Musa bin Hassan put his finishing touches to the long black prahu. He had worked on the boat for months, sometimes late into the night by torchlight, and now it was almost ready. He walked round it with a file and polished stone, removing even the smallest imperfections from the sleek black surface. Although in many respects this boat was just like the other boats that he and his father crafted to service the crews of the merchantmen in the roads, he had taken special care with this one, which he planned to enter in the races that were to be held on the day the Christians marked as their New Year.
There would be races between the European yachts, the Chinese dragon boats, and the longboats that ferried the crews from the merchantmen to town. Musa and his father had seen their business grow over the years, as the Malay boat builders had cornered the market in providing fast prahus to ferry the crews from the merchant ships and junks to the river mouth, as the Indian lightermen had cornered the market for cargo in their tambangs. And like the European merchants in their yachts, the Malays loved to race their craft against the Chinese and European crews in their ship’s boats. Almost every day there were informal races held along the coast, and the Malay boats usually beat all comers.
Musa loved this new boat, which he had created with his own hands, and wondered at his own blasphemous thought: God must have felt like this when he created the world. Or at least this must be the way a woman felt when she gave birth to a child. The prahu was about twenty foot long and four foot wide, her lines straight and true. He would take it out tomorrow, but he already knew that it would speed over the water like a great black bird.
He heard a movement at the back of the boathouse. He thought that he had heard someone come in earlier, but had been too busy working on the boat to pay much notice. He turned and was surprised to see Abdullah, who had been standing in the shadows watching him. Abdullah marvelled at the workmanship, and the fine lines of the sleek black hull. He wanted to own that black prahu––he wanted to own it very badly. He wanted to run it in the races and win.
‘A fine piece of workmanship, Musa,’ he said. ‘You have a rare gift, God be praised. I have been looking for such a boat, which I would like to enter in the races against the infidels. I am willing to make you a generous offer for it, far more than you could ever hope to gain from racing or selling the craft.’
Abdullah told Musa how much he was willing to pay, and Musa wondered at the amount. But Musa was not for a moment tempted, for nothing would persuade him to part with this boat; it was his special creation, and was part of his very being. He thanked Abdullah for his generosity, but regretted that he could not accept his offer.
Abdullah was used to getting his own way, even if he had to pay for it. Musa’s refusal only made him want the black prahu even more, and he increased his offer. But Musa was not interested in his money, and he would not be moved.
‘With all that money you could easily buy yourself another boat. Why, you could even buy yourself a wife,’ Abdullah sneered, suddenly losing his control. ‘Why don’t you think of that?’
Musa did think of that, although not in the way that Abdullah intended.
He stood silent for a moment, and then gave Abdullah his answer. ‘Here is what I am willing to do,’ he said. ‘I will race this boat, and I will win my race. I will not sell it to you, but after I win the race I will wager this boat against your money in a cockfight. You may have first choice of the animals, and we will let them decide. But I have one condition. You must first divorce Rashidah. You do not love her, and you have no children by her. That is my last word.’
Abdullah raised his eyebrow and a thin smile spread over his face. ‘I will think on it, and I will wait and see if you do win your race. Then I will give you my answer. Good night, Musa bin Hassan. May the blessings of the Prophet go with you.’
‘And with you,’ Musa replied, as he watched him leave.
* * *
For months nothing happened, and the Simpsons had no news of any kind of the Illanun pirates, or of the willingness of Calcutta to help them deal with the menace. But finally Ronnie and Sarah had a stroke of luck. One morning they received a note from Alexander Johnston urging them to meet him at his home on Boat Quay. Unlike most of his European and Chinese colleagues, Johnston still lived above his godown at the mouth of the river. When they were ushered into his front room, Johnston approached them with a thin smile on his face.
‘My good friends, I have some information that I know you will want me to share with you. Please sit down.’
They did so, and Johnston told them about an old sailor whom the crew of a Dutch man-of-war had picked up, after they had sunk an Illanun war prahu that had been damaged and become detached from the main pirate fleet.
The sailor had been the first mate on the Fair Maid of London, which had been attacked and burned by Illanun pirates, led by Si Rahman and his half brother Sri Hussein. They had killed Captain Ramsey and his son Adam, and had taken the first mate and some of the crew prisoner. Since then the man had served twelve years in the pirate galleys. They had treated him well enough, apparently, all things considered. He had even received a share of their plunder, and had taken a Bugis slave girl as his wife. But he had sworn an oath that he would make his escape whenever a safe opportunity arose, and would have his revenge upon the men who had killed his captain, and dropped his poor young son to the bottom of the ocean at the end of a ship’s anchor.
‘But where is he?’ Ronnie and Sarah said together.
‘He’s staying with me at the moment, in one of my spare rooms. Only my people know he is here, and none of them know his story. I think it best if we keep it that way at the moment. Too much information about ships and their crews gets out of Singapore as it is, and I don’t want this man’s news to reach the wrong ears.’
Johnston got up quickly and left the room. He returned a few moments later with a short but very tough looking old sailor clad in faded blue overalls; he was brown as a dark nut, and his arms rippled with hard muscles from his years at the oar.
‘Mr and Mrs Simpson, I’d like you to meet Mr Oates, former first mate of the Fair Maid of London.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Oates, who motioned them to sit down as they began to rise to greet him. ‘I’m very sorry to hear of your loss, Mrs Simpson.’
Before Ronnie or Sarah could say anything, he continued: ‘I’ve got many stories to tell about them brothers, and maybe you’ll want to hear some of them, and maybe you won’t. But I can tell you two things you will want to know. The men who killed Captain Ramsey and his son Adam were the same as killed your sister, and her husband and daughter. I was there the day they took the Rose of Dublin, although I did not go on board and see it with my own eyes. But Si Rahman boasted about it afterwards. He said that a holy man had told him he would attain immortality if he killed a white woman. He came back carrying locks of their hair, which he now wears round his neck like a talisman. He’s a twisted bastard, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.’
Sarah began to cry, in huge gulping sobs. Ronnie put his arm around her.
‘You said there were two things we would want to know,’ said Ronnie, quietly. ‘What was the second?’
‘I know where they are,’ Oates replied. ‘I’ve been holding the map in my memory since they captured me, just waiting for the day.’
‘Thank you, Mr Oates,’ said Sarah, in a voice that had turned from sobbing to steel.