The Steel Tsar (5 page)

It was in this hospital that I woke up and slowly realized Rowe Island was not, after all, an hallucination.

I was sore and my body stung all over, but I no longer felt thirsty, merely hungry. I lay between the rather rough linen sheets of what was evidently a white hospital bed. The walls were white and there was an ivory crucifix on the wall, a few tropical flowers stuck in a pot on the ledge by the partially opened window. I felt the urge to scratch, but discovered both hands were bandaged. I moved and my joints throbbed. I tried to sit upright, but fell back wearily. It was still hard to believe I was safe, after all. I had survived.

A little while later the door opened and in came a shy, beautiful Pakistani girl in a cream-coloured nun’s habit. She nodded and smiled gravely at me, standing aside to admit a languid young Sinhalese whose portly frame was draped in an elegant white suit. Around his neck was a stethoscope on which the fingers of his right hand seemed to be playing a tune. His round, handsome face stared rather sardonically at me. He glanced at the watch on his plump wrist. “Not bad. Almost exactly on time.”

My first attempt at speaking was not very successful. My second was better. “You,” I said, “or me?”

“Both of us.” He took a silver case from his pocket and opened it, offering the cigarettes to me. I showed him my bandaged hands. He smiled apologetically. “The nurse will light it for you if you want one.”

“Not now. Thanks.”

He lit a cigarette for himself. “Well, you’re on the mend I’m glad to say. We put you in this room because your shouting kept the other patients awake. You’re an airshipman, are you?”

“I am,” I said. “I was on an airship which crashed.” I told him my name and what had happened to me. I asked where I was.

“I’m Dr. Hira. This is St. Charles’ Hospital, Rowe Island.” He smiled ironically. “I can see you’ve never heard of Rowe Island. Few have. Perhaps that’s why the war hasn’t touched us directly. Nobody passes this way either by air or by sea. In a few more months I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re the last outpost of civilization on the globe.” He drew heavily on his cigarette and glanced out of the window at the harbour. The Pakistani nurse got extra pillows and helped me sit up.

“If you can call this civilization,” said Hira. “Are you hungry?”

“Very.”

“Good.” Hira patted the shy nun on the shoulder. “Fetch the patient some soup, my dear.”

When the nurse had gone, closing the door behind her, I gestured with my bandaged hands. “I thought this whole bloody place was a mirage, at first.”

Hira shrugged. “Maybe it is. A pretty run-down dream, though. You survived Singapore, eh?”

“It’s hard to believe it really happened,” I said.

“It happened. We heard.”

“So there’s some communication with the outside world?”

“The mine people took all the decent equipment when they left. It was the news of Singapore that caused the evacuation. A needless panic as it turned out.”

“I see. So there’s no way of contacting, say, Darwin?”

“We’ve a radio which occasionally works. Hand-cranked thing.”

“And those dhows are the only means of leaving the island. No ships of any kind?”

“Not any more, Mr. Bastable. The mine people scuttled our only steamer with some idea of stopping the island being used as a base for enemy shipping.” Hira pointed out of the window at the harbour where the rusting superstructure of the wreck could still be seen.

“So I’m stuck here unless the radio can be made to work. You said it was ‘hand-cranked’. Haven’t you any proper power?”

“No more fuel. We use oil-lamps for lighting now.”

“When is there a chance of my getting a message to Darwin?”

“That depends on the state of the radio and the state of Underwood, the operator. I’ll ask someone to go up to the airpark tomorrow and see if Underwood is sober enough to work the radio. That’s about the best I can do. Eager to get back into the fray, eh?”

I looked suspiciously at him, trying to detect irony in a face which now regarded me blandly.

“I’ve a duty,” I said. “They’ll need experienced airmen, after all.”

“I’m sure they will. I must be off on my rounds now. See you soon, Mr. Bastable.”

Hira raised the stethoscope in a kind of salute and left the room.

I sank back into the bed and sighed. An old radio and a drunken operator. I was pessimistic about my immediate chances of leaving Rowe Island.

* * *

A
week went by and every day I grew stronger. I was making a splendid recovery from what had been a very serious case of exposure. But I also grew more and more impatient and plagued Dr. Hira with questions about the radio and the condition of the operator. The news initially brought back to the hospital had been bad. Shortly after I’d arrived Underwood had gone up on the mountain somewhere. He had taken a Chinese girl and a case of gin with him and he couldn’t be found.

About ten days after I had awakened from my coma I stood by the window, wearing a rather ridiculous hospital dressing gown which was too short for me, talking to Hira, who had come in to give me the latest lack of news about Underwood. In the harbour there was a lot of confusion and noise. Since dawn groups of half-starved Malays had been moving along the jetty, packing their possessions into one of the fishing dhows. Apparently my appearance on Rowe Island had started something. They had realized that the mining company would not be back for a long while and they had decided to try to make it to Java, in spite of their having been warned of atrocities committed on their countrymen by the Japanese. I felt sorry for those Malays. The boat would probably sink before they got more than a few miles out. Miserably I looked back into the room at Hira.

“The government should be helping these people—flying in supplies or something. I wish that damned operator would turn up.”

“I think the government has a lot of problems at the moment.” Hira was sitting on my bed fiddling with his stethoscope. He spoke almost with satisfaction. “I don’t know when we’ll see Underwood. He often goes to earth like this. He’s probably hiding out in one of the mines.”

“I could have a try at working the radio myself,” I said. “It would be better than this. I’m well enough to go out now. If you could find me a suit, perhaps...”

“I think we can discover something in your size. But Underwood has locked his office up. Always does. He likes to be indispensable. It keeps his credit good at the hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

“Olmeijer’s. The Royal Airpark Hotel on the edge of the airpark. It used to be the biggest. Now it’s the only one. Olmeijer carries on running it from sentiment, I think.”

“I’ll take a stroll out there, anyway.” I was curious to have a look at the island.

“Why not?” said Hira. “Get to know the place. After all, you could be here for some time.” He seemed amused.

* * *

A
s I dressed in my borrowed suit, Hira took my place by the window. From the harbour came a babble of voices as the Malays readied the ship for the sea. He shook his head. “They’ll drown themselves for certain.”

“Won’t anybody stop them?” I pulled on my jacket. The linen suit was a surprisingly good fit, as was the white shirt Hira had lent me. “Isn’t there some sort of governor here? You mentioned someone...”

“Brigadier L.G.A. Nesbit is the Official Representative and has been since 1920.” Hira shrugged. “He’s eighty-seven and has been senile for at least ten years. I think that’s why he decided to stay when the big exodus was on. His staff now consists of a valet as old as himself and a Bengali secretary who spends his whole time making endless inventories and who hasn’t, apparently, left his office since the war began. There is, of course, young Lieutenant Begg, who commands our local military. I don’t think Begg will be sorry to see a few of his troubles going.”

“The Malays are a problem, eh?” I tried on one of the panama hats lying on the bed. It was a good fit, too.

Hira gestured wearily. “There are a thousand Malays and Chinese here at least. The Malays are in the main Moslems and the Chinese are chiefly Buddhists or Christians. They are, when they have nothing better to do, highly critical of the other’s way of life. And they have nothing better to do—their work went when the mine closed and now they’re living off the land and sea as best they can.”

“Poor bastards,” I said.

Hira gave a peculiar smile. “I wonder if you’ll say that when they turn on the whites. They will, you know, quite soon. Presently they hate each other more than they hate Europeans, but it will take just one excuse for them to begin a general massacre. We’ll all go, then. Technically, you see, the sisters and myself are regarded as Europeans.”

“And you’re prepared to stay until that happens?”

“Should I go back to Ceylon and care for our Japanese conquerors?”

“You could go to Australia or even England. There must be need of doctors everywhere.”

“I should have made it plain.” Hira opened the door for me. “I have a couple of principles. One of them is that I refuse to work for Europeans. It’s the reason I came to Rowe Island in the first place. Until the evacuation this hospital was for coloured people only, Mr. Bastable.”

As I left the hospital I adjusted my hat and paused to watch the dhow easing its way past the wreck of the steamer. Every inch of its deck was covered with brown-skinned men, women and children. It brought back the terrible image of the doomed hospital ship and I could hardly bear to think what would become of them all. Slowly I started to walk along the weed-grown quay, beside deserted hotels, offices and warehouses outside which were parked the useless cars, lorries and buses.

A few disconsolate Malays were dragging their bundles back down the jetty, having failed to squeeze themselves aboard the boat. The lucky ones, I thought.

I reached a corner and turned into a narrow, silent side street lined with grey-and-brown featureless workers’ houses and a few boarded-up shops. The street rose quite steeply and I realized how weak I still was, for I had to labour the last few paces until I reached a small square dominated by a battered statue of Edward VIII which somewhat incongruously decorated a dried-up ornamental fountain. The concrete bowl of the fountain was full of empty bottles, torn newspapers and other, less savoury, refuse. There were a few Chinese children playing around it while their mothers sat blank-faced in their doorways, staring into space. Gratefully, I sat on the edge of the fountain’s bowl, ignoring the smell which came from it and smiling at the undernourished children. They at once stopped playing and looked warily up at me.

“Tso sun
,” I said gravely, using Cantonese. “Good morning.”

Not one of them replied. A bit nonplussed, I wished I had something to offer them. Some sweets, perhaps, for money was worthless on Rowe Island.

I removed my hat and wiped my forehead. It was growing very hot and I had become wary of the sun. I had better get on to the hotel while I could.

Then I heard the sound of hoof beats and turned in astonishment to see a rider enter the square. He looked distinctly out of place as he sat stiff-backed and arrogant in the saddle of his well-groomed cob. A tall, fair-haired Englishman of about thirty, he wore a gleaming white coat and jodhpurs with his military insignia on the jacket. His boots, belt, shoulder strap and holster were as highly polished as the badge on his solar topee. He saw me at once, but pretended that he hadn’t. He stroked his blond moustache with his baton and brought his horse to a halt on the other side of the square.

I looked around at the empty, silent windows, wondering what he could be doing here.

“Get these children out of the way, sergeant!” His voice was sharp, commanding.

At this order six crisply turned-out little Ghoorkas led by a sergeant emerged from another side street and waved the children back with their rifles. Their bayonets were fixed. They wore dark green uniforms with scarlet facings and they had their long, curved knives at their belts. The women needed no warnings but dragged the children inside and slammed their doors. Now I was the only civilian in the square.

“What’s going on here, lieutenant?” I asked.

The lieutenant turned cold, blue eyes on me. “I would suggest, sir, that you get away from here at once. It’s a police matter. There could be trouble.”

There seemed to be no point in arguing. I humoured him instead. “Thank you, lieutenant.” I walked across the square but remained in the shadows of a side street, peering curiously at what was going on.

Now the young officer dismounted and ordered his sergeant to enter one of the houses. The Ghoorkas rushed in and the lieutenant followed behind.

I watched in puzzlement, not knowing what to make of the scene at all. There was dead silence in the square for a little while, then a horrible babble of screams and yells issued from the house. I heard a woman shouting in Cantonese. There were a couple of shots and then the raised voice of the officer giving a series of orders. Another scream—a man’s this time—then out into the street poured a score of coolies. They were staggering and screwing their eyes up against the sunlight. Every one of them was dazed and scared stiff.

There came another shot from inside the house and then more shouting. The coolies outside began to scatter, some rushing into nearby doorways, others running off down towards the harbour. A further series of commands came from the officer and then a terrible wailing, the sound of flesh being struck, presumably with rifle butts.

Appalled, I was about to step forward when a panic-stricken coolie burst from the house, hesitated, glanced around wildly holding a bleeding hand, then ran in my direction. I stepped aside to let him pass and he fled around a corner and vanished. But I had seen his pupils. The man had been drugged. Now I understood. The soldiers were raiding some sort of local opium den.

Hearing a moan, I re-entered the square and saw that one of the opium smokers had fallen to the flagstones. He had been stabbed badly with a bayonet in his shoulder. I knelt beside him, tore back his shirt and did my best to stop the flow of blood while he stared at me in terror, small moans escaping his lips.