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
