had come storming up belatedly to the rescue, Paitingi and his followers had all been killed - there's a graphic account of twenty boats jammed together in a bloody melee, of thousands of pirates yelling on the bank, of the stream running crimson, with headless corpses, wreckage, and capsized craft drifting downstream - but never a word about poor old Flashy struggling half-foundered, dyeing the water with his precious gore, spluttering 'Wait, you callous bastards, I'm sinking!' Quite hurtful, being ignored like that, although I was glad enough of it at the time, when I saw how things were shaping.
It was, I've since gathered, touch and go that Brooke's whole fleet wasn't wiped out; indeed, if it hadn't been for Paitingi's racing ahead, sacrificing his spy-boat like the gallant idiot he was, the pirates would have jumped the whole expedition together, but as it was, Brooke had time to dress his boats into line and charge in good order. It was a horrid near-run thing, though; Keppel confessed later that when he saw the fighting horde that was waiting for him, 'for a moment I was at a loss what steps to take'— and there was one chap, treading water upstream with a hole in his belly and roaring for succour, who shared his sentiments exactly. I was viewing the action from t'other side, so to speak, but it looked just as confused and interesting to me as it did to Keppel. I was busy, of course, holding my wounded guts with one hand and clutching at a piece of wreckage with the other, trying to avoid being run down by boats full of ill-disposed persons with swords, but as I came up for the tenth time, I saw the last seconds of Paitingi's spy-boat, crashing into the heart of the enemy, its bow-gun exploding to tear a bloody cleft through the crew of a raft.
Then the pirate wave swept over them; I had a glimpse of Stuart, stuck like a pin-cushion with sumpitan darts, toppling into the water; of a Linga swordsman clearing a space with his kampilan swinging in a shining circle round his head; of another in the water, stabbing fiercely up at the foes above him; of the steersman, on hands and knees on the raft, being hacked literally into bits by a screaming crowd of pirates; of Paitingi, a bristling, red giant, his turban gone, roaring 'Allah-il-Allah!' with a pirate swung up in his huge arms - and then there was just the shell of the spy-boat, overturned, in the swirling, bloody water, with the pirate boats surging away from it, turning to meet the distant, unseen enemy downstream.
I didn't have time to see any more. The water was roaring in my ears, I could feel my strength ebbing away through the tortured wound in my side, my fingers slipping from their grip on the wreckage, the sky and treetops were spinning slowly overhead, and across the surface of the water something - a boat? a raft? - was racing down on me with a clamour of voices. Air and water were full of the throbbing of war-gongs, and then I was hit a violent blow on the head, something scraped agonizingly over my body, forcing me down, choking with water, my ears pounding, lungs bursting … And then, as old Wild Bill would have said: 'Why, boys - I drowned!'32
For a moment I thought I was back in Jallalabad, in that blissful awakening after the battle. There was a soft bed under me, sheets at my chin, and a cool breeze; I opened my eyes, and saw that it came from a porthole opposite me. That wasn't right, though; no portholes in the Khyber country - I struggled with memory, and then a figure blocked the light, a huge figure in green sarong and sleeveless tunic, with a krees in his girdle, and fingering his earring as he stared down at me, his heavy brown face as hard as a curling-stone.
'You should have died,' says Don Solomon Haslam.
Just what an awakening invalid needs, of course, but it brought the nightmare flooding back- the reeking waters of the Skrang, the overwhelmed spy-boat, the dart in my side - I was conscious of a dull ache in my ribs, and of bandages. But where the devil was I? In the Sulu Queen, sure enough, but even in that dizzy moment of waking I was aware that her motion was a slow, steady heave, there were no jungle noises, and the air blowing from the port was salt. I tried to speak, and my voice came in a parched croak.
'What … what am I doing here?'
'Surviving,' says he. 'For the moment.' And then to my amazement he thrust his face into mine and snarled: 'But you couldn't die decently, could you? Oh no, not you! Hundreds perished in that river - but you survive! Every man of Paitingi's - good men - Lingas who fought to the last - Paitingi himself, who was worth a thousand. All lost! But not you, blubbering in the water where my men found you! They should have left you to drown. I should have - bah!' He wheeled away, fuming.
Well, I hadn't expected him to be pleased to see me, but even in my confused state so much passion seemed a mite unreasonable. Was I delirious? - but no, I felt not bad, and when I tried to ease myself up on the pillows I found I could do it without much discomfort; one doesn't care to be raved at lying down, you understand. A hundred questions and fears were jumbled in my mind, but the first one was:
'How long have I been here?'
'Two weeks.' He eyed me malevolently. 'And if you wonder where, the Sulu Queen is approximately ten south seventy east, heading west-sou'-west.' Then, bitterly: 'What the devil else was I to do, once those fools had hauled you from the water? Let you die of gangrene - treat you as you deserved? Ha! That was the one thing I could not do!'
Being still half-stupid with prolonged unconsciousness, I couldn't make much of this. The last time I'd seen him, we'd been boon-companions, more or less, but since then he'd tried to murder me, kidnapped my wife, and turned out to be the arch-pirate of the Orient, which shed a different light on things. I tried to steady my whirling thoughts, but couldn't. Anyway, he was obviously in a fearful wax because he'd felt obliged, God only knew why, not to let me perish of blow-pipe poison. Difficult to know what to say, so I didn't.
'You can guess why you are alive,' says he. 'It is because of her - whose husband you were.'
For a dreadful second I thought he meant she was dead; then my mind leaped to the conclusion that he meant he had taken her from me, and done the dirty deed on her - and at the very thought of my little Elspeth being abused by this vile nigger pirate, this scum of the East, my confusion and discretion vanished together in rage.
'You bloody liar! I am her husband! She's my wife! You kidnapped her, you filthy pirate, and—'
'Kidnapped? Saved, you mean!' His eyes were blazing. 'Rescued her from a man - no, from a brute - who wasn't fit to kiss her feet! Oh, no - it's not kidnapping to take a pearl from a swine, who fouls her with his very touch, who treats her as a mere concubine, who betrays her—' 'It's a lie! I—'
'Didn't I see you with my own eyes? Coupling with that slut in my own library—'
'Drawing-room—'
'—that harlot Lade? Isn't your name a byword in London for debauchery and vice, for every kind of lewdness and depravity?'
'Not every kind! I never—'
'A rake, a cheat, a bully and a whoremonger- that's what I rescued that sweet, brave woman from. I took her from the hell of life with you—'
'You're mad!' I croaked. 'She never said it was hell! She loves me, curse you - as I love her—'
His hand swept across my face, knocking me back on my pillow, and I had sense enough to stay there, for he was a fearsome sight, shaking with fury, his mouth working.
'What did you ever know of love?' cries he. 'Let me hear that word on your lips again, and I'll have them sewn together, with a scorpion in your mouth!'
Well, when he put it like that, I saw there was no point in arguing. I lay there quaking, while he mastered himself and went on, more quietly:
'Love is not for animals like you. Love is what I felt - for the first time - on an afternoon at Lord's, when I saw her. I knew then, as surely as I know there is One God, that there could be no other woman, that I should worship her for life, a life that would be death without her. Yes, I knew then - what love was.'
He let out a great breath, and he was trembling. By George, thinks I, we've got a maniac here - he means it. He heaved a minute, and then went on, like a poet on opium.
'She filled my life from that moment; there was nothing el ;e. But it was a pure love - she would have been sacred to n e, had she been married to a husband truly worthy of her. E it when I saw the truth - that she was shackled to the basest kind of brute'— he shot me a withering look —'I asked why my life, and hers (which was infinitely more precious) should be ruined by a stupid convention which, after all, meant nothing to me. Oh, I was a gentleman, trained in the English way, at an English school - but I was also a prince of the House of Magandanu, descended from the Prophet himself- and I was a pirate, as you of the West know the word. Why should I respect your customs; when I could offer her a destiny as high above life with you as the stars are above the slime, why should I hesitate? I could make her a queen, instead of the chattel of a drunken, licentious bully who had only married her at pistol point!'
'That ain't fair! She was damned glad to get me, and if that poxy little varmint Morrison says other - don't hit
