Dead Reckoning (11 page)

“Forgive me, sir,” said Fitzgerald, “Were you not tempted to intercept that outrigger craft with a well-aimed cannon?”

“I was tempted,” said Delancey, “but I resisted the temptation. If that racing canoe is what I think she is, her movements will tell me something of what I need to know. My present conclusion is that the
Subtile
is ahead of me, not astern. That catamaran is sailing towards her employer, not away from him and that, I assume, is why she is in a hurry.”

“I could wish, sir,” said Fitzgerald, “that we knew what message she is to deliver.”

“But is that so difficult?”

“It is difficult, sir, for me.”

“Perhaps Mr Greenwell could tell us?”

“Not me, sir,” said Greenwell, with eyes downcast.

“Mr Northmore?”

“She might warn Chatelard that the
Laura
is heading southwards.”

“That much is clear from today's sighting. But the message almost certainly informs Chatelard that the opium ship
Fort William
has left Malacca and will call at Lingga and Palembang.”

“How can the French agent know that?” asked Greenwell, astonished.

“How do I know it?” asked Delancey in turn. “He will surely know what is common knowledge. So that Chatelard will receive at the same time news of a possible prize and warning of a possible danger. Can we guess from that what he is likely to do?”

“Sail for Palembang?” asked Fitzgerald hopefully.

“I doubt it,” replied Delancey. “You forget that he will have other sources of intelligence and the news of other possible prey. I should guess, however, that he will keep away from the Straits of Sunda and will try to discover what we mean to do. We must expect to be watched by his native spies, including those we have seen already. But the point will come—and may have come already—when he comes to realize that a frigate has been sent to deal with him. What will he do then?”

There was a silence and then Northmore said: “He might hide at his base.”

“He might indeed,” replied Delancey, “but that plan fits ill with the character of Pierre Chatelard in so far as it is known to us. I do not see him as a man who would hide himself. He is more likely to do something.” There was another silence as Delancey looked from one to another of his officers.

“Well, gentlemen? What should we expect him to do?” Since there was no response, Delancey had to answer his own question. “Did none of you ever play hide-and-seek? If Chatelard guesses that we are going south to look for him he will surely decide to go north. Our heading for the Straits of Sunda will be his cue to make for the Bay of Bengal. He will be off the Sand-heads when we are off Bencoolen.”

“So your plan, sir, will be to double back and cruise off the Sandheads?” Fitzgerald was evidently relieved to find so simple a solution to the problem.

“Well, that is one possibility,” Delancey admitted, “but it is not the alternative I prefer. Chatelard began his present cruise in late December or early January. He may go north again but my guess is that he must return to his base in May or June. If we can locate his home port that is where we shall wait for him.”

When the party broke up Delancey realized how much he was missing Mather. Of his present officers only one, Northmore, had any brains and he, of course, lacked experience. What drudgery it was to help them see the obvious! Mather would have known at once what the alternatives were. Was his plan the right one? Who could tell? It was at least based, however, on a process of reasoning. Should he really have turned northward again after being sighted by that damned outrigger craft? The objection to that lay in the choice of passages. No, the better plan was one based on the fixed point, the place (if he could find it) to which Chatelard must return. He had narrowed that down to a definite stretch of coastline. What he lacked, however, was a man who knew the country—someone perhaps like Father Miguel. He would need to ask questions and could hardly do so without an interpreter. He himself had a few words of Malay but he realized that a knowledge of Dutch would have been of more immediate use. He turned to the chart again and put himself in Chatelard's place. “If I still commanded a privateer and wanted a safe harbour on the west coast of Borneo, where should I begin to look for it?” At Sukadana or Padang? Or up north around Mempawak or Singkawang? No, it would be better to find a complex estuary with islands and creeks among which to hide. This thought brought him back to the confused coastline between Pontianak and Djawi, a mere hundred miles of it. That would be the first place to look; and there, incidentally, if anywhere, he might expect to find his missing brother. He wondered whether there was really any point in finding Michael, who probably needed no help and was happy in his own fashion, but he was still fascinated by the way that inclination and duty were leading him in the same direction. If
Chatelard had a base for the
Subtile,
Michael was the very man to know all about it.

A week later the
Laura
sighted Borneo just north of Pontianak and began a cautious approach through poorly charted waters. With the leadsman in the chains and with barely enough canvas to have steerage way, Delancey brought the frigate to what should have been, by all reckoning, the mouth of the Lava River on which Pontianak is placed. He finally dropped anchor opposite a belt of canebrake and mangrove and sent the launch in to investigate. Completely hidden to view from a distance, the river-mouth was finally located by the rush of fresh water and the
Laura
brought to a new anchorage near by. Pontianak was some ten miles inland but Delancey decided against taking his ship up the river. He took the launch instead and was able to sail for most of the way. When the breeze died away his men rowed the last mile or so under a hot sun, Delancey reflecting that Pontianak was almost exactly on the Equator.

When he sighted the place, sited in the angle between two confluent rivers, he was astonished to see that Pontianak was a city as well as a seaport. In the city proper was the Malay settlement centred on the Sultan's palace and this was faced by two Chinese towns, one on either riverbank. Opposite this metropolis were moored a cluster of Chinese junks with two enormous vessels towering over the rest. Guided by a Malay prahu, the launch was brought to a landing-stage opposite the palace, where Delancey, Northmore, and Stock were met by a Malay chief, who presently showed them into the Sultan's presence. The principal reception hall was of great size and centred upon a carpeted dais. On the dais stood a long table at which Delancey was presently seated, being offered tea and sherbet by way of refreshment. His
elderly and richly dressed host, the Sultan, was polite and voluble but Delancey's few words of Malay did not serve the purpose of a serious discussion. As interpreter the Sultan produced a Chinese youth who spoke Dutch and Delancey came to understand that Pontianak was under Dutch protection and that the only men-of-war which called there were under the Dutch flag. All efforts at interpretation failed at first but there finally appeared a Malay boy who spoke English and who asked, on the Sultan's behalf, why his visitors did not speak Dutch. Delancey admitted, in reply, that his ship was not Dutch but claimed that he was friendly with the Dutch—a people with whom he was actually at war. The interpreter evidently explained to the Sultan that his visitors were French for the atmosphere improved even if mutual comprehension did not. The Sultan knew nothing, it transpired, of any other man-of-war frequenting the coast.

On the subject of another European called Delancey he was equally ignorant but he called into consultation a Malay chief who perhaps held some office equivalent to chief of police, who remembered a trader who might have been the man sought but who had long since gone elsewhere, perhaps to the village of Laut. With no other information forthcoming, Delancey was relieved when supper arrived, making further conversation needless.

The meal comprised chicken and salt fish with a dozen different curries, basins of rice, jars of pickles, and, later, sliced pineapple and cake, accompanied throughout by cool, sweet sherbet poured from an enormous jar. The crew of the launch were simultaneously entertained in an open-sided shed close to the beach, being given as much curry and rice as they could eat. All went to sleep soon afterwards but Delancey roused his men in the small hours, determined to reach the estuary before the
heat of the day. Aided now by the current, they dropped down the river as the sun rose and were back on board the
Laura
for breakfast.

There was little wind that day and the frigate, heading South along the coast, was again overtaken by a native craft. This time it was a fishing canoe with branches of the coconut tree instead of sails. The branches were spread fanwise and held in place by a bamboo rod and the crew consisted of one Malay holding a steering paddle. On the following day what little breeze there had been died away and Delancey dropped anchor opposite a mangrove swamp. He was becalmed again on the following day, progressing southward only by the aid of a short-lived morning and evening breeze. All this coast looked much the same, with level alluvial swamps backed by more distant jungle trees. It was steamingly hot and seamen were distressed even under the awnings, few of them able to sleep much at night. At last, with a few men already sick, the frigate came within sight of the small village of Laut.

Drifting rather than sailing, Delancey brought his ship to within half a mile of the village. It was a calm, hot day, with a mist on the flat, mirror-like surface of the sea, the land revealed only by its jungle trees. Laut, like Pontianak, was under Dutch protection in theory, but passing ships, as he knew, would usually ignore the fact. He decided to send in a boat, bearing a message for Mr Michael Delancey. This mission was entrusted to David Stock, whose cutter was faithfully reflected, each dipping oar blade making a visible disturbance. Over an hour passed before the cutter was seen again and the oarsmen were dripping with sweat when they came aboard.

Reporting on the quarter-deck, young Stock handed the letter back and stated that Mr Delancey had been in Laut and had
done business there but had gone. A Chinese merchant who knew some English had told him that Tuan Delancey had gone southwards along the coast to Djawi or Matan. Delancey decided at once to follow but dead calm delayed him for two days more. Then at Djawi, eighty miles further south, he sent in a boat again. This time Stock came back with the news that an Englishman had been there but had gone inland some time ago—perhaps two or three years since—accompanied by several Malays. This time the information came from an Indian tradesman who had once lived in Malacca. Delancey now decided to follow up this clue and bring the frigate in closer to the shore.

The day was windless and the
Laura
was finally towed in by her boats, dropping anchor opposite the village, the inhabitants of which lined the shore to watch. Almost at once a sampan came off from the land and headed for the frigate with several passengers on board. As the distance lessened it became apparent that the visitors included a minor Malay chief, perhaps the village headman, distinguished by headcloth, sarong, and kris, two other armed Malays, a Chinese towkay, and the Indian with whom Stock had already conversed. Delancey ordered a one-gun salute, the parading of a marine guard, and the piping of the side.

Impressed by this reception, the party from the shore were led to the captain's cabin and offered some refreshments, alcoholic and otherwise. All chose to squat on the deck while the preliminary courtesies were exchanged, the Indian acting as interpreter and the Chinese merely bowing and smiling. The Malay chief finally asked why the
Laura
was honouring Djawi with a visit Delancey replied at once that he wanted to buy provisions; pigs, poultry, fruit, and so forth. There would, it appeared, be no difficulty over this, provided that payment was
made in dollars. After some further discussion about prices, Delancey made very casual mention of an Englishman who had come to Djawi, he believed, from Pontianak. There followed a muttered conversation between the visitors, the question having evidently upset them. After some minutes the Indian asked “Why you want to know?” To this Delancey replied “He is my brother,” a reply which led to another discussion in Malay. There was evidently a family resemblance, to which the Indian drew attention, for the fact of relationship seemed to be accepted. The Indian finally replied “He left here long ago.”

No further information could be extracted so Delancey went on to ask about a French ship with many guns called the
Subtile.
Without the need for any discussion all at once shook their heads. The Indian went on to emphasize that no French ship had ever been seen near Djawi. Watching their faces and noting their unanimity, Delancey concluded that they were lying and had agreed beforehand what lie to tell. He expressed his regret, therefore, adding that he had been prepared to pay a thousand dollars for information about the
Subtile
's usual port of call. What a pity, he said “that no one was ready to help him. He could think of no simpler way of making money. He would have to go on to Matan where he supposed that people might be readier to accept money without having to work for it. Much could be done with a thousand dollars. One could buy a fishing boat with it. One could set up one's son in business. One could provide a dowry for one's daughter. But, there, if no one wanted the money . . . He changed the topic of conversation and asked about the health of the Sultan of Limburg. His guests looked upset again—it was far from obvious why—and went into secret conclave. After a prolonged discussion the Indian was empowered to answer, rather sulkily, “He very well.” Delancey talked again
about pigs and poultry and so brought the conference to an end on a happier note. The sampan presently returned to the shore, a plan agreed for shipping provisions on the following day.

As the light was failing that evening a sampan appeared alongside and a boatman hailed the ship. There was only one passenger this time, the Chinese who had said nothing on the earlier visit. His English was now fluent and he had clearly understood all that had taken place. He had occasion to spend two thousand dollars, more than he happened to have at the moment and more than he could borrow except at an extortionate rate of interest. He knew something about a French ship, something of which his friends were ignorant. He also knew the whereabouts of the Englishman who had left Djawi . . . Delancey regretted blandly that he had only a thousand dollars to spare, having to spend so much on poultry, eggs, and fruit. At the end of a prolonged discussion the Chinese agreed to accept fifteen hundred dollars, telling Delancey all that he wanted to know. He finally drew a sketch-map of the Kapuas River (north of Djawi) and made a cross on its more northerly channel, a few miles from the estuary. There, he explained, the French ship came to refit with the Sultan's permission. As for the Tuan who was the Captain's brother, he had gone up the Nuri River and was living at a kampong on the way to Djenu. Another sketch-map was drawn to show where the kampong was and a drawing added to indicate that the kampong was really a longhouse; a village, as it were, under a single roof. If this information was correct, Delancey's brother was living with the primitive folk of the interior, which seemed likely enough in view of Michael's reputed interests.