I'd figured it would be safest to stick close by him, on the biggest boat available; something told me that whoever came home feet first, it wasn't going to be him, and the rations would probably be better. So I toadied him in my best style, and he bored me breathless in return.)

"There's something better than inspecting stirrup straps on Horse Guards!" cries he gaily, flourishing a hand at our fleet driving over the sunlit sea. "What more could a man ask, eh! - a solid deck beneath, the old flag above, stout fellows alongside, and a bitter foe ahead. That's the life, my boy!" It seemed to me it was more likely to be the death, but of course I just grinned and agreed that it was capital. "And a good cause to fight in," he went on. "Wrongs to punish, Sarawak to defend - and your lady to rescue, of course.

Aye, it'll be a sweeter, cleaner coast by the time we've done with it."

I asked him if he meant to devote his life to chasing pirates, and he came all over solemn, gazing out over the sea with the wind ruffling his hair.

"It may well be a life's work," says he. "You see, what our people at home will not understand is that a pirate here is not a criminal, in our sense; piracy is the profession of the Islands, their way of life - just as trading or keeping shop is with Englishmen. So it is not a question of rooting out a few scoundrels, but of changing the minds of whole nations, and turning them to honest, peaceful pursuits." He laughed and shook his head. "It will not be easy - d'you know what one of them said tome once? - and this was a well-travelled, intelligent head-man - he said: `I know your British system is good, tuan besar, I have seen Singapura and your soldiers and traders and great ships. But I was brought up to plunder, and I laugh when I think that I have fleeced a peaceful tribe right down to their cooking-pots.' Now, what d'you do with such a fellow?"

"Hang him," says Wade, who was sitting on the deck with little Charlie Johnson, one of Brooke's people,²⁴ playing main chatter.*(* Malay chess, an interesting variant of the game in which the king can make the knight's move when checked.) "That was Makota, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Makota," says Brooke, "and he was the finest of 'em. One of the stoutest friends and allies I ever had - until he deserted to join the Sadong slavers. Now he supplies labourers and concubines to the coast princes who are meant to be our allies, but who deal secretly with the pirates for fear and profit. That's the kind of thing we have to fight, quite apart from the pirates themselves."

"Why d'you do it?" I asked, for in spite of what Stuart had told me, I wanted to hear it from the man himself; I always suspect these buccaneer-crusaders, you see. "I mean, you have Sarawak; don't that keep you busy enough?"

"It's a duty," says he, as one might say it was warm for the time of year. "I suppose it began with Sarawak, which at first seemed to me like a foundling, which I protected with hesitation and doubt, but it has repaid my trouble. I have freed its people and its trade, given it a code of laws, encouraged industry and Chinese immigration, imposed only the lightest of taxes, and protected it from the pirates. Oh, I could make a fortune from it, but I content myself with a little - I'm either a man of worth, you see, or a mere adventurer after gain, and God forbid I should ever be that. But I'm well rewarded," says he blandly, "for all the good that I do ministers to my satisfaction."

Pity you couldn't set it to music and sing it as an anthem, thinks I. Old Arnold would have loved it. But all I said was that it was undoubtedly God's work, and it was a crying shame that it went unrecognized; worth a knighthood at least, I'd have said.

"Titles?" cries he, smiling. "They're like fine clothes, penny trumpets, and turtle soup - all of slight but equal value. No, no, I'm too quiet to be a hero. All my wish is for the good of Borneo and its people - I've shown what can be done here, but it is for our government at home to decide what means, if any, they put at my disposal to extend and develop my work." His eyes took on that glitter that you see in camp-meeting preachers and company accountants. "I've only touched the surface here - I want to open the interior of this amazing land, to exploit it for the benefit of its people, to correct the native character, to improve their lot. But you know our politicians and departments - they don't care for foreign ventures, and they're jolly wary of me, I can tell you."

He laughed again. "They suspect me of being up to some job or other, for my own good. And what can I tell 'em? - they don't know the country, and the only visits I ever get are brief and official. Well, what can an admiral learn in a week? If I'd any sense I'd vamp up a prospectus, get a board of directors, and hold public meetings. `Borneo Limited', what? That'd interest 'em, all right! But it would be the wrong thing, you see - and it'd only convince the government that I'm a filibuster myself- Blackbeard Teach with a clean shirt on. No, no, it wouldn't do." He sighed. "Yet how proud I should be, some day, to see Sarawak, and .aIl Borneo, under the British flag - for their good, not ours. It may never happen, more's the pity - but in the meantime, I have my duty to Sarawak and its people. I'm their only protector, and if I leave my life in the business, well, I shall have died nobly."

Well, I've seen pure-minded complacency in my time, and done a fair bit in that line myself, when occasion demanded, but J.B. certainly beat all. Mind you, unlike most Arnoldian hypocrites, I think he truly believed what lie said; at least, he was fool enough to live up to it, so far as I could see, which is consistent with my conclusion that he was off his head. And when you remember that he excited the wrath of Gladstone²⁵ - well, that speaks volumes in a chap's favour, doesn't it? But at the time I was just noting him down as another smug, lying, psalm-smiter devoted to prayer and profit, when he went and spoiled it all by bursting into laughter and saying:

"Mind you, if it's in a good cause, it's still the greatest fun! I don't know that I'd enjoy the protection and improvement of Sarawak above half, if it didn't involve fighting these piratical, head-taking vagabonds! It's just my good luck that duty combines with pleasure - maybe I'm not so different from Makota and the rest of these villains after all. They go a-roving for lust and plunder, and I go for justice and duty. It's a nice point, don't you think? You'll think me crazy, I dare say"— he little knew how right he was —"but sometimes I think that rascals like Sharif Sahib and Suleiman Usman and the Balagnini sea-wolves are the best friends I've got. Perhaps our radical MPs are right, and I'm just a pirate at heart."

"Well, you look enough like one, J.B.," says Wade, getting up from the board. "Main chatter, sheikh matter- it's my game, Charlie." He came to the rail and pointed, laughing, at the Dyaks and Malay savages who were swarming on the platform of the prau just ahead of us. "They don't look exactly like a Sunday School treat, do they, Flashman? Pirates, if you like!"

"Flashman hasn't seen real pirates yet," says Brooke. "He'll see the difference then."

I did, too, and before the day was out. We cruised swiftly along the coast all day, before the warm breeze, while the sun swung over and dropped like a blood-red rose behind us, and with the cooler air of evening we came at last to the broad estuary of the Batang Lupar. It was miles across, and among the little jungly islands of its western shore we disturbed an anchorage of squalid sailor-folk in weather-beaten sampans - orang laut, the Malays called them, "sea-gipsies", the vagrants of the coast, who were always running from one debt-collector to another, picking up what living they could.

Paitingi brought their headman, a dirty, bedraggled savage, to the Phlegethon in one of the spy-boats, and after Brooke had talked to him he beckoned me to follow him down into Paitingi's craft, saying I should get the "feel" of a spy-boat before we got into the river proper. I didn't much care for the sound of it, but took my seat behind him in the prow, where the gunwales were tight either side, and you put your feet delicately for fear of sending them clean through the light hull. Paitingi crouched behind me, and the Linga look-out straddled above me, a foot on either gunwale.

"Don't like it altogether," says Brooke. "Those bajoos say there are villages burning up towards the Rajang, and that ain't natural, when all that's sinful should be congregated up the Lupar, getting ready for us. We'll take a sniff about. Give way!"

The slender spy-boat shot away like a dart, trembling most alarmingly under my feet, with the thirty paddlers sweeping us silently forward. We threaded through the little islands, Brooke staring over towards the far shore, which was fading in the gathering dusk. There was a light mist coming down behind us, concealing our fleet, and a great bank of it was slowly rolling in from the sea, ghostly above the oily water. It was dead calm now, and the dank air made your flesh crawl; Brooke checked our pace, and we glided under the overhanging shelter of a mangrove bank, where the fronds dripped eerily. I saw Brooke's head turning this way and that, and then Paitingi stiffened behind me.